I spoke to your nurse last night.
She said you were doing better.
You ate a little bit.
You drank one of those high-calorie protein drinks.
Physical therapy came, and you walked the hallway.
You brushed your teeth.
You took the Ativan—twice.

Just enough hope for me to hang on to.

That’s the cycle I’m caught in. The rise and fall of this illness, the back and forth between despair and possibility.
One moment I brace myself for the worst, afraid the next call will be that call. The one that confirms what my heart already fears on the darkest days—the days you refuse food, water, medicine…
The days you say you want to die.
I wonder if it’s possible to will yourself into death. I know depression can be that powerful. I’ve seen it rob you of yourself.

And just when I start to sink into that fear…
Something shifts.
Just enough for hope to sneak back in.
Just enough to breathe.
Just enough to keep going.

But my body?
My body is tired. Wrecked by cortisol and adrenaline. I live in fight or flight. There’s no rest in this kind of waiting.
This kind of loving someone who’s on the edge.

Still, through it all, I remind myself that ultimately it’s not in my hands.
It’s God’s will.
His plan, not mine.
I may not understand it. I may not agree with it. But I trust it.

Today, I’m holding on to “just enough.”