Back in the Hospital: A Different Kind of Strength

There was a time not that long ago when I couldn’t walk into a hospital without my body going into full fight-or-flight mode. After three years of watching my son Carter endure pediatric cancer, countless treatments, surgeries, ambulance rides, and long hospital stays, I was left with deeply rooted medical PTSD. Even after Carter died, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the doctor for my own care. The smell of antiseptic, the beeping of machines, even driving by a hospital would trigger panic, sweating, dizziness, and mental shutdown. I was locked in a trauma response I couldn’t escape.

Over the past few years, I’ve worked hard to reclaim my nervous system. Through therapy, I’ve practiced desensitizing exercises: writing and rereading my most traumatic memories, sitting in waiting rooms just to be in the space, visiting medflight helicopters to rewire what they meant to me. These small, agonizing steps added up. Slowly, I’ve made my way back into the world of medicine, not as Carter’s mother, but as myself.

Yesterday, I supported my dad as he underwent heart surgery. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel, but I showed up. To my surprise, my body was more calm than chaotic. Not perfectly relaxed, but grounded. I was able to stay present, talk with the nurses, and take in the information. I packed snacks, brought a notebook, and made sure I was taking care of myself too. I needed frequent pep talks with my self but they worked, I was able to support my parents. This time, I wasn’t in survival mode, I was in support mode.

The biggest moment came when I saw my mom getting anxious as we waited longer than expected. I knew she needed a gentle distraction, and for the first time in years, I was able to offer something that once would’ve been too painful to touch: Carter’s voice. I found my precious Carter voice memos on my phone and handed her an earbud. We sat there in the hospital waiting room, listening to his sweet and silly voice, his jokes, and his love. I found myself smiling. Not crying but actually really smiling. I loved hearing his voice. I loved sharing that moment with my mom, someone who loves him as deeply as I do.

Later, in the recovery area, I had a flash of panic when my dad's incisions began to bleed again. My PTSD kicked in, with images of taking Carter home post surgery, feeling worried and helpless but I caught it. I took some sips of water, breathed deeply, and reminded myself: This is not then. This is now. You are safe. You are strong. Within minutes, I was calm again, focused, grounded, and capable.

I supported my parents yesterday. I showed up, stayed present, and leaned into the strength I’ve earned through years of pain and healing. A few years ago, I couldn’t have done any of this. I would’ve shut down, gone numb, and dissociated. Instead, yesterday I was present.

I’m still healing but I’m also living. Yesterday reminded me, I’m doing both better than I ever imagined I could. This is what progress looks like, it's not perfect or linear but it's inching forward.