Here we are, eight days into our twenty-three nights in Minnesota, and it feels as if time has taken on a strange, heavy quality. The days pass, but not in the usual way marked by plans or small adventures. Instead, they blur together in a haze of coughing, fatigue, and the quiet hope that tomorrow might finally be the turning point. So far, it hasn’t been.

As of today, I have been battling this dreadful RSV virus for twenty-four days. Saying that number out loud feels almost unreal. It’s over three full weeks of this relentless illness, and still no clear end is in sight. Just when I thought perhaps I was inching toward improvement, my body had other plans. Over the past few days, I developed what can only be described as a full-blown sinus infection. It arrived with a vengeance, the kind that makes your head feel as if it cannot possibly contain the pressure building inside it.

Every time I coughed, it felt like my head might explode. That is not an exaggeration. It was a sharp, bursting pain that stopped me in my tracks and made even the simplest movement feel daunting. I have had sinus infections many times over the years, usually after the flu or another virus, so I recognized the signs immediately. There is a certain familiarity to it, an unfortunate knowing that settles in when you realize your body has gone down this road again.

Thankfully, I travel with the same antibiotics that have worked for me in the past when these infections refuse to resolve on their own. A few days ago, I started the prescribed dose, hopeful but cautious. Today, for the first time, I noticed a subtle shift. My head no longer throbs when I cough, and the cough itself feels a bit looser, less harsh and unyielding. It is not a full recovery by any means, but it is something. And right now, something at all feels hopeful.

Tom, on the other hand, is not improving. Watching him struggle has been difficult, especially knowing how stubborn he can be when it comes to seeking medical care. For days, I have gently encouraged, and at times firmly insisted, that he go to Urgent Care. Each time, he has hesitated, convinced that he needs more time. But this morning, there was a shift in him. Perhaps it is the sheer exhaustion or the realization that things are not getting better. He said he would decide after his nap, depending on how he feels when he wakes up. I am hoping that today will be the day he chooses to go.

Even the smallest tasks have become monumental. This morning, we faced the simple necessity of doing laundry. Under normal circumstances, it would be a minor inconvenience at most. Today, it felt like climbing a mountain. Tom insisted on carrying the heavy plastic bag filled with our dirty clothes, despite his obvious weakness. I watched him, wanting to take it from him, but also knowing how important it is for him to feel some sense of control.

His trips back and forth to the hotel laundry room were exhausting. Each step felt deliberate, as if his legs were weighed down by something unseen. There is a strange sensation that comes with this kind of illness, where your body no longer feels like your own. Our legs moved slowly, heavily, as though they were laden with lead. Walking was not just tiring, it was painful.

Folding the clothes became my task, and even that required more effort than I thought possible. I found myself pausing often, sitting when I could, gathering the energy to continue. Meanwhile, Tom focused on washing his button-down shirts, the ones that had remained untouched since the cruise. It seemed important to him to get them done, perhaps as a way of reclaiming a small piece of normal life.

Somehow, we managed to finish it all. How, I honestly do not know. There was no sense of accomplishment, only relief that it was over. We returned to our room, both of us depleted, moving slowly and carefully as if any sudden motion might undo what little strength we had left.

And so, this is where we are today. No exciting updates, no new sights or experiences to share. Just two weary travelers, sidelined by an illness that has taken far more than we expected. We are holding on to the smallest signs of progress, hoping they will lead to something more. For now, that will have to be enough.

Be well.