On this Memorial Day, we pause to reflect on the lives lost in service to our nation. May we carry their memory with gratitude and live in a way that honors their sacrifice.
Unfortunately, we are too sick to share this special holiday with our family here in Minnesota. Instead of gathering around a table filled with familiar foods and easy laughter, we find ourselves tucked away in our hotel room, moving slowly through the day, doing what we can to recover from this dreadful illness that seems to have taken hold far longer than either of us ever expected.
Memorial Day has always carried a quiet significance for us. It is not just a long weekend or the unofficial start of summer, but a time to pause and reflect, to remember those who gave everything for the lives we are fortunate to live. There is usually a sense of togetherness, whether at a backyard gathering or simply sitting side by side with loved ones. This year, that feeling is replaced with something far more subdued. Our world has shrunk to this room, to tissues and water glasses, to the sound of coughing that has become all too familiar.
After reading about the tragic and early passing of a 41-year-old race car driver due to complications from pneumonia and sepsis, something shifted in me. It was a sobering reminder of how quickly things can escalate. I had been encouraging Tom for days to go to Urgent Care, but like many of us, he hesitated. Perhaps it was stubbornness, or maybe the hope that tomorrow would bring improvement. Yesterday morning, when he woke feeling no better, he finally agreed.
Even then, I had every intention of making this appointment all about Tom. I was still weak, still coughing more than I would like, but after three long weeks, I convinced myself I must be on the verge of turning a corner. This appointment, I thought, was for Tom. He needed it more. But Tom, in his gentle and persistent way, encouraged me to be seen as well, just in case.
While he was standing at the reception desk, filling out his intake forms, I made a last-minute decision to be assessed as well. It felt almost unnecessary at the time, but it turned out to be one of those decisions that matter more than you realize in the moment.
With our similar symptoms, they brought us into the same treatment room. There was something oddly comforting about that, being side by side in this unexpected turn of events. After taking our vitals and listening carefully to our symptoms, they ordered chest X-rays for both of us. I did not expect much from mine. I thought perhaps they would confirm what I already believed, that I was on the mend.
Instead, the results came back with surprising clarity. I have pneumonia. Hearing those words caught me off guard in a way I cannot quite describe. Tom’s X-ray was more difficult to interpret due to the scar tissue from his pulmonary fibrosis, but given his symptoms, they made the decision to treat him for pneumonia as well.
Suddenly, everything felt more serious, but also, in a strange way, more hopeful. We had answers. We had a plan.
They prescribed two powerful antibiotics for each of us and sent the prescriptions to a nearby Walgreens. When we learned they would not be ready for nearly an hour, we returned to the hotel to wait. It felt like a small delay in what had already been a long journey through illness.
After calling to confirm the medications were ready, Tom set off to pick them up using the drive-through. Not long after, he was back, moving carefully but with purpose. We sat together and took our first doses, each medication with its own schedule that quickly became too much for my foggy mind to manage. Tom, ever steady, worked it out for both of us.
That night brought me something I had not experienced in weeks. Rest. True rest. My coughing eased, even if only slightly, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I slept deeply. When I woke, I noticed a subtle shift. Not a full recovery by any means, but a hint that the medication was beginning to do its work.
Tom did not fare quite as well overnight. His coughing persisted, and the night was difficult for him. Given his existing lung condition, we know his path to recovery may take longer. Even so, there is a shared sense of cautious optimism between us now.
As I sit here, still tired but slightly clearer in thought, I find myself looking ahead. I am hopeful that I will recover enough to attend Miles’s graduation on Thursday, a moment we have been looking forward to for so long. There is also his graduation party next Sunday, and Tammy’s barbecue on Saturday. These small, meaningful gatherings feel especially important now.
So here we are, on a day meant for remembrance and togetherness, finding our own quiet version of both. We are grateful we chose to seek care when we did. It was the right decision, and one that may very well have changed the course of this illness.
For now, we rest, we heal, and we hold onto the hope that in the coming days, we will step back into the world a little stronger than we feel today.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 25, 2016:
