Field Note #6

Temporary: Caregiving, Healing & Finding Hope in Unexpected Places

July 23, 2026 | 5:05 PM

I'm sitting in the waiting room at Knoxville Orthopedic Surgery Center. It's a cool 66 degrees inside, and the air conditioning blasts constantly. I find myself wishing someone would simply turn it off.

My blood pressure is high. So is my anxiety.

I'm still in shock that our lives shifted so drastically in the blink of an eye.

Greg is in surgery for his shattered elbow after a bicycle accident, and somehow this surgery center has become the center of our world this week.

The past several days have been an emotional roller coaster, from the emergency room to orthopedic appointments and now surgery. If I can avoid hospitals, I usually do. Maybe it started with the preschool field trip when they had to pull me off the hospital tour because I turned pale, then tried to comfort me with a slice of cold American cheese in the cafeteria (gross). Or maybe it was my C-section when I had my son. Or the miscarriage two years ago.

Medical buildings have never held easy memories for me. But this isn't a hospital, and I have to give this surgery center credit. The receptionist greeted us with genuine kindness, carrying on little conversations that somehow made everything feel a bit more human. Sometimes that's all people need, a reminder that someone sees them.

Even with my heart pounding, I have a feeling everything is going to be okay.

I've spent the last several nights replaying the accident over and over in my head. Greg tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position for his arm. I tossed and turned trying to find a way to change something that had already happened. Eventually I realized I needed help getting out of that loop.

Accidents happen.

As simple as those words sound, they've been surprisingly difficult to accept. This accident changes everything... For now. Greg can't row his raft, cast a fly rod, tie knots, tie flies, type, or drive. Those simple things happen to be all three of his jobs. We've spent the summer hopping from fly-fishing events to photoshoots, fly-tying demonstrations, and date days drifting the river together.

Suddenly, all of it has come to a stop.

Just then my phone buzzes. "Procedure has started. Everything is going well." It's amazing how one sentence can let your shoulders drop. It's been five days since the accident, and each day has become a little clearer. The first few days were full of unknowns. Now we know what we're facing. Recovery. Rehabilitation. A new routine.

Right now I'm the only person left in the waiting room. Even the front desk staff have gone home.

The air conditioner drones above me, and beside my chair hangs a photograph of blooming flame azaleas. I catch myself staring at it longer than I expected because somehow those flowers loosen the tightness in my chest.They remind me of my hike to Gregory Bald with friends during that short window when the azaleas were in bloom. It's a reminder that seasons change. This is temporary. We'll be outside again.

For the past few days I've blamed myself.

I wanted to ride our bikes.

I suggested we go.

If I hadn't...

The thoughts never ended, but I'm slowly letting them go because everyone keeps reminding me of something I need to hear.

Accidents happen.

As for me, I'm doing what caregivers do. This is my job for the moment. Taking care of whatever I can.

My mom knows exactly where I am right now, although we waited until just before surgery to tell our families once we understood what we were facing. She's in full "mom mode." Maybe she senses I'm sitting here alone, but she keeps sending messages filled with optimism and strength.

She also knows I've already planned meals, herbal teas, and recovery foods before Greg even made it home. Her advice was simple: "Good nutrition and rehab will do wonders." She's always been a caregiver. I think I inherited that. I've realized this unexpected pause is giving me time to care for someone I love while also giving myself permission to begin searching for what's next. For anyone who enjoys numerology, I'm a Life Path 6. The nurturer. The caregiver. It feels fitting.

Before surgery we'd been laying low at home. Rest, lots of it. Protein whenever he was hungry.

Vitamin-rich foods. Hydration. Plain yogurt with mandarin oranges. Our favorite meals have been simple. Caprese salads made with tomatoes fresh from the garden.

A gallon spigot jar of herbal infusion waits in the refrigerator.

Nettle for mineral-rich nourishment.

Oat straw to gently support the nervous system.

Spearmint for cooling comfort and digestion.

Healing a fracture requires protein, vitamin C, vitamin D, calcium, magnesium...

...and patience.

My herbal knowledge quietly stepped back into my life exactly when I needed it.

I dusted off old herbal books and started researching bone healing—what herbs support recovery, what grows in our yard, and what medicine is already surrounding us.

I've always believed God places much of our medicine right outside our front door.

Preparing herbs has helped heal me, too.

There's something calming about reading, walking outside, gathering plants, and turning them into tea. When my mind starts replaying the accident, my hands have something gentle to do instead.

7:09 PM The surgery has gone longer than expected. Another text arrives. "WE ARE STILL WORKING. HE IS DOING WELL." Not exactly warm and fuzzy in all caps, but good news is still good news. At this point, every update is a good update. The waiting room is still empty. Just me...

7:43 PM The phone rings and it's the doctor. The surgery is over. Everything went well. We can go home, finally.

As much as I write about nourishing foods and homemade meals...We stop at McDonald's, because that's what Greg wants. So that's what we do. Not every moment has to be perfect. Sometimes healing simply looks like eating the cheeseburger you've been craving after one of the hardest days of your life.

July 24 | 11:13 AM This morning is brutal. The medication wears off before the next dose, and Greg experiences the most intense pain he's ever felt. It's scary. I feel helpless. There isn't anything to fix. I can only give medication, help him get comfortable, and stay beside him. I spend time doing Reiki while we wait for the medication to catch up. Whether it helps Greg, me, or both of us, it gives us a quiet moment to breathe together.

Food hasn't been on his mind since surgery, but he knows he needs to eat. I make a version of congee (a simple rice porridge) with bone broth, a little ground beef, and fresh sage from the garden. It's soft, warm and comforting. Sometimes that's enough.

In the middle of all of this, something unexpected appears. A large moth rests quietly on the curtain.

It has beautiful markings. Greg needs a distraction, so he looks it up. A Pandora sphinx moth,

a nocturnal visitor that came to rest during the day.

Naturally, I can't help but read about its symbolism. Like all moths, it represents transformation. Shedding old versions of ourselves. This particular moth reminds us to embrace change, trust our inner wisdom, and move through life's hidden seasons. I don't know if signs are sent to us or if we simply notice them when we need them most. Maybe it doesn't matter. Either way...It feels comforting. By evening the moth is gone.

Tomorrow we'll begin learning what healing actually looks like.

Healing isn't only about broken bones.

Sometimes it's about becoming someone new on the other side of them.

Today's Notes

Outside: 86° and humid Tennessee summer

Inside: 66° in the waiting room

Location: Knoxville Orthopedic Surgery Center

Waiting for: Greg's elbow surgery to finish

Noticed: The hum of air conditioning, a photograph of flame azaleas, and a Pandora sphinx moth that arrived at just the right time.

Nourishing: Garden tomatoes, congee, bone broth, herbal infusions, and whatever sounded good—even McDonald's.

Learning: Caregiving often means simply staying present.

Grateful for: Skilled surgeons, kind receptionists, family checking in, healing herbs, and the reminder that difficult seasons are temporary.