Coming Home to Dixie

It’s taken me a while to write this.

Not because I didn’t have the words—but because I didn’t have the strength.

About a month ago, I got sick with pneumonia and ended up in the hospital for five days. The entire ordeal took a toll on me—physically, emotionally, and in ways I’m still uncovering. When I got home, I found myself doing only what was absolutely necessary: working just enough to stay afloat and caring for my family as best I could. There was nothing left beyond that.

And even that felt like a lot.

It was hard on all of us, but especially on my youngest daughter. She feels things deeply—so deeply. I once heard someone describe her as having a high emotional IQ but low emotional maturity. That description has stayed with me. She senses everything, absorbs everything, but doesn’t always know how to process those emotions, so they come out sideways—big, overwhelming, and sometimes difficult.

We ended up keeping her out of school one day so she could stay with me in the hospital. I think she needed to see me, to know I was okay—or at least going to be. But I know it must have been scary for her. Seeing me lying there, hooked up to oxygen, IVs running constantly, machines beeping quietly in the background.

If I’m honest… it was scary for me too.

The drop in my oxygen levels happened so quickly. I’m no stranger to pneumonia or asthma. I keep an oximeter at home, and twice before it has alerted me that I needed to go to the hospital. But this time was different. My oxygen levels dropped to 77, and by the time I got to the ER, my fingers had turned blue.

And yet, that morning, I still had a full day planned.

A court hearing on a complicated case.
An appointment with a new dog groomer.
End-of-the-month work deadlines.

I didn’t have time to not be able to breathe.

So I pushed through.

But my body had other plans. The pounding headache, the dizziness, the desperate need for air—I couldn’t ignore it anymore. By the time we picked the girls up from school that afternoon, I wasn’t thinking about my to-do list anymore. I was thinking about oxygen. I was craving it. I actually felt relief at the thought of going to the hospital, because I knew that meant I would be able to breathe again.

At one point during my stay, I nearly slipped into a coma.

Even writing that feels surreal.

I’m okay now. This was about a month ago. But my body still remembers. The fatigue lingers. I’ll walk out into the backyard and suddenly feel exhausted, and for a moment I wonder why—until it all comes rushing back.

So I remind myself:
Slow down.
Ease back in.
Give yourself time.
Give yourself grace.

But it also makes me ask a harder question…

How did I get to this point where hospital stays feel familiar?
Where I know exactly which veins work best in my left arm (the right one is no longer any good) and even in my hands?

The answer is simple.

Cancer.

I was diagnosed shortly after college. Chemotherapy and radiation saved my life—but not without cost. The chemo left me with permanent lung scarring, and now every cold has the potential to settle deep into my lungs. This latest hospitalization makes five pneumonia-related stays.

And every time it happens, I’m reminded of how much I hate cancer.

Cancer steals.
Cancer lingers.
Cancer changes everything.

And lately, when I think that, my mind goes straight to Ava.

We just lost her far too soon… to cancer.

And my heart aches.

Then I think of my brother-in-law—gone too soon… because of cancer. The anniversary of his passing is coming up on April 1st. April Fools’ Day. Jim says it was his brother’s last joke on us. That sounds like him. But underneath that humor is a deep sadness. He never got to meet our girls. And that loss feels heavy—because I know the kind of uncle he was to Jim’s older daughters. I wish my girls could have known that kind of love from him too.

Cancer takes so much.

But it does not have the last word.

As Easter approaches, I find myself holding tightly to that truth. The resurrection of Jesus is a reminder that death does not win. That suffering is not the end of the story. That there is hope beyond what we can see and feel right now.

I come back to these words again and again:

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain,
for the old order of things has passed away.”
—Revelation 21:4

And in that promise… I find peace.

Not because everything is okay right now.

But because one day—it will be.

I’ve included some photos and videos from the last month as a little snapshot of our family on our little Mississippi farm.