The Curmudgeon collapsed on the back porch yesterday.  For the life of me, I couldn’t get him on his feet.  I ran over and got two of my neighbors to help him.  This was all before my first cup of coffee, therefore I was cranky.  I hate being cranky with him.  I know it’s not his fault that these things happen.

     I spent the rest of the day running back and forth doing whatever he needed to have done.  If I cussed and babbled it was because of fear.  I also apologized to him for doing so.  It seemed as though I didn’t get a minute to rest when I’d be hopping up again to get something for him.  He knows I love him but I’m sure I made him feel awful a couple of times where I was so tired I felt as though I couldn’t catch my breath.  Better I cuss a bit than bottle all that fear and frustration inside.

     I curse all those MS agencies and societies that claim they help.  They don’t.  If they did, I might have a few solutions on how to better deal with days like this.  I’d have help for his bad days so I don’t end up back in the hospital.  It seems that once MS goes into Secondary Progressive even the doctors tend to back away.  Don’t give me sympathetic looks, don’t roll your eyes at me when I ask what’s available in the way of help, we aren’t a research project we are human beings at the ends our ropes.

     Once The Curmudgeon settled into bed for the night, I poured a glass of Chocovine.  It was a long chase but I finally caught my breath.

     You all have a good one!  I’m going to try.