We all have stories, these are mine. I tell them with a heart full of love and through eyes of kindness.

How was Your Day?

ER visit, that’s how.

5/26/25 3pm

There’s always a story behind an emergency room visit. Ours starts quietly enough—with vague symptoms, over-the-counter attempts, a stubborn belief that things will get better. But the body has its own timetable. So does suffering.

Funny how, when someone goes to the ER, I feel compelled to support them—to show up, to encourage, to do. But now that we’re here, deep in the belly of the hospital, what I want most is to be left alone with her. To let them heal her. To let me be still.

Her sister and mother are hammering away at the barrier of entry but there’s no room for anyone. It’s just us in a nice cool environment while she lays in her suffering.

Unfortunately I worry we will leave with her feeling much the same as she does. I hope not. I hope they say, “oh! You have this little spot on this slide and it means you need an injection of this liquid. You’ll sleep tonight and feel right as rain tomorrow!”

I hope they find a name for it.
I hope it’s simple.
I hope it’s treatable.
I hope she sleeps tonight.
I hope she laughs tomorrow.
I hope she forgives me for all the times I thought I was helping and wasn’t.
I hope, I hope, I hope.
I pray.

I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I pray. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I pray. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I pray. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I pray. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope. I hope.

I pray.

5/26/25 6pm

She’s curled up next to me drifting in and out of sleep. I’m glad she’s here. This isn’t going the way these things usually do: suffer for a week and feel better.

As she sleeps beside me, curled in pain and softened by morphine, I feel the questions crawl in. Did I do this? Was I too stubborn? Too sure? Too slow to act?

Even today, I resisted the ER in favor of a walk in clinic. I wish now we’d have stayed here two weeks ago instead of going for OTC solutions.

Hindsight. I’m not a great husband. She’s probably known that from the start and just hoped I’d improve.

And I’m sure I have. Doubts creep in on you under the fluorescent spotlight of an emergency room.

She’s a very good wife. She’s a good person. A good woman. A pain in the ass at times, but if good for the goose-good for the gander, I suppose.

5/26/25 9pm

The family has arrived. We haven’t told many we are here. Honestly, we can’t take too much attention. She’s gravely ill and on morphine. I’m exhausted from trying to make her better for five days through concierge serving 24/7 and sheer force of will.

Our station here indicates my efforts, while noble, were a failure.

But with family comes expressions of love and support. Welcome. Possibly some compounded with guilt over losing the middle sister. Certainly from my wife’s remaining sibling we’ve had an onslaught of it-might-be. From brain eating amoebas to exotic virus’ and appendicitis, she has postulated her illness may have been a dozen or more horrible conditions.

What would have helped more: encouraging her big sister to drink more water.

I’m shocked at how dozens of things are symptomized with nausea, headache, fever, exhaustion and diarrhea. We are designed to combat invaders with the tools we have. So I suppose it makes sense that we have pretty much the same reaction to almost anything.

See a threat? Run.

I finally manage to get my first meal of the day. A burger and fries. To hell with a balanced diet today, I just need something comfortable.

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5/27/25 3:45am

It’s been a long 12h since we arrived. She’s sleeping peacefully and pain free for the first time since last Wednesday.

Lab work showed the UTI wasn’t killed by the ABX and came back furious and strong. Only without the usual tell-tale signs: no specific pain, just a general pressure in the abdomen that felt a lot like gas.

This is very frightening for me and very painful for her. I’m surprised at how powerful the emotional toll is to watch someone suffer mysteriously.

I asked my brother-in-law who lost his wife to cancer and he just said, “one day at a time-and be strong for her.”

I’m still deciding if this is good advice. I mean to say, I think it is—I’m just not sure how we are different, he and I.

He’s a noble, granite man—solid, calm, unmoved by emotional tempests. I’m not. If he’s concrete and steel, I’m scribbles and color, chalk on wet pavement. I’m made of blur and bloom. Watercolor rainbow.

But maybe strength isn’t always stoic. Maybe it’s staying up all night, learning the names of drugs you can’t pronounce. Maybe it’s skipping meals. Holding her hand. Crying in the hallway.
Maybe it's just showing up—whatever shape you're in.

I think a sick partner benefits more from a strong steady sidekick than a firehouse.

I’ll work on that. Faking it and making it.

The expectation is two doses of Zosyn delivered intravenously will kill her bug in short order and deliver again a fever free existence. That and LOtS of fluids. She has learned from this that she has to drink A LOT more fluids.

In another six hours, we will do bloodwork again and confirm that. For now, I’m praying she can just sleep and recover.

5/27/25 4:30 am

Time for checkup. Drawing blood and doing labs. No pain, no temp and blood pressure is good.

I am very tired.

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#memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing
#hospital

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