May 20–21
Tuesday, May 20th
Today was the first time I stepped away from Kinley’s side since bringing her to the Emergency Room Saturday evening.
Cohen had his school awards banquet today, and Megan and I agreed one of us needed to go. Like Kinley, he had worked incredibly hard this year, and he deserved to be celebrated. So I decided I’d suck it up and go.
Truthfully, I wasn’t ready to be around people.
Not even a little.
This would be my first time in public since everything changed, and I already knew I was hanging on by a thread.
We were beginning to realize Cohen understood more than we originally thought. Over the last week, he had chosen to go to school instead of staying at the hospital with us. We didn’t blame him for that at all. Thankfully, we had an incredible support system helping keep life as normal as possible for him, and right then, routine seemed to be where he felt safest.
The ceremony itself went well. MeeMaw, Aunt Brittney, and Kiya were there too. I intentionally showed up right as it started so I could avoid small talk and difficult conversations. I knew if too many people asked questions, I probably wouldn’t be able to answer them anyway.
One mutual friend came over afterward to shake my hand. I shook it, but the moment he started talking, I just walked away.
I didn’t have the strength for words.
I found Cohen afterward, hugged him tight, and told him how proud I was of him. He asked if he could stay with his buddies after the ceremony. Part of me wanted to grab him and go do something fun together — anything to escape reality for a little while — but if being around his friends helped him feel normal, then that was okay with me too.
After I left Cohen at school, I headed home. Megan’s mom and sister met me there, and I had a list of things I was supposed to grab before going back to the hospital.
But I was struggling.
I was in a fog, walking through the house trying to remember what I was supposed to be doing. At one point, Brittney hugged me and told me to breathe.
It’s an odd feeling being away from Kinley and the hospital. I was a mess. At the hospital, I was a rock — or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. But standing there at home, away from the monitors, the nurses, the doctors, and Kinley’s bedside, I started to unravel.
I also realized something else on that trip home.
Talking to God wasn’t possible.
Not then.
I was angry with Him. Angry with the world. Angry that this was happening to my little girl. Angry that I had to leave one child at school while the other was lying in a hospital bed. Angry that I had a list of things to pack when all I really wanted was for none of this to be real.
At that point, we were all just trying to survive the day in whatever way we could.
Wednesday, May 21st
More waiting.
The nurses checked on Kinley throughout the night. It felt like every single time she finally drifted off to sleep, someone came in to draw blood, check vitals, or adjust something. She let me stay the night because I brought my CPAP machine from home, and according to her, I “shouldn’t snore too bad.”
So there’s that. Medical necessity meets mild insult.
Kinley was starting to retain fluid in her belly again, and by 9 a.m. they had already drawn blood for multiple CBC tests. That usually means concern is growing.
The doctors believed her blood count was dropping.
We didn’t want to scare her, but surgery was beginning to look possible again. The medical team worried she could be bleeding internally somewhere in her torso. One by one, doctors and nurses filled the room explaining possibilities while we waited for the surgery team to evaluate her.
One doctor looked at Kinley carefully and said her pale skin and colorless lips were signs that something was wrong internally.
She was scared, but trying so hard to be brave.
Megan and I were doing our best to explain things to her, but honestly, we were trying to understand it ourselves.
At one point Megan stepped into the bathroom, and I leaned over close to Kinley and whispered, “I want to tell you a secret.”
She leaned in.
“I’m scared too.”
She smiled after I said it. Not because it made things less frightening, but because somehow honesty made her feel less alone.
Later that afternoon, the surgery team came in to examine her. Her blood count had dropped enough that they ordered a blood transfusion. They explained they could not safely go back in to investigate the fluid buildup because her tissue was so fragile. During the biopsy, they said the tissue had literally fallen apart when they tried to collect it.
But even in the middle of all that fear, there was still a small glimmer of hope.
The doctors reassured us that the fluid accumulation might not be uncontrolled bleeding after all. It could simply be her body reacting to everything it had been through. They believed her blood could still clot properly and that healing was possible.
And in those moments, when fear was loud and uncertainty seemed endless, even the smallest amount of hope felt enormous.
It wasn’t the kind of hope that made everything okay.
It was the kind of hope that gave us enough strength to take one more breath.
And sometimes, in a hospital room, one more breath is the miracle you’re holding onto.
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