It’s Sunday. Normally that means a reset, a bit of freedom, maybe something resembling a “Sunday Funday.” For me, it meant another day in the hospital—still here, still waiting, but doing okay all things considered.
This weekend hit me with a level of exhaustion I didn’t expect. On Saturday, I managed to get caught up on a bunch of work, and that actually felt good. There’s something grounding about being productive, even from a hospital bed. Today was the opposite. I slept most of the day. Deep, heavy sleep. My body clearly needed it. From the chest up—especially my shoulders—it feels like I got into a fight, even though I’m barely moving. Bed. Chair. Washroom. That’s the full map of my world right now.
I still can’t leave the room. Two test results haven’t come back yet, and I need three negatives before I can finally unplug and move around without dragging pumps behind me. Once that happens, I fully intend to roam. There’s a Laura Secord downstairs, a juice place, a few small restaurants. Even a short walk would feel like freedom at this point.
The day was mentally confusing. This morning, I was told there’s a possibility I could be here until February 23—the next transplant date—and then transferred to Toronto. That’s 35 days. Thirty-five days in a city where I don’t have family nearby, where my son and Carolyn aren’t just around the corner, where visits aren’t easy or frequent. When you’re confined to a room and can’t even step into the hallway, loneliness hits differently.
I’m still in good spirits, but I won’t pretend that part didn’t sting. At the same time, I told myself the same thing I’ve been telling myself throughout this process: I’ll do whatever it takes if it means the transplant actually happens and goes smoothly. If staying closely monitored improves the odds, then so be it.
Then, later in the day, the update shifted. Antibiotics are done. Heparin may be stopping soon. That means fewer pumps, fewer lines, and possibly—just possibly—going home. It also means things like showering, wearing a sweater (it’s cold in here), and not feeling quite so tethered to machines.
I haven’t seen the doctor in a couple of days, and I know there’s coordination happening with Toronto. Another scan is coming to check the blood clot—whether it’s healing and whether the heparin helped. When I do see the doctor, I’ll have questions. A lot of them. What caused this? How do I prevent it? If it means changing how I eat or live, I’ll do it. I’ll eat like a bunny rabbit if that’s what it takes.
Hospital life has its strange details. DoorDash is cheaper than Uber Eats, for the record, and yes—they deliver straight to the room. I discovered a two-for-one Oreo smoothie deal and spent way too long debating whether that was a good life choice. Exhaustion won that argument.
The room itself is starting to get to me. I’m on the 18th floor, and the blinds stay closed because all I see is another building. No movement. No people. No cars. I asked about switching rooms, but the hospital is full. I’m on a waiting list for a room with a view of…anything. Movement matters more than I realized.
Still, this feels like a small price to pay for the care I’m receiving. I trust the team here, even if I wish I saw them more often. When you’re lying in bed with nothing but time, your mind fills with questions. You just want answers—or at least updates.
Tonight is another early night. I didn’t open my laptop. I didn’t push myself. I slept, and I’m going to keep doing that. Tomorrow is another day, and I’ll see what it brings.
I’ve also been reminded of something important: people care. Messages checking in. Comments that stop me in my tracks. Quiet support that shows up when you don’t expect it. That matters more than I can explain.
And through all of this, there’s one thought that never leaves my mind—the person who is going to save my life. That generosity, that choice, that act—it’s overwhelming in the best possible way.
I’ll keep you posted. Thank you for being here, for reading, and for caring.
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