The Weight I Carry Quietly
1217 Words
There are nights where Jessica lies awake long after everyone else has gone to sleep.
The house becomes quiet.
The phones shut off.
The lights dim.
Elijah sleeps peacefully in his room.
Kitty curls against her blanket.
Her parents finally rest after another exhausting day.
And yet Jessica stays awake staring into darkness while her mind refuses to slow down.
Because fear becomes louder at night.
Especially after surviving everything she has survived.
People often tell Jessica she’s strong.
And maybe she is.
But strength does not erase fear.
Strength does not erase trauma.
Strength does not stop terrifying thoughts from creeping in during quiet moments.
Some nights Jessica worries about letting everyone down.
Her parents especially.
Because after everything they already survived beside her — the addiction, the overdoses, the accident, the hospitals, the wheelchair — she fears becoming another heartbreak they have to carry.
That fear sits heavy inside her chest.
She knows how much they love her.
She sees it every day.
And sometimes that unconditional love almost hurts because she worries so deeply about putting them through more pain.
Then there’s Elijah.
The fear surrounding Elijah feels even deeper somehow.
Jessica worries constantly about failing him.
Not emotionally loving him — she knows she loves him with everything inside her.
But physically.
Medically.
She worries about leaving him too soon.
Worries about hospital stays stealing more time away.
Worries about him seeing too much trauma at too young an age.
Worries about whether her body will survive long enough to keep being the mother he deserves.
Those thoughts can become overwhelming during bad nights.
Because nothing terrifies Jessica more than the idea of Elijah growing up without her.
Nothing.
The truth is, life after the accident has not been simple survival.
It’s been ongoing battle after ongoing battle.
People often imagine surviving the initial trauma is the hardest part.
Sometimes it isn’t.
Sometimes the hardest part is surviving afterward every single day.
Especially when your body keeps developing complications.
Especially when hospitals become routine.
Especially when pain never fully leaves.
One of the most painful and terrifying complications Jessica deals with now are pressure ulcers.
Most people outside the medical world don’t fully understand what they are.
Jessica wishes she didn’t understand them this personally either.
Pressure ulcers happen when constant pressure cuts off blood flow to parts of the body, especially in people living in wheelchairs or spending extended time in beds. Over time, the skin and tissue break down severely.
And severe pressure ulcers are not small wounds.
They become deep.
Dangerously deep.
Jessica has three.
Three wounds that changed her daily life completely.
Wounds so severe that bone is exposed.
Bone.
Sometimes she still struggles believing this is real life.
The pain alone is exhausting physically and mentally.
The constant wound care.
The dressing changes.
The pressure relief.
The positioning.
The endless monitoring trying to stop things from worsening further.
It becomes its own full-time battle layered on top of everything else she already survives.
And then comes the infection risk.
That’s the part that terrifies Jessica most.
Because once wounds become deep enough, infection becomes incredibly dangerous.
Especially bone infection.
Osteomyelitis.
An infection inside the bone itself.
Not something small.
Not something you simply ignore and hope disappears.
Something potentially life-threatening.
Jessica knows that reality intimately now.
Too intimately.
There are days she feels terrified every time her body shows even the slightest sign something might be wrong.
A fever.
Increased pain.
Drainage changes.
Fatigue.
Chills.
Her mind immediately jumps toward worst-case scenarios because she understands exactly how dangerous infection can become for someone in her condition.
And honestly?
Sometimes the fear is justified.
She knows infections could spread.
Could become septic.
Could force surgeries.
Could lead to losing tissue.
Possibly even limbs.
Or worse.
Death.
Those possibilities are not dramatic exaggerations in her world.
They are real medical realities doctors openly discuss.
That kind of knowledge changes a person psychologically.
Jessica sometimes feels trapped between fighting to live and being exhausted from constantly fighting.
Because the pressure ulcers don’t pause life gently.
They impact everything.
Sitting too long becomes dangerous.
Positioning matters constantly.
Healing takes forever.
Hospitals become frequent again.
And every new complication brings fresh trauma layered onto years of already existing trauma.
Five years of this.
Five years of survival mode.
Five years of hospitals, fear, procedures, infections, wounds, and medical uncertainty.
Sometimes Jessica wonders how much trauma one body and mind can realistically carry before collapsing under the weight of it.
The hardest part is that she cannot ignore any of it.
Not even for a little while.
People sometimes avoid medical issues out of fear.
Jessica understands that urge deeply.
But she doesn’t have that luxury anymore.
Ignoring symptoms could cost her everything.
One missed infection.
One delayed hospital visit.
One wound worsening unnoticed.
That’s all it could take.
And because she knows that, hypervigilance becomes part of daily life.
Always monitoring.
Always checking.
Always worrying.
Always carrying awareness in the back of her mind that her body remains medically fragile.
That constant pressure becomes emotionally exhausting beyond words.
Some nights she cries quietly because she’s tired of being scared.
Tired of medical terminology.
Tired of hearing words like “infection risk.”
Tired of seeing hospitals.
Tired of feeling her family worry every time something seems wrong again.
Tired of trauma following her year after year.
And sometimes she wonders privately:
“How much more can I survive?”
But then morning comes.
Elijah says “Morning Mom.”
Kitty jumps beside her.
Her parents check on her.
Life continues.
And somehow, Jessica continues too.
One thing trauma taught her is that people can look strong externally while privately fighting terrifying battles internally.
Most people only see the wheelchair.
They don’t see the wounds.
The fear.
The nightmares.
The medical anxiety.
The constant calculations required just to stay alive safely.
They don’t see the nights spent wondering whether another infection might put her back into a hospital bed fighting for survival all over again.
Jessica carries those fears quietly most days.
Because she doesn’t want Elijah carrying all that weight too.
Still, despite all the fear, she keeps showing up for treatment.
Keeps going to appointments.
Keeps staying in hospitals when necessary.
Keeps enduring painful wound care.
Keeps fighting infections aggressively.
Because she wants to live.
Desperately.
Not in the abstract way people casually say it.
In a deep primal way.
Jessica wants more years with Elijah.
More mornings.
More memories.
More family dinners.
More laughter.
More quiet evenings with Kitty curled beside her.
And if surviving means enduring painful treatments, exhausting hospital stays, and constant medical vigilance, then she’ll do it.
Because the alternative scares her more.
Five years ago, doctors believed she might only have two years left.
Two.
Jessica remembers that constantly during dark moments.
Because every additional year now feels precious.
Hard-earned.
Fragile maybe.
But meaningful.
And despite all the trauma, all the fear, all the infections and wounds and hospitals…
She is still here.
Still fighting.
Still loving.
Still surviving.
Some days barely.
Some days strongly.
But always trying.
And maybe that’s what real courage actually looks like.
Not pretending fear doesn’t exist.
But waking up every day terrified sometimes — and choosing to fight for life anyway.
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