There are moments when time feels heavy, like it’s sitting right on your chest. Right now, that’s where we are — stuck between hope and exhaustion, waiting for healing to catch up.
Eric is doing better. Dialysis has made a difference, a real one. A few days ago, he was in unbearable pain — his sides hurting so badly he shook with it. The worst part was watching him slip into delirium, not fully here with us. But today, he’s back. His eyes are clear. He’s present. And even though he still can’t speak, he’s finding ways to show us he’s here.
It’s been a week since they took out the breathing tube. His throat is still raw, and maybe the NG tube isn’t helping either. Speech therapy came to see him, and they’ve scheduled a swallow study for Monday — a small test, but a huge step. It’s strange not hearing his voice, but I’m learning to listen in other ways.
Yesterday wasn’t easy. He threw up twice while taking his medicine. His body is tired, worn thin. But even on the hard days, there’s good news: his rejection numbers are right where they should be. No need to repeat his immunosuppressants — one less battle for today.
And he walked again. Slowly, carefully, but he did it. Every step forward feels like a small act of rebellion against everything that’s tried to hold him down. I see it, and so do his nurses — these wonderful, tireless people who encourage him with every smile and every word. I can’t explain how much it means to see him push himself, not just for him, but for them too.
The kidney specialists came back yesterday. After so much waiting, they finally confirmed it: just a kidney injury. Not failure. A few more days of dialysis, they said, and we should see real improvement. If I’m counting right, today marks day four.
Eric is tired. He’s ready to go home. Today, Rafa stayed with him and they wheeled him outside for a little while. He didn’t look too impressed, but I like to think a part of him still felt the sun.
The best part of these past 2 days was seeing his humor break through. We talked about Janelle, and he made the funniest faces mocking her when she bumped her forehead. He’s also pretending he’s asleep when the nurses come by, then cracking a little smile when they catch him faking. It’s such a small thing, but I miss that laugh more than I can say.
He cried too. He misses Janelle. I asked if they could let her visit, but ICU rules don’t allow kids under four. Another thing to wait on. Another thing held hostage by time.
Right now, time feels cruel — dragging its feet, forcing us to sit with the unknown. But inside that slowness, there’s healing happening. Quiet, stubborn, real. And even though every hour feels endless, we are moving forward. One day at a time.
