girl drew

Nine years ago, to the day, I met this guy for our first date. Five years ago, to the day, I married this guy. Five months ago, to the day, I said my final goodbyes to this guy, thanking him for everything. If I could do it all over again, I would. Ramón made my life better in countless ways, and he often reminded me how lucky I was to have him. I balked at his remarks, but I knew they were true. Others might view today – and the coming holidays – with sadness for me, knowing things look vastly different. Though it’s true that life is unrecognizable this year, the past nine years (and counting) have affirmed Ramón’s viewpoint: I am pretty dang lucky. 

Last week, after checking my temperature, the dental hygienist led me to my exam room.  “How’s your husband doing?” she asked with the best of intentions. “He died,” I responded nonchalantly, voice as steady as can be. It’s impossible to know when the words will come out casually or when I’ll be caught off-guard – as though I’m the recipient of the news leaving my mouth. Grief is finicky like that.   Thanksgiving was the first big holiday without Ramón. The pandemic made things just unusual enough that his absence wasn’t as detectable as it might have been another year. However, based upon the quantity of leftovers, it was clear that Ramón and his appetite were missing. Despite the outrageous surplus of pumpkin pie, it was a good day.   I checked Ramón’s email today to see if anything important has trickled in, and I stumbled upon an email he sent while hospitalized in February. I am going to copy and paste a portion of it without editing anything, as much as th...

A friend gifted me this leather bracelet in August. She conspired to get a sample of Ramón’s handwriting, and my mom had a note from Ramón thanking my parents for everything they’d done to help us since his diagnosis. I first opened the bracelet the day we got back to Atlanta after scattering Ramón’s ashes in Michigan. Seeing his handwriting made me pause at first. It reminded me of when I went to clean out his office in August and saw notes to himself on his desk. When he wrapped up work that day in February, nobody had a clue that was the last time Ramón would wear his “judge outfit” (a term I used to be annoying) or the final time he would exit the building.  I used to incessantly tell Ramón he wrote like a serial killer. I haven’t been in many written exchanges with serial killers, but something about Ramón’s handwriting looked so calculated and methodical – like he had a strategy. And you know he usually did. Mr. Particular. I would often try to mimic his handwriting by adding...

How am I doing? Well, I’m exploring new places through travel, music, and books. I’m sitting on hold with countless financial institutions and utility companies. I’m enjoying the cooler weather while walking the dogs, running, and sitting on porches. I’m partaking in adult-like phone calls and signing documents, much to my dismay. I’m doing freelance work and napping when inspired. I’m enthusiastically watching baseball and miserably watching football. I’m catching up on appointments I’ve neglected since Ramón’s diagnosis in May 2019. I’m snacking on Starbursts and seaweed (separately).  I’m routinely looking up at the sky and the clouds, admiring the beauty of it all. I’m wearing comfy sweatpants, festive shoes, and even a bona fide smile. I’m draped in acts of love and kindness from people and animals alike. I’m constantly wishing I had the bandwidth to thank everyone who has said, done, or sent something thoughtful. I’m reminiscing about the last nine years and channeling my ene...

When home between hospitalizations in late March, I heard a song that  resonated with me. As my anxiety about COVID-19 a nd transplant steadily escalated, I kept wondering why life couldn’t be easier. The song, “Rainbow” by Kacey Musgraves, is about believing things will improve despite the storms that enter your life. In those unnerving days of vulnerability and despair, the lyrics reminded me that, though my feelings were entirely valid, they were also transient. When it rains, it pours, but you didn't even notice It ain't rainin' anymore, it's hard to breathe when all you know is The struggle of staying above the rising water line Well, the sky is finally open, the rain and wind stopped blowin' But you're stuck out in the same ol' storm again You hold tight to your umbrella, well, darlin' I'm just tryin' to tell ya That there's always been a rainbow hangin' over your head I listened to the song many more times that night, sometimes wit...

A few weeks ago, two of my long-time cohorts stopped by to enjoy drinks and conversation – and bring dinner (Yum!). My friend Amanda helped me and Ramón buy our house in 2018, and we were reminiscing about how painfully easy we were as clients in that we had no real must-haves or dealbreakers. When looking at houses, Amanda suggested we narrow our search, but Ramón and I insisted we’d be happy anywhere as long as we were together. This was a far cry from every buyer on HGTV; somebody’s usually demanding a house with a dedicated hot yoga space while the other is hellbent on finding a kitchen that cooks meals by itself. Ramón was in Michigan visiting family when Amanda and I decided on a home. To my surprise, the house that interested me the most needed a lot of work. I remember getting Ramón on the phone and telling him that it was going to be quite a project, to which he responded, “Okay, let’s do it.” And we did. In our short stint there, we renovated the entire interior and planned t...

Though I’ve been writing regularly, I haven’t posted much lately. This is mostly for good reason. For example, my friend Elaine came back into town over the weekend, and we had a bit of a staycation at a lovely Airbnb in Midtown Atlanta. I did some normal-people things such as enter a grocery store (masked) for the first time since February. I even got in a swimming pool, enjoyed a comedy show at an amphitheater, and paddle-boarded on a lake. Watch out, world; the Drewdle is loose! So, what are my days looking like lately? Well, for one, it’s crazy not being confined to a hospital room: something I realize was a luxury in terms of the virus, yet it was also torturous because all I wanted to do was fix a completely irreparable situation. Since most of my time spent at the hospital resulted from my aggressive legal speak (#judgewifelife), I was never able to leave Ramón’s room when I was there due to visitor restrictions. Practically speaking, I was in solitary confinement, handcuffed by...

It’s been one week since we said goodbye to Ramón, and it’s been more than 14 weeks since I said farewell to the version of Ramón I’d known since December 2011. In many ways, I’ve been grieving since April, but the sorrow has taken a different shape now, knowing that the possibility of recovery no longer remains. At times, this materializes as feelings of relief, since the clarity for which I’d longed has arrived and is indisputable. However, other times I miss the ambiguity of where we were because it included space for potential and opportunity. And hope. Although the past week has been heavy, it’s also been magically light due to the outpouring of love. I’ve connected with friends from many walks of life, I’ve heard from people whose lives were better off because of Ramón, and I’ve even linked up with strangers who happened upon my posts online. Despite the irrefutable absence that unexpectedly reveals itself throughout the days, the moments have been woven together by undeniable fe...

Many of you have followed our story and its constant ups and downs, particularly since Ramón’s chemo/radiation/transplant complication-induced cardiac arrest on April 19, 2020. Though it felt like we’d finally settled into an “up” after a tumultuous three months, Ramón died yesterday at 10:52 a.m. Things were going well [enough] until suddenly they weren’t. A respiratory event yesterday morning led to yet another cardiac episode and, though we hoped to sustain Ramón’s life long enough for his family to get to town, it didn’t unfold that way. So, lying in an ICU bed with Ramón, I held onto him as tight as possible until they said I had to go. Every muscle in my body aches today, but that’s the price I paid to send him off in the midst of a massive hug. Ramón’s family in Michigan joined us via video as we reminded him just how much we loved him. As we finished saying our goodbyes, he was clinging to life with the help of very advanced life support. When we told the medical team it ...

Holy Day +100 since Ramón’s transplant! Exactly 100 days ago, on April 10, Ramón received his stem cell transplant. From 11:25 a.m. to 12:10 p.m. ET, we quietly watched YuSun’s stem cells slowly assume residence in Ramón’s body, ready to evict his leukemia once and for all.  I’d heard about the coveted Day +100, and now we’re here. We have taken some major detours, but we made it! When a transplant recipient hits Day +100, the window of greatest risk closes, and the donor stem cells should be forming new blood cells. Leading up to transplant, I recall a moment when Ramón looked me straight in the eyes and said, with absolute conviction, “I just know this transplant is going to work.” I could tell he believed it with every ounce of his body, and I did, too. So far, he’s been right about the transplant.  Tests around Day +30 and Day +60 indicated that the transplant was successful. Did you know that Ramón’s blood DNA was replaced by his sister’s? So, if he were to get a...

A good day, from morning to sunset Yesterday was Ramón’s 100th consecutive day in the hospital. Though each individual day has felt exhaustingly long, the days have merged together in a way that seems like no time has passed. Despite all of the twists and turns that led us here, it was a good day. Some days feel like setbacks, and I find myself actively inventorying what’s wrong with this situation. However, day 100 was the best day I’ve had in quite a while; instead of focusing on what’s absent, I concentrated on what’s right here in front of me. In the early hours of the day, when I should have been sleeping, I checked on Ramón and was taken aback by how beautifully peaceful he looked. Excluding the headband, he looked just like he always does at home when I stare at him in the night like a total creep. The moment felt significant for reasons I can’t explain; something just felt very perfect. Then, when I got up for the day, I asked the nurse to bring me coffee (not because ...

*Full disclosure: I'm backdating this post because I was too tired to post it the day I wrote it. Then I completely forgot.* “I’m not going to wear my ring, okay?” I remember Ramón asking that as we did one last sweep of the house before departing for the hospital on April 3. Now, 90 days later, Ramón’s left hand remains ringless; instead he’s wearing a pulse oximeter. Above his wrist, there’s a peripheral IV. Above that, there’s a PICC line that’s being removed today. On a whim one afternoon in May 2015, Ramón asked if I wanted to go ring shopping. We had this conversation often, and I finally agreed that day. After looking at a few antique stores, a cashier suggested a family-owned jeweler that was nearby, so we headed that direction. We sat in the car in the jewelry store parking lot while I unhooked my IV antibiotic from my PICC line. My lungs were acting up, so I was doing a round of two different IV antibiotics to whip them into shape. When we entered the store, the...

Visiting friends in Missouri on our RV trip in 2018 I awoke this morning with a joyous heart, knowing that Ramón is waking up in a regular hospital room; he escaped the ICU! He required some ventilator support the past few weeks to rest his lungs, but he built his way back up to breathing on his own. Ramón successfully completed a 24-hour breathing trial yesterday, so he got the all-clear to move back to the bone marrow transplant floor. Hooray! Early this morning, I woke up and noticed it was approaching 5:00 a.m. Well aware that it’s a Sunday, it took me back to the night we nearly lost Ramón. Though it feels somewhat naïve now, I remember the announcement that they got his pulse back. At that moment in time, I thought the scariest part was over. I thought, ‘Whew, he’s going to be okay,’ not knowing what his body might have endured while he was almost lifeless. Now, ten weeks have passed since I heard Ramón’s voice or laugh, and I never could have imagined things would unfold ...

Ramón in New Orleans, admiring food with all his heart. This morning, while walking the dogs, my mom turned to me and asked, “Did I tell you about the dream where I was feeding Ramón mashed potatoes? He loved them.” Without hesitation, I responded, “Aww, that makes me happy.” Now, reflecting on our exchange, it’s interesting that my first response was one of joy. If Ramón was four months old, the conversation might have been commonplace, but he’s not. Several months ago, my mom’s dream would have been hilarious, yet now it’s entirely appropriate. Circumstances have redefined my waking dreams, too, and I’m trying – and mostly succeeding – to accept the changes with an open mind. It got me thinking about the benefits of open-mindedness. Being open-minded not only creates the opportunity for change and acceptance, but it also frees us from our ego-driven need to be all-knowing. I’ll share an example from my own adolescence. Growing up with cystic fibrosis, I carried my share of sad...

It’s day +67 since Ramón’s transplant. Given that the first 100 days are critical, it’s relieving to know we’re two-thirds of the way through the hard part of the transplant process. We received test results today confirming that Ramón has no evidence of disease, and his sister’s cells are still 100% running the show. These are important milestones, of course, but even the good news is tampered by the brain injury caveat. My phone often suggests that I glance back at photos, and I’ve been taking the bait lately. In many ways, it’s nice to reflect on the good times, remembering a life that was much less complex. However, it’s also difficult because life looks so dramatically different now that grief can quickly overtake the nostalgia. Today I was reminded of this picture of Ramón and our dearly departed Phoenix at the beach two years ago. Ramón and Phoenix, Ponte Vedra Beach 2018 It got me thinking about the ocean and how surprising it can be. Sometimes, you’re casually standi...

Saturday into Sunday has become my toughest time of the week. It makes me reflect on "the night" when Ramón was feeling indescribably rough, culminating in the early morning loss of airway and subsequent cardiac arrest. It serves as a marker of how long it's been, and we're now officially in week 8. In the early days, this never entered my mind as a possibility. I was somewhat naively but optimistically expecting a call at any hour, letting me know Ramón was awake and asking about me. As each day passes, I try to remain hopeful. On Wednesday the neurologist reminded me that "it's still early," which is an interesting way to describe the longest, most overwhelming days of my life. But she's right; we knew from the beginning that time would play the biggest role in Ramón's recovery. Sometimes I view the passage of time as one day closer, and other times it's one day deeper into heartache. On April 23, five days in, a dear friend told me, ...

Another day, another Atlanta Braves surprise! Tonight we received this message from announcer Chip Caray aka Harry Caray III. I am so grateful for all the people that have stepped up to help make us smile. For now, I'm smiling solo, but I remain hopeful that I'll relive all of this with Ramón when he awakens from his very lengthy slumber. Sunday will mark seven weeks since his cardiac arrest; that's seven weeks without one of his hugs, laughs, or awful jokes that he repeats because he thinks I didn't hear him when I certainly did. Ugh, I miss it all. Thank you to Chip and my friend, Uren, for making hospital day 63 a hit! ("Do you get it? A hit?" -Something Ramón would say)

Alright, folks. Things are escalating! Today we got this incredibly kind video from Atlanta Braves Manager Brian Snitker. I'll admit this week has been a tough one; we're working to determine where Ramón will go next to give him the best chance for neuro recovery, and we've run into many obstacles. Though I've shed countless tears of sadness this week, my hope was to regroup and shift back into a perspective of gratitude. Last night's email from Hank Aaron (so fun to say) helped get me started, and Snit's video has given me the momentum to keep going. Gratitude, I'm home and hope to stay for a while!

Top left: Email from Hank!  Bottom left: Me at Fulton County Stadium in 1995.  Top right: Spring Training 2013. Bottom right: End of May 2020. You know when you’re just staring at the computer screen, deciding what to say to Hank Aaron? Do you not know that feeling? Because I do! Tonight, Hammerin’ Hank took the time to email us after becoming aware of our story. I was born a Braves fan, and Ramón grew up watching the games on TBS, despite living nowhere near Atlanta. Together we’ve gone to many games, made trips to Florida for spring training, and spent a good portion of last season cheering from the hospital following Ramón’s leukemia diagnosis. . After receiving Hank’s email, I read it multiple times to make sure I was seeing correctly. “You are not going to believe who emailed us,” I excitedly told Ramón tonight – day 61 of his current hospitalization and day 89 this year. Though he’s still unresponsive, I read him Hank’s words of encouragement, hoping they’ll find...

The past several weeks have been, without a doubt, the most difficult time of my life. Each day, I have been hopeful that Ramón’s status would change enough to dramatically alter the nature of my update. But it hasn’t, so here goes. On April 19, nine days after his stem cell transplant, an infection caused Ramón’s throat to close, which thrust him into cardiac arrest. He turned to me and – barely audible – said, “I’m choking,” before going down. What happened next was a blur. “We’re losing him,” someone shouted. “Somebody start compressions,” another voice demanded while I was escorted out of the room. As I took the longest walk of my life, though just down the hall, I heard over the intercom, “Code blue. Hospital tower south. Ninth floor. Room 903.” Code blue always makes me pause and close my eyes, mustering up every ounce of energy I have, knowing that it’s the most serious of codes: a resuscitative effort. With each repetition of Ramón’s room number over the intercom, I became...

I love this picture from a friend's wedding in Charleston in 2014. It looks so effortless and obnoxiously lovey-dovey. In reality, though, I kept demanding that Ramón look at me like he was in love because I saw the photographer lurking. You can't conclude that from the final product alone, but that's how we got there. Right now I'd give anything to know the final product that will result from the challenge we're facing, but unfortunately I don't. I do know Ramón needs your thoughts, prayers, and positivity. Although some photos can be staged (calculated, even), this one is developing at its own pace.  As always, I appreciate you and will update as things come into focus. 💙

Happy almost birthday to this guy! It's the night before Ramón's birthday, which means it's also the eve of his leukemia diagnosis. Ramón remains in the ICU, but he should be coming off all sedation in the very near future. Ramón's newly acquired immune system is working well so far, and his white blood cell count increased exponentially last week. Thank you for all the moves you busted for Ramón! I want to honor Ramón's birthday by toasting to him tomorrow. My first thought was to suggest coffee so he can get all the wake-up vibes possible. However, I won't stop you from getting rowdy for Ramón, either. We certainly weren't expecting another hospital birthday (and definitely not like this), so it's our duty to celebrate for him. Though there is still a lot of uncertainty ahead, we can put our own spin on tomorrow. Let's make it special by raising a _____ for Ramón!

Thank you all for helping make my birthday special. Though a big part of my heart was missing, my heart was warmed every time I received a birthday wish, a candle photo, or a donation to the CFF. The greatest gift of all … drumroll … was that I got to go see Ramón in the hospital. He was sedated, but I got some solid hand squeezes at the best possible times. I also left a playlist of his favorite songs, and I heard his music in the background when the doctor Facetimed me yesterday. It was a sad, beautiful, difficult, and amazing day, but it was also a hope-y birthday. As of yesterday, we still hadn’t seen any change in his white blood cell count, so turn up the music and dance like you’ve got nothing to lose. When I was with him in-person on Sunday, I told him he simply wouldn’t believe the amount of support he has. I’m holding on to my rope of hope, understanding that each day brings Ramón closer to healing. And, in moments when I feel like a candle in the wind, I know I’m surrounde...

I’m updating to let you know that there’s not much of an update. The doctors think Ramón’s airway closed due to an infection just above his voice box, combined with throat inflammation caused by the radiation he received before transplant (a common side effect). Because his immune system was intentionally wiped out for transplant, the swelling can’t resolve until his white blood cells start regenerating. And, without addressing the swelling, the doctors don’t feel comfortable removing the ventilator and therefore can’t turn down the sedation much more. This is about the time the doctors expect to see Ramón’s counts coming up, so do your white blood cell dance for encouragement. We also know that, during any cardiac arrest, the brain often goes without its full supply of oxygen for a time. The neurologist says it’s too early to hypothesize what this might mean for Ramón specifically since he’s still sedated. Though they can do some basic imaging while under sedation, there’s not much ...

Though time has been moving at the speed of molasses, it’s moving, and that’s the most important part of this process. The testing they’ve been able to do while Ramón is sedated and intubated all looks quite positive. Until they can fully wake him, though, there will be some unknowns. Yesterday around noon they started the awakening process, but it will happen gradually and safely, so it could be a number of days.  Around this time last year, Ramón and I were hiking at Turtletown Falls in Tennessee, and cancer was nowhere in the mix. Yesterday I found myself Facetiming with my sedated husband. I reminded him how many people love him and are pulling for him, and I let him know that we’re not stopping.  Although we’re in a holding pattern now, we should know more in the coming days. So, let’s keep rooting while Ramón is rebooting. 

Today has been, by far, the scariest day of my life. This morning, at about 5:25, Ramón lost his airway, most likely due to swelling caused by an infection or allergic reaction. He went into cardiac arrest and ultimately had to be resuscitated. During the process, Ramón had to be intubated. He is now sedated and on a ventilator in the ICU. I was required to leave due to the ICU’s no visitor policy, but I was able to hold his hand before I left, and I am grasping onto that memory until I’m able to return. As traumatic as the day has been, the updates I’ve received have been encouraging thus far. Though Ramón is expected to remain on the ventilator for several days, they’ve gradually (and successfully) moved him down to the lowest setting throughout the day. He is requiring very little heart support at this time, which is a drastic improvement from this morning. The doctors are very encouraged that the first 12 hours have gone as smoothly as they have. They’ve cooled his body down (t...

Breaking news: Ramon still feels pretty crappy. His counts should start recovering in the next several days, we hope. I’d love for it to be tomorrow, but I don’t want to get greedy. Once Ramon’s white blood cells start coming in, we should see a lot of improvement. Bring ‘em on! Today was tough, but thankfully Ramon got some much-needed rest. We did half of a lap, but Ramon just wasn’t up to it. I tried my best to keep myself busy, but I did have my moments of simply staring at him while feeling hopeless. It’s very difficult to watch a person suffer; it hurts all the way to my core. I’ll end on three good things that happened today: Our buddy from food services saw me walking in the hallway and gave me a packet of Jelly Bellies. There was no rhyme or reason; he was just spreading joy." One of Ramon’s colleagues posted photos of her children in Share Love, That’s All shirts. This particular family knows all too well how much cancer sucks, and it was uplifting to see them su...

Whew. Today has been up pretty high on the “hard” scale. A trip to the bathroom at 4:00 a.m. yielded a small battle scene. Ramón’s PICC (a long-term IV running to a large vein in his chest) got tangled up in his IV pole and managed to escape his arm entirely. Because his platelet count was so low and his blood was slow to clot, this resulted in three nurses cleaning up while a literal sandbag was placed on his arm to apply pressure and stop the bleeding. Then he got a unit of platelets. Rise and shine. Ramón’s throat pain is still quite severe, and that has been our biggest challenge. Hiccups who? We’re still working to make him comfortable, but his symptoms will likely last until his white blood cell count starts to recover, enabling him to heal. It’s brutal to watch the torture he experiences merely swallowing water. Please let the healing come as quickly as possible. Through his pain, Ramón and I managed to walk 32 laps together – about three miles. Around lap 13 or 14, we passe...

Today has been a painful day for Ramón, but we’re ending the night on a pretty good note. Until we were thrown into this cancer fiasco, I’ll admit I didn’t know much about the details of chemo or radiation. However, both treatments aim to target rapidly dividing cells, ideally the cancerous kind. The body has many other types of rapidly dividing cells, though, like cells in hair follicles – hence hair loss – and the digestive tract. Though we all know Ramón would have a luscious head of hair if not for the cancer, today he’s been struggling with the digestive tract side of things. His mouth and throat are very sore and painful, so we’ve been working to address that for most of the day. After what felt like many strikes, we’ve finally hit on some effective ways to keep Ramón comfortable. Since his white blood cell count is undetectable, this issue won’t resolve itself as quickly as we’d like. So, the goal is pain management until he can begin healing on his own. This isn't eve...

It’s been a while since I’ve said this, but we had a good day! Though we’ve had glimpses throughout the days, I can officially say that today, as a whole, was good. The highlights include fewer bouts of extreme hiccups, being fever free the entire day, and walking a whopping 20 laps – a vast improvement from yesterday’s three. Ramón started two planned immunosuppressants today, and we didn’t notice any adverse reactions. He’ll be on one of the meds for about a month (CellCept) and the other for at least 100 days (Prograf). Ramón also started Neupogen injections, which should boost his immune system. It’s an interesting shift because now, instead of actively trying to fight leukemia, the goal is to make sure the cells play nice. The most common post-transplant complication is graft versus host disease (GVHD), a condition where the new cells accidentally start attacking the recipient's healthy cells. Let’s hope that, before we know it, all the cells are singing kumbaya in unison – ...

Do you want the good news or bad news first? Let's go with bad so we can end on a positive note. Last night was a total trainwreck. Ramón ended up running 106-107F fevers that he simply couldn't shake. Actually, he was shaking a lot, yet the fevers persisted. Next, Ramón's blood pressure dropped to 80/40 and his heart rate skyrocketed to 142 (he was asleep, might I add). Nothing indicated he had an infection driving the fevers. After some phone calls and powwows, the doctors ended up giving him an immunosuppressant called Tocilizumab. They determined his symptoms were a result of cytokine release syndrome (CRS), which is apparently common in haploidentical transplants like his. (Fun fact: Just the other day I read an article about Tocilizumab being used in COVID-19 patients.) So now to the good news! After taking the immunosuppressant, he's been fever-free all day. The hiccups are another story, but we're slowly eliminating his sources of discomfort. Ramón finis...

Post-transplant selfie! First, let me disclose that this photo is the first we took post-transplant on April 10. It looks much less hot-messish than anything I could have documented from today. I'll keep it short because I am majorly sleep deprived, but Ramón's fever escalated throughout the night, topping out at 106.9F. I didn't even know that was possible, but it is. He's been in the 106- point-something arena many times today. There was a period this morning when Ramón was feeling really well. We did seven laps before noon, which was great. When I went into the hallway solo, the nurses whispered to me about his lack of hiccups; we were all so excited! So, naturally, we reentered Hiccuptown around 1:00 this afternoon, and Ramón hiccupped every four seconds for more than four hours. My heart broke because even the hiccups sounded exhausted. Finally, between 5:00 and 5:30 p.m., they stopped! It was a joyous time, but they've now been back for more than an...

Today was better than yesterday in that Ramón's nausea was mostly kept at bay. We haven't yet figured out how to contain these rowdy hiccups, but he's had some stints without them, so let's hope those become more frequent. Ramón's on a few different medications that should help, but the doctor said the hiccups would pass and would just be "damn annoying" (his words) in the meantime. We did just shy of 12 laps today, so that was an improvement. As we hiccupped down the halls, Ramón received a few southern condolences: "bless your heart" and "poor thing." But we avoided any near run-ins since everyone could hear us approaching. Ramón has been running a fever, so they started him on an IV antibiotic to be safe. He got up to 103F today, but he's down to 100F now. The nurse said this was common and she'd be surprised if he wasn't running a fever. We're just hoping it breaks soon so he's more comfortable. Tomorrow m...

--- let in the new --- Today is a good day in that it has a plus sign in front of it. Hooray! Given COVID-19 and the havoc it's wreaking on our healthcare system, we were anxious leading up to the transplant date, knowing that the landscape was changing day by day. But we're here, the transplant is done, and Ramón's new cells are working to make themselves at home. Change into your comfiest sweatpants, cells; you're here to stay! Now, for the not-so-sunshiny part: it has been a rough day for Ramón. He's been fighting nausea most of the day, and we haven't yet figured out the perfect medication combo to keep it under control. Ramón also has frequent bouts of impressively loud and robust hiccups, so that's causing discomfort as well. During some of his better moments, we've walked six hallway laps. I'm hoping we get a few more in tonight. We knew this was going to be tough, and my goal for tomorrow is to be more proactive in managing Ramón...