My alarm wakes me at 5AM. The first task of the day is shutting it off. My muscles have contracted in my sleep. Reaching my arm across to the nightstand is no easy feat. I have learned to sleep on my back and keep my knees straight. I have a legit fear of not being able to straighten my legs in the morning. I have not figured out a sleeping position to keep my fingers and right hand from curling in on themselves, though. The blaring alarm is my motivation to fight the spasms trying to pull my arm back into my body. I manage to reach for the clock. I have learned how to navigate the switch with the knuckles of my bent fingers. I rarely drop it anymore.

After the alarm is silenced, I start work on getting my legs moving. Swinging them off the bed and onto to floor is not the challenge. The challenge is putting weight on them. I typically stand for a brief moment. The worst pain I have with my MS is muscle soreness and stiffness. Morning is when it is at its worst. As I gain confidence that my legs will hold me, I take a few steps. I hold on to furniture to be safe. For now, my right leg works like a pendulum. Stiff and straight. My knee does not bend. I stumble like this to the shower.

In the shower, I get a glimpse of my fate for the day. This is where my body starts to wake up, or not. I raise my hands to my head to wash my hair. My right hand does not make it. It weighs twenty pounds. I can get it up there, but it is not worth the effort. I wash my hair with my left hand. I move on. I used to shave my legs every morning in the shower. That was before MS. I grab the razor. I feel it twisting between my fingers. I readjust. Then, readjust again. I do what I can. If I escape without slicing myself it is a win regardless of how much stubble I leave behind. Stepping out of the shower, I use my hands to lift my right leg high enough to prop my foot on the side of the tub. This is the easiest way to towel off. Plus, I have the towel rack to hold to for balance.

My next task is getting dressed. I have to sit on the floor to put my socks on. What I never realized before MS is that you not only pull your sock on, but you also push your foot into it. This is complicated with foot drop and wrist drop. I lean against the wall for balance to put my pants on. I am already exhausted.

By now, I am ready to brush my teeth. A full two minutes of gripping an electric toothbrush. This involves a lot of switching from right hand to left hand and back. Toothpaste drips down my face and onto my shirt. This sets off an anger that only MS can provoke. If I did not have this stupid disease I could actually hold a toothbrush and I would not be standing in my bathroom with toothpaste on my shirt. Then, I remind myself that even before MS most of my undershirts had toothpaste stains. I have always been a slob at brushing my teeth.

Next, it is time to walk the dog. We do one mile every morning before work. I love it. It is without a doubt one of my favorite things. My legs have not yet been fatigued by work and chores. We walk fast. I limp a little and drag my foot as we round the block and head down the sidewalk to home. I will physically regret this the rest of the day but I do not care. I would rather exhaust myself by spending time outside with my dog than working.

Speaking of work, that is where I am off to next. I park in the garage. The walk from the garage to my building is just under half a mile. It is not bad. I walk as close to the edge of the sidewalk as I can so others can pass me. I count them as they go by. I used to be the one passing people. I was the fast walker. I try so hard to catch them. It is a game I play. Do not let them get away. I watch as they round the corner and go out of sight. I’ll catch ’em tomorrow. I do not mind when people pass me. I do mind when they walk up quickly and then fall in line behind me. I begin screaming in my head, “PASS ME! PASS ME!” For the record, it is not rude to pass someone walking slower than you. It is rude to walk on their heels. I am already concentrating on every step and scared of stumbling every time I lift my right foot. It is nerve-racking to imagine falling directly in front of someone and having them trample me from behind. Are these legit thoughts and fears? Probably not, but they always seem valid at the time.

I make it into the first building. I step aside and let everyone pass me. I wait until the coast is clear and tackle the flight of stairs. If I catch my toe and stumble, I will undoubtedly have a panic attack. It happens on occasion. If I start to panic, I make my way as nonchalantly as possible to the nearest private bathroom to try and let the worst of it pass. On these days, I take an extra antianxiety pill and fight the sleepiness all afternoon. I continue on to work through another building and across a pedway. I am now on the third floor. I opt to take the elevator down to the first floor. I decided months ago it was better for my mental health that way. Descending steps is slow and psychologically painful. It is also often dangerous.

Work is busy and physical. I stumble down hallways with one hand on the wall to keep my balance. I grimace under my mask every time a patient remarks that it looks like I am the one who needs an x-ray. My job is only getting harder. I do not know what I am supposed to do about it so I just show up every day and go through the motions until time to go home. I get by for now. I still offer to help patients with their jewelry and tie their shoes when they need an extra hand. I will never let them know how hard it is for me. I simply apologize for my fumbling fingers.

Leaving work looks much the same as my trip in. Only I am more tired and slower. Until recently, I still forced myself to take the stairs in the parking garage. I would sit in my car and cry. I no longer take the stairs. I do not cry as much.

My second favorite part of the day happens when I get home and open the door to a very excited dog. I could have had the worst day of my life but as soon as I see him tippy tapping his front feet back and forth it all melts away. I settle in and sit for five to ten minutes. Wallace needs his walk, but I need to rest before I can do it. He pulls me around the block as I stumble behind him. I refuse to walk him for less than thirty minutes. Sometimes that means I drag my right leg through the door behind us. Sometimes we keep on walking no matter how bad it sucks. Seeing him happy makes me happy.

I have to take a rest after our walk for my body to recuperate. I can not rest too long or my body will not get started again. It is a fine line. I feel things out. Exercise is still very important. I am committed to at least twenty minutes of physical activity a day. I do not count the dog walks or work. If my body is simply too worn out, I know I can manage to stand on my vibration plate for fifteen minutes as a last resort.

Again, I have to rest to recuperate. It is time to cook dinner and prep my breakfast and lunch for the next day. I follow a modified Paleo diet for autoimmune conditions. That basically means I spend a lot of time in the kitchen. I rest and recuperate again while I eat. All I have left are a few nightly chores. I brush and floss my teeth. I lay out my clothes and necessities for the next day. If I am lucky, I have about an hour of free time before bed. This is typically spent on the couch cuddling Wallace. I try to be in bed around nine. My alarm goes off again in eight hours.

And, repeat.