Yesterday was a bright sunny day, and it felt like a gift after suffering several days of gray November days. My husband and I hadn’t been out of the house since Saturday, so we decided it would be nice to go out for lunch and run a couple of errands. Unfortunately, the way it turned out, we should have stayed home.
We didn’t argue; don’t get that idea. But by the time we got to the restaurant, Ken was feeling extremely fatigued. We both attributed his weariness to it being lunch time and he was hungry, but it turned out to be more than that.
Ken suffers from Multiple Sclerosis, and when I stared at him across the table, he was fighting to keep his eyes open. I read the wave of fatigue crashing over him, and at that moment, I wished we hadn’t made the effort to go out. I hate it when his disease destroys our plans. I have to admit I was angry that this damn disease takes my husband from me in these unexpected ways, and a small part of me was angry that Ken didn’t admit that he wasn’t up to the task.
I was so frustrated and he was so fatigued, we finished our lunch not talking to each other. I helped him to the car, drove home and put him to bed. I wanted to cry, but I’ve learned not to waste the energy because I know such disappointments will come along again. Ken faces this disease that is stealing his life with grace, and he has no control of these episodes. But I don’t either.
Some people tell me I should write our experience because through my words, I have the power to help them. That might be true, if it weren’t so painful. I have a hard time writing about these personal disappointments. I love to offer inspiration for positive things. But sometimes, I would just love to run away and pretend this wasn’t happening to us.