Hi everyone,

I spent all of last week lying in a hospital bed, staring at the same walls for hours. I couldn’t walk. My right calf muscle throbbed any time I moved the wrong way — like the most painful charley horse that wouldn’t let up.

The physical discomfort was frustrating, but what was even harder was realizing this: it wasn’t just complications from kidney disease anymore. Now my body — my muscles, my legs — was giving out too.

It started on Sunday, July 5. I already had so little energy, and my family had started to notice. Still, I figured we’d get a clearer picture of my health at my upcoming kidney appointment at the end of the month. That day, I took a 2.5 mile walk — nothing major. I felt a little sore afterward, but didn’t think much of it.

Then, at 1 AM, I woke up to use the bathroom and couldn’t put any weight on my right leg.

I called my transplant coordinator that morning. She was concerned it might be a blood clot and told me to go to the ER.

What they found instead: an extremely low white blood cell count, which left me vulnerable to infection (and earned me a weeklong hospital stay), plus a moderate tear in my calf muscle. I’ll need in-home physical therapy, and recovery is expected to take 3–6 months.

They believe the tear was caused by the high-dose steroids used to treat my kidney rejection. Steroids can weaken muscles, and that weekend walk might have been enough to injure mine.

The hospital stay was long. The healing was slow. Everything felt like it was dragging. I couldn’t focus on TV or a book — I just lay there watching short videos on Facebook, feeling like a zombie.

I know I often write to you all about grief, but this was the ultimate pity party. It was hard.

And then, in the middle of that long, boring stay, something unexpected happened.

During a late-night MRI, I had a vivid visualization of my grandfather, Barney — the person my son is named after — coming to guide me.

For context: Grandpa Barney lived to be 103. He worked out every day, survived multiple health scares, and lived to eat — wearing much of his food on his shirt and pants, no matter what.

As I was slid into the MRI tube — strapped in, completely still — I suddenly saw myself lying in a cedar coffin. I heard a dull clunk, like it had hit the bottom of a grave.

But then I sat up. Somehow, I was outside the coffin, beneath a willow tree, sitting next to my grandfather.

He looked younger — maybe in his 80s or early 90s — wearing a soft blue polo, an off-white golf hat, and khaki pants with food stains. He was glowing.

He told me, “If your grandmother and I were alive, we’d be devastated by what’s happening to you. We’d be crying for you. But… you’re alive. And that’s a good thing.”

I asked what advice he had for me now that I’m even more physically limited. (He had been in a wheelchair at the end of his life.)

He told me: Control what you can—exercise, nutrition—and let go of what you can’t.

He said: If your leg is broken, figure out how to enjoy Baby Barney with a broken leg.

He reminded me there’s still so much joy to be found within physical limitations.

When I asked, “Where do I go from here?” he just grinned and said:
“Go enjoy some good food.”

After that, something shifted — not just in my body, but in my spirit.
My energy picked up. My white count began to rise. I was finally cleared to go home.

That last day in the hospital went by faster — I listened to audiobooks, watched my favorite show, and felt like I had my spirit back.

Coming home hasn’t been easy. My body still hurts. I move slowly. But I’ve got my marching orders: physical therapy, kidney removal, recovery, and getting re-listed. I can do all of that.

And I’ve got Grandpa’s marching orders too: rest when I need to, enjoy what I can, move when I can, eat good food, and make the most of the body I’m in today.

I’m hoping this is one of the last roller coaster emails for a while. Either way, I’m determined to keep going.

Love,
Danielle

P.S. The main image is of my grandpa at age 98 — he lived to 103. I’ve also attached a sweet video of Barney trying to help me get settled in.