Mornings with Matt always start the same way: a quiet moment where everyone exhales, gearing up for the part of the day that demands teamwork, patience, and a strange mix of tenderness and grit. We enjoy a cup of coffee, do his daily morning "program", get him showered, dressed for the day and then the daily task of Getting him out of his wheelchair to the floor for stretches—it sounds simple when you say it out loud. In reality, it’s one of those tasks that feels like its own little expedition. 

First, there’s the preparation. Clearing the space, positioning pillows so his bones won’t press into the ground. Matt joking under his breath to keep the mood light even though you can hear that faint edge of tension—because transfers are never routine, never truly easy, and never go the same, and keep us on our toes wondering if it's going to be a smooth landing or rough landing. 

Then comes the slide from the wheelchair to the couch, and then the slide from the couch to the floor. From the time that it takes him you would think that it was a 3 foot drop, it may seem like that for him, but its really only about 3-6 inches. And Matt, even without movement below his nipple line, participates with every bit of strength he still owns—his arms gripping, his shoulders straining, core muscles trying to engage his breath steady and controlled, and the gravity takes over, For a moment, the world holds still as his weight shifts.
Then he’s down. Safe. On the floor. 

And that’s when the work really begins. 

Stretches. Loosening muscles that constantly fight against him. Working through tight hips, stiff ankles, quads that spasm unpredictably. It’s not glamorous. It’s not quick. But it’s necessary—so he can sit more comfortably, avoid pressure sores, breathe easier, and manage pain that tries to take over his day. 
Sometimes he grimaces. Sometimes he goes quiet. Sometimes he jokes to distract himself. And sometimes he just closes his eyes and breathes through it, trusting the hands that move his body where he can’t move it himself. Its sometimes a relief to just be out of the dang wheelchair. Sometimes hes down for an hour or more and sometimes its short lived, just depends on how hes feeling that day.

Then comes the mission: getting him back into the wheelchair. 

It’s always harder going up than going down. Gravity never misses a chance to remind you who’s in charge. Repositioning the chair. Locking it. Double-checking the tilt. Counting down together. Feeling the strain in your arms as you lift him—not just weight, but responsibility, fear, hope, routine—all rolled into one motion.  Everyone has a role.  

And when he finally settles back into the seat, when his body is upright again, Matt lets out that long exhale—the one that says, We did it. Again. 

It’s a victory you don’t get a trophy for.
 A victory no one outside the house sees.
 But it’s part of life now—one of the countless daily rituals that hold everything together. 

And each day, despite the struggle, despite the sweat, despite the effort… you do it again. For him. With him. As a team.