Hospitalizations and ER Visits

The hospital became a second home, though never one I wanted. What began as occasional visits quickly turned into a cycle of returning again and again, each time for something different. Fevers, infections, sudden complications — each visit carried its own fear and exhaustion. The sterile smell, the sound of monitors, and the endless pokes and prods became the backdrop of my days.

When my blood pressure was too low, I was in the ER. When it was too high, I was in the ER. When my heart rate raced out of control, I was in the ER. Once I went twenty-three days without a bowel movement, and I was in the ER for that as well. It was not only the infections and high fevers that sent me into care but also the unpredictable ways my body reacted to chemotherapy and immunotherapy.

There was a time when the emergency response team rushed into my room because my blood pressure had dropped dangerously low as I lay there. I remember watching their urgency and realizing just how fragile my body had become. There were also days when I barely ate, my appetite gone as the hours and days blurred together. Yet even in those stretches of weakness, I was met with compassion. My regular doctors often stopped in to check on me, and the nurses were consistently gentle and kind, tending to me when I could not tend to myself.

The rhythm was relentless, and each admission left me wondering how much longer I could keep pushing through. Yet even in the cycle of emergencies and exhaustion, God was sustaining me in ways I did not always recognize. The kindness of a nurse, the attentiveness of a doctor, or even the quiet strength to make it through another night became reminders that I was not abandoned in those sterile rooms.