The Fall, the Chair, and the Faith That Holds Me

On February 25th, 2025,
I fell.
The back of my head struck hard tile.
I couldn’t get up on my own,
so I called the EMTs.

They lifted me,
checked for concussion,
and asked if I needed further help.
I said I was fine.
I believed I was

I used my rollator
to reach my office chair
and stayed there
until Cristina called me to dinner.
But I couldn’t rise.

My legs had feeling,
but no strength
I told Cristina we should wait a few hours
to see whether it passed
It didn’t.

I spent the night in that chair.
The next morning,
I asked Cristina to make me eggs
She did—
without hesitation

After breakfast,
we called the EMTs again
This time,
to take me to the hospital.
Tests revealed a subdural hematoma
The fall had left a mark
deeper than I’d known.

The Long Road Home

I stayed in the hospital
for a few days
while they confirmed
the bleeding had stopped.

Then came rehabilitation.
I’d been through it before—two weeks,
maybe a month.
But this time was different.

Ten weeks.
Ten weeks of relearning,
waiting,
trusting.

I was discharged
from rehab on May 15th.
Home again,
but not whole.

I can walk
but only a few steps at a time.
For now,
the wheelchair is my companion.

Not a prison,
but a tool.
A reminder that movement
is still mine,
even if it looks different.

I’m told that with regular exercise,
I may walk again.
I believe them.
Not because I’m naive,
but because I’ve seen what resolve—
Cristina’s especially—
can do.
She’s the reason I’ve made it this far.
She’ll be the reason I keep going.

Toward Home: The PD Transition

On October 23rd,
I’m scheduled for surgery
to have a peritoneal dialysis catheter installed.
It marks the beginning of a new phase—
home dialysis.
A quieter ritual,
a more personal rhythm.

Less painful
No more clinic chairs.
Just me,
Cristina,
and the discipline of care.

Dr. Bower,
a man of faith,
discovered two micro hernias in my abdomen.
During the PD catheter installation,
he’ll place a mesh screen
to reinforce the area.

Both procedures are outpatient.
I’ll wake from surgery and,
God willing,
sleep in my own bed that night.

But the journey doesn’t end there.
Not yet.

Because peritoneal dialysis
places pressure on the abdomen,
Dr. Bower insists I wait
six to eight weeks before fully transitioning.

He wants healing—
not haste.
Strength—
not strain.
And I trust him.

So I wait.
Not passively,
but with purpose.
I prepare.
I reflect.

I continue my treatments,
my journaling,
my rituals.
I stay grounded in the knowledge
that healing is happening—
even when it’s quiet.

The Waiting List and the Will of God

Dialysis has placed me
on the kidney transplant waiting list.
It’s automatic.

But the wait is long—
up to five years. By then,
I’ll be seventy-one.
Many recipients that age are told the risks are too high.

I hear that.
I understand it.
And I don’t fear it.

Whatever the outcome,
I entrust my health to God.
Not as surrender,
but as active faith.

I do my part—
every treatment,
every exercise,
every moment of care.
The rest belongs to Him.

If a match comes,
I’ll weigh it with wisdom.
If it doesn’t,
I’ll continue
with the same resolve
that’s carried me this far

My life is not defined by procedures,
but by presence.
By love.
By legacy.

The Beat That Isn’t Promised

I was barely twenty
when I first heard it:
No one is promised
the next beat of the heart.
It stayed with me—
not as fear,
but as wisdom.
A call to live with intention,
to walk in faith,
to never take breath for granted.

Now, at sixty-six,
I close my eyes each night
with a quiet thought:
As I close my eyes to sleep,
I could easily awaken in heaven.

That doesn’t frighten me.
It comforts me.
Because my future in heaven is secure.
Not because I’ve earned it,
but because He promised it.

This is the rhythm of my life now.
Faith,
dialysis,
recovery,
writing,
love.

Each beat is a gift.
Each breath a blessing.
And when the final one comes,
I’ll be ready—
not because I’m brave,
but because I’m His.

The Ordinary Path
is lit
for those who seek mercy,
memory,
and meaning.

You may subscribe below
to receive new offerings.
Your presence is never demanded,
but always honored.

If this offering stirred something in you—
a memory,
a question,
a flicker of light—
you are welcome to share
your reflection below.
No need for eloquence.
No need for certainty.
Just a lantern,
gently placed.