When I came up for air after my first reading binge — which lasted about a year — I found myself dazed and confused. Oh, and married. The first year of my PhD was a mixed blur of dark and troubling reading and happy and frothy wedding plans. We'd finally decided to get married (after nine years of couplehood), partly because of my mother. During my Honours year she got sick. It all began with the flu; we all had it and it was a bad one, bad enough to trigger other disorders. My partner Ben ended up allergic to foods he'd never been allergic to before. Mum was the last to have it and when the flu went away she was a bit weak. We did yoga together twice a week and over the course of the year she grew weaker, until she could barely climb the stairs to the yoga studio, let alone do downward dog. Before the flu she'd been more flexible than I was; now she was unsteady on her feet. She had a couple of falls and she found she couldn't get up without assistance. By December she could barely walk.

Mum hates doctors and, typically, we couldn't drag her to one until her situation was acute. We knew by the GP's expression that things were bad, and when she ordered an immediate MRI we knew it was worse than bad. The worst thing was seeing Mum's fear.