Today marks three days since that visit to Urgent Care, the one that finally gave a name to what has been settling deeper into our chests with each passing day. Pneumonia. It sounded heavy when the doctor said it, as if the word itself carried weight. In some ways, it felt like a strange relief to know what we were dealing with, but that feeling didn’t last long once we returned to the quiet of our room and faced the reality of what recovery would look like.
We had both started the antibiotics with a sense of cautious optimism. From years of experience, we’ve come to expect that familiar turning point somewhere around the 48-hour mark. That subtle shift when the body begins to cooperate again, when breathing eases, and when energy slowly returns. This time, that moment has been elusive. We wait for it, almost watching the clock, hoping each passing hour will bring relief, but the change has been far more subtle than we’d hoped.
Yes, there is some improvement. The coughing is not quite as constant as it was before. There are longer stretches of quiet now, moments when the room feels still and we can almost pretend we are on the other side of this. But when the coughing does come, it arrives with a force that reminds us we are not there yet. The intensity has softened, perhaps by twenty percent, but it still grips the chest, still leaves us catching our breath and holding onto whatever is nearby for support.
It is exhausting in a way that is difficult to explain. Not just physically, though that is certainly part of it, but emotionally as well. Each cough feels like a setback, even when we know, logically, that healing is not a straight path. We remind ourselves of that often. Healing takes time. The body works quietly, beneath the surface, even when we cannot feel it.
Far from our usual routines and comforts, we find ourselves adjusting to a slower pace, one that is not chosen but necessary. The days blend in a haze of medications, warm and cold drinks, and rest that never quite feels complete. Sleep comes in fragments, interrupted by coughing fits that pull us back into wakefulness. There is a certain loneliness in those early morning hours, when the world outside is still, and we are left listening to the sound of our own breathing.
We talk often, Tom and I, in between these stretches. Conversations that drift between concern and reassurance. Are we getting better? Shouldn’t we be feeling more improvement by now? Did we wait too long before seeking help? These questions circle our thoughts, never fully landing, but always present.
And yet, there is also gratitude woven into all of this. Gratitude for seeking care when we did. Gratitude for having the medication, even if it is taking longer than expected to do its work. Gratitude for each small sign of progress, no matter how minor it may seem.
This experience has reminded us, once again, how fragile the body can be. How quickly plans can change. How important it is to listen when something feels off, even when we are tempted to push through.
So here we are, three days in, somewhere between where we were and where we hope to be. Not fully better, not nearly as strong as we’d like, but moving, however slowly, in the right direction. And for now, that has to be enough.
Tomorrow is our grandson Miles’ graduation, a day we have been holding close in our hearts. We have not canceled yet, even as this illness lingers. However, there will be a live online broadcast we can watch from here. When I wrote to him last night, his sweet reply reminded us what matters most. He told us to keep getting better. I promised we would be at his party on Sunday at Lake Waconia, no matter what. Being outdoors will help, and with cool weather expected, we will bundle up, quietly present, grateful to share in his special moment, even if we are not quite ourselves.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 27, 2016
