Then one morning, came the headline. A beloved pianist diagnosed with the same condition. Advanced stage. And suddenly, everyone knew. The illness had a name that mattered. News articles appeared overnight. New conversations began. Promises of research. Funding inquiries were made. What had lived for decades in the shadows was now in full view.
Her son—her caregiver—saw all of this unfold. A sharp ache of injustice in his chest. There sure was relief in the attention the celebrity could finally bring. But beneath it, so much grief. For how easily the suffering of ordinary lives - like his mother’s and so many others - is ignored until someone famous is touched. How his mother had made herself visible… again and again. Not for herself. But for those who would come after. And yet the world had looked away. He knew well the pull of the human mind. How we’re drawn to what is familiar. Our hunger for the dramatic. Our reflex to look where the light is. He didn’t resent it. But he also saw the cost. His mother had lived this. Is still living it.
But maybe now the door was opening. Maybe others will finally be allowed in. Perhaps his mother’s story too would take its place. That her voice might still reach others. Maybe the meaning lies in that. That people will start to see how cruel the disease is. How long the wait has been. Finally, there is hope.
And yet, even in this hope, he felt sorrow. Of being seen only in the reflection of someone more luminous. The sorrow of a life having mattered — too late.
By Bhavna
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