Good evening, dear friends.
Tonight, the hospital feels quieter than usual—not because the battle has ended, but because another long chapter has closed. Hunter is out of surgery and back in the ICU, resting in Room 4J-13. The hours leading up to this moment were heavy, tense, and exhausting for everyone involved. The medical team worked with extraordinary focus and care, navigating challenges that demanded precision, patience, and calm under pressure. It was not an easy day. And yet, within the pain and uncertainty, there were real signs of progress—small victories that matter more than words can fully express.
We are learning, day by day, to measure hope differently. Not in sweeping declarations or sudden miracles, but in inches gained, numbers lowered, wounds cleaned, and pulses felt where fear once lived.
Let’s start with Hunter’s right arm. Today brought a moment we had been cautiously wishing for: the wound vacuum was removed completely. No skin graft was needed at this stage—a relief that feels enormous when you understand how many things had to go right for that to happen. Instead, the surgeons applied Restora Matrix powder, a specialized regenerative wound-healing matrix designed to support tissue growth and protect against infection. It was then carefully wrapped, giving the arm about a week of quiet protection while new tissue begins to form. The surgical team was genuinely pleased with how clean the debridement went. In a place where “good news” is often whispered and fragile, this felt like something worth holding onto tightly.
The left arm, however, continues to demand caution and respect. The tissue there remains extremely fragile, almost unforgiving. During debridement, the surgeons discovered a small erosion—about five millimeters—in the ulnar artery. In ordinary life, five millimeters is nothing. In this room, in this moment, it was everything. A vascular surgeon, Dr. Darvish, stepped in and placed a single, precise suture to repair the tear. One stitch. One careful act standing between stability and emergency.
Right now, pulses are strong in both of Hunter’s hands. That simple sentence carries so much weight. It means blood is flowing. It means hands are alive, responsive, connected. Tonight, the ICU team is performing hourly Doppler checks, listening closely for any change. If there is even a hint of trouble, they will move immediately—ordering an angiogram without hesitation. For now, though, everything is holding steady. In the ICU, “steady” is a beautiful word.
Pain, unfortunately, is still very much part of Hunter’s reality. He is hurting—a lot. The team has adjusted his medications, increasing his muscle relaxer and gabapentin, carefully balancing relief with safety. They administered a one-time dose of IV Tylenol to help bridge a particularly rough stretch. Pain management here is not about eliminating discomfort entirely—it’s about giving him enough relief to rest, to breathe, to endure. Every adjustment is thoughtful, measured, and guided by constant observation.
At 4 a.m., labs were drawn, and one number brought a collective exhale: Hunter’s CK level came back at 159. That drop is significant. It’s the kind of quiet improvement that doesn’t make headlines but changes the course of a night. Because of that improvement, the team has discontinued the frequent CK checks for now—one less interruption, one less needle, one small kindness added back into his day.
Orthopedics hasn’t made rounds yet to go over the full details of irrigation and debridement, so there are still pieces of today we’re waiting to fully understand. We’ll share more once those conversations happen. In this world, information comes in waves. You learn to be patient with the silence in between.
Tonight, we also want to acknowledge someone whose presence matters deeply in moments like this. Hunter’s nurse, Megan, has been extraordinary—steady, attentive, compassionate. She’s managing medications, adjusting lines, keeping the room calm and grounded. In the midst of machines, alarms, and constant checks, she brings a human rhythm to the space. Hunter is resting as best he can, surrounded by monitors and tubes, but also by care that goes beyond procedure.
We are grateful—deeply, profoundly grateful—for every small victory today. The wound vac coming off the right arm. The single suture holding strong in the left. The CK levels dropping. Another day survived. Another night entered with hope still intact.
At the same time, we are under no illusions. Hunter remains in a critical window. The risk has not passed. The team knows it. We know it. Every hour matters. Every check matters. The vigilance is constant, and so is our awareness of how fragile progress can be.
To everyone who has prayed, messaged, shared updates, or simply held Hunter in your thoughts—thank you. You are carrying us in ways you may never fully see. Your support reaches into this room, into these late hours, into the spaces where fear tries to settle.
Hunter wants you to know how much that means. He is hurting, but he is here. He is still fighting. That matters more than anything.
We’ll share another update tomorrow, once we’ve spoken with the teams and understand what the next steps will be.
For now, rest if you can tonight, Hunter. Let your body do the quiet work of healing. We love you. We are still right here—every hour, every heartbeat, every fragile, stubborn hope.
Goodnight, brother. ❤️🙏