Our caregiving journey has been nothing like we expected. Two summers ago, we were standing under the Sistine Chapel ceiling, craning our necks to take it all in. Last summer, we were laughing over pizza in Amsterdam. This summer, I’m memorizing hospital hallways and medication schedules. Life flipped overnight, and we never saw it coming.
When we first walked into that hospital, we thought it was temporary. A bump in the road. We packed light — physically and mentally — because we assumed we’d be back to “normal” soon. A few days of rest, a little rehab, and then back to living life the way we knew it.
But then it spiraled. Tests. Setbacks. The NG tube. The endless appointments. Every time we thought we’d turned a corner, something else showed up in the rearview. Slowly — and almost without realizing it — we stopped waiting for “normal” to return. Because it wasn’t coming back.
That shift is hard to name until you’re deep in it: when “temporary” care becomes “this is life now.” And yeah, it hurts. It’s heavy. But it’s also taught me things I never expected — patience I didn’t know I had, love deeper than I thought possible, and a resilience that only comes from showing up every single day.
These days, our “big plans” aren’t about cruise ships or foreign cities. They’re about making it to brunch on a good day, when there aren’t five million doctor’s appointments pulling us in different directions. It’s about those moments when someone who hasn’t seen us in a while finally understands where we’ve been — and validates just how far we’ve come.
We’re still here. Still kicking. Still finding joy in smaller, quieter ways. Life didn’t go the way we planned, but we’re building something real out of what’s here. And that’s enough.