Modified, Not Over: Loving My Husband Through His MS Journey

We’ve all heard the cliché husband jokes. *“He never listens.” “He forgets everything I say.”* For a long time, I could laugh those off. And when he started tripping all the time, I made the usual mental excuses. I thought he was wearing the wrong shoes. I thought maybe he was just a little too overweight (like I was). I thought he was just being clumsy and not paying attention.

Then, he started complaining that his leg would lock up on him.

The turning point came on an ordinary day after he’d been doing yard work. I happened to check our Ring camera footage, and my heart sank. Watching the playback, I saw him struggling across the lawn, barely able to walk. In that moment, the excuses stripped away. We both knew, with absolute certainty, that something was deeply wrong.

But knowing something is wrong and getting a doctor to agree on *what* it is are two completely different battles.

For two years, we went through a grueling cycle of doctor appointments. They kept testing everything from his waist down, running every scan they could think of, only to repeatedly tell us the same frustrating thing: *Everything is fine.* But it wasn’t fine. Over those two years, I watched my husband—a man who had been active and healthy—deteriorate to the point where he was stumbling almost every single time he stood up to walk across the room.

We used to go to theme parks all the time. It was our thing. But the last time we went, the reality of our new normal hit hard: I ended up having to push him in a wheelchair.

Finally, after two years of searching, praying, and pushing, we found a doctor who looked beyond the surface and gave this monster a name: Multiple Sclerosis.

Having a name brings a strange mix of relief and grief. Because MS is a thief, and it steals more than just mobility.

The day-to-day stuff has shifted completely. I try to take on more of the household tasks now because I know how incredibly hard they are for him. I’ll be honest—sometimes it’s a battle of patience, too. I know I can step in and finish a task in three minutes, whereas it might take him five. Letting go and finding that balance between helping him and preserving his independence is a daily learning curve.

But the physical toll is only half the story. The part that cuts the deepest is watching this disease affect his brain. MS has started touching his thinking and his memory retention. He doesn't remember a lot of our conversations. Again, you want to make the "husband" joke, but deep down, I know it’s different. It’s a lot worse than it ever used to be.

Right now, I know he is always in pain. And as the spouse, that is the most heartbreaking part of the caregiver role—the part people don't talk about enough. You are watching the person you love most in the world fight a silent, agonizing battle, and you are entirely powerless to fix it. You have to mourn the fact that he will probably never be the exact same person he was before.

But even in the grief, we are looking for the light.

He just started his new MS medication and is officially on his fourth dose. There is so much hope riding on those treatments, hope that things will get somewhat better. We also haven't tried the mental physical therapies out there yet, which we plan to explore to help with his brain function and cognitive retention.

This life looks completely different than the one we envisioned. The truth is, we can still do things, and we can still have fun—but it will all be modified. We are learning to adapt, to slow down, and to find joy in the spaces we *can* navigate together.

To anyone else out there pushing the wheelchair, taking on the extra chores, and missing the version of your partner that used to be: I see you. It is okay to find it heavy. But as long as we are fighting together, there is still a beautiful life to be lived—even if it’s a modified one.