Okay, I admit it. I often roll over and go back to sleep so I don’t have to face another day quite so soon. I am tired of arguments and feeling like all I am here for is to wait on The Curmudgeon. Unfortunately, yesterday my dreams went to us arguing rather than being something pleasant. I can’t escape even in dreamland.

I know I’d be more willing to do it if he actually made some sort of effort to get his muscles in even mildly better shape.

Physical therapy? He won’t go, the place is too far from home. Using the home gym I have set up? Nope, why would he bother?

He’d rather turn into this man who looks and acts as if he were 90 years-old than make any effort to work on muscle memory or strength. At least he will use his cart.

Of course, come to find out, Mr. Cranky Pants hasn’t been taking his antidepressants for at least a week. No wonder he’s been so impossible to live with. You bet I gave him the devil for not taking them when I found out and he’s started them again.

I hate MS. I hate that it has taken the kind, loving, and considerate man I married away.