06/03/2026
💙It's Warrior Wednesday!💙
Today's warrior is, Chris ⭐
My beautiful husband, Chris, was lost to HLH on January 24th, 2026. Everyone asks, “What is that?” They’ve never heard of it.
On December 17th, 2025, Chris was driving his semi as an over-the-road truck driver near Beaumont, Texas, when his spleen ruptured. That alone is rare, but the next month became a living nightmare.
Chris’s brother had to drive from Michigan to Texas since I was still recovering from an illness myself. Chris finally made it home the evening of December 25th. In our 47 years of marriage, I had never seen such a strong man brought down so quickly. Just three weeks earlier, he had been deer hunting like he did every year.
I always called hunting season his “time of hysteria” because from October 1st to December 1st, life was basically on hold so he could be out in the woods. I often said he didn’t really go to the deer stand to hunt, but just to watch and be part of nature.
Then December 17th changed everything.
On December 28th, he was back in the ICU with an intra-abdominal abscess and a gallbladder infection. They placed a drain and sent him home. Three days later, he was back in the hospital with fluid overload. I begged them to let me stay at the hospital, but they refused while I sat in the parking lot in tears, trying to understand what was happening.
A few hours later, he went into A-fib and had to be cardioverted immediately. No one called me. They stabilized him again and discharged him home.
My husband was always worrying about me. Because I had recently had arm surgery, he told the staff I couldn’t take care of him. I had to laugh because ever since high school, he had always tried to take care of me.
So they discharged him home once again.
He had one good day on January 15th. We spent the day together, but he complained of a headache, and his memory seemed off. During the night, he spiked a temperature between 104 and 107 degrees. I thought the thermometer had to be wrong, so I went out the next morning and bought a new one.
As a nurse, I did everything I could to bring his fever down. Ice packs and cooling fans only made him more miserable, so we headed back to Munson Medical Center ER. They took us right in.
This time, they asked about DNR status. I remember saying, “We aren’t at that stage yet… are we?”
They admitted him upstairs as he was now in renal failure, liver failure, A-fib, fluid overload, pneumonia, pancytopenia, and more.
Within hours, he was back in the ICU, and they made me leave. As a nurse, I know how to stay out of the way, but I had no idea if I would ever see him again.
The next morning, I met with the ICU specialist and oncology. I was finally given a diagnosis: HLH, something I had never heard of before. They explained it was a very rare disease, and they had only treated one other patient with it six months earlier.
By this point, Chris was minimally responsive and could only whisper. The treatment plan was high-dose steroids and Etoposide, but they had little hope. I signed his DNR.
I begged the doctor to allow me to stay the night. She apologized for how I had been treated previously and made sure I was allowed to stay with Chris. The only comfort I could provide at that point was keeping his lips moist. He could only whisper or communicate through hand gestures.
They placed him on dialysis, but he tolerated it poorly as his blood pressure continued dropping dangerously low. They switched him to continuous dialysis because it was less stressful on the body.
The next morning, we were told his numbers were worsening and that the next step could be a ventilator. I knew he would not want that. They agreed to continue life support until family could arrive.
I contacted our daughter in South Carolina and told her it was time to come home. Valerie, Zora, Chris Riley, a new puppy named Ruby, and three budgie birds drove all night from Charleston, South Carolina, to Traverse City, Michigan.
Throughout the next day, we prayed nonstop. I asked for a priest, and the local priest came to give Chris the Sacrament of the Sick. Chris fully participated and remained aware throughout the sacrament.
Family members began arriving one by one. Chris recognized each person who came into the room. His family, my brothers and sisters, and my mother all came to say goodbye. Everyone had stories to tell.
His brother-in-law and best friend had known Chris since he was 11 years old. Back then, Chris would call every weekend asking to go fishing because his mom had already gotten the worms ready. Our nephew took it especially hard. Chris had taught him how to shoot, clean, and safely respect fi****ms. My brothers and sisters, along with Chris’s family, came in one by one, tearful and in disbelief, just as I was.
I was 15 years old when Chris and I met at a summer dance in 1976, so our families had essentially grown up together.
After everyone left except my sisters and my mother, they removed life support and transferred us to the comfort wing. I stayed with him around the clock, only leaving briefly to get food from the cafeteria.
I contacted my hospice team to arrange a veterans pinning ceremony. Chris was alert enough to salute. He was so proud of his service. He was also presented with a Quilt of Valor.
My sisters stayed with me all night until Saturday morning, when Chris took his last breath at 8:15 a.m. on January 24th, 2026.
He never returned home again.
