Third Time Through These Doors

There’s something surreal about walking into the same hospital for the third time in a row… not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it’s too familiar. The drive that’s just a little over an hour one way. The moment the building comes into view and my stomach tightens as if it remembers before I do. The automatic doors that take the same few seconds to slide open. The overhead signs that point you where to go, like you’re just another dot being routed through the system. The hum of the lights. The faint smell of sanitizer that clings to your clothes. The check-in desk I can picture so clearly I could walk to it without looking up. It’s a strange kind of memory… the kind your body keeps because it has to, not because it wants to.

Monday was procedure day… bilateral celiac plexus block under sedation. You wake up early, do the drive, smile at the front desk like you’re fine, and then hand your body over to a team of strangers trained to keep you safe while you’re not fully “there.” I did what I needed to do because that’s what I do. Then I went home and tried to recover… except my nervous system doesn’t really understand recovery anymore. Sleep didn’t come like rest. It came like a shallow, broken truce. Three and a half hours Monday night… that half hour being the part that always feels like a joke.

Tuesday was another procedure… this time under full general anesthesia. And I’m grateful for it… grateful for the safety, grateful for the caution, grateful because they took my risk seriously instead of brushing it off. But anesthesia takes something out of you, even when everything goes perfectly. It’s like your body pays the bill later, quietly, while you’re trying to act normal… while you’re trying to speak in full sentences and make eye contact and pretend you aren’t moving through molasses. Then yesterday… back again. Pain management. Not for something dramatic, not for some big new plan… just for my muscle relaxer to be refilled. Just one more “routine” appointment that still costs me the same drive, the same energy, the same effort it takes to keep myself upright and functioning in public. Tuesday night I slept two and a half hours. My eyes burned as if sand were under my lids. My limbs felt heavy and shaky, as if gravity had turned up overnight. The tired wasn’t just in my body… it sat in my chest, in my throat, in the space behind my eyes… not the cute “I stayed up too late” tired. The kind where thoughts move through syrup and even simple decisions feel like lifting something wet and concrete.

I don’t know how to explain this part to people who haven’t lived it… the way life turns into a rotating schedule of procedures, appointments, drives, recoveries… and somehow you’re still expected to be a whole person in the middle of it. Still expected to be steady. Still expected to keep up. Somewhere between the “Main Hospital” doors and the “Spine Center” signs, I did what I always do when my tank is scraping the bottom… I whispered a prayer. Not the polished kind. Just the honest kind… “Lord, help me get through this.” And I did. I’m doing it. I’m tired… I’m so tired… but I showed up anyway, because this is what fighting looks like in my life right now. Not loud. Not pretty. Just faithful steps forward, even when I’m running on almost nothing.

And the hard part is… the world doesn’t pause just because I’m running on fumes. Today is a very full day. Both of my girls are out of school because it’s the end of the third quarter, which means the house is louder, the clock moves faster, and I don’t get that quiet rest I usually grab in between appointments. I’ve got a parent-teacher conference first thing, then it’s straight into dentist appointments with both girls, then back in the car again, then an allergy appointment, then endocrinology… and somewhere in the middle of it all, I need to do my Repatha shot too. Tonight it’s wrestling practice, then weigh-ins right after for Sunday’s tournament. It’s one of those days where the schedule alone feels heavier than my body can carry… but I’ll pack the bags, set the alarms, keep the snacks and paperwork straight, keep my voice even, keep my “mom face” on… and keep moving forward, one fragile little hour at a time.

Months later, I’m still learning what it means to keep moving forward when life doesn’t necessarily get easier—it just changes. I wrote more about that season, and the strange place I find myself in now, in Somewhere Between the Pain and the Promise.

#MomWithATube