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It happened so gradually that Elizabeth and I hardly knew anything was wrong. She had never been much for physical exercise, but why should a walk up a hill be so difficult?

"C'mon, Mom, you can do it," our two kids said in near-unison. "We'll push."

And with that the three of us got behind her 110-pound, 5'3" frame and gave her the boost she needed.

But as those late-in-the-day foot drags became more frequent, they ceased to be as fun-filled as they were during that vacation in North Carolina's Blue Ridge Mountains. Back home, the afternoons brought fatigue; she complained about tingling and a constrictive feeling that made her right leg heavy.

Elizabeth had falls, one while standing on a chair to hang a poster in her high school classroom. "I should have been more careful," she said. Still, there seemed to be more to it. And there were times when a careless turn caught her off balance and pitched her to the floor where she stayed until I could help lift her. Once, she spent an afternoon on our closet floor waiting until I returned from work.

By this time she had a diagnosis—multiple sclerosis. "It will only get worse. There's no cure," her doctor said bluntly.

This intruder invaded Elizabeth's body, and by extension, mine. Her disease became my disease and made demands on our relationship we were ill-prepared to manage. As she moved from cane to walker to electric scooter and finally to a powered wheelchair, then lost use of her right hand, I had to adjust my life to fit her needs.

Uninvited and unwelcome, this disease now forces us into a kind of sick reality game, leaving no choice but to follow the rules even as they change and become more restrictive.

Elizabeth lives on the edge of her abilities. We discovered how close, when she caught a cold and ran a fever. In an attempt to leave the bed for the bathroom, she sank to the floor. The fever sapped what little strength she had, and in her attempt to stand, she crumpled. She lacked even the power to let me lift from under her arms, and delirium from the fever wouldn't let her try. A call for help got her back on the bed where I could slip disposable pads under her to protect the mattress.

It was as if we'd entered a new phase in this disease, and it scared me. I wondered if we were facing that day we both dread when I'll be unable to provide the level of care she'll need.

Dealing with life's unfairness

At night, I help her undress, put on her nightgown, and get her into bed. I bring her hot chocolate, a handful of pills, and an interferon shot, which I inject into her thigh or buttocks.

In the morning, she depends on me to help her to the bathroom, to bathe, dress for the day, and prepare breakfast with more pills on the side. I shop, cook, wash clothes, set hair, and do many of the things she used to do for herself and me. I'm thankful she's learned to apply mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick with her left hand. And I'm grateful beyond words that not one woman in our circle of friends has asked for "hair by Richard," as Elizabeth calls it.

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