Walking Thru the Valley of the Shadow of Death 3
God, Turn This Thing Around
Text to my friend: Joey told me he was thinking about intubation…His O2 is 90 but his respiratory rate is 37-40. I need God to turn this thing around quickly, he’s getting tired! He said he’s fighting for me and the kids, but he really wants to give up.
I kept trying to encourage Joey as much as possible as he was getting so tired and was sick of everything. I would remind him that he was strong and that God was helping him. I encouraged him to hold on to God’s promises. Daily, I would remind him of family and friends that were telling him to keep fighting.
The 30th was a Saturday, so later that evening I asked Joey if he wanted to watch church service; he did. I turned on Calvary’s YouTube channel on my phone as worship started. That weekend they had a special guest worship leader, Matt Hammitt, one of Joey’s favorites. It made him happy that he was singing that night and that one of his favorite songs, Only King Forever was in the set. Joey loves to play that song on his guitar for worship. If you didn’t already know, Joey shreds on the guitar.
I got carried away in worship as they happened to be singing one of my favorites, Goodness of God. I looked over to Joey whose eyes were closed. When he opened them, I asked if he was falling asleep, he said, “No, I’m worshiping.” It was a beautiful moment that always brings me to tears when I think about it. Joey and I got very emotional that night. I rubbed his arm and told him it was okay and we both cried.
One of the respiratory techs came in to check on Joey, as they did so often throughout the day. She mentioned that his oxygen was doing good and she actually wanted to try to move him back to the high flow mask. I was a little surprised, considering how he had been feeling, but the ups and downs were like clockwork. But it was late and Joey was really tired and was hesitant to try. He asked if they could wait till the next day. She mentioned she didn’t want to lose any momentum, but agreed to wait.
I left that evening so excited. I messaged everyone and posted on Facebook what was going on and asked everyone to pray for a good night sleep for Joey. My hope was that he would be well rested to try the other mask the following day. I left the hospital feeling good that night.
But that feeling didn’t last long though. The morning of October 31st, the doctor called. And within a couple of hours, Joey would be intubated.
Below you’ll find a writing of mine from the day after…
November 1 – the day after intubation
I can’t believe that as I sit here your life hangs in the balance. I don’t know that God will answer my prayer and let you come home with me. I know he has the power to do so if he so chooses, but what he will decide, I have no clue. And it kills me.
I have moments when I think of all the ways he has reassured me wether it’s through scripture, song, or something said from a friend, and I am convinced he will heal you.
Then there are those moments when I think the worst and am convinced I am not strong enough to lose you.
I sit here, constantly touching you. I talk to you, read scripture to you, sing to you, and play worship music for you. I pray continuously that God will reach down and make every inch of you whole.
We went from watching your oxygen, to now, watching you sleep; your body paralyzed so you don’t fight the ventilator. Now, there’s a slew of other monitors. It seems the beeping never ceases. Beeping from meds running low or alarms because something isn’t right. I’m starting to hate these sounds. The different sounds spark different emotions. I’m getting to the point where I can tell what’s going on by their tone.
The morning you were intubated, I was awakened by the phone at 1:19 am. I jumped and grabbed my phone. I recognized the number and knew it wasn’t good. The intensity in the voice of the doctor was unsettling. With one hand holding the phone, my other was stretched to the ceiling, reaching out to God for help, afraid of what I was going to hear.
He told me your oxygen had been dropping for the past hour and wasn’t coming back up. They had given you some medication to help calm you down and were going to give it one more hour to see if it would come back up, but if it didn’t, we needed to prepare for intubation.
Shortly after I hung up with him, my phone rang again. I was surprised to see you were calling me. You didn’t say anything, so for twenty minutes, I just prayed with you. I tried to keep my voice steady, so as to help calm you. Kayla heard me talking and came to the room and sat beside me praying too. I could here your monitor in the background, sounding off that your oxygen was too low. The nurse walked in and we had to hang up.
I didn’t know what to do. My world was falling apart and I knew they’d be calling in an hour asking me to make a decision. I had Kayla call my friend who didn’t happen to have her phone on. I sent out a desperate plea for prayer to one of the prayer groups, but since it was so early, no one responded.
I called Pastor Neil on Kayla’s phone so I wouldn’t miss the call. I needed someone who I could trust would be clearheaded and help me think. He prayed on speaker phone with me and Kayla. He read different scriptures and helped me think of questions to ask the doctor when he called back. Kayla jotted everything down on paper for me.
Over an hour passed. At 2:51am they called back. Your oxygen was at 50% . The doctor told me that you said you were tired and you wanted to be intubated. They had the phone on speaker and you confirmed, relieving me of having to make the decision. Struggling, you said, ”Don’t worry, everything’s gonna be okay!” I replied with, ”I love you! God’s got this.” You told me you loved me too and I pray it’s not the last time I hear that.
The doctor explained the risks of the procedure which included everything from dental damage to aspiration. He would call us back once it was done.
Kayla called Cameron and Josh upstairs and we told them what was happening. Neil was still on speaker with us. He was the rock we all so desperately needed during that time.
It felt like forever, waiting for the dr to call back. We couldn’t help but wonder if something happened that was prolonging their call.
At 4:18 am they called back. Intubation was a “success.” The kids and I sat on our bed and cried so hard together. It was the worst feeling ever. Your absence seemed even more profound, it was as if we had lost you that morning.
My parents came to be with us for a while before I would head to the hospital.
The nurse had me take your wedding ring off, she said you would start swelling with everything they were giving you. I put it on my necklace and wear it day and night; it brings me some comfort to hold onto it.
My heart hurts. The kids are hurting so much it tears me apart to see them like this, but I can’t tell them you’re going to be okay.
There’s this dark cloud hovering over us that just seems to follow us everywhere. It amazes me how our life has changed so drastically in such a short amount of time.
I feel so helpless. I literally can’t do anything to help you. If my touch could only heal you, we would’ve left this place already.
I’ve reached out to everyone I can think of, asking them to pray. I know prayer changes things. I know God can heal you. I believe it! I’m praying my mustard seed faith moves this mountain!
I know God is in control. He alone decides if you live or die. And I know that I have to be content with whatever decision he makes, but I’m just not there yet.
I’m not okay with saying that if it’s God’s will for you to go, then I’m fine with it. I don’t want you to go! I’m so afraid that God’s will is to take you.
I keep repeating over and over, verses about healing and God’s faithfulness to myself. I play all the songs about him making a way. I am holding so tightly to his word and his promises. I know there is nothing he can’t do. I believe it with every fiber of my being.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s just waiting for complete surrender from me before he’ll heal you. Maybe it’s my selfishness that’s actually prolonging this miracle. I know I have to get to the point of complete submission to God. But letting go feels like letting go of you, and I just can’t do that.
So instead, I keep praying and pleading, and begging that this isn’t the end. I am not ready for your life to be over. I am not ready to not hear you speak or sing or hold me again. I am not ready to plan your funeral. I can’t, Lord. The kids can’t. This cannot be our story… it can’t.
To be continued…
