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Answering the call
by Jaclyn Muff
We were celebrating the highly anticipated arrival
of my soon-to-be-born nephew
when I answered the phone call
that would redefine my life.
Earlier that summer, as the
Midwest temperatures soared, my
level of fatigue did too, prompting
my first visit to a neurologist.
When the neurologist called back
with my test results, my sister
was busily unwrapping a blue
crocheted baby blanket. While she
was gleaming at the thought of
swaddling a new delicate life with
its softness, I was feeling as though
my life was ending, as I heard the
words: lesions, positive spinal
tap, multiple sclerosis.
I was not a stranger to the
disease, or else I would have
attributed my fatigue to my busy
lifestyle. MS had sent my once-healthy dad to a nursing home
during what should have been
his prime years. He passed away
due to complications from the
disease just four weeks shy of my
10th birthday. Now here I was,
only nine years later, learning
that I, too, might suffer in the
same ways he did.
Before the phone call, I was
excited about my future: I was
looking forward to the birth
of my nephew, returning to
Westminster College in Fulton,
Mo., to begin my sophomore
year, and being one step closer
to medical school—a plan
I’d nurtured since childhood.
After the phone call, I only
wanted to go home and mourn
in my mom’s arms, which I
did for days. My dreams of
becoming a physician turned
into nightmares shortly after
my diagnosis. Just weeks before,
I had been determined and
unstoppable. Now I felt limited
and unmotivated.
The advice filtering in from
every direction was that I should
choose an easier career. No one
wanted to watch me struggle
with the mounds of studying,
the long hours during residency
or the stress of a physician’s life.
Even though I had thrived on
late-night studying for a heavy
load of academic classes during
high school and my freshman
year of college, I feared that the
same stress now would pose a
risk for an exacerbation. Not to
my surprise, the day I decided to
hang up my dream of wearing a
stethoscope, the only response
I heard from friends and family
was, “It’s probably for the best.”
Three years and one
exacerbation later, I graduated
college with a 4.0 GPA and
an acceptance into Saint Louis
University, where I planned
to earn my Master of Public
Health (MPH) degree. During
those last moments of my senior
year at Westminster College, I
heard the wise words of Mattie
J. T. Stepanek, a young boy who
lived with a rare neuromuscular
PHOTO COURTESY OF JACLYN MUFF
