For the first time since we arrived in Minnesota fifteen days ago, we are going to see family with many more get-togethers over the upcoming week. That simple sentence carries more weight than I expected. It feels like stepping out of a long, dim tunnel into a bit of light. Today is our grandson Miles’ graduation party at Lake Waconia, a 35-minute drive, and despite everything our bodies have been through, we are going.
Yesterday, the idea of getting dressed in anything other than yoga pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and Tom’s thick white socks felt almost unreasonable. Those clothes have become my uniform, my cocoon during weeks of coughing, fatigue, and restless nights. But I made a small decision. I laid out my clothes last night. A simple outfit. Comfortable shoes. A few pieces of jewelry that felt like a nod to the person I was before all of this. Looking at them, I realized it might not be so hard after all.
This morning, I woke abruptly after another broken night. The kind filled with strange dreams that dissolve the moment you open your eyes, interrupted again and again by coughing fits that leave your chest aching. Still, I didn’t linger. I swung my legs out of bed with more determination than strength and decided I would move forward with purpose. I want to greet this day with something that resembles energy, even if it is borrowed.
I am aware that what I feel inside and how I appear on the outside may not fully align. For weeks now, my body has felt heavy, as though each limb requires negotiation. I have grown used to moving slowly, carefully, conserving what little energy I have. But today, I do not want to walk into Miles’ party looking like someone who has been defeated. I want to show up as his grandmother, proud, present, and there to celebrate him.
Before getting sick, I had found such joy in movement again. After months of regular exercise, I was finally walking with ease and confidence. That memory feels distant now. A month of illness has changed everything. My legs feel like lead after so much time spent resting. Pneumonia has a way of humbling you. It reduces life to the most basic act of breathing, and even that can feel like work.
I remind myself that this is temporary. Once the coughing finally fades, I will begin again. Slowly, patiently. I imagine that moment somewhere ahead, perhaps when we arrive in Marloth Park in South Africa on June 11. I picture the warmth, the open space, the sense of starting fresh. It gives me something to hold onto.
Tom is improving, which is a relief, though he is far from himself. He tires easily and often needs to nap. I can see the frustration in him, the longing to feel normal again. We both carry that same wish. To wake up without heaviness. To move through a day without calculating our energy. To be.
Today’s party begins at noon and will go until four. A manageable window, we tell ourselves. We will pace it, take breaks if needed, and listen to our bodies. By five, we should be back at the hotel, hopefully with full hearts and just enough energy left to reflect on the day.
There is something comforting in knowing that even in the middle of illness, life continues to offer moments worth showing up for. Today is one of those moments. And we are going today, as well as all the other family events we have planned this upcoming week.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 31, 2016:
