You wake up one day, and suddenly, your feet do not belong to you. They are, most definitely, separated from your body. But no, that can’t be, because you look down, and yup, they’re still there.
You touch, and you sniff them. They feel like they have been suffocating under woolen socks for years on end.
Okay, time to wiggle my toes, before I actually attempt the impossible: getting out of bed.
Each toe feels plastered to the other. And, as if they have plotted to work against my brain’s insufficient commands, they decide not to move.
“Ugh.” Not again. I reach over, attempting to massage them. Nothing. They refuse to respond.
I drag myself out of bed, knowing exactly what this means. Today, my feet won’t be able to touch the ground without feeling like I am wearing an infinite amount of socks. Blood stops rushing to them. And each step towards the door feels as though I am walking through water, and my socks are drenched in mud –my feet are heavy.
I open the door, to call for my mother. I need to tell her that I need help putting on my socks and shoes, because this looks like just another Multiple Sclerosis relapse.