1. Ignoring the Warning Signs: Why I Hesitated to Seek Care

I knew something was wrong, but like many busy moms, I pushed through. Urgent care felt like an inconvenience—another item on my never-ending to-do list. At the strong urging of my spouse, I begrudgingly went to urgent care on Sunday. I won’t name the exact one for privacy reasons and because I don’t want to shame them, but I will say that my visit left me feeling unheard.

At urgent care, I shared my primary complaint: shortness of breath, the need to gasp for air from doing minor tasks like walking short distances, and a strange, unsettling feeling I had never experienced before. I also let them know about my history of asthma and explained that my rescue inhaler and the nebulizer treatments I had been doing at home weren’t providing any relief. As a reminder—this was on Sunday. When I finally saw the doctor, I reiterated my concerns, but they didn’t test me for COVID, flu, or RSV. And I didn’t ask. Maybe that was my ignorance? We’ll never know. Instead, they told me to follow up with my primary care doctor.

I did call my primary doctor, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hesitant. I hadn’t seen her in a year, and for a moment, I considered just letting it go. But something inside me knew I needed to follow through. Fast forward to Monday—I went into work to make up a couple of hours from missing Sunday. When I tell you that the short walk from my car to my office almost made me pass out, I’m not joking. The interesting thing is that I had been eating healthier, drinking green smoothies, working out more, and being proactive about my health. So why was this short, familiar walk suddenly such a challenge? I was almost embarrassed to admit it, but I started shaming myself for being so out of shape. Yet, despite this internal warning sign, I continued on with my workday.

During those few hours, I kept texting my spouse, who was all but forcing me to go to the ER. She knew my urgent care visit had been a failure. Kudos to my wife, Nicole! My hesitation wasn’t that I thought nothing was wrong—it was that I knew her insurance was limited. Since she didn’t have out-of-network benefits, I dreaded the thought of us racking up thousands of dollars in hospital bills. When I shared my concern with her, her response was simple: “I don’t care about the cost. Just go to the ER, because it means nothing if you’re not here anyway. We’ll worry about the cost later.” I’m putting it lightly—let’s just say her texts were much more animated than usual. And this is coming from someone who could win an award for “person who uses the most minimal words in a text message possible.”

2. From Observation to Admission: The Moment I Had to Choose Myself

Walking into the ER, I thought I’d be in and out—a quick visit, some medication, and back to life as usual. But from the moment I arrived, my internal dialogue was screaming at me. The first moment of doubt hit when I parked my car and walked to the main entrance—only to realize it wasn’t actually the ER entrance. The short walk left me completely winded, and a kind man at the entrance immediately noticed. He offered me a wheelchair, and the independent part of me really considered declining. But then he gently insisted, “Ma’am, no disrespect, but you seem really winded, and I’m going to get you a wheelchair.” Bless that man. I don’t even remember his name.

Still trying to hold on to some sense of control, I asked how far the ER entrance was from where I was standing. His response stuck with me: “Not far. But for someone who is as winded as you, it will feel extremely far.” Point taken. I got into the wheelchair. As he wheeled me to the ER, he made lighthearted jokes about just getting his “wheelchair license” yesterday. I knew he was trying to ease the tension and make me feel comfortable, and I truly appreciated it.

Once I got to the ER, check-in was surprisingly quick. But the real wake-up call came when the nurse took my first set of vitals. My blood pressure was extremely high. My heart rate was racing. When they asked if I normally had issues with either, I answered honestly—no. The nurse took another reading on the same arm, then switched to the other arm because the numbers were so concerning. Their repeated checks made me pause. Something was wrong.

From there, everything moved quickly. They sent me for an EKG—of course, the tech wouldn’t tell me the results, so I just sat there waiting, anxious. Eventually, they wheeled me into an “observation room” in the ER, and that’s when things really started to sink in. Countless nurses and doctors came in and out, taking vitals, drawing blood, asking questions. Then, the test results started rolling in: my COVID test was positive. My blood pressure and heart rate were still dangerously high. A chest X-ray was ordered. And when the results came back—pneumonia.

Fun. Just so fun.

3. A Hard Choice: Staying for Treatment or Going Home

Hearing the doctor say “you have pneumonia” gave me pause. I had pneumonia before as a child, and with my history of asthma, I knew how serious it could be. But this felt different—worse than anything I had experienced. I had also had COVID before, yet I had never felt this bad. Despite my growing anxiety, I did what I always did—I buried it. I focused on the only thing I could see in that moment: the mounting hospital bill I’d have to face later. Part of me wondered if I should have driven the hour to the in-network hospital on my wife’s insurance. But at that point, I was already here, already getting answers. There was no turning back.

I had been in observation for a couple of days, and despite everything they were doing, my blood pressure remained elevated, my heart rate stayed high, my dry cough never let up, and I was still extremely winded anytime I had to walk anywhere. Then, the doctor came in to discuss my discharge plan. When he told me I could go home, I felt instant relief—I thought I was finally getting out of there. He started confirming where I’d pick up my prescriptions, and that’s when I asked, “What about my blood pressure and heart rate? Why have they been so high? Will that get better as the COVID and pneumonia improve?”

The doctor’s response changed everything. He paused and said, “I apologize, I meant to touch on that with you. Your blood pressure being this high—especially for your age and with no history of hypertension—is concerning, and I did want to discuss it.” I waited for him to continue, feeling my own pulse quicken. Then he said, “You have two options. We can discharge you, and you can follow up with your PCP as you normally would after being hospitalized for COVID and pneumonia. Or, we can start you on a medication that would require you to stay here for three more days. The reason for the extended stay is that this medication needs to be monitored closely—we have to make sure it isn’t worsening your kidney or liver function.”

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that part. During my lab work, they had also expressed concern about my kidneys and an elevated white blood cell count. Whatever that meant. But now, I had a choice to make.

My wife wasn’t there for this conversation—she was at home juggling everything: our daughter, our dog, our house. It was just me, alone in that hospital room, faced with a decision. I could go home and risk things getting worse, or I could stay and start this new medication under supervision. As much as I hated the idea of being in the hospital any longer, I knew I needed to stay. So, I told the doctor my decision. That night, they started me on the medication, along with steroids and nebulizer treatments—one of which, according to the doctor, had a “special something in it” beyond the standard albuterol. At that point, I didn’t care what it was—I just wanted to feel better.

I stayed one more night in that same ER observation room before they moved me upstairs. And that’s when it really hit me: I wasn’t just passing through anymore. I was a patient. This new room made my stay feel even more real. It reminded me of the last time I needed a hospital room—when I had my daughter almost 10 years ago. The setup was different—there was a couch, a recliner, a bathroom within eyesight instead of down the hall—but the reality was the same. I was here. And I wasn’t going home anytime soon.

4. Support, Reflection, and the Cost of Heal

Lying in that hospital bed, hooked up to monitors and IVs, I had nothing but time to think. Between the nebulizer treatments and the constant beeping of machines, I reflected on the people in my life and the way they showed up for me during this unexpected crisis.

My wife, Nicole, was my rock through it all—balancing our home, caring for our daughter, and managing everything while still checking in on me. She sent me encouraging texts, made sure I was advocating for myself, and even made me laugh when I needed it most. My close friends and family reached out, some daily, reminding me that I wasn’t in this alone. Even coworkers who barely knew what was happening offered to help in small but meaningful ways. It was in these moments that I realized the depth of my support system.

At the same time, this experience made me re-evaluate some of my relationships. There were people I had expected to check in who didn’t. And that silence was loud. It was a harsh but necessary reminder that not everyone in your life plays the role you think they do. When you’re at your lowest, you see who truly cares—and who doesn’t.

Beyond relationships, I started thinking about something even bigger: my financial well-being. I knew that once I left the hospital, the bills would start rolling in. And the reality was, I wasn’t financially prepared for a medical emergency of this scale. I had made smart financial decisions in other areas of my life, but I had never truly accounted for what a sudden health crisis could do.

This hospital stay forced me to confront some tough truths about my wealth, my insurance choices, and my overall preparedness for the unexpected. I had to start thinking differently about how I managed money—not just in the day-to-day sense, but in a way that truly protected my future and my family. How could I ensure that a medical crisis wouldn’t send us spiraling into financial stress? How could I build a cushion for emergencies like this?

For the first time, I began considering long-term financial moves I had been avoiding—things like reworking our budget, exploring better insurance options, and even looking into ways to increase my income so that medical debt wouldn’t feel like an inevitable burden. More than ever, I saw wealth not just as having money, but as having the freedom to prioritize my health without fear of financial ruin.

This experience has changed me. It’s changed the way I view my body, my relationships, and my finances. And as I prepare to return home, I know one thing for sure—I’ll never take my health, my support system, or my financial stability for granted again.