In Christ, I am Blessed

It’s now 4:50 a.m. At 3:32, I picked up my phone and, with great reluctance, called my dad. He answered immediately, “I’m on my way.” Seconds later, he was at my bedside. I quickly reassured him, “I’m okay” - our code for I need help, but I’m not critical.

I can count on both hands the number of times I’ve called my dad in the middle of the night. I do everything I can to let him sleep, but sometimes my body demands assistance I can’t provide for myself.

My Thanksgiving Day started like any other day at 6 a.m. with Dad waking me for meds, nebulizers, and breakfast. As per my usual, I then napped from 7:30 to noon. At noon, Dad came back in to help with my next round of meds and nebs, get me dressed, and transfer me to my wheelchair. My goal? To finish my small part of the Thanksgiving meal.

That’s when I started coughing - a tickling, persistent cough. Dad and I exchanged raised eyebrows but said nothing. Five minutes passed before my chest began tightening. I asked for the ‘big guns’ cough syrup and pills. We debated whether to increase my oral steroids. I pushed back, asking for an hour to see if extra nebs and meds would help.

I wheeled into my parents’ kitchen, gathering ingredients, but the slight exertion of moving and talking to my crew tipped the already precarious scales. I squeezed Dad’s arm and whispered the dreaded words… “I’m. Not. Breathing. Good.”He snapped into nurse mode instantly, taking over my wheelchair and clearing my lap of dishes. Within minutes, I was back in my room on BiPAP ventilator support with nebulizer meds steaming into my lungs. Dad stood beside me, asking if it was time for IV steroids - the only thing that can save my life when my bronchial tree threatens to close.

Fifteen minutes passed with no improvement, and my breathing grew more labored. Dad made the call I couldn’t: the solumedrol was administered. Relief and dread hit simultaneously as the medication coursed through my veins. I knew I’d breathe easier soon but at the price of excruciating bone pain and a higher risk of a worsening brain infection.

Gradually, the steroids worked. Finally, I could exhale without coughing, and my body began to relax. Once again, I’d faced death and lived to see another breath.

Because of an incredible team of doctors and nurses, we have the tools to manage these life-threatening asthma attacks at home. These aren’t the asthma attacks you see on TV where the patient pulls out an inhaler and wheezes a bit. These are anaphylactic attacks that escalate within minutes. For years, these events meant 911 calls and MICU stays. But after too many close calls on the way to the hospital, my team gave us the tools for immediate treatment at home - a portable pulmonary ER in a bag, if you will!

My dad, with his RN training, skill, and endless love, provides the best concierge care I could ask for. We also have our pulmonologist’s personal cell and always treat under his guidance.

After hours of battling the attack, the crisis passed. For the next two weeks, we’ll work to safely taper off the high-dose IV steroids while watching my symptoms to give us an idea of how my lungs are healing.

By 9:30 p.m., I was wiped out. Dad helped me to bed, hooked up my IVs, machines, and gadgets, and gently but firmly warned, “Do not try to get up on your own. And if you even think about coughing, call me.” With my promise, he went to bed. 

I completed my midnight drill of IV infusions, oral meds, and nebulizer treatments, but sleep was elusive - largely thanks to 240mg of IV steroids.

Unfortunately, my colon picked an inconvenient time to demand attention. I have a catheter for voiding, but some things require a toilet. So with resignation, I called Dad.

He came instantly, meeting my needs with love and patience. Unfortunately, the movement to and from the toilet triggered another coughing fit, necessitating another round of nebulizer medications and BiPAP. Once I settled and returned to bed, Dad extracted the same promise from me as earlier before leaving me with a softly whispered, “I love you!”

Just the day before, Dad had joked that we were only days away from hitting 90 steroid-free days. But my body had other plans. “Ha! Ninety days would be far too hysterical - err, historical! Let’s make it 87 instead!” And so, my bronchial tree obeyed.

I don’t pretend to understand God’s hand in moments like these. Couldn’t He have kept this attack away on Thanksgiving Day? Or let me reach 90 days? Yes, He could have. But He didn’t. And I have to trust that it’s because He loves me - more than I can comprehend. More than I love my precious daughter! And that level of love is almost unfathomable to me.

He sees beyond this blip of earthly life into the forever. He is preparing me not just for what is to come in the next 40 to 60 years of my life, but what is to come in eternity. I won’t lie and tell you that makes sense in my mind.

But I choose to have faith that He doesn’t lie. That He does indeed love me the way He says He does in His Word. I make the decision to trust Him, even when my emotions lag behind.

Some might say it’s foolish to trust what I can’t prove. But Jesus warned me: “For the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God … For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.” (1 Corinthians 1:18, 25).

So, as I reflect on this dōlightful Thanksgiving, I honor the sacred moments of staring death in the face and choosing to fight for life. I validate the sacred disappointment of plans gone awry and the mourning of missed moments.

But I choose to also relish the moments I got to talk to my beloved Thai foreign exchange daughter on video chat! I’m savoring the privilege of pulling my wheelchair to the family table and feasting on my favorites of ham, homemade mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, my mom’s veggie casserole, rolls from Lambert’s, and yummy Greek tomatoes! (After that, my glucose begged for a break so I’ll taste test all the desserts in the coming days!)

I’m cherishing the video call from my adorable niece who always melts my heart with the biggest smile and exclaimed, “Aunt Rara!” I’m memorializing the joy of playing the “night-night…wake up” game with my 2-year-old nephew. I’m marking down the feeling of the hugs from my parents, daughter, nephews, brother, and sister-in-love. I’m noting the delight of watching my daughter and nephew play games together - love in full swing, laughing and being carefree littles! I’m recording the moments of time with those I love - even if I did have a mask on my face that forced air into my lungs when I didn’t have the strength to breathe for myself.

Today was truly dōlightful - a day that embraced both the doleful and the delightful, woven together by God into a tapestry of beauty.

And maybe this is what Jesus meant when He blessed the poor in spirit, the mourners, and the meek with the kingdom of heaven, comfort, and inheriting the earth. By doing so, He covered our past, present, and future:

•   The past: the kingdom of heaven, which has always been and always will be.   

•   The present: His comforting presence now in our cry of pain.   

•   The future: inheriting the earth in His coming kingdom.

So, my fellow dōlightful wayfarers, I offer you this blessing in closing:

Blessed are you who live in the tension of the doleful and the delightful.

Blessed are you who know the juxtaposition of joy and grief.

Blessed are you who have learned to simultaneously mourn deeply and rejoice fully.

May the Lord fill you with His comfort. You are not too much, yet always enough, and never alone. You were created for this moment - for such a time as this.

Blessed are you, my dōlightful wayfarer, for yours is the kingdom of heaven!