Yesterday brought some encouraging news. We learned that John no longer needs occupational therapy. His grip strength and arm strength are right where they should be, and because his mobility has been fully restored, his care team feels occupational therapy is no longer necessary.

The biggest challenge now is speech.

John is living with both global aphasia and apraxia of speech. I’ve included an image below that explains what those mean, but for now our primary focus is the apraxia—helping his brain reconnect with the ability to plan and produce speech.

Yesterday, John text his sister Mary Ellen for the first time since his stroke: I love you.

Yesterday we also had a wonderful visit with John’s high school friend, Melissa. She brought us homemade soup packed with fresh vegetables, nourishing bone broth, and noodles. It was exactly the kind of comfort food we needed. We spent a quiet afternoon talking, writing back and forth, and showing her our garden.

Today was a simple day. We worked together in the Tactus app and John’s aphasia workbook, practicing the exercises his speech therapist has given him. Since we skipped breakfast, we decided that ice cream cones counted as lunch.

From the outside, everything probably looks okay… Inside, we’re both struggling.

Yesterday morning I came downstairs and found John searching Google for stroke symptoms. On his notepad he had written one word: “die.” He’s afraid he’ll have another stroke. He’s afraid he’ll die. i reassured him he was ok, that I’ll be right here, that he won’t die.

Jump forward to this afternoon. I found myself on edge, grumpy and emotional. We decided to walk the dogs together at Ghiloni Park. While we were walking, I whispered, “I miss your jokes.” And we both cried silently for the rest of our walk.

This isn’t meant to be one of the upbeat updates. The truth is, no one can promise us that John will speak again. Some days I feel hopeful. Today, I’m having a hard time holding onto that hope.

Every day we practice words, sounds, and cognition. We look at everyday objects to see if he recognizes them or can write their names. Every day he has thoughts he wants to share with me, and together we fight our way through writing, gestures, drawings, facial expressions, and endless patience to understand each other.

Some days are encouraging. Earlier this week I came downstairs and found him trying to search for synonyms to describe me for the love note I’m shared below. Those moments remind me that John is still John.

Other days, he’s struggling to recognize something as ordinary as a stool or a music band.

Recovery isn’t a straight line. It can be inspiring one hour and heartbreaking the next.

I am incredibly grateful that he’s here. We were given another chance, and I never lose sight of that.

But it’s also okay to grieve what we’ve lost.

John is my best friend. A friend once told us that seeing us together was like being at a carnival. Laughing, joking, connecting with one another. Right now, I would give anything to hear him teasing me again or annoying me to no end, or complain about how loud I slurp soup or eat ice cream cones. I miss his voice so much. I miss our carnival.

It is horribly painful to be beside him and know he can’t express himself, and to feel the full weight of the work ahead, which may or may not restore his speech. To see his struggle and not be able to fix things for him. It hurts, very much.

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. Today is simply a sad one.

So tonight, if you’re the praying kind, please say a prayer—not just for John’s recovery, but for both of our hearts. We’ll get up tomorrow and do the work again. One day at a time.