Elise Said So

05/24/2026

May 23, 2024. A lot happened this day.

The trach was capped. He was off the vent completely. After weeks of machines breathing for him, his lungs were working on their own.
Dr. Metcalf came in and he passed the cognitive tests. All of them. He could spell world backwards. He knew the days of the week—forwards and backwards. A week before he couldn't name two days. Delirium resolved. That's what the chart said. I'd been waiting to read those two words for a long time.

He was also accepted into acute rehab. Aetna approved it after some back and forth between me, the hospital, and the insurance company. He needed a private room because of the trach infection risk—which meant there was no bed available yet. Monday or Tuesday they said. He was excited. He understood what rehab was for now. He wanted to get strong, learn to walk properly, get his fine motor skills back. That was a different person than the one who thought rehab meant drug rehab a week ago..

He had another EEG and he had stage 1 heart failure. Sepsis-induced cardiomyopathy—that's what they called it. His EF was 45-50%, where normal is 55-70%. Honestly it was unexpected even after everything we'd been through. I immediately went into information mode—what do we watch for at home, what are the symptoms, what do I need to know. I wanted to learn everything from the doctor before we left. Considering where we'd started, we'd take it.

He also started talking about what he remembered from the coma. He thought he was getting tattoos. He remembered his hands being replaced with claws. We just let him talk. I was fascinated honestly—it's the brain making sense of what the body is going through. The restraints became claws. The procedures became tattoos. He wasn't wrong about the feeling. Just the story his brain built around it.

At home that day Clare almost crawled for the first time. I was so afraid he'd miss that milestone. He'd already missed so much. And then, because apparently this was just that kind of day, Frankie started coughing. My dog. Who already has a heart condition. I made a vet appointment.

My husband. My dog. Both with heart issues. On the same day.

05/23/2026

When I first heard he passed away, I looked over at my husband and said, "Sepsis."

My husband was 41, completely healthy, and then he was suddenly on his death bed. By some miracle, my husband did not pass away (even when the docs were preparing us for the worst and said nothing else can be done).

No family should have to go through this. My thoughts go to his wife, his son and daughter.

🔗: bit.ly/4dIptZM

Kyle Busch's cause of death has been revealed. The legendary NASCAR driver died at age 41 on Thursday from severe pneumonia that progressed into sepsis.

📷: Jonathan Bachman/Getty

05/22/2026

May 21, 2024. The chart notes that day included something called "acute toxic metabolic encephalopathy." Which sounds terrifying but basically means his brain was still being affected by the buildup of toxins from everything his body had been through. "Severe deconditioning." "Mildly impulsive." "Needs cues for safety." "Decreased cognition." He still couldn't spell "world" backwards or name the days of the week in order. And that frustrated the hell out of him—which, honestly, was its own kind of progress. It meant he knew something was off.

That day he got his first shower in almost a month. They'd been sponge bathing him but this was different—actual water, hair washed, that full reset your body needs. He had to sit on a chair but he liked it so much he spent 10 minS in there.

His nurse had to step out for a moment so I sat in the bathroom just making sure he didn't fall. He was still a fall risk. But he was so happy in there. He did however manage to pull off all his ports and tape in the shower.

Around lunch I headed home to work a little and feed Clare, who was still nursing. While I was home he texted me. Typed it out himself. "What did you q r to do for foosg." He meant food. Still a little confused about the fact that the hospital was feeding him.

On Tuesdays in the summer WakeMed has an amazing farmers market outside. I grabbed fresh strawberries and a little chocolate treat on my way out and brought them back to him on my afternoon visit.

I came back that afternoon with my sister and Clare. First time my sister had seen Chad. She was so excited and he knew her immediately. Lit up when she walked in. Made some joke about how he'd just needed to sleep for a while. Clare got to hang out with her dad a little more too.

My mom left that day, which was hard. She'd been there for almost a month—helping with Clare, doing my laundry, holding everything together.

Leaving Chad that evening to go back home, walking back to my car felt different. He'd had a shower. He was getting better by the hour. I knew the family visits were helping so much. I was filled with hope.

And his chart said it best: "Responding well to family interaction."

05/21/2026

May 20, 2024. For three weeks she'd been making her rounds. The gift shop ladies knew her. The cafeteria staff knew her. It felt like half the ICU nurses knew her. Six and a half months old and completely at home in a place that was anything but.

Her dad was somewhere in that same building the whole time. She had no idea.

By this point Chad could go off the breathing trach in small doses. The cords were still there and ready to hook back up if his pulse ox dropped or he needed it. But for stretches, he was breathing on his own. He'd also moved to the step down unit, which meant visitors were allowed. Babies included. We checked with his nurse first. There were no active communicable issues on the wing and got the green light to bring Clare in.

This was their second visit in two days. The day before was the courtyard—wheelchair, machines, wires, the whole production. This time he was more settled. More himself.

And then Clare came in.

He was more alert than the day before. More lucid. He knew how to hold her, how to play with her. He wanted to snuggle her and he did. She was giddy, completely enamored with his cords, fascinated by everything around her, unbothered by any of it.

He just knew her.

I didn't cry. I just felt whole. My husband was alive. My daughter was in his arms. And somewhere in the back of my mind, past all the fear and the machines and the uncertainty, I could finally feel it.

Her daddy was coming home.

05/21/2026

May 20, 2024. I woke up to an email from Chad. His nurses had taught him voice to text. "Hey I just spoke with the doctor it looks like they might be letting me out today. At least getting the trach tube taken out."

I already knew from Dr. Mody that he was not going home, but getting that email meant a lot to me. Up until that point he'd been so medicated that reaching out just wasn't something he thought to do. If he needed me, a nurse called me. So waking up to a direct message from him (even a confused one) felt like a step back toward normal.

I brought his phone for the first time. He couldn't quite use it, as the drugs made his hands shake and he had trouble focusing on the small screen. He did text me a photo of his oxygen mask to lodge two complaints—dirty mask, messy room. The mask was his. The mess was his own stuff from his old room. Those drugs were still going strong.

Later that afternoon I got another email. He introduced himself as Richard Simmons, noted he was bored at the hospital, and asked if I would come visit. A nurse had told him his hair looked like Richard's. He ran with it.

More happened that day. Feeding tube out. Catheter out. Moved to the step down unit. He asked for, and started wearing, real pants. He did a great job at OT—eating, brushing his teeth, washing himself. Relearning the basics.

His chart showed his heart was responding, his trach was great, but they also found a blood clot in his right leg, a DVT. From being immobile for so long.

He read his texts for the first time and found out how long he'd actually been there. I can't imagine coming back to yourself and realizing you'd lost almost a month of your life. He said he needed a few hours to process. He accidentally sent some messages meant for me to our neighbor instead. (Thankfully, she's cool.)

And then, the highlight of the day, Clare visited. His new room allowed kids and the floor was clear. He held her and beamed. He was frustrated he wasn't strong enough to hold her longer. But she was happy and I was happy and the chart said it better than I can, "responding well to family interaction."

My sister also arrived that day to help. Yay.

05/19/2026

After 24 days apart, Clare was finally back in Chad’s arms.

She wasn’t allowed in the ICU (for good reason), and he was still barely holding on.

From April 25 to May 19, they didn’t see each other at all.

But on this day last year, Chad had finally made it to ICU step-down. That was huge.

He was stable enough to go outside.

We made a plan with one of the nurses to get him into the courtyard so Clare could see her dad. He couldn’t walk. Still hooked up to everything. The wheelchair was massive—oxygen tanks, wires, machines beeping.

But none of that mattered. Not to her, not to me.

She lit up when she saw him. He softened.

Chad was still really drugged. At one point, he told me Clare could stay with him and he’d “watch her” so I could go home and sleep. Like he wasn’t literally strapped to a chair, with a machine breathing for him.

People picture waking up from a coma like While You Were Sleeping. Soft music. Recognition. Tears.

It’s not like that. It's more like The Exorcist. Thrashing. Eyes rolling back. Like your body’s possessed and delirium has fully taken over.

Waking up from a coma takes a while.

It’s not one moment. It’s gradual. It comes in pieces. Confusion, clarity, then more confusion.

But the second he saw Clare—really saw her—he came back a little bit more. And (with a little help) he held her.

Everything was still a mess. But in that minute, she was in his arms again.

It was a milestone: He was out of the ICU. Outside. With Clare.

And for the first time in weeks, he sort of made sense when he spoke.

I remember thinking, I don’t care about anything but this: My baby. My husband. Our health. Our happiness. No BS. No pettiness. Just love.

I’d been calm through everything. But this was different.

Things had shifted. We’d never see things the same again.

A year later, sometimes I feel like it happened to someone else. Other times, it feels like it was just yesterday.

And again—this is your reminder to keep a pulse oximeter in the house.






This was posted last yr on my main IG account and got 5mm views. But it's what made me start sharing our story.