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I’ve never been particularly fond of Valentine’s Day. To me, it has always felt like a commercialized occasion, meant to sell chocolates, flowers, and plush toys. So, when love knocked on our door in a way I couldn’t ignore on Valentine’s Day 2019, the irony wasn’t lost on me.
On February 14, 2019, my husband was unexpectedly whisked away to a specialized hospital three hours from our home, leaving me with our four young children. That day, he received a shocking diagnosis: a rare autoimmune disorder called Guillain-Barré Syndrome.
We were blindsided by this sudden health crisis. As a young, healthy family focused on our three boys and our eight-month-old daughter, our days were filled with school drop-offs, work commitments, and bedtime stories. I often felt the familiar pangs of mom-guilt, trying to juggle everything while managing my own career. Sometimes, I could only find a moment of peace by shutting my office door for a quick break.
Prior to this ordeal, I had never heard of Guillain-Barré Syndrome. I quickly learned that it occurs when the body mistakenly attacks its own nerves, leading to progressive paralysis and intense pain. The most alarming aspect is the potential for paralysis to affect the chest and diaphragm, threatening the ability to breathe.
After five harrowing days in the hospital, my husband was in the ICU, a quadriplegic on a ventilator, unable to communicate and suffering greatly. The doctor informed us that the severity of his condition meant that recovery could take weeks, months, or even longer. We were trapped in what felt like an unending nightmare.
With our children safe at home with their grandparents, I dedicated myself to caring for my husband. As he couldn’t speak, I became his voice. When his autonomic system failed to regulate, I would cool him down with ice or wrap him in blankets when he was cold. When he lost the ability to blink, I gently taped his eyelids shut.
Six weeks later, my husband was still in critical condition, so I made the tough choice to transfer him to a rehabilitation facility seven hours away. I had to return to our children and learn how to be a strong single mother in the midst of this crisis. I needed to be there for them. With resolve, I took on the responsibility of being everything they needed.
One day during family counseling, my eight-year-old son expressed his hurt. “You should have called us more to let us know what was happening,” he said, revealing feelings of abandonment. My heart sank as I realized how much he had matured in such a short time.
“You’re right, Jake. I should have kept you more informed,” I replied, struggling to find the words. How do you explain that the pain of uncertainty prevented me from assuring him everything would be okay?
My husband remained on a ventilator for fifteen weeks before he transitioned to intensive physical and occupational therapy. His hospital stay lasted nine months as he fought to regain basic functions. We made the long drive to see him every weekend.
It was an incredible struggle, but nearly a year later, he came home able to walk—a miracle. This experience transformed us. I witnessed my children confront challenges and grow wiser, not just in height but also emotionally.
I transformed, too. When my husband was first rushed to the ICU, I cried, “I don’t know who I am without him.” Through this journey, I discovered a strength I never knew I had. I had to lead my family in a new direction. Not only did I represent my husband’s voice, but I also became an advocate for his care and a source of comfort for our children. I needed to prepare for the long-term implications of his illness while navigating the emotional landscape of our family.
To process everything, I began journaling on CaringBridge, a platform designed for health journeys. Writing helped me manage my emotions privately while sharing our story publicly. It allowed me to maintain control while being open and honest. Initially, I wrote to update friends and family on my husband’s condition, but I soon realized I was also documenting our journey toward wholeness.
After my husband’s miraculous recovery, I continued to write as a form of catharsis. It became a way to explore the whirlwind of emotions caused by trauma and to capture our experiences for our children to reflect on when they’re older. My writing evolved into a memoir titled “The Other Side of Us: A Memoir of Trauma, Truth, and Transformation,” detailing our transition from the Before to the After. It is a story filled with vulnerability and insight, showcasing the unexpected beauty found in struggle.
While this chapter of our lives wasn’t happy, it taught me that discomfort can lead to growth, perspective, and ultimately, joy.