Most nights, right around the time I’m finishing with lining up syringes and pill bottles, the Disneyland fireworks start up in the distance. I can’t see a single spark from our little Mission HQ apartment—but I can absolutely hear the muffled thump of the launch and the crackle of the finale echoing over the buildings. It’s this weird mix every time: part gut-punch, because I know exactly what I’m missing, and part stubborn hope, because the sound is proof that joy is still happening close enough to hear. I know the show by sound now the way other people know it by sight, and there’s something quietly defiant in that: I may not be under the fireworks right now, but I haven’t forgotten what they look like.
Yesterday, while the distant grand finale was going off without us, I reflected back on the day that we just had which was our own very different kind of show. It started with the in home Physical Therapist coming by and giving Traci quite the workout. She put her through a lot of ups and downs physically, testing her strengths and weaknesses and making sure her mobility was still adequate. There were moments when she announced she was exhausted during the process and had to take a little break in between activities, but she did everything that was asked of her.
But normally what would have been an hours-long nap after it was done, there was another adventure she embarked upon in the craft room, with Traci hunched over a canvas, brush in hand, absolutely determined to squeeze something beautiful out of a body that keeps trying to quit on her. Painting costs her now—physically, mentally—but she still wanted to do it, which feels like its own quiet flare of hope.
When that wound down, I would’ve bet the house in a crash out, but instead the scene shifted towards a medical follow up as we headed to Kaiser for a quick lab draw, because our version of “date night” has a lot of waiting rooms and vinyl chairs.
By the time we walked out of Kaiser, I figured that had to be the last stop. She’d already burned through more energy in one day than some weeks get, and normally that’s the point where we aim the wheelchair home and start the slow fade toward pajamas and pain meds.
As we rolled toward the car, she mentioned how the last time she was at that hospital, in the ICU for a couple days, it felt like “weeks” because there wasn’t a clock in the room. Time just dissolved into beeps and vital checks. She told me again how much it meant to have her dad Phil and me there, doing our best to fill that timeless little box with jokes and normal conversation instead of just fear.
Maybe that’s why, when we hit the parking lot, she surprised me. She looked around at the blue sky and said she didn’t want to go home yet.
So I changed course.
I had a low-stakes idea in my back pocket, something I thought might just kill a little time and keep the good vibes going. Honestly, I was more than happy to have a reason not to go back to the same four walls. As grateful as I am for our little Mission HQ, it can start to feel like the whole world has shrunk down to a living room, a bedroom, and a pill organizer. And it was one of those beautiful June evenings in Southern California where the air itself feels like an invitation. If she was willing to squeeze a little more life out of the day, I was absolutely going to help her wring it dry.
My “low-stakes idea” was simple: Lakewood Mall. Nothing fancy, nothing Instagram-worthy, just a place with air conditioning, people-watching, and more to look at than our TV and an IV Pole.
So we headed to Target.
What was supposed to be a quick pass through the clothing section turned into Traci in full-on deliberation mode, feeling fabrics, checking price tags, and working way too hard to decide which two pairs of shorts and pants were “worth it.” She kept worrying out loud about spending the money, and I kept reminding her that $59 for clothes she actually likes is not what’s going to sink this ship. Honestly, I was just thrilled to watch her be a regular person in a regular store, arguing with herself over whether she really needed another pair of black shorts.
On the way out, I had one more tiny thought.
Back when she was independent and driving herself everywhere, doing Target runs and errands on her own schedule, she’d often duck into a mall jewelry store just to get her wedding ring cleaned. It was this small, sparkly ritual she loved. But it had been years since she’d done that.
So when I saw Daniel’s, and realized we were already right there with her ring on her finger, it felt like the perfect little treat. Nothing huge, nothing dramatic—just giving her back a tiny piece of something she used to do for herself all the time.
A few minutes later, they handed it back, and her whole face lit up. She kept turning her hand, laughing at how shiny it was, like she’d just gotten engaged all over again. For a second, in the middle of a random Wednesday evening in a mall, she wasn’t a patient or a case or a chart. She was just my wife, giddy about her ring.
Of course, the bill for a day like that always comes due. By the time we made it back to Mission HQ, the crash had arrived: pain spiking, meds stacked, the long slow work of getting her comfortable enough to sleep. While she dozed, I went back into caregiver mode—midnight alarms, 4 a.m. pills, all the quiet, unglamorous stuff no one claps for.
And that’s how I ended up in our bed, with the slider open, listening to Disneyland’s fireworks I couldn’t see, replaying our little mall adventure in my head. Out there, thousands of strangers were cheering for a sky full of light. In here, our grand finale was a clean wedding ring, a couple pairs of Target shorts, and a woman who refused to let her day be defined by hospital walls. It wasn’t the show we used to have, but it was ours—and for now, that’s enough.
Maybe that’s the real trick in this season: learning to celebrate the kind of fireworks you can’t post a video of. A fifteen-step walk from couch to bed. A stupid TV show that makes you both laugh until you wheeze. A Target aisle where your wife debates shorts like she’s got a whole summer ahead of her. A wedding ring that looks brand new on a hand that has held on through more than either of us ever imagined.
From our little Mission HQ, the big show will probably keep happening somewhere else, out of sight. But if there’s anything this week taught me, it’s that joy doesn’t always need a castle backdrop. Sometimes it just needs a cramped apartment, a borrowed afternoon, and two people stubborn enough to keep wringing the day dry anyway.
Paul Ellis 
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