Guest Voice: What ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ teaches us about living with MS

Like the film’s protagonist, my life today is smaller than I imagined

by Donald Kushner M.D. | August 15, 2025

Donald Kushner, MD, is a retired physician, board certified in internal medicine and hospice and palliative care. He has been living with multiple sclerosis (MS) for more than 20 years and draws on his dual perspective as both doctor and patient to explore illness, identity, and adaptation. He’s writing a book about how people with chronic illness and their support systems can better understand — and talk to — each other.

I’m sitting on the sofa with my black cat curled in my lap. Her slow, steady breath anchors me to the moment.

Over the years, as I’ve stumbled down the stairwell of MS, I’ve had plenty of darker days. On some of them, I’ve asked myself: Is it really a wonderful life?

And then I think of George Bailey, the main character in the 1946 movie “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

George had big dreams: to see the world, to hear the clang of anchor chains, the roar of plane engines, the whistle of distant trains. But life had other plans.

When he jumped into a frozen pond to save his younger brother, George lost hearing in one ear — a small but permanent loss. One he learned to live with. Over time, more losses followed: His father died, the savings and loan association his family owned nearly collapsed, and his future narrowed into a leaky house, three kids, and a life far smaller than he’d imagined.

Looming in the background was Mr. Potter. Wealthy and unrelenting, Potter owned nearly everything in Bedford Falls except George’s heart. That looming threat feels familiar — like MS, always hovering just offstage, reshaping the story without asking permission.

George adjusted. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

He had moments of quiet frustration. I think of the scene where a wealthy friend drops by just as George hands over the keys to a modest house to a young family. George smiles, but you can see the disappointment behind his eyes. That flicker, that ache of a life smaller than we imagined, is one many of us with illness quietly carry.

Still, George wasn’t alone. His wife, Mary, was always there. Steady. Supportive. Never far away.

And when he reached his lowest point, convinced the world would be better without him, his friends and family didn’t mention missed adventures. They reminded him of what mattered: connection, community, being seen.

A life of worth

I glance around the room. My rollator, unused for years, sits in the corner. My wheelchair — now my only way to move from room to room — waits beside my favorite chair so I can transfer easily. The sounds of train whistles and distant places have quieted. They feel like memories more than possibilities.

And yet, not everything has gone silent.

George’s story reminds me that resilience often shows up in ordinary moments. That the life we’ve built — even with detours — is still a life of worth.

I reach down and stroke the soft fur of the cat in my lap.

Like George’s youngest daughter, her name is Zuzu.

Really.

Maybe what makes life wonderful isn’t what we accomplish, but who walks with us when things get hard. Who steadies us. Who sees us when we forget how to see ourselves.

Maybe you’ve had your own “George and Mary” moment — complete with missing petals, last straws, or jars that nearly cracked. Whether you’re the one in the chair or the one doing laps around it, I’d love to hear what this brought up for you. No need to be profound. Sometimes, just saying, “Yep, us, too,” is enough. Share if you feel like it. We’re all figuring this out together.

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