I choked on a crumb today. Not an elaborate meal or something sharp and unforgiving, just a crumb—a tiny, insignificant speck of food. You’d think it was nothing, and in most lives, it probably would be. But in mine, it becomes a battle.
My throat doesn’t work like it should sometimes. MS has left its unwelcome fingerprints here, too. It’s called dysphagia—a dysfunction of the muscles that control swallowing. For most people, swallowing is automatic; they don’t think twice about it. But for me, the muscles and nerves in my throat don’t always communicate properly. The signals get crossed, the muscles get confused, and suddenly, something as basic as eating becomes dangerous.
When you have dysphagia, every bite or sip carries risk. I can’t predict when it will happen. There’s no warning before that tiny crumb decides to rebel against my throat’s defenses. Today, that little piece of food got caught, and suddenly, the “flapper” in my throat—the epiglottis—failed to close the way it’s supposed to. My body tried to expel the intruder with a violent, uncontrollable fit of coughing.
The worst part of these moments isn’t the physical pain or discomfort; it’s the helplessness in my family’s eyes. My son watches his mom fighting against something so small yet so menacing, unsure of how to help or if he even can. My husband, a constant anchor, can only hold my hand and rub my back while I choke and gasp for air. I know they want to fix it—to fix me. But they can’t. They’re helpless bystanders to my struggle, and that’s what breaks me the most.
As I coughed, the force of it made me wet my pants, soaking the couch cushion beneath me. In that moment, shame washed over me. Here I was, the strong, capable mom and wife, suddenly laid bare by something as small as a crumb. My son saw it happen. My husband saw it too. I could see their pain and sadness as they tried to mask their horror. When you’re a mom, you’re supposed to make the messes disappear, not be the one creating them. But there I was, trying to hold myself together as my body convulsed with sobs and coughing fits that seemed endless. Each sob triggered another wave of coughing, leaving my throat raw and bleeding, expelling pink-tinged mucus.
The coughing left me utterly drained. Most people don’t realize that something as seemingly simple as a coughing fit can be so physically exhausting. My body felt like it had been through a battle. My muscles ached from the effort, my throat burned, and every breath felt like a chore. After it was over, all I wanted was to close my eyes and sleep, but I had to clean up first. There were messes everywhere, starting with myself—pink-tinged gunk on tissues, a soaking wet cushion, and a mess of emotions inside me that I didn’t know how to process.
By the time I got everything cleaned up, I felt like I had run a marathon. The fatigue was bone-deep, like every ounce of energy had been wrung out of me. MS fatigue is relentless, and these episodes only make it worse. That night, I barely had the strength to kiss my son goodnight before collapsing into bed hours earlier than usual. My body demanded rest, but my mind was still reeling from the humiliation and fear.
Dysphagia isn’t something people often talk about when they think of MS. They imagine numbness, fatigue, or walking aids. But it’s not just about weak legs or trembling hands. It’s about the things most people take for granted, like swallowing food, and how those basic actions can become dangerous hurdles. Dysphagia makes every meal a potential threat, and even something as small as a crumb can be life-altering in a terrifying way.
I don’t write this for pity. I write this to acknowledge the raw, unfiltered reality of living with a chronic illness that changes the rules of everyday life. It’s the moments that feel trivial to others but become mountains for me to climb. Moments like these force me to face the vulnerability that MS brings into my life and, slowly, I’m learning to accept it.
I’m working on being gentler with myself, on finding some grace amidst the chaos. It’s not easy to allow myself to be vulnerable in front of my son and husband, but they need to see that it’s okay to struggle, and it’s okay to lean on those who love us. It’s a lesson I need to teach myself, too—that it’s okay to ask for help, and it’s okay to feel broken sometimes.
After the mess was cleaned and I crawled into bed, I half-expected my son to look at me with embarrassment or confusion. But instead, he just looked concerned, with the kind of love that only a child can offer so unconditionally. “Are you okay, Mom?” he asked, his head resting on my chest. And somehow, despite feeling completely defeated, I found the strength to say, “Yeah, Bud. Mom’s okay.”
The truth is, I’m not always okay, and that’s something I’m learning to come to terms with. But I’m still here, still fighting, and that has to be enough.
Life isn’t just about the big battles; it’s about the small ones too. It’s about surviving moments like these and letting myself lean into the love that surrounds me. Because in the end, these imperfect, messy moments are what make me human. And being human is enough.
Much love,
E.P.
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