The Day When My World Stopped Spinning
Moments that shift the ground under my feet so suddenly.
There are moments in life that divide everything into “before” and “after.” you wonder if you imagined the world ever being stable.For me, that moment came in a hospital room.
My husband had just undergone surgery to remove his gallbladder. The procedure went well. He was stable. We were preparing for discharge. I was packing his bags—so ready to take him home where we could rest and begin healing together.
And then, the world stopped spinning.
In the blink of an eye, he fell—off the hospital bed, hard—his body seized, blood on the floor, his eyes rolled back, and I screamed.
I screamed like I never have before, trying to hold him, trying to wake him up, trying to call for help. Nurses rushed in. Alarms. Movement. Chaos. And I stood in the middle of it all, not as the patient this time, but as a wife watching the man she loves lie unconscious, motionless, with no warning, no explanation.
They took him for an emergency MRI. I stood outside those doors, hollowed out by fear, wondering if I’d ever get to speak to him again.
This wasn’t just a medical emergency. This was a life quake. One of those soul-deep tremors that knocks you out of yourself and forces you to face the fragility of everything.
What struck me most in those hours was how quickly things change. One moment we’re folding his clothes to go home. The next, I’m kneeling beside him, the floor wet with blood and my heart breaking in ways I didn’t know it could.
And through it all… I was the strong one.
That’s not something I say with pride—it’s something I say with disbelief. You see, I’m usually the one being carried, not doing the carrying. I live with chronic illness. I’m the one who faints, who breaks down, who runs out of energy and spoons before noon. There are days when brushing my hair feels like a mountain.
But that day, I stood. Shaking. Barely breathing. But I stood.
And that, I’ve come to realize, is the grace of God.
Because I had nothing left. I was past empty. My nerves were frayed, my body aching, my spirit cracked wide open from months—years—of pain, caregiving, trying to survive. But somehow, I was held. I was given strength that wasn’t mine.
I walked through fire on burned-out feet. I sat in waiting rooms with no reserves left. I held his hand when he came to, whispering that he was safe, even though I didn’t feel safe myself.
And here’s the lesson that’s been carved into me through all of this: Even in our weakest moments, we can show up. Even when our spoons are gone, love makes a way.
It doesn’t look heroic. It looks like trembling hands. It sounds like cracked voices. It feels like exhaustion so deep it seeps into your bones. But it’s still strength.
Being chronically ill has taught me to measure progress differently. I’ve learned to celebrate the smallest wins. To be gentle with myself. To ask for help. But I never expected it to teach me this kind of fierce resilience—that even when you feel utterly undone, grace can carry you through.
So today, as I write this, I’m not okay. My body hurts. My mind is exhausted. My heart is still sore from the shock. But I’m here. He’s here. And for now, that’s enough.
To anyone reading this who feels like they’re running on empty, I see you. You are not weak for being tired. You are not failing for needing rest. And when the unthinkable happens, you may surprise yourself with how much strength you actually carry. Or, perhaps more accurately, how much strength carries you.
Hold on. Breathe. Let yourself fall apart when you need to. But know this:
Even in the chaos, there is still love.
Even in the fall, there is still grace.
And even when the world stops spinning… it starts again.
With love,
A Spoonie with a Warrior’s Heart
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