Worn Warrior

Okay, Lord. I’m here. Staring at this computer screen and wondering what of value I have to share. It’s just me. And really, me is kinda messed up right now.

I’m a pretty worn-out warrior. Fairly sure I don’t have much to offer anybody. I mean, some days, I don’t even make it out of bed. And a good day is being awake for more than 4 hours before falling back on my mattress, trying to find sleep. But it doesn’t work. Hence I do a lot of talking to You—musing over this life and how I ended up here. Wondering if I went wrong or if this is just the answer to my deepest prayers. It’s funny how Your answers don’t look like what I thought they’d be.

Tonight, I’m struck with the reality—once again—that life is fragile. Like really shaky, flimsy, need-more-than-a-walker frail.

In the blink of an eye, everything changed. We were driving home from a lovely dinner with my sister and brother-in-law tonight. Mid-conversation, it hit me. One half-breath, and I could feel my chest begin to tighten. But, hey, this happens pretty often. A half-breath here… then I hold my breath, slap on my extra contaminant-protecting mask, put my wheelchair in high gear, and get out of pollutant-dodge. But this half-breath was different. I don’t know what or where it came from… but I recognized the caustic smell as it hits my bronchial passageways. It was like hot asphalt pouring into boiling oil near a diesel refinery. (Are those even real things? I don’t know… but that’s what I’m going with at 2:35 AM after being oxygen-deprived for over an hour.)

Anyway, back to driving down the road.

Literally, within two minutes, I knew I was in deep water. “We’re in trouble…” was all I had to get out. Dad pulled over, grabbed an EpiPen from the never-far-away emergency bag, and jabbed it into my leg. He prayed for God’s help in this episode. He prayed for God’s protection on my life. He pulled it away ten seconds later, asking, “Did it work?” We’ll find out soon, I thought. The next step was to get me on the nebulizer. Then Dad might have driven slightly faster than the 30 MPH of the little country road that would lead to home and some airway stabilization through my BiPAP. (What is BiPAP? It stands for Bilevel Positive Airway Pressure. It’s a type of ventilator that still allows me to breathe independently with some “air puffs” to help.) Fast forward to what felt like 3 hours of struggling for each breath and finally, my loving father “called it.” We had pushed the ball down the road in five- or ten-minute drives long enough. My body was tired. I was still coughing, and stridor was starting to set in. (What’s stridor? It’s a high-pitched, noisy breathing pattern that indicates a narrowing of my airways.) Dad prayed for “sterility and success” and skillfully plunged the Huber needle into my chest port. (Chest port? This quarter-sized medical device was surgically implanted in the right side of my chest in 2019. It has a soft, small “tail,” called a catheter, which threads its way from my chest up to my neck and into a large vein close to my heart.) Dad pulled the plunger back, and it flashed blood—meaning he was “in” the coveted titanium diaphragm of my port and not just the surrounding tissue. By now, I am in significant respiratory distress. I can’t move air. I can’t breathe. The “warrior” in me continues to fight for every little inhale I can get. I can feel my eyes dart from one person to another, almost willing them to breathe for me.

It’s the hardest workout to taste even a little air. And as soon as that hard-fought-for air hits my upper respiratory system, I start a “coughing spree” that rivals any Black Friday “shopping spree” you can imagine. Just ask my multiple fractured ribs!

Less than a minute after my port was accessed, Dad pushed the medicine to calm this bronchial spasm, allowing me to breathe, and ultimately saving my life. It’s amazing stuff, really. But it’s also the stuff that landed me in a wheelchair, gave me the privilege of over 16 hours of neurosurgery, has me facing four joint replacements, and has killed an important part of my body’s “fight or flight” system. Talk about a double-edged sword!

But, for tonight, we’re thankful to the Lord to live in a country with such amazing medication … and to the doctor behind the prescription that has cared for me with such medical skill and compassion from the beginning.

And, for tonight, I’m breathing again. My dear friend BiPAP is still around to assist when I get too tired. We continue to pump aerosol medication through my BiPAP mask. My stridor lessens. My coughing slows. My breathing becomes more rhythmic. My mom, dad, and daughter all start to breathe again (pun intended), too!

For most people, this story would have occurred in an Emergency Department. But after five years, more ED visits than we can count, 20+ ICU admissions, and millions of healthcare dollars… I now always have a traveling ED with me. It even comes with my personal ED nurse with over 40 years of experience in high-stress medical environments!

Four years ago, I would have been signing admission paperwork for an ICU stay. But tonight? I’m sitting in my parent’s living room.

I’ve cuddled my daughter to sleep and talked through the fears she experienced tonight while watching her mother fight for her life. We acknowledged that it was scary, and it was okay to be afraid. It’s what we did when we were afraid that matters. And what did my 7-year-old Lovie do when she was afraid? She prayed and decided she would trust Jesus again. Then she rather sternly got in my face and told me, “You better keep breathing, Mama! Do not give up!”

So what do I think about when I’m fighting for air? If I told you everything that went through my head, you’d start Googling the nearest “crazy house” to admit me to. But sometimes, I need to focus on something other than the fact that I can’t breathe. Something other than that, in the blink of an eye, I could die. Ergo, I focus on the sensation that my ear itches! I mean, come on, right? How in the world does my brain decide that now is a good time to send a signal—wherever it goes—and alert me that my right ear itches? What am I supposed to do with that piece of knowledge?!? But other times, my mind drifts back to the past. Do you know that “life flashed before my eyes” thing? Well, sometimes it’s true…

And tonight, I remembered 18 months ago when I got to take my first helicopter ride! Sadly, it was an air ambulance, and the friends riding with me worked hard to keep me alive. I remember thinking this would be so pretty, up in the sky at night… if only I weren’t about to be put on a ventilator. But that’s another story.

For tonight, I remember the days that followed—being told by one doctor and nurse after another that me being alive was a miracle, and being able to confidently say, “I had people all over the world praying for me. I’m alive because Jesus did it.” Shaking their heads, they would agree. We have coined that recovery a “clinical-spiritual miracle.”

So why? Why am I still alive? Why did I survive a worldwide pandemic virus that killed so many others? Why did I live when others with the same comorbidities died? Why did my father wheel me home to convalesce while others planned a funeral? I’ve asked myself that question for months.

Two nights ago, I returned to my CaringBridge account and read the medical updates and comments from those days—pages of people praying for me to live. And since that huge “clinical-spiritual miracle,” I’ve had several more “life and death” experiences. I’ve gotten even closer to my other friend, Mr. Vent.

So why am I here right now? Why am I sitting in this chair, typing this blog? That’s the other stuff I think about while fighting for air.

But in answer to my life-altering questions… I have no idea the answer to the “why?”

But this is what I do know. I know I was made for a purpose. I know that being chronically ill wasn’t part of my plan for life. I know my purpose is to bring God the greatest amount of glory possible. And I know for sure that I had other ways and plans that seemed like they would honor Him way better than where I am now. But that wasn’t His plan.

He made me a fighter. I don’t like to lose. He made me spunky. I’m not a fan of weakness. He made me happy and bubbly—after all, I didn’t get the nickname “Tiger” for nothing! He made me competitive. Did I mention I don’t like losing? He made me Megan Follows’ version of “Anne with an E.” A flair for the dramatic? Oh my… maybe just a little! He made a singer and pianist. He made me a people person who loved to be the center of attention. (I can’t tell you the number of times I would walk into a church gathering and proclaim with my arms in the air, “I’m here now! Let the fun begin!”) He made me a confident leader. He made me somewhat fearless. He placed all this inside me… and then, in the blink of an eye, He took it all away.

The warrior in me surrendered to exhaustion. The spunky in me faltered. Tiger’s bounce turned into Eeyore’s troublesome eye. As for competition… I mean, I’ll still race ya down the hall with my walker some days. But everybody lets the crimpled “kid” win. (What’s with that?) The voice inside me sounds like gravel now from so many tubes being pushed around my vocal cords. As to the center of attention… oh, please, no! Just let me sit in my wheelchair and watch. It takes too much energy to talk to people or follow their stories. Leader? Ha! I can’t make myself get up, let alone lead. For fearless, I’m learning it’s okay to be afraid. It’s what you do with that fear that matters.

Remember at the beginning when I said I was kinda messed up? Well, there’s some proof.

So, what is the purpose of my life? See, my “readers-who-will-probably-never-find-this-cause-I’m-a-nobody,” my purpose hasn’t changed. Just my circumstances.

He still made me bring Him glory. Not the way I had planned. I had big dreams of international missions. Dreams of traveling the country singing about His goodness and challenging my fellow brothers and sisters in Jesus to seek Him with their whole hearts. I had visions of ministry that propelled Christians into a deeper walk with the Lord filled with Abraham-of-the-Bible and George Müller-type faith. I certainly never, ever dreamed it would be this way.

While struggling to breathe, I often consciously speak the name Yahweh. Through broken gaps of air, I inhale “Yah” and attempt to exhale “weh,” crying out to the Lord my God, my Fortress, and my Deliverer, with every ounce of breath I have. “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord!” So, I praise. I cry. I beg. When I can do nothing else, I try to inhale and exhale, speaking the powerful name of my God—Yahweh—through my breaths.

So here I am, full circle. Still staring at the computer screen and wondering why I’m typing. Wondering why the Lord has asked me to be vulnerable with a group of people I don’t even know exists. Five typed pages in, wondering if I said any of what He wanted me to say. What can one little voice from a small town in the southern USA ever type that would bring Him the glory He deserves?

I’m here, Lord. Now what? The burning question of the last 18 months… Why am I still alive? And with each attack, we wait and wonder. How far will it go? Will it end at home or in the ICU on a ventilator?

Inhale “Yah.” Exhale “Weh.” Yahweh. Breathe in. Breathe out. Stay alive.