I just spent my seventh night in the hospital. I went to sleep when my IV antibiotic finished just after 11:00 p.m. Then the nurse came in to draw blood at midnight. Then the tech came in to get my vital signs at 1:00 a.m. Then the nurse came in to hook me up to another IV antibiotic at 3:20 a.m. So, yeah. I’ve been “up,” as in not even trying to sleep, since about 4:30 a.m. Hooray for rest and recovery. Or something.

All in all, the hospitalization is going well. We’re still not sure what led to this infection—probably a cold or virus—but we’re confident I’m on the right IV antibiotics to treat it. The plan is to let me go home on IV meds, but the holidays complicate things. Once we get everything set up for home health, I think I’ll be free to go. It could be today. It could be Friday. Hooray for allowing me to practice patience. Or something.

I’ve gone on a few more walks around the hospital, becoming more adventurous (from a trauma point of view) each time. On Monday evening, my mom and I returned to the Healing Garden where Ramón and I would sometimes go during his hospitalizations or when we were here for infusions. We’d sit together on our favorite bench, close our eyes, and manifest his recovery. Even though the outcome wasn’t what we’d envisioned, I’m forever grateful for those moments of hope amid the uncertainty. Hooray for the hard work (see: LOTS OF THERAPY) that has helped heal my heart. Or something.

During this stay, I’ve had another revelation—one that I’m still not sure what to do with. When I think about the last months of Ramón’s life, I still harbor anger toward one of his doctors. This doctor was available when things were going well, but he retreated when things got hard. He spoke out of turn several times, then tried to walk back what he said—never opting for the simplest choice: sincerity. At a time when I needed support, he added layers of resistance. But the thing that still causes a physical response in me is the fact that he never acknowledged Ramón’s death. He was on vacation when Ramón died, and he never reached out—no text, no call, no card. Like, come on. What a coward.

I don’t want to carry this energy with me anymore. It doesn’t surface often, but it’s there—and it has overstayed its welcome. I’ve considered many approaches, from classy and mature to middle-school petty. I don’t think I’m seeking an apology from him. And I don’t think I need to make myself heard. Maybe it’s about accountability—hoping he doesn’t make the same mistakes again. Maybe it’s just a closure thing. No matter the underlying reason, which I struggle to identify, the thing I know for sure is that this resentment isn’t serving me. Perhaps when I tear this hospital bracelet off, it can symbolize my breaking free from the past. Release me! Or something.

I know it’s a time of giving, but maybe there’s something you’re ready to release, too. Don’t take that crap into 2026. We can do this!

Happy holidays, folks!