For a while, I enjoyed telling Dave’s story. In the beginning, I found it therapeutic. It was just as unbelievable to me as it was to the person I was telling it to. Somewhere along the line, telling the story of Dave’s accident and the health care nightmare that followed became more matter of fact. Then, it became heavy.

What I didn’t tell most is that Dave’s injury took more than just his health—it took his identity. He was a builder, a provider, the sharpest thinker in any room. A self-made man. A man who never touched alcohol because an uncle taught him: Be ready. Stay clear-headed. Don’t dull your edge. Dave believed you could mentally overcome almost anything—including pain and suffering. He lived and breathed that. He lived it throughout his life, until he suffered daily pain for months and months, and that pain wore his body and mind down.

On May 25, I came home from work to find Dave outside in his boxers, cleaning the chicken coop. On a normal day, this was business as usual. There haven’t been many normal days lately. He wasn’t walking straight and seemed confused. His surgical arm had been acting up for weeks—swelling, fevers, pain. His doctors said “oral antibiotics and monitor.” I knew it wasn’t enough.

By the time we reached the ER, Dave was in fulminant septic shock. Blood pressure 70/40. Heart rate 150. Yellow bloodshot eyes. Gone. He didn’t recognize me anymore and could not speak.

And yet, I was calm. Dave had always made me feel safe and taken care of. He had also been my mentor and taught me half of what I knew about the clinical management of sepsis. I had treated patients this sick many times. Now, my husband was the patient and I was watching things unfold from a different lens.

Dave and I met as nurses, and it was love at first sight. A hospital courtship turned fairytale. Now with graduate degrees, three beautiful children and our first home in Connecticut.

I’ll never forget the feeling of climbing into a triage bed with my 36-year-old husband whose empty eyes stare past you. I thought: I might have to tell our kids he isn’t coming home. But another voice inside me said: He wouldn’t leave us like this.

At 12 midnight, I watched them roll him off to the operating room, to inspect and wash out his elbow and get source control. I asked the RN for personal advice: Do I stay or do I go? She told me to go home and rest, and that’s what I did. “When he wakes he won’t know the difference anyway,” she said.

At 2 a.m., the orthopedic surgeon called to tell me Dave had made it through surgery. He had had nine prior surgeries since August, none of them while he was so unstable. He went on to tell me the elbow looked “perfect.” No pus, no dead tissue. “I don’t know why he is so sick,” he said. That’s the kind of sentence that freezes you.

That’s when my trust in the health care system began to erode. I’m trained as a nurse practitioner to know, and I knew. The elbow was the source. Doctors face incomparable stress. They have the ultimate and most sacred responsibility. Where would Dave be without the thought and care of these experts? Where would my sons and I be? Of course, we all know.

But I’ve also seen how medicine can become too routine—a box-checking exercise of sorts. Inevitably, critical thinking takes a backseat, things are overlooked. The real story—the one that matters—lives in the fine lines. In the pieces of a patient’s story that don’t always fit the chart.

The next morning was the hardest. I arrived in the medical ICU to find Dave in bed intubated, sedated, and in bilateral wrist restraints. Of course—he was trying to pull out his endotracheal tube, I thought to myself. Good luck keeping this guy down. He had five IV pumps running—levophed, vasopressin, propofol, vancomycin, and voriconazole. I don’t think anything could have prepared me for that sight. It’s something Dave and I had talked about—picturing the other in an ICU bed “one day.” We had talked about what that would be like, and what our wishes were. Seeing him this vulnerable only made me love him more.

Back and forth I went. When I left the hospital to care for our boys, I tried to keep their routine steady—school, playdates, talk about Mommy’s new business. They were smiling each time I left. Inside, I was holding my breath.

Slowly, Dave woke. Thank you God. He was still there. He was groggy and slow, and his body was swimming with infection. Ten rounds of anesthesia since August. For a man who avoided even Tylenol, it was staggering.

We’re all home now. Our youngest son knocked on our door around 6 a.m. this morning—his usual routine. The big boys are still sleeping. He lays next to me sucking his thumb quietly. He stares at me, studies my face. He gestures to offer me part of his blanky and tries to cover me up. He rubs my shoulder with his tiny, chubby hands, and plays with my hair. These sweet, gentle times are what I savor about motherhood.

Dave is next to me, where he is supposed to be. He’s still in a deep sleep, his body exhausted. Everything feels in place. This is the only thing of meaning—family. I took Dave’s vancomycin bag out of the fridge so it could warm a bit. I put coffee on. Today is June 4.

Dave came home with a PICC line and eight weeks of IV antibiotics. On his first day home, he insisted on taking the boys fishing. I told him to take it easy. Of course, he didn’t. They came back late that evening shirtless, dirty, holding fish. The kids were beaming—these are the moments they lived for. Dave walked behind them, hands shaking and exhausted. But he was there. That mattered most.

When this all started, I thought life would return to normal. It hasn’t. Life goes on—but differently. The sequelae of a devastating injury are complicated, evolving, and hard to predict. Appointments. Home nurses. Insurance battles. New medications. Mental health. Shifting family roles. The invisible stuff is the hardest—the changes that creep in and reshape your life without warning. In the midst of these changes, I struggled.

And it changes you. Through this year, I’ve begun dreaming of a new path—one where I can take what I’ve experienced and use it to help families like ours. Patients like Dave, whose stories live in the fine lines. Through it all, our kids were thriving, and Dave was the catalyst for my unforeseen professional (ad)venture. Some would call it the silver lining.

If there’s one thing I hope health care providers remember, it’s this: Don’t miss the fine lines. Listen to the family. Trust the ones who know the patient best. Behind every hospital door is a family holding its breath. Waiting. Hoping. Fighting for the one they love.

Sarah White is a nurse practitioner, small business owner, and premedical student based in Virginia. With a background in clinical practice and caregiving, she brings a unique perspective to the intersection of medicine, family life, and community service. She volunteers with the Medical Reserve Corps and is preparing to apply to medical school in 2026.

Sarah is also the founder of two growing ventures: Wrinkle Relaxer, where she specializes in aesthetic treatments, and Bardot Boutique Aesthetics, a space for curated beauty and wellness services.