The big 5-0 today. Oh, how I wish you were here to celebrate with me. I imagine us staying up until midnight just so we could catch that exact moment on the clock together. You’d probably have made me laugh, brought out a cake with too many candles, and made this milestone feel like magic. But instead, I was asleep.

Oddly enough, it was a peaceful sleep. No tossing and turning, no waking up with that crushing weight of worry pressing down on my chest. For two nights now, I’ve slept through the night. That feels like something to hold onto, some small bit of peace in the chaos.

Yesterday was hard. I made the hour-and-a-half drive to the hospital to see you, even though I knew there was a chance you wouldn’t want to see me. And at first, you didn’t. The nurse was apologetic, gently explaining that you said no to visitors. But I was always going to show up anyway. I needed to be near you. I needed you to know I was there, even if you weren’t ready.

I love you. That doesn’t change just because it’s hard.

Eventually, the nurse tried again. I asked her to tell you how far we’d come just to see you. And you said yes. You came to the day room. And in that moment, it was everything.

One of the staff told me you went to group therapy again, two days in a row now. That’s progress. You told me what you’d eaten too. And it filled me with such unexpected relief. Eating, drinking, engaging, it’s not everything, but it’s something. It’s movement in the right direction.

I can’t imagine the dark place your mind was in on those hardest days. When you refused food, water, and medicine… when it seemed like all you wanted was to lie there and disappear. I hate that you’ve had to endure such a painful season. And I know, I know, it’s the illness speaking, not you.

We talked about the ECT treatments. How important they are. I pray you’ll keep going with them, even on the days I can’t be there. I worry that if I’m not standing beside you, you’ll stop. That you’ll slide backward. But I will do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t happen. I’ll keep showing up. Just hold on for me, my love.

So today, while the world says I’m celebrating my milestone, I’m really just thankful for another day of hope. Another day that you’re still here.

Happy Birthday to me.
And to us—still fighting.