Drip, Drip, Drip, Drop

On the subtle moments of living with chronic illness.

one.

two.

three.

four.

five.

I count slowly, watching the rhythm of the lactated ringer drip inside the drip chamber and slowly push its way through the gravity tubing, eventually passing through my port entrance and through the catheter that runs into the subclavian vein in my neck, circling the electrolyte rich fluids through my bloodstream and distributed around throughout my body.

I’m lucky for this port. So lucky.

Sometimes I hate having this port. It’s a constant reminder.

I’ll never be “heathy” again.

I’ll never be “normal” again.

I inadvertently turn my attention back to the dripping.

one.

two.

three.

I’m distracted. I find myself worrying about everything and nothing all at once.

The way my body feels today - slightly more sore than yesterday, my joints aching in that deep, impossible-to-ignore way. The emails I haven’t answered. The appointments I haven’t rescheduled. The parenting moment I want to redo. The weight of invisible things I’m carrying, the ones no lab test could quantify. The anxiety that if I stop counting, if I stop watching, I might float away from this moment entirely.

four.

I breathe in slowly, trying to ground myself. The cool flush of the IV tickles the back of my throat, even though that makes no anatomical sense. I’ve just grown used to this process, this sensation, this ritual.

I didn’t choose this.

Not in the “I want this” kind of way.

But I did say yes.

I said yes to more time. I said yes to feeling better. Maybe not whole, but better. I said yes to showing up for my daughter in the morning and not collapsing by dinner. I said yes to still being here.

five.

This is what chronic illness looks like for me. A balancing act of gratitude and grief. A quiet storm of acceptance and resistance. A port that brings both pain and possibility.

And maybe this is what healing really looks like - not a finish line or a cure, but the courage to count your way through the moments. To feel the ache and keep going. To sit in discomfort and still find a thread of beauty, a sliver of hope, a heartbeat of purpose.

Even when it hurts.

Even when it’s hard.

Even when I’m afraid of what comes next.

Because I’m still here.

Counting.

Still choosing.

Still trying.

And for today, that is enough.