“When I couldn’t, they did”

May 8, 2026 Letter #5

Out of the ICU, the room was quiet. But not peaceful. Most of the machines were gone. The urgency had softened; but my body didn’t know that yet.

I remember lying there, eyes closed, trying to sleep… But listening to everything instead. Every sound felt too loud. Every breath felt like something I had to manage. Sleep wouldn’t come…

Not because I was tired, but because fear had followed me out of ICU and settle right next to me.

I had survived… But I didn’t yet know why.

The first time I really looked at myself, I wasn’t prepared. I had caught glimpses before, but this time, I saw everything. The weight was gone. My face looked different, my hair had gotten thinner. Bandages covered parts of me that used to feel familiar.

And then there were the parts that were no longer there.

I didn’t react right away.

I just stared

Trying to understand how I could still be me and yet look like someone I didn’t recognize.

A wheelchair sat nearby. At home, there were stairs, waiting for me.

So now, at this point, my body has been through a lot, to say the least. I had limited function of my kidneys; now dialysis had already become a part of my life. This wasn’t something I welcomed, but couldn’t escape and had to endure.

Everything had changed, and not gradually. All at once. That’s when I realize something I hadn’t thought about before.

Surviving is one thing and depending on others is another.

Learning how to live again… Is something else.

It didn’t all hit me at once it came in pieces. A thought here.

A memory there

Then one moment… It’s settled.

Not just what I look like, but what my children had lived through. They had to make decisions without me.

Conversations I wasn’t a part of.

Fear they carried… Quietly

I had been unconscious.

My children had been wide awake for all of it, and for the first time, I felt their experience – not just my own.

When JohnDavid and Alex came into the room, I saw them differently. Not just as my children, but as two people who had been asked to stand in a place, no child should have to stand. There was a calm about them.

They immediately have been granted, full reign. A strength that didn’t need to be spoken, a weight they had carried. They were still my children, now something had shifted.

They had held things together

They had made hard decisions

They had taken control

As I looked at them, I felt both pride and a quiet ache because I knew they had been strong for me.

Gratitude came

I was still alive

I could see them

Hear them

Feel them near me

That alone was enough; not long after another feeling followed. One I didn’t expect. I know you’re not supposed to question God, but I asked “why me“? Why was I still here?

Why did I get another chance when things had gone so far? There wasn’t an answer waiting for me. Just a question I carried as well as the gratitude.

What I’ve come to understand is this:

Healing doesn’t happen all at once.

It’s not just the body. It’s the mind, the heart, the spirit.

It’s learning to live in a body that feels unfamiliar.

It’s learning to accept help.

It’s learning to see yourself again – piece by piece.

There are days I feel strong and there are days that take me right back to the ICU room, but even in those moments, one truth remains.

God never left me there, and when he brought me through that, ICU room, He will walk with me through everything that comes after.

I am still learning

Still healing

Still becoming Dawn

And I am still learning that it’s possible to carry both gratitude and questions at the same time.

“Fear not, I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God…” – Isaiah 41:10

Blessings and Gratitude

Dawn