When my body gave up

Dear Clark,

Tonight, I am writing this to you from a hospital bed. I never thought I would be saying that, but today, my body finally gave up on me.

This morning, I volunteered again for the pantry. It was the last day of accepting donations for September, and the place was full of movement. You know me, Clark, I've always been the type to push myself even when I'm already tired. I carried boxes one after another, trying to keep up with everyone else.

But then it happened. My vision blurred, and before I even knew what was happening, I collapsed.

The next thing I remember, I was in the hospital with an IV line in my arm. My co-volunteers told me I had fainted due to overfatigue. The doctor explained that I was dehydrated, lacking nutrients, and simply running myself too thin. My lab results were mostly normal, but my body was just too weak from everything I've been pushing it through. They want me to stay until tomorrow, at least, so the IV can help me recover.

I wanted to cry, Clark. Not because of the fainting itself, but because I realized how fragile I've become. I've been skipping proper meals, losing my appetite, and running on almost nothing. Today, my body reminded me that it has limits.

But even through all this, I've found myself grateful. My co-volunteers rushed to my side without hesitation. They carried me, comforted me, and stayed until they knew I was safe. The nurse has been gentle and patient. The doctor told me that I have to take care of myself, that I can't keep giving to others if I'm running empty inside.

And now here I am, writing to you, because you are still the first person I want to tell all this to. You may not be beside me, and I don't even know if you will ever read this, but sharing it with you makes me feel less alone.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what grief does to a person. If it quietly drains you, little by little, until one day you find yourself fainting in the middle of carrying a box, or forgetting how to spell your own name. I don't want to scare you with this, Clark, but I want to be honest. I am not okay. I am trying, but my body and my mind are both telling me I need to slow down.

And yet, even in my weakness, I still think of you. I prayed for you today. I asked Him to keep you safe, to surround you with kindness and strength. I may be the one lying here with an IV in my arm, but my heart is still holding you in prayer.

I don't know if you'll ever fully understand how much you still mean to me. Even in moments like this, when my own body betrays me, my thoughts still circle back to you. Not out of desperation, but out of love, the kind that lingers even when everything else feels uncertain.

Tonight, as I close my eyes, I'll let myself rest. I'll try to see this hospital bed not as a punishment, but as a reminder: that I need to care for myself the way I once cared for you, with gentleness and devotion. Maybe this is the lesson I'm being asked to learn, that I can't keep giving everything away without saving something for myself.

Good night, Clark. I'll pray that when tomorrow comes, both of us wake up with a little more strength than we had today.

Always,
Alyssa (Phineas, Arlo, Fifi, and Mang)

Last updated on:2025-09-14T17:38:03+05:30