Beginnings and Endings
January 2, 2026
Happy Birthday Gabriel Owen!
After all the buildup, the science, the weeks of planning and preparation, it arrived as just another bag hanging from the IV pole.
Clear. Quiet. No drama. No ceremony.
If you didn’t know what it was, you might assume it was fluids or medication like everything else that had come before it.
What struck me most was how ordinary it looked compared to what it represented. These weren’t donor cells or something foreign. This was me, returned to myself. Cells that had been collected weeks earlier, engineered and trained outside my body, now making their way back through a simple IV line. No fanfare. Just a steady drip, gravity doing its job, science meeting patience.
I took it well and remember thinking this was the moment where everything shifted. Before this, it was preparation. After this, it was action. The cells were home.
Vitals continued every hour. Time slowed into those familiar hospital rhythms, measured in blood pressure cuffs, temperature checks, and quiet footsteps in the hallway.
By evening, fatigue settled in. I tried to eat. I kept pushing fluids. I walked a bit, which took far more out of me than I expected. Healing demands patience, even when your mind wants momentum.
On day +1, in the evening, I spiked a fever.
This, I was told, is not unexpected. When T-Cells return and begin doing what they were trained to do, they release signaling chemicals called cytokines. It’s how they communicate, how they rally other parts of the immune system, and how they go to work. That surge can cause inflammation, and inflammation often announces itself as a fever.
In a strange way, the fever is evidence of activity.
Still, it’s something the team watches closely. They monitor for signs of cytokine release syndrome, changes in blood pressure, oxygen levels, heart rate, and any neurological symptoms. Confusion. Headaches. Trouble finding words. Subtle things that can matter. The goal is to let the immune system work while staying one step ahead of anything that could tip too far.
When the fever hit, the nurses moved quickly. Blood work. Cultures. Fluids. Calm, practiced efficiency that steadied both my body and my nerves.
Earlier that day/night, I had the Harry Potter marathon on in the background. Comfort television. Familiar stories. Wizards and battles between good and evil playing softly as the day wound down.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, a phlebotomist came in to draw blood cultures. In my fevered state, I was convinced he looked like a member of House Slytherin. He spoke very softly and told me he didn’t need the light on, even after I said it was okay to turn it on. I remember thinking this was entirely on brand for someone aligned with dark magic.
I’m not entirely sure that’s how it actually went down. But it is how I remember it.
When I told the PA about it during morning rounds, she chuckled and admitted that some of the night staff were, indeed, unique.
By morning, I was back in a good place.
Now, time is what I need most. Time for these cells to do their work. Time for my body to rest, adapt, and rebuild.
Through all of this, Maria sits beside me, illuminated by the soft glow of the morning sun. She works quietly, effortlessly shifting between her own world and mine, always watching, always present.
***
As I was putting the final touches on this entry, the news came.
My dear friend Ken Jones passed away on December 29.
Right now, my heart is in a million pieces.
Ken was one of the most dedicated Scout leaders I have ever known. Steady, patient, and deeply committed to the young people he served. He was always there to listen, always ready with advice, never seeking recognition, only impact. The kind of leader who shaped lives simply by showing up, again and again.
Even Scoutmasters need someone to help light the way, and he was one of mine.
I was also lucky to call him my friend.
There is something humbling about receiving a second chance at life while mourning someone who should still be here. The timing feels cruel, and yet it sharpens everything. Gratitude and grief sitting side by side, neither willing to give ground.
Rest well, my brother.
I’ll keep the fire going.