A View from the Other Side. Sort of.

Before I was diagnosed with MS, and sometimes even after I was diagnosed, my husband and I would get into arguments about (what he perceived as) my lack of contributing to the household. Cleaning, stuff like that. Aside from MS, I also have hypothyroidism, migraines, and pernicious anemia. Save the migraines, which have their own issues, all of these things cause fatigue.

My daughter was one-year-old when I was diagnosed with MS, and we had my son when my daughter was 2 ½. Thankfully, we managed to get my daughter toilet trained before my son was born so we wouldn't have 2 kids in diapers.

Here I was, fairly new to the MS thing, fairly new to being a mom, fairly new to being a homeowner, and utterly exhausted. Being a new mom is really hard, even when your babies are “easy”. You have this little person who depends on you for everything. Everything. Having two little people depend on you when you can barely take care of yourself is indescribable.

My daughter slept for huge chunks of time at 6 weeks. I remember the first time she didn't wake up during the night, I listened to the baby monitor, but I couldn't hear anything. I stood in the doorway of her room, staring at her for several minutes to make sure she was breathing. It was awesome and terrifying. She slept at least 6 hours at a stretch early on. Foolishly, I expected the same from my son.

I never used a pacifier with my daughter. I didn't want to because I figured it was just one more thing I'd have to take away.

When my son didn't sleep for more than 2 hours at a time, I desperately wanted him to have a pacifier so he could soothe himself back to sleep. I was nursing, so there was no “fixing a bottle” and rocking him to sleep. But he refused to take the pacifier; he wanted food.

Let me also say, during this time, my husband worked the midnight shift; eleven at night until seven in the morning. Even if my son was being bottle-fed, I was still the one who had to get up with him; there was no one else.

My daughter, as little as she was, was a big help to me. When it was time to change a diaper, she would get everything I needed. When it was time to get my son dressed, my daughter would pick out his clothes (my daughter started to choose her own clothes at a year and a half). She would save me countless steps.

Then there were the little disasters that inevitably come with having kids. I remember one time, my daughter decided to squeeze the entire bottle of baby powder all over the living room. Another time, I was in the kitchen, and I thought, “why do I smell sage”? She had emptied the entire jar of sage all over the bottom of the cupboard. Once, she decided to have some O's as a snack (her name for Cheerios) and emptied the entire box while pouring a bowl. To this day, that's why I keep my cereal on top of my fridge.

Once I switched my son to bottles, of course, the bottles had to be washed constantly, and because we didn't have a dishwasher, I boiled the nipples to make sure all the crud was out of them. There was formula to be made, food to fix for both kids, clothes to wash (of course, I washed all of their clothes separately because I used a different detergent for their clothes and treated the stains so I didn't constantly have to replace clothes).

So if the TV was dusty, or the toys were everywhere, I really didn't care; I didn't have the energy to care, much less do anything about it.

That's my side.

My husband's job wasn't always physically demanding, but sometimes it was. He does work hard and always gives his best. He's conscientious and reliable. When he got home in the morning, he'd sleep for a few hours, then he'd get up, hang with the kids, or clean, or something. Sometimes, I'd use that time to grocery shop so I didn't have two small kids with me in the store. My husband takes care of the yard, the shoveling, does lots of stuff inside the house as well, and I'm very grateful. But once in a while, we'd argue about the toys being everywhere, the dust on the TV, dishes in the sink, and why couldn't I do those things so he didn't have to. After all, he worked.

It took years for him to truly understand what I was dealing with, and he lives with me. No matter what analogy I used, what description I gave, it didn't really seem to sink in. Maybe he was fighting accepting my diagnosis because he didn't want it to be right or true. I guess you'd have to ask him.

I don't want to give you the impression that my husband is an insensitive, demanding jerk. He is not. My first point is that someone who lives with me couldn't see or understand how much I struggled to do “normal” things, like taking care of the kids and the house. He knew I wasn't being lazy, he just couldn't understand why I couldn't “do it all” like I used to. After all, I looked great.

My second point is that even when you live with someone, it's not easy to see everything. Sometimes it's like that last Christmas decoration. You've looked at it for so long, you just don't see it. Then it's February, and you realize there's a wreath, or poinsettias still adorning your door or sitting on your counter. You don't see the flaws, the cracks, or weaknesses in the person you love, you only see the person you love.

Part of it was my fault; I wouldn't be completely open about what was really wrong with me, or how I truly physically felt. I didn't want to be a complainer or always have an ailment. Now I realize that I should probably have told him all the things that I deal with all the time and the things that I deal with some of the time. Thank goodness he stuck with me long enough to learn that one of my weaknesses is trying to fake being strong.