I went to bed just before 3 a.m. and woke up an hour later—choking.
Coughing.
Struggling to catch a full breath.
At first I thought it was nothing. A few strong coughs, some sinus drainage. But it wouldn’t give way. It stayed there—thick and unmovable. I got up, made a warm cup of tea, swallowed a Zyrtec, and propped myself on four large pillows, hoping gravity would help it all settle and move through.
Still, I couldn’t shake the fear that I might not make it through the night. I couldn’t breathe right. My chest felt tight. And the scariest thought wasn’t just dying—it was my grandson, lying next to me.
He’s autistic. If I stopped breathing, would he even know? Would he notice? Would he think I was sleeping and just go about his morning? Would he feel scared, confused, or just… alone?
That thought kept me awake.
Eventually, I must have drifted off. I woke up five hours later—still breathing. Clearer. Lighter.
Alive.
It was just a rough night. But it reminded me how easily the body can betray us, how fragile the line is between here and not here. I’m grateful for this morning. For the breath I can feel in my chest. For my grandson’s soft sounds next to me. For another day to be present.
Even when the night felt like it might be the last, morning still came.
April 13 2025
