I urinated all over myself in front of four mothers and their small children, whom they clutched to themselves in horror, in a Pilot Travel Center gas station restroom just over the Kentucky State line in 2005. Ana looked on in stunned disbelief as the dark spot spread down my jeans. The warm liquid traveled down my leg, soaked into my sock and shoe, and puddled on the tile floor at my feet.

By the time a stall was available, I no longer needed it for anything other than a changing room.

When we got back to the car, I turned to Ana and said, “Thank you for helping me back there. That was a big responsibility to ask of you, and you were a great help. I’m sure that was very embarrassing for you, and it’s okay to feel embarrassed. This doesn’t happen to me very often, but it’s something I have to deal with from time to time at this early stage in my injury. I’m so sorry that you were put in that position. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she replied.

“It’s okay to feel embarrassed,” I repeated.

“Okay,” was all she said.

The car was very silent as we drove for the next forty minutes or so. I was reminded of the time when, as a little girl about Ana’s age, my mother, two sisters, and I went to the Johnson County State Fair. We were all excited to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl. Because there were four of us, we were split into two cars. My mother and I rode together, as I was always quite the mama’s girl.

As the ride began to pick up speed, I could tell that my mother was having difficulty. Her face turned very pale and she was clutching the restraint bar. She covered her mouth to try to keep the vomit inside, but it was no use. The contents of her stomach spilled onto the floor and seat of the ride. I screamed, and tried desperately to get away from the viscous matter. She reached for me to keep me inside the seat, and I was horrified that she might touch me. That hand had just unsuccessfully held in her sick.

When the ride finally came to a stop, we exited and my mother headed for the nearest bathroom to cleanup. When she emerged, she still looked too sick and pale. We asked her if she was okay, but she brushed off our questions as if nothing had occurred. She never spoke of the incident, never admitted that anything had even happened.

I remember thinking my mother was weak. I had witnessed a chink in the armor, something I was never supposed to see. It wasn’t the motion sickness that made her seem week, it was her choice to not talk about it with me. She was so fragile she couldn’t even admit a small defeat. She tried so desperately to hold all together, and she failed. She couldn’t even control her own body, but she couldn’t admit it in front of her girls.

So, Ana’s mom was weak, too. And then Ana’s mom was strong.