Decade after decade, the multiple sclerosis won every battle. It took her eyesight. It played with her hearing. It took her grip and her balance. It weakened her spine and toyed with her sphincter control. It messed with her taste buds and her swallowing; it sapped her energy and tampered with her thought processing. It even took her breath away. But she was stubborn and obstinate and irrationally determined. She never stopped fighting. And somewhere toward their fortieth year together, the villain started wearing down. Its multifarious tentacles began to flag and its onslaught lost its vigor. One spinal-column clench after another began to weaken. Then loosen. Then completely fall away. And then, faster than it had come, it was gone. Expelled. Cast Out. Banished. And she got everything back.