Who sleeps in hospitals anyway??

Before I say anything else, I want to be clear about this… I have deep respect for those who work in healthcare. I can only imagine how difficult it is to manage the long hours, the impossible patient loads, the emotional toll, and the pressure to make the right call in a system that doesn’t always make that easy. I can hold space for the compassion, dedication, and exhaustion of the people who show up every day for patients and still feel frustrated with the structure they’re forced to work within. This post isn’t about blaming individuals. It’s about recognizing how hard this journey is for patients and caregivers, while also acknowledging the weight healthcare workers carry too. Both truths can exist at once.

We’ve spent the last few days in the hospital for Cassidy’s colostomy reversal surgery; something we’ve been waiting on, fighting for, and honestly, hanging our hopes on. The original plan was to complete the procedure laparoscopically, but when the surgeons went in, they found excessive scar tissue from his previous surgeries. That meant pivoting mid-procedure and opening him up to complete the reversal safely. I’m forever indebted to his surgeon who did an incredible job in what I assume were extremely difficult circumstances.

It wasn’t the smooth, straightforward approach we hoped for. But the surgery was ultimately successful, and right now he’s recovering…tired, sore, and navigating a much more intense healing process than expected. We’re beyond grateful for that victory, even if it came with more challenges than we imagined.

And while the medical updates matter, I keep coming back to something else I haven’t really talked about: how unbelievably hard it is to navigate our healthcare system when you’re already emotionally maxed out.

In the span of a single day, we had 3 different providers tell us three different things. Three opinions, plans, and perspectives on the same patient. We were left to somehow interpret them, reconcile them, question them, and make decisions.

The nurses, surgeons, PAs, and specialists we’ve worked with clearly care deeply and are doing their best with the information they have. They’re navigating impossible workloads, understaffing, and communication systems that don’t always flow the way they should. It’s a system problem, not a people problem. My frustration is with the structure that seems to leave everyone (patients and providers) struggling for clarity.

Because while I’m trying to stay present and support Cassidy, I’m also expected to become an advocate, interpreter, researcher, and decision-maker, all while exhausted and emotionally drained.

What makes this even harder is realizing how little attention is given to big-picture medicine. Maybe it never truly existed, but it feels more obvious now than ever that the system treats patients as individual conditions rather than whole human beings.

Cassidy isn’t just a patient recovering from a colostomy reversal. He’s a 35-year-old living with stage IV metastatic colon cancer. Truly a shitty hand that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

He’s someone who went through an emergency, life-saving surgery in April 2025 that resulted in the colostomy in the first place. He’s someone who fought his way to “no evidence of disease,” only to be hit with a resurgence 2 months later. He’s someone navigating intense chemotherapy, potential radiation, and now the aftermath of this latest major abdominal surgery.

And on top of all of that, he’s dealing with chronic headaches, low sodium, and high blood pressure — symptoms that affect his daily life far more than any lab value can show — yet those seem to get pushed aside because they don’t fit neatly into the surgery box, the chemo box, or the radiation box.

It feels like every specialty sees their piece, but very few see the whole person and when no one is looking at the whole picture, the responsibility falls on caregivers to connect the dots — to ask whether this symptom might be related to that treatment, whether this medication could interact with that diagnosis, whether this new issue is being overlooked because it doesn’t belong to the “right” department.

It’s exhausting watching someone you love become compartmentalized into checklists and specialties when all you want is for someone to treat him like a full human being — not a chart divided into oncology, surgery, neurology, and whatever else might get added next.

Big-picture care shouldn’t be a luxury it should be the baseline.

And here’s where the personal part comes in….I don’t know how I would manage any of this alone. I have been incredibly lucky to have people who continue to show up in so many ways.

Chelsea, who I can call and cry to without having to explain every detail. Someone who lets me fall apart for a minute and helps me put the pieces back together. Her visits have brought comfort I didn’t realize I needed—just having someone sit in the room who understands the weight helps me breathe again.

And my mom, who supports me the best she can from a distance—checking in, reassuring me, reminding me that I’m not failing even when I feel like I might be.

Their presence doesn’t fix the situation but it softens the edges, and that matters.

Now we’re reaching the part of the journey no one talks about enough: going home.

On paper, discharge feels like a milestone It means progress. It means getting out of the constant alarms and fluorescent lights. It means sleeping in our own bed and being away from the chaos. But it’s also terrifying because the moment we walk through our front door, the responsibility shifts. The monitoring, the pain management, the mobility, the incision care—it all lands on me. And this wasn’t a small surgery. This wasn’t a quick fix. This was major abdominal surgery, and while I love him more than anything, I am not a nurse. I am not a physical therapist. I am not medically trained to handle complications if they arise.

Last time, we were denied home health which means I’m bracing myself to hear the same thing again. And I’m already preparing to argue the need for physical therapy that might not be approved.

It’s a strange mix…relief and fear, excitement and dread, hope and overwhelm. Because going home means healing but it also means responsibility. And sometimes it feels like we’re being expected to do professional-level care in a system that simultaneously tells us we’re “not qualified” to ask questions.

Through all of this, though, I’m holding onto gratitude…for the surgery’s success, for the people who show up, for the support that keeps us from collapsing.

This isn’t a plea for sympathy. It’s a plea for awareness. Because behind every patient is someone juggling fear, logistics, contradictions, and hope while navigating a system that wasn’t designed for them. We’ll keep taking it one day, one conversation, and one small victory at a time, no matter how imperfect or complicated the road looks.

Maybe one day I’ll look back on this late-night post and feel a little exposed for how raw it is. Or maybe I’ll be grateful I said what so many of us think but don’t always say out loud. I don’t know who will read this… someone working in healthcare who sees these challenges from the inside, or someone in shoes like mine just trying to make sense of it all. My hope is that, wherever you’re standing, you can understand this comes from a place of love, fear, exhaustion, and hope intertwined. And if these words make even one person feel understood,  whether they’re caring or being cared for, then sharing them was worth it.