There is a transaction that occurs the moment you are admitted to a hospital for a serious, extended stay. Nobody explains it to you in advance. Nobody sits down and walks you through the terms. It simply happens, quietly and completely, from the first hour. You surrender agency over your own body. Not partially. Not…
The room at 7am looked the same every day. Lines in, lines out. The Impella running its quiet mechanical rhythm in my chest. The monitor glowing green behind my head, numbers I had learned to read the way you learn to read a dashboard—not alarming anymore, just information. The ward coming to life outside the…
The listing came through on a Friday afternoon. October 11th, 4:02 in the afternoon, Niles in the room. I had been officially listed for transplant—Status 2 at The Christ Hospital in Cincinnati, on an Impella heart pump, waiting. I posted to Facebook from the hospital bed. I HAVE BEEN OFFICIALLY LISTED. Three days of relative stability followed….
My wife wanted me to go to the hospital sooner. She always did—that was the standing dynamic between us on anything medical, and it had been for over twenty-five years. Every setback, every symptom, her instinct was to call in the armada. Mine was to assess, monitor, and manage. We were both right, in our…
Death came to my room more than once. The first time, I was at home, alone in the dark. I woke to a presence and looked toward the corner near the ceiling — and there it was. A dark figure, crouched, looking down at me with the patience of something that had nowhere else to…
