I never considered myself a happy child. I didn’t fit in. I grew up in a neighborhood dominated by Irish Catholic and Italian Catholic children. Mostly people were blonde. I had dark eyes and dark hair. My family was different. Primarily, we were not Catholic but Jewish and Protestant and interracial. I read a lot of books. My great grandfather had said that books are your best friends. They certainly were mine. I can remember staying in the library so long in the summer that they had to tap me on the shoulder and say it was time to leave. Full disclosure though, the library was air conditioned.

 No one had air conditioning then. When it was really hot, we would beg to sleep in the backyard. The parents would put out plastic tablecloths and we would pile on to them with our sheets. We would fall asleep watching fireflies and wake up in the morning covered with dew and squashed bugs. It always sounded better than it actually felt. There are no pictures of those nights.

However, it is now the era of Facebook. I post pictures from my childhood and see that I am smiling in them. In my mind, I must have been doing this with the camera. My childhood friends, of which I still have many and pre-Facebook, tell me that I was always happy. They tell me I always had a great smile.

I admit to the great smile. It is one of my strengths as an adult. I am known for it and people miss it when I do not. One of the useless facts that I retain from college is that smiling is a form of aggression. Soldiers bare their teeth before they go into battle, apes bare their teeth when they are threatened. My smile is my armor. This is not to say that I do not find joy in life. I do. I am ridiculously optimistic. I am definitely a glass half full kind of person. I do trace this back to my childhood.

My parents were always telling me that I was Rebecca of Sunnybrook farm or Pollyanna. I had to read both books. Pollyanna was particularly a favorite especially after I saw Hayley Mills, my girl crush in the movie. Another favorite book was Heidi. And something less commonly known was Misunderstood Betsy. This one I had inherited from an aunt. It’s the story of a girl that must go live with her relatives and somehow comes out of it alright. And of course, there is always Anne of Green Gables. So, what do most of these books have in common? Girls overcoming adversity and difference. But what also sticks out now in my adult mind is that Rebecca, Pollyanna and Clara from Heidi were all paralyzed. They all lost the use of their legs. How prescient was I? Was there something in my body that knew from an early age that I would be facing these challenges? Did I revel in my differences so much?

I don’t know if that is a question that I will ever be able to answer. My ridiculous optimism has served me well. Is it a defect or is it a strength? It has enabled me to get through many things in my life. People think of me as courageous and inspiring. This is certainly not how I think of myself nor of how I want to be regarded. I’m trying to live my best life.

Once again, I find myself leaning into that optimism. Lately, I have not been feeling well. This is something that growing up in my childhood home was not allowed. You never let anybody see what might hurt. There was always someone worse off than you. Even when I did get sick as a child, it really wasn’t bad. My mother swore that when I had chicken pox, I only had one spot. German measles I remembered as maybe one or two bad days and then being forced to stay home from school for too long. I did get to read lots and lots during that time. I had strep throat or scarlatina but again, one or two days that were bad and then locks of reading. So, for me to say that I’m not well is admitting defeat. I should be realistic. Somehow, I have ended up in senior citizen land. Breakdowns and slowdowns are to be expected. I fight and reject that. I have less time ahead of me than I did behind me.

Denial. My last blood test seemed to indicate that I may have a rare autoimmune disease. It was nonalcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. This is ironic on so many levels. My husband is the one that drinks, not me. Actually, for most of my life I’ve been ridiculously healthy. Four years ago, I had my first Medicare checkup. The doctor said that apart from my mobility issues, I was one of the healthiest people he had ever met. So, what happened?

I am running out of strength to keep on fighting but it’s my nature. I have no other option. The blood test must be wrong. And it was! So here I am again. Still different, still trying.