This is a long post. It's about yesterday and today. It's about happy times and big cries. So pull up a chair and grab a coffee.

Yesterday morning started off peaceful. John's nephew Derek showed up early with bagels and muscles, and mowed our lawn. Hooray!!!!! Huge, huge thank you!!! Afterward, he and John swam and talked a bit and then he headed out so John could nap.

Yesterday afternoon and last night, though, were some of the hardest moments I've had since all of this began.

I found myself overwhelmed, trying to explain my own needs to people who love us and genuinely want to help. Everyone keeps telling me that I need to take time for myself, take breaks from caring for John, and let others step in.

I know that day will probably come. But we're not there now.

I'm trying to answer much more immediate questions: Can I take enough time away from work without losing my job? How do I get speech therapy, occupational therapy, doctor's appointments, insurance paperwork, disability paperwork, and everything else scheduled and into a manageable routine? Right now, it's chaotic, and that constant mental pressure is exhausting. These aren't things other people can figure out for me. They take time, phone calls, paperwork, coordination, and a lot of organization.And at the same time, I'm learning how to communicate with my very best friend in an entirely new way.

Sharing our journey publicly is a gift because it has surrounded us with love. But it also makes it easy for people to imagine what they think I need. The reality I'm living every minute is often very different.

If I need anything right now, it isn't someone to take my place with John. It's a shoulder to cry on. Someone to sit beside me while I try to make sense of this new life. The practical help will come later. Right now, we're still trying to find our footing.

Last night, all of that emotion finally caught up with both of us.

Many of you know that writing has become John's primary way of communicating. I've watched him write the names of his family members over and over and over. They are clearly on his mind.

He wrote my name on my birthday card and once in the hospital. Never since.

I asked him why. And I cried. Hard.

Then we both fell apart.

Through tears, he wrote:

"Monkey. Wendy is she.

She was walking!!!! She was!!!"

And we both cried some more.

Words his brain clearly knew but his hand couldn't quite find.

It didn't matter. I knew exactly what he was trying to tell me.. The thoughts are still there. The love is still there.

The humor, the kindness, the intelligence… they're all still there.

His brain simply can't find the path to let them out.

We held each other and cried harder than either of us has cried through this entire experience.

It was heartbreaking. And beautiful. And very, very hard.

—

On a much happier note, John's brother Jimmy and his niece Danielle came down today from Maine. They hadn't been able to visit yet because they were being careful not to expose John to germs while he's still recovering. I was very grateful they finally got to spend time together.

John proudly showed them the wildlife photos from his game camera that we had connected to his iPad this morning. Deer, bobcats, coyotes… he was so excited to share them. Jimmy and Danielle showed us pictures of their beautiful new home in Maine, and it was wonderful watching everyone catch up.

One of my favorite moments came when John wanted to ask Jimmy about the layout of the new house. Since the words wouldn't come, he began drawing the floor plan instead. Jimmy immediately understood what he was trying to do, added details to the sketch, and together they built the picture. It was touching to see John finding another way to communicate.

We spent some time outside, enjoyed the sunshine, and swam for a bit.

Later, I suggested we go out to eat instead of ordering takeout for lunch.

John absolutely lit up at the idea.

So we drove to Lavender.

When we arrived, I realized John's notebook was still in the car, so I ran back to get it. When I returned, John was visibly shaking. For a terrifying moment, I thought he might be having another stroke.

I wrote, "Are you scared?"

He nodded yes.

"Pain?"

He shook his head no.

We walked inside.

The restaurant was nearly empty, but as soon as we sat down, I could see it in his face.

We had asked too much of his brain.

He made the sign for "sleep" and fought back tears. I knew we needed to leave.

We ordered our food to go, came home, and John went straight upstairs to bed.

This wasn't anyone's fault. Jimmy and Danielle were wonderful, patient, and loving, and I'm thankful they came. I wouldn't change that.

What today did teach me, though, is that I have to become a stronger advocate for John.

I knew he needs to nap, and I didn't advocate for him. I failed him.

I knew too much stimulation and stress is bad for aphasia. Instead of reducing that, I added to it. I failed him.

I need to set rules and be his advocate. I don't want to fail him. I want to help him succeed.

——-

When I say he needs short visits, it's not because we don't want to see people.

It's because his brain is still healing.

If he'd had his appendix removed two weeks ago, no one would expect him to spend a couple hours entertaining visitors and then head out to lunch afterward.

But brain healing is invisible.

The fatigue is invisible.

The work his brain is doing every second to understand language, form thoughts, and communicate is exhausting in a way that's difficult to appreciate unless you've seen it firsthand.

So I'm asking something of everyone who visits John.

– Please look him in the eyes.

– Please ask yes / no questions.

– Please give him 60–90 seconds to respond before asking something else.

– Please understand that he almost always understands what you're saying. His challenge is finding a path back to answer you.

– And please understand that shorter visits right now are an act of love, not rejection.

Today also reminded me (as did my mom ❤️) that I have to trust my instincts more. It's okay for me to say, "That's enough for today." It's okay for me to protect John's energy, even if it disappoints people. My job right now is not to make everyone happy. My job is to help him heal.

Tomorrow is another day.

We'll learn from today.

We'll rest.

We'll keep moving forward, one day at a time.

Thank you, as always, for loving us through every step of this journey.