Change is inevitable, but it’s how we choose to deal with that change that determines who we are as people.

Health is something that we take for granted. Because we never fully understand its value until it’s gone, it often isn’t until we suffer some form of physical or mental breakdown that we realize just how valuable it is. But, sometimes, when we lose something so treasured, something much better is found. For me, when I lost my health, what I gained was a journey into discovering who I really am. I transformed into a person that I didn’t know existed, and this made me redefine myself.

In my youth, I was an avid snowboarder, skateboarder, weightlifter, paint-baller, and rock climber. But, of all the sports I loved, volleyball was my muse. I thought that I would play it forever. I racked up numerous medals in the high school, regional, and varsity circuits. I attended nationals in club volleyball, and snagged a silver and bronze medal in provincial beach volleyball tournaments. I loved it.

With plans of becoming a police officer, I found myself finishing university with dreams of my next steps. A partner, a big house, a fancy car, and then maybe some cute babies---all those picture perfect things we all aim for. I thought that life was in the palm of my hand. Little did I know, sometimes things don’t last forever.

It started with annoying muscle cramps, and then progressed to debilitating gastrointestinal, immunological, neurological, and psychiatric symptoms. I plead my case to over 15 specialists and had over 100 vials of blood drawn. No answers. After years of searching, I started to wonder if the doctors were right that nothing was wrong, that perhaps it was all in my head. But then, a neurologist from Hamilton’s Neuromuscular Clinic in Canada decided to take a closer look. My intuitions were validated as I was finally diagnosed with a rare disorder called Isaac’s syndrome, or immune-mediated neuromytonia.

Everything that I had previously envisioned about my life was gone. The volleyball. The fancy car. The policing career. All of it. Because of my health problems, I was pushed to the limit and forced to adapt to new limitations and reinvent the story of my life. Now, I’ve grown into someone who is completely different than the person I used to be. Before, I was a jock who was insecure no matter how low my percentage of body fat was or how dark my tan was. I was desperate for attention, I was impatient, and I was a know-it-all. Looking back, I knew nothing.

“Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.” – Aristotle

Before my diagnosis, things came easily for me. Sports, school and relationships all came effortlessly in my life. Because of this, I naively thought that getting answers to my medical questions would be the same. I thought that they would come quickly. If not, obviously, the first doctor I consulted would set his entire life aside in order to figure them out; that didn’t happen.

It took me a long time to adapt to my situation. I learned that when your back is up against the wall, and there is nowhere to run, you learn to work with what you have, even if all you have is patience. Some goals and dreams will come quickly and others may require a tremendous amount of persistence. And, that’s ok. There is no race to the finish line. Life’s most triumphant moments may take a while to manifest.

Patience became the foundation of my journey. It was the lesson that came first, and gave me the strength and courage to accept the lessons that came next. It allowed me to endure a decade of emotional and physical struggles---rejection, failure, loneliness, and most importantly, symptomatic struggles. I learned that I could become someone that others could rely on. Instead of always receiving help from others, I was finally able to give back. I had the ability to give the greatest gift of all to people around me: my time and energy.

“It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.” – Confucius

I believe that the learning curve in life is the same as the learning curve in sports. You start slowly, get a little bit of movement, but then fall down, and have to get back up again. At times, it was hard to keep going when everyone told me that I was fine. But, I remained patient and remembered that sometimes the biggest breakthrough will come when we’re on the verge of giving up. It’s not fair to quit based on what we think will happen. We have to keep searching for answers.

Looking back, I remember the devastation I felt after each negative blood test and each consultation that left questions unanswered. But, now I know that there was always forward movement. One doctor led to the next. One negative test set up another. Even if years went by without tangible improvements, I was still always moving forward. Every step, whether positive or negative, is the result of all your previous steps. Maybe it won’t come in a week, a month, or a year, but sooner or later, you will eventually find what you’re looking for.

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle.” – Plato

The more I moved away from the person that I used to be, the farther I ventured into the unknown. I realized that I was becoming more aware of those around me. The more I felt my own darkness and pain, the stronger my compassion for others became. I felt for people in similar situations and understood what it was to be chronically ill without answers. I realized that life wasn’t just about me. Everyone has problems. Everyone has battles you know nothing about. Feeling this new sense of compassion, I understood that even the doctors that dismissed me were doing the best that they could. Just like in volleyball, these people became part of my team.

"Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity." – Hippocrates

Early in my illness, I was very attached to the reality I had constructed. I was like a child who clutched his toys and cried when they were taken away. When I lost my health, I lost my identity. Letting go is a part of life, and the sooner you’re able to, the sooner another part of your journey will begin. The day I realized that I would never be able to play volleyball again was the first time I fully understood the true scale of my loss. I had lost the love of my life.

The changes in my life were involuntary, and made me understand the power of surrender. Being forced into submission, but also still consumed with the need to push for answers, I was no longer under the influence of my egotistical desires. I became more peaceful with my thoughts---more loving and more understanding. Our struggles are really here to guide us somewhere else.

Each step of my journey was full of challenges, but I realize that I was unknowingly on an expedition of self-awareness and improvement. Although I lost many things along the way---a stable income, athletic talents and the freedom to do what I want---I gained something much more valuable: peace of mind. I became conscious of myself and I feel extremely blessed that I was able to go through something so transformative while having the ability to become someone I truly admire. Regardless of what you’re going through, I can confidently say that life has a way of getting us to where we need to be---both spiritually and physically. We just need to believe that it’s never the ending; it’s always the beginning.

This piece appeared on “The Good Men Project” website in September, 2015.

About Derek Carbone:

Hailing from Ontario, Canada, I was diagnosed with autoimmune Neuromytonia, or Isaac's Syndrome, after graduating from the University of Guelph. In my spare time, I enjoy reading, writing and researching various health topics. Follow along as I write for my blog: HealthVerdict.com.

You can reach Derek by email at derek_carbone@hotmail.com.

“Kate, I just got a call from Jane. She wanted to know whether we wanted to go…wanted to go to…”

My mother closes her eyes and scrunches her brows together as she says this, trying to find the word in her brain.

I ask, “Whether we wanted to go to church with her?”

As my mother then thanks me, I try to hide my unease.

Such exchanges – in which my mother forgot a word or an entire idea, and I completed her sentence – began when my mother was only 51 years old and I was a sophomore in high school. By the end of my senior year, my mother's condition had worsened to the point where she could not comprehend my daily notes, which only said when I would return home from school.

My mother emotionally changed during this time as well. She often became angry, especially when she attempted to deny her memory issues. Sometimes, though, her denial gave way to sadness, as she accepted her new truth: she had the memory struggles of a much older woman.

Both of these emotions – anger and sadness – underline how difficult my mother's memory problems were and still are, for her and for my whole family. We all struggle. We watched her undergo a staggering change – from an exceedingly intelligent woman who graduated magna cum laude from college to one struggling to read.

Despite these clear symptoms, help was difficult to find. At first, my mother attempted to empower herself and take action. She reached out to a local health case management organization that accepted her state insurance. This facility provided her with samples of trial medication to hinder the progression of her memory loss. Struggling just to pay rent, we could have never afforded these medications on our own.

My mother regularly took her medication. She did crossword puzzles. She felt hope – until the organization’s medication samples ran out. She came home from her appointment that day and declared that she would never go back.

Ultimately, my mother would need to visit a geriatric health center specializing in care for the elderly in order to get a formal memory examination and brain imaging. With state insurance, we waited for months to get an appointment. It took a full three years to get a diagnosis, though we were grateful to have the costs covered.

In the end, my mother was diagnosed with Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD), an illness I had never heard of before. This disease has no clear causes or risk factors, except for possible genetic inheritance, and no known treatments. It causes shrinkage in the frontal and temporal areas of the brain, often at a young age (between 40 and 70 years old), resulting in emotional liability as well as memory problems. As in my mother’s case, it is often initially misdiagnosed as mental illness. This is not necessarily the physicians' fault, however; FTD and certain psychiatric disorders manifest themselves in remarkably similar ways. This is a small reminder of how health challenges connect us all.

Once my family and I learned that my mother's true illness was FTD, we were overwhelmed. We were shocked by the devastating emotional changes that would come with FTD. We also had to learn how to navigate the modern health and legal systems. As my mother became increasingly dependent, and we focused on issues such as paying her bills and finding her a safe place to live, we had to simultaneously “prove” her disability in court. Now, my father has acquired the title “Conservator of Person” so that he, with input from me and my siblings, can make decisions on my mother’s behalf. This isn’t easy.

My mother does not recognize that she has memory issues. Without realizing it, she often acts like a child. She cannot participate in society, or even in our family community, like she used to; she cannot read the newspaper or even a simple word, and she lacks the emotional stability to maintain relationships. She craves attention from others, though, and will even have temper tantrums when she feels ignored. I have watched my mother stomp off to her room, sulking, many times.

One of these temper tantrums actually caused her first adult daycare center to dismiss her. The employees at the center felt that my mother agitated other clients against the caregivers. Perhaps she did, unintentionally; my mother does quickly become anxious and upset when she is not actively engaged in an activity or when her day deviates from routine.

She dislikes boredom and harbors a longing to be helpful – an impulse which often goes unrecognized by society. My mother is actually quite eager to perform simple tasks, like setting a table. She loves to feel usefully engaged and be an active participant in chores or activities.

I am grateful that my mother can actively participate in this way at her current daycare center. Here, she feels safe and full of purpose. My mother loves to attempt to help other clients. She often talks with them when they feel sad or upset, and this truly helps other clients to manage their emotions. My mother also participates in art therapy, pet therapy, and simple sport games, along with other clients. She really enjoys the social, recreational atmosphere that the center offers her.

At this center, my mother's caregivers provided her with a community and a purpose. They support her and treat her with compassion. To them, my mother is an adult woman – which seems to be a simple thought yet is actually a profound affirmation of a dementia patient, who is often stereotyped for immature behavior and simplicity. Dementia patients are adults, although they might act like children, and they deserve to be treated as such. Surrounded by such positive treatment and respectful attitudes at her daycare center, my mother has been happy in the past few years.

But with the passage of time, she now needs more intensive care. She struggles more, internally and externally. Her emotions have become quite explosive and unpredictable. Daily activities, such as bathing or brushing her teeth, have become lengthy and complicated exertions. My mother's daily hygiene routine is a particularly potent source of frustration and stress for her, and this exemplifies how her internal and external conflicts are quite connected. Dementia has affected my mother's physical abilities and personality, as well as her memory. With dementia, and perhaps with illness in general, the physical and the internal are often intimately connected.

This connection between the physical and the emotional can make care-giving a complicated endeavor. My father is currently struggling to completely care for my mother, when she is not in adult daycare. My mother definitely needs full-time health services, but they are difficult to secure. Because of the high demand for a spot in a specialty care facility, immediate placement is rare unless it occurs in in the aftermath of a hospitalization. My mother has been on wait-lists at multiple long-term care facilities for more than two and a half years. For now, I am incredibly grateful that my father and her adult daycare center are able to meet most of her changing needs and desires.

My family’s experience with FTD has changed me. Now, I am committed to advocating for greater health resources for all, especially the most marginalized. While my mother's illness is rare, I hope that my family’s story encourages others to work for broader change. I hope others contact legislators about extending health care access for patients and caregivers.

More generally, I hope my mother's story can also increase awareness that different kinds of dementia exist. Some dementia patients, such as my mother, can remain quite active participants in particular communities. Though individuals struggling with dementia have gone through much personal loss, they may retain their desire to be involved and help others. They can help others, and have much more to offer than one may initially think – if their community will accept them.

As a student in college, I imagine the possibility of experiencing dementia myself in the future. I know what it is like to worry about the shortness of life in the face of medical difficulties. In this way, I feel I am connected to many others – to other students and to other individuals in general – who experience and observe a myriad of health challenges every day. Despite the fragility of health, we can be conscious of all that we have and try our best to always value and make the most of our time.

Katherine Divasto is a member of the Harvard College Class of 2016 and is a Psychology major.

My name is Nancy Marks. I have been a Boston-based printmaker and painter for more than twenty-five years. In addition to solo exhibitions, my work has been displayed in galleries, restaurants, and corporate settings. I am also a public health advocate and art teacher who is committed to helping others use art to engage in personal healing and community dialogue.

In 2014, I created The Intimacy of Memory, a body of mixed media paintings based on grief, love and remembrance. The work examined why people chose particular objects or keepsakes after someone close to them died. I was interested in the ways in which an object represents the person who died and the shared relationship with the survivor. How do objects celebrate a life? How do objects prompt memory and how does this memory change over time?

This body of work seeded itself fifteen years ago when the biological mother of my adopted daughter, Taylor, died of AIDS. Taylor was six at the time. As I cleaned out her mother’s apartment, I had to decide what to keep. Which items would hold memories of her mother and offer Taylor comfort both in the moment and throughout her life? As I selected a few dishes, her mother’s favorite shirt, a locket, a mirror, I knew it wasn’t just what I kept but also what I didn’t keep that would play a role in Taylor’s recollections.

As part of this exploration, I interviewed participants and meditated on what I had heard. When I began to paint, the layers of color seemed to mirror the layers of their recollections: feelings of loss, love and longing. While many details faded into the background, what I felt most acutely was the sense of connection that stretched from the present to the past. I began to see how relationships and roles become fixed in time and space at the moment of death. How we forever remain mother/father/grandfather, husband/partner, sister/daughter/granddaughter.

As I exhibited this work throughout Massachusetts, I started to feel that I wanted to more closely connect my art life with the power of personal narrative. Since this initial body of work, I have begun to host Intimacy of Memory workshops.

The Intimacy of Memory workshops are designed to allow participants to make art based on the objects they kept after a meaningful loss in their life. It approaches the complexities of grief and love using art as a central connector. Because so many don’t have language for loss, art can play a pivotal role in communicating emotion and promoting healing.

Whether the loss is fresh or long past, this workshop gives artistic space and voice to the grief and love you may have been nursing privately. While the subject is heavy for many, there is often laughter and joy as people share memories.

But the work doesn’t stop there. After a workshop, participants are encouraged to hang their art in public space. The goal of the public exhibition is to promote a community conversation about death, grief and love, three subjects that are often privatized in the broader culture. I know how deeply painful loss can be, but we make the healing process that much harder by not giving our losses adequate  "time.” After all, grief is really just remembering how much we love and miss those we have lost.