Proof of life..

(It’s larissa, taking a grateful hand back from the best of daughters )

Time in the hospital is strange. It stretches and compresses in ways I can’t quite explain—hours dragging as if caught in thick air, then suddenly a whole day has slipped by unnoticed.

The room has its own quiet rhythm: the soft hiss of machines, the occasional monitor beep, the roll of carts in the hallway, and the steady flow of nurses in and out. Even the lighting feels between the worlds —never quite day, never quite night—just a muted glow that makes everything feel slightly unreal.

I’ve been attempting celebrating small victories with quiet. Standing up even  help feels like a triumph. Making it to the bathroom alone today felt like reclaiming a piece of myself. My first walk down the hallway was slow and deliberate, the floor cool beneath my feet, the walker steadying me as I go. And then there are the frustrations that catch me off guard—simple things I used to do without thinking, like cutting into a piece of meat or shifting in bed to find a position that doesn’t ache. Every comfort has become something I have to negotiate with my own body.

There are also the surreal moments that only happen in hospitals—like meals that arrive with a kind of minimalist honesty, such as a single piece of chicken and a pat of margarine on a tray that feels both absurd and oddly memorable. (Celiac +!MCAS LYFE in the hospital is interesting but bless them
They try.)

The window in my room makes me ridiculously happy. It’s not a grand view—parking lot and trees—but it feels like everything. I watch the sky shift through the day: pale and washed out in the morning, bright and sharp at midday, then softening into gold and gray by evening. Clouds drift so slowly they feel suspended, and I find myself following them as if nothing else matters. Even the distant trees, barely moving, feel alive in a way that reaches me more than I expected. That small rectangle of sky reminds me there’s still a world moving forward beyond these walls.

Rose has been an extraordinary companion through all of this. She is endlessly kind, patient, and attentive in ways I notice more each day. She catches the small things before I even ask and brings a steadiness to the room. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her. We’ve also had moments of unexpected humor—like the lunch of a single piece of chicken and a pat of margarine, which we ended up laughing about more than we probably should have.

Most of all, I’ve been carried by all of you. Your messages, encouragement, and generous gifts have reached me exactly when I’ve needed them most. They’ve turned long, quiet hours into something softer and less heavy. Thank you for helping make this long recovery feel a little less lonely.

Several people have asked about sending flowers or other goodies. If you’d like to, I’m currently at Mount Sinai South Nassau, 1 Healthy Way, Oceanside, NY and will likely be here until the 26th or 27th. After that, I’ll be staying again at the Hampton Inn & Suites in Rockville Centre, NY, until the 30th or 31st while I continue recovering before heading home. Also if they go
To to the hotel, Rose can grab them.

For now, I’m just taking things one small moment at a time—letting the days be what they are, and trusting that each one is quietly moving me forward, even when it doesn’t feel like it.