A Test of Faith
Bob Cantin
2005
My Ordeal
I have received many requests to put my medical ordeal in writing and decided to do it for several reasons.
First, I thought it might give people a better understanding of this little-known disease, which is usually fatal and can strike anyone. Secondly, some people just want to know what happened during my struggle and recovery. Lastly, but most importantly, I need to share the extraordinary event that saved my life and changed it forever.
As for me, I was raised in the Christian faith with a great love for Jesus. My faith journey, like for many Christians, has grown and continues to grow. My faith was different when I was a boy than when I was a teenager. It took on a different understanding when I became a man, who became a husband, and then became a father. And it continues to grow with me as I age. I now realize that my faith will continue its journey until I pass and am with the Lord. There have been too many times in my life when my faith has been weak, but also times when it has been strong. Try as I might, I am inherently imperfect and rely on the Grace of Jesus.
I gathered details from my experience and interviewed the doctors, nurses, and family members involved to collect the most accurate account that I could. I believe that all the events I’m sharing about my ordeal are true. I believe all my interpretations of those events are accurate. But they are, after all, my interpretations, and mine alone. You may have different ones, and that is okay. When I talk about my struggle with death, I describe an evil that was present, torturing me and slowly killing me. That is exactly what it felt like. Do I believe I was in the presence of a vicious monster? No, but rather something evil. I could not see or touch it, but it felt real and scared me beyond description. Could it have been an effect of the drugs in my I.V.s? Maybe. Could I have been delirious from fever? Maybe. But I must tell you, my experiences were chronological, reasonable, rational, and understandable. They were not bizarre, nonsensical, or psychedelic, but survived with real clarity. You should also know that I have clarified my story as memories, coupled with an improved understanding of my ordeal, have come to me over the years.
With that said, I do believe that serious, insufferable, and fatal illnesses are unleashed on us by evil. It is an evil that is dedicated to destroying us, whether physically, emotionally, or spiritually. And as you will read, the damage I felt being inflicted on me matched the damage my doctors saw in and on my body in real time.
So, I dedicate this story to all the countless people who prayed for me. Your faith, love, and concern were, and are, the lifeblood behind my survival and recovery. I can never repay you, but if this story touches your heart and gives you a personal moment with God, then it is a Blessing.
And to any others who may stumble upon this story, it is for you too. If your faith is weak, may this story strengthen it; if your faith is strong, may it enrich it.
The glory belongs to Jesus.
A Test of Faith
1. The Illness
It was well into January 2005, and it looked like this would be the third winter in a row I would escape any cold or flu bugs. When people around me became sick, I would brag that three years had passed since I even had the sniffles, acting as if I had something to do with my good fortune. But within a few days, my boasting would end.
The weekend was approaching, and I planned to get the lawnmower ready for spring. I know January is a bit early for that, but I am not a big fan of winter, and doing things like this made spring seem closer. Instead, I developed a sore throat, cough, and fever, thereby ending my three-year streak. I went to my doctor, who diagnosed bronchitis. After two weeks of antibiotics, an inhaler, and cough syrup, I felt more like my old self. Soon after early February, I came down with a fever, nausea, and lower backache. This time, my doctor diagnosed the flu. Once again, after taking anti-viral medications for a week, I felt much better and looked forward to my favorite time of year.
The end of my three-year streak was not the only recent change for me. Having spent most of my career in hospital operations, I switched last year to the health insurance field. On top of that, I was recently promoted and busy learning my new responsibilities. Also, my wife, Robyn, and I were facing an empty nest soon. Our younger son, Paul, a senior in high school, would move to Lawrence to attend the University of Kansas. Our older son, Matthew, was just finishing his freshman year at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln and would return for his second year. These major changes would not occur until fall, but we had no idea of the changes looming on the horizon.
Just one week later, for the third time in four weeks, I woke up with a sore throat, fever, and earache. It was the Sunday before Presidents’ Day on Monday, and I was sure that spending two days in bed would enable me to work on Tuesday. But I woke up Tuesday morning feeling even worse. Setting better judgment aside, I decided to go to work anyway. So, at 6:30 in the morning, I boarded the Johnson County bus for the 20-mile trip on I-35 to downtown Kansas City.
As soon as the bus trip began, it was apparent that going to work was a bad decision. I became dizzy and started to perspire. It was twenty degrees outside, and you could see your breath inside the bus, but I was sweating profusely. I took off my winter coat, then my suit coat, and finally my tie, but by then, I was soaked in sweat. I felt worse with each passing mile. Halfway to work, I stumbled to the front of the bus, sweat dripping off me, and asked the driver to let me off at the next exit. Even though my clothes were soaked and clinging to me, stepping into the freezing air felt good against my rising fever.
I called Robyn and asked her to pick me up. For twenty minutes, I stood shivering in the corner of a nearby convenience store. I must have looked terrible because I could see the stares of the customers and noticed their attempts to avoid me. Robyn arrived and quickly took me home, and then she left for work. I went directly to our bedroom, discarded my suit on the floor, and crawled into bed. I immediately fell asleep. It was my last contact with the outside world for the next seven days.
I was living (and dying) in a world of my own, completely “awake” and aware of my surroundings, although, in reality, I was unconscious. My reality was an extremely cold, dark, and frightening place. It was total darkness, too dark to see anything, and I had no points of reference or sense of direction. I was all alone, except for the sense of something sinister, which started to hover over me. I have never been one to scare easily, but I was afraid. I tried to remind myself of Psalm 118, Verse 6: The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me? And yet I struggled to remain brave.
When Robyn returned from work that evening, she found me still in bed, unresponsive, and with a fever of 104. An ambulance rushed me to the emergency room at Saint Luke’s South Hospital. Despite the crowded waiting room and all the full exam rooms, several doctors and nurses gave me their full attention.
2. The Struggle
This invisible force was now attacking me. It was a physical beating, and it was painful. I did not know what I was up against or how to defend myself. I lashed out, flailing my arms and legs. None of my attempts found their mark. I wondered how I could defend against something I could not see or touch. With each passing minute, I sank deeper into the darkest moments of my life. I did not think it at the time, but it occurred to me later that if people can believe in an evil that they cannot see or touch, how could they not extend faith in Jesus? Hebrews 11, Verse 1: Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.
Back in the emergency room, an X-ray revealed acute pneumonia. The doctors suspected meningitis, too, but could not confirm because by then I was too combative for a spinal tap. It took three nurses, with help from my wife, over an hour to insert a single I.V. into my arm. Taking no chances, they treated me for meningitis anyway. They also began treatment to lower my temperature and calm my agitation.
At 3:00 AM on Wednesday, eight hours after arriving, the doctors were confident that things were under control. They encouraged Robyn to go home and get some sleep, reassuring her that I would be better in the morning.
By 7:00 AM Wednesday, Robyn was back at the hospital expecting to find me rested and awake. Instead, I was still unconscious and dying. The bacteria, called Streptococcus Pneumonia, had found an entry into my bloodstream (probably through my lungs), and now the doctors did not believe I would even survive. After all, the survival rate for this insidious disease is only 5%. These invaders are tiny, so small that thousands can fit on a pinhead, and they reproduce at an astounding rate. These killers rapidly coursed through my body, feeding on me and damaging everything they touched. My white blood cells rallied and converged on the bacteria, but were overwhelmingly outnumbered.
In a domino effect, one problem created another. Once defeated, my white blood cells clumped together and formed blockages. As the flow of blood pounded against these clots, holes were ripped in the walls of my blood vessels. My blood platelets rushed to plug these holes, but weakened with bacteria, they too failed, and the internal bleeding was out of control. Blood clots were forced into tissue throughout my body, cutting off circulation and oxygen to my organs and extremities, and damaging nerve endings. Some of these clots were forced out through my skin, leaving visible, open wounds. Mottling, or bruising, appeared on my feet, legs, hands, arms, and abdomen in that order. The damage resembled that of a burn victim. I was in the throes of Disseminated Intravascular Coagulation. My internal organs were choked off. I began to have respiratory and kidney failure, and my heart was pounding erratically. While my heart raced to pump blood to oxygen-deprived areas, the doctors raced against time.
Just four hours after the doctors confidently sent my wife home, they were now instructing her to call the family together for a final goodbye. Yes, just four hours. Numbed by the news, Robyn began the arduous task of calling our sons and other family members. Not sure how to break such unexpected news, she robotically repeated the words suggested by a doctor: “Bob has pneumonia that has entered his bloodstream and is in extremely grave condition. If you can, you need to get here as soon as possible.”
Matthew and Paul immediately headed for the hospital. Matthew met other family members who also live in Lincoln, and together, they began the three-hour trip to Overland Park, hoping to make it in time. Blue Valley High School is only a few miles from the hospital, so Paul arrived in minutes. Soon, word spread to family and friends in several states.
Robyn and the nurse tried to wake me up to let me know that Paul was there. In a brief, somewhat fluid moment, I groped for his hand and said, “If I don’t make it, I want you to grow up to be a good man.” It must have been paternal instinct because I do not remember doing it. With tears in his eyes, Paul gave an affirmative nod.
By Wednesday afternoon, a dozen family members gathered by my bedside in the intensive care unit to begin their vigil. Two of my pastors from the church were also there to pray and give comfort. Most of those present, even the seasoned pastors, were shocked when they first saw me. I was on the bed with the sheets and blankets thrown off, wearing only shorts that a nurse cut from a pair of surgical pants. I was swollen and purple from the clotting, open wounds visible across my body, and tossing and turning as I struggled. It was a disturbing sight for everyone and made some of them turn away.
Robyn remained strong throughout and took control of my care. She involved herself in every medical discussion, questioned every decision, and demanded the best from hospital staff. She was the only person who was confident, even insistent, that I would survive. Robyn overheard our son, Matthew, ask a nurse if his dad was going to die. (Matthew was expecting the nurse to tell him what he wanted to hear.) Instead, the nurse responded, “I don’t know, but I’ve only seen this much damage on people who did not survive.” Matthew was numbed by the answer. Leaning against the wall, he slid down to the floor. Robyn was irritated. She pulled the nurse aside and instructed her on how to answer if asked again. She expected everyone to believe. You see, the one time I asked Robyn if I was going to die, she responded with total confidence, as if she knew. She said, “No. But you must keep fighting. We are all praying for you.” It was just like her to say something like that and revealed the strength of her faith, the kind of faith that we would rely on throughout the ordeal. She is a good reminder of Proverbs 31, Verse 10: A wife of noble character who can find? She is worth far more than rubies.
By now, dozens, perhaps hundreds of people knew of my condition and were praying for my survival. In turn, they asked friends and fellow church members to pray for me. My name found its way onto dozens of prayer lists and prayer chains in several states. The people submitting to God on my behalf ranged from all the people I love to total strangers.
From the darkness came a growing and constant noise. It was the noise of a large crowd when everyone is talking. I could not make out the words, but the chatter was deafening. Surrounded by total darkness, fighting an invisible evil, the noise was the only tangible thing I could hold on to. As we are told in Luke 18, Verse 1: Then Jesus told his disciples a parable to show them that they should always pray and not give up.
By Friday, my breathing was so weak that I was put on a respirator. My hands and feet, although swollen and bruised, were restrained to the bed to control my combativeness. The bruising worsened, covering my body from shoulders to toes. I was taken for a CAT scan to look for signs of bleeding in my brain and lungs. Defying all odds, there was none. But because of my internal bleeding elsewhere, I was given anti-sepsis medication. It is a drug of last resort since taking it will likely cause death. So, they only give it to the dying. It is the Hail Mary pass on the last play of the game when you have nothing to lose. After doctors deployed their final option, the only thing left for them to do was wait and keep me comfortable in my final hours.
For me, the fight continued. It was a fierce struggle. This fight was not figurative or imagined, but a physical reality. My body was beaten black and blue. I was bloody and weakened. I fought hard, looking for an advantage. I continued to thrash around on my bed as I lashed out at the evil that I could feel but could not touch. It is strange, but this fight felt personal. I knew it wanted to kill me, but I could not understand why. All I wanted to do was sleep. But I could not afford the luxury; this evil never slept.
When the sun rose on Saturday morning, I was still unconscious. My body was covered with bruises, and there were open sores everywhere. My hands and feet were badly burned. A machine was breathing for me. And worse yet, the internal bleeding and clotting continued. My appearance to those around me was appalling. Those rare moments when I opened my eyes, I had a frightened and tormented look. Robyn says it was a look she had never seen before, and one she would never forget. But at least the twisting and turning, the combativeness, had stopped. I lay motionless in bed.
My struggle had left me exhausted. For six days, I had been knocked down, repeatedly, and always tried to get up again to fight. But now I cannot get up anymore. I had nothing left. For the first time, I began to think the fight was lost. For the first time, I was ready to die, even willing. It was at this very moment that I felt the most afraid and the most defeated. Yet the feeling that God was watching over me never faded. It seemed that the more vulnerable I felt, the more I sensed His presence. 2 Corinthians, Verse 9: But He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.
By Sunday night, my condition had stopped its downward spiral, but I was still on a deathwatch. My family stayed by my bedside and prayed. By now, several hundred, maybe a thousand people had joined them in prayer. But in my hospital room, there was a quiet calm, the only noise being the soft hum of the respirator. No longer were the doctors frantically trying other treatments. There was nothing more they could do. There was nothing more anyone could do.
And then something happened.
Inside my world, fury reigned. My motionless body was being pummeled in the cold, noisy darkness. Even though I was down and near death, the beating continued relentlessly. I felt a little bit of life leave me with each blow to my body. Completely exhausted and in pain, I resigned in defeat. I realized it was over. Strangely, I felt a sense of relief. Drained of all my strength and ready for my journey home, I prayed, “God, please don’t leave me.”
3. The Miracle
Suddenly, the darkness was replaced by an intense, all-consuming light that exploded all around me. The cold gave way, and I was bathed in warmth. The constant noise I heard for six days went silent. And then I heard a gentle and comforting voice say, “You will be fine.” It was not exactly the thunderous, biblical response I would have imagined, but it was said with such reassurance and strength. All I could think of was Psalm 46:10: “Be still and know that I am God.” I was no longer afraid. My fatigue disappeared, and I felt strong. There was no more pain, and I was totally at peace. More importantly, my attacker was gone, vanquished! Amazingly, I knew at that moment that I would live, even before the people around me knew. At that moment, there is no doubt in my mind that I was in the presence of God. It was a wondrous thing. In the moment of victory, I felt so humbled. And just as suddenly, I realized that it was God’s victory, not mine. All I could do was watch the glory unfold around me in silent awe.
Monday morning, although I was still unconscious, my vital signs showed a sudden and remarkable improvement. The respirator was removed, and my breathing became stronger. The bleeding and clotting had stopped, along with the damaging effects they brought. When I woke up, I found Robyn, Matthew, and Paul next to me. The first thing I noticed was how tired Robyn looked. Yet there she was, still watching over me. Our sons were elated and eager to tell me everything I missed the last seven days. They did not know it yet, but what I needed to tell them was far more awesome. The events of two worlds, we would discover, coincided.
4. The Recovery
We were so busy comparing notes that hours passed before I finally looked at the damage this hideous disease did to me. It was shocking. My feet were blackened and looked “burnt”. My toenails were powdery white. Both feet were so disfigured that they did not look real. The blackness continued up my ankles, gradually fading onto my thighs. Bruises and open wounds covered the rest of my body. One “burn” on my left arm was so deep that it exposed my arm bone. It would take over three months to heal, and the feeling there would never come back. My hands were burned, though not blackened like my feet. They were numbed by nerve damage and had lost their sense of touch. They would later shed their skin, a quarter of an inch thick, revealing the skin of a newborn baby. Even my tongue had burn marks, making it difficult to eat or talk. Having come back to the real world, my whole body was again in pain, but this time it was tempered by my awesome experience and the comfort of knowing that God was right there.
Keeping all this tolerable was an epidural anesthetic in my spine, a Duragesic patch on my side, a regimen of pain pills, and a self-administered I.V. of morphine. Even with all that, the pain made sleep difficult. Every night, when I was alone, I lay there surveying the damage in the soft glow of the headboard light. My eyes always ended up staring at my blackened feet. Although I could feel the burn, I could not move them. I told myself that it may be a long time before I walk again. At least I could move my fingers, though it was difficult and painful. My hands were too sore to hold a fork or a toothbrush. But alone in my room, despite the obvious damage, I was grateful to be alive, grateful to have a loving, merciful God, and anxious to tackle the challenges ahead. Deuteronomy 31, Verse 6: Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.”
The hospital staff was amazed at my survival and started calling me a “miracle.” But I did not share with them the moment the real miracle happened, that precise moment when I saw, heard, and felt the power of prayer…and God. I do not know why I did not share it. Maybe it was because I was still trying to understand it myself, or because I did not know how to present it to them. Maybe I knew there was so much more ahead of me, and that the prayers were not over yet. I will always wonder and may never know the real reason.
The hundreds of people who prayed for my life were now praying for a speedy recovery. Oddly, I felt a little guilty. I am a little ashamed to admit it, but I worried that it was too much to ask. Having already saved my life, would God intervene again? Should we even be asking? In my overwhelming feelings of humbleness, I had forgotten that God’s love and power have no limits.
Only hours after waking up from my ordeal, I received a visit from a vascular surgeon. He bluntly told me I needed surgery very soon. Despite the damage to my body, I could not imagine what kind of surgery he meant. The doctor explained that my feet were dead, and without amputation, gangrene would set in. They would have to be amputated to save my life…again. He was a little more optimistic about my hands but still cautious. And he was concerned that even if my hands could be spared, they may never function properly. I heard him speaking, but was too stunned to listen. All I heard was feet, hands, and amputation. It would take another visit with him for me to fully understand. There I lay, facing yet another trauma before I had time to process the last one. It was all too much, too fast. I prayed to God for a “breather”, just so I could think. James 1, Verse 2-4: Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.
The next day, the news got worse. The surgeon said that, in addition to my feet, it looked as if my legs might have to be amputated above the knees, considering the discoloration on my thighs. Discoloration indicates tissue damage that would have to be removed. The fate of my hands was still uncertain. Again, I wondered how this could be happening to me. I thought his assessment was too pessimistic. After all, I’m a “miracle” man, right? I challenged him…no, begged him to think of an alternative. Surely there must be something he was overlooking. He looked at me sympathetically and suggested that I talk to a psychiatrist. To be perfectly honest, I was insulted. I did not need a psychiatrist, I thought to myself. After all, I just woke up the day before. What does he expect? Why doesn’t he give me time to adjust? I just needed more time! To be sure, I was irritated. Later, I learned that assigning a psychiatrist to amputees was routine. I was told that many amputees stay in denial. Some get depressed and withdraw. Others give up completely and stop participating in their recovery, or even in life. I understand how easily that could happen. I continued to pray to God for something…anything, to show me the way.
That night, the way became clear to me. James 1, Verse 12: Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him. My mission became clear: I knew that I did not want to be a victim. I knew I could not let these amputations stop me from returning home to my family, my life, my faith journey. I knew that regardless of what was taken from me, I still had my family, friends, and Jesus. If I had to go through life without hands and feet, then so be it. And now, as tired and beat-up as I was, I was eager to get started. I continued to pray to God for that “breather,” so I could think through this.
The next morning, my prayers were answered again when the surgeon returned with an idea. He suggested there might be benefits from hyperbaric oxygen treatments at another nearby hospital. The procedure involves lying in an airtight, pressurized chamber while 100% oxygen is inhaled and “forced” into your body tissue under pressure. It is designed to improve the healing process for open wounds that are not receiving adequate oxygen, primarily found with diabetics. No one had ever heard of hyperbaric oxygen being used on a patient who had an infection or as a prelude to amputation. It was certainly the first time for this hospital, and possibly the first time anywhere.
I was full of hope once again and believed that my legs and hands could be saved. The surgeon was unconvinced, however. His goals were to heal enough tissue to allow below-the-knee amputations, help my bruised body heal, and hopefully restore my damaged hands. Either way, it was worth trying.
I was transferred by ambulance to Shawnee Mission Medical Center for two weeks of hyperbaric oxygen treatments. My days were busy and exhausting, but I was determined to get out of the hospital and recapture my life. I believed that was the path that God had set for me. Between the phone calls and the comings and goings of medical staff and visitors, there was little time to rest.
After my first treatment in the chamber, some of the blackness on the tops of my feet turned pinkish. This was a remarkable event and surprised everyone, especially the doctors. My hopes were sky-high. I thought if my feet improved after just one treatment, imagine what two weeks of treatments would do! Things were looking up, and I began to think of going home…and walking.
The rare nature of my illness and the horrendous damage to my body made me somewhat of a celebrity at the hospital. As soon as word spread of my pinkish feet, staff throughout the hospital came to my room to see for themselves and to share in my joy. Doctors, nurses, volunteers, food service, and custodial staff, you name it. Some were already involved in my care, and some I had never met before. They were drawn to my situation and seemed to want success as much as I did. Many told me they were praying for me. It was heartwarming and motivated me even more. God sent people to encourage me right when I needed them most.
As the threat of gangrene approached, time was critical. Doctors and nurses in the Hyperbaric Unit even volunteered to work weekends so my treatments would be continuous. Everyone was cheering for me. For almost two weeks, I endured two treatments of two hours each day. The treatments left me exhausted, but I never lost hope.
Well-wishes were still arriving daily. My wife taped them on the wall to enjoy from my hospital bed. Eventually, they covered two entire walls and spilled over to a third one. My brother Casey visited me every day, always bringing something to fill my time or cheer me up. He never left without first scrawling new words of encouragement on the blackboard in my room. My mom called every day and showered me with cards and encouragement. My cousin, Claudia, traveled from Idaho to help take some of the burdens off Robyn. She ran my errands, kept me company, and was the first to get me into a wheelchair and take me outside. My other brothers and sisters visited or called often to cheer me up. I got visits and calls from co-workers, past and present. All the while, my amazing wife kept the household running and took care of our sons. The attention was uplifting. The prayers for a speedy recovery continued, and there was good reason to believe they were going to be answered…again.
Sadly, the day after my first hyperbaric treatment, the pink in my feet faded and returned to their blackened state. Future treatments did not have any effect on them, and the pink would never return. This man-made treatment is effective and beneficial, but it could not overcome the damage. However, the good news was found elsewhere.
The discoloration in my legs had retreated below both knees, the sores on my body were healing, and my hands were showing improvement. Again, the doctors were surprised at the results and the pace of my recovery. I was finally ready to schedule surgery, resigned that my legs were not going to be saved. And even though I was grateful for God’s healing powers and the mercy He had already shown, I failed Him again when I questioned why God would save my life but take my lower legs. Where is the sense in that, I thought? It was obvious I had lessons to learn about gratitude and thankfulness. Isaiah 40, Verse 31: but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not be faint.
The enormity of losing my lower legs was in direct contrast to the short length of my surgery. It took only three hours to change my life forever. Both legs were amputated just two inches below the kneecaps. The surgeon saved as much of my legs as the tissue damage would allow. Just one more inch of damage and my knees would have been lost, too. More evidence of God’s mercy.
Amputee patients usually have an epidural inserted in their spine before surgery and for a week afterward to help with the pain. But I was not given one. An earlier epidural had just been removed, and the risk of infection was too great. Coming out of my anesthesia was not a peaceful transition.
As I lay there in the fog of post-surgery, my legs had a violent spasm. I shot up in bed with a yell that could be heard down the hallways. The pain was indescribable and felt like lightning bolts ripping through me. It took my breath away. A nurse at my bedside put his hand on my chest and gently pushed me back down on the bed, then held me there. I remember him leaning over me and saying, “Mr. Cantin, everything is alright. You’re going to be alright." In that breathless moment, as I struggled with the electricity coursing through my body, I looked up at him and said, “I’m more than alright, my parking just got better.” He laughed, told me to hang in there, and stopped holding me down. I lay there with a smile of satisfaction, thinking how good it felt to make him laugh. It felt like another piece of my life, humor, had returned. And my life would continue to come back, one piece at a time.
Throughout the day, each time the lightning bolts ripped through me, my body became rigid, and my face contorted. I wanted to yell, but learned to control it. Sometimes, visitors in my room could not bear to watch and would turn away. The spasms occurred just minutes apart for the first few days, and then gradually decreased in frequency over the next few weeks. Sleep was impossible. It redefined my perception of pain. I was so grateful for the short break I had between fighting the blood infection and this awful surgery. It was another prayer answered.
Despite the spasms, I wanted to start rehab. With insistence and persistence, the doctors eventually allowed me to rehab, and it was a distraction from the pain. Rehab was important because I could not go home until I got a favorable report from the therapists, so I was determined to impress them.
In the only setback during my recovery, I woke Easter morning, of all days, drenched in sweat. My pillow and bedding were soaked. I had a sore throat, chills, a fever, and nausea. I felt exactly like I did on that day in February when I got off the bus. I was afraid all over again. I honestly believed my nemesis was back “to finish the job”. I believed that if I fell asleep this time, I would die.
In yet another example of my failings, I questioned why God would let this happen. I blamed the medical staff for letting me get this disease again under their care. Everyone tried to reason with me, but I stood firm. I refused to take my medications because I felt they were making me weak and confused, and if I was going to fight this killer again, I would need my strength. I would rather suffer the pain than lose the clarity of mind needed to fight. Not even a visit from my doctor or urgings from my wife would change my mind. And because I was nauseous, I refused to eat. My brother jokingly said that I was on “strike”, and he was right.
That evening, I asked Robyn to stay and keep me awake. I told her that “it” had returned to kill me. She asked if I thought that God would save my life, only to let it come back and kill me anyway. It was a profound question and one I shamefully could not answer. We prayed for strength because I could not survive this a second time.
Then out of nowhere, Robyn wondered if I had received a vaccine for strep pneumonia the day before, which would explain the return of familiar symptoms. After checking my file, the doctor confirmed that I had indeed been vaccinated. Suddenly, things made sense again. I would not have to fight for my life again. And once again, I was reminded that God never leaves you. Now I no longer needed to stay awake, and sleep seemed very appealing. Not only did I sleep, but that Easter night was the most restful night I had in the hospital. There is nothing like Easter, is there? I woke up the next morning feeling great…and hungry! I felt the joy of Easter for so many reasons!
Everyone kept commenting on my speedy recovery, and I could only think of all those answered prayers. Most amputees are in the hospital for months, but apparently, God was not about to save my life and then let me languish in bed. I was getting the sense that God not only had a plan for me but was anxious to get started.
Just one week after my lower legs were amputated, I transferred back to Saint Luke’s South Hospital for what was planned to be two weeks of inpatient rehab. But I did so well that just three days later, I was discharged and sent home. After six weeks in the hospital, and only ten days after amputation, I was finally home to be with my family, home to enjoy the spring, and home to begin the long road to walking again. And just one month later, long before I got my prosthetic legs, I started back to work.
And for the last 20 years, with the encouragement of my wife, I have dedicated myself to people in the disabled community. I have served on a state Commission for 15 years, a state Council for 5 years, and several boards and task forces for 20 years, all focused on helping persons with disabilities live a happier, healthier, safer, more accessible and productive life. God has given me a second chance at life, and I wanted to help Him give others a chance at a better life. And in a small way, I think progress has been achieved on occasion. There is no shortage of improvements to be made, and no shortage of people to serve, so the efforts will continue.
5. Faith and Reflection
There is much to learn about my new life and the wide range of challenges I face: some as simple as showering and dressing, others as difficult as learning to walk with prostheses and driving a car. But I also realize that the prayers and miracles showered on me come with the strength to face those challenges. We all know this partial verse: Luke 12:48: For everyone to whom much is given, from him much will be required.
I have always believed in the power of prayer. Many of my prayers have been answered, and I have seen them answered for others. But in the past, the power of prayer was always easy for me to recognize when I received what I prayed for. It was much more difficult when I did not get what I prayed for. Now, when that happens, I try to remember that God is answering prayers in His way and according to what is best for me, even when I do not understand. I wanted to live AND keep my legs. But not getting what I want IS an answer to my prayers. Understanding that has always been a test of my faith. 1 John 5:14: This is the confidence which we have before Him, that, if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us.
Anyway, I no longer simply believe in the power of prayer. I have personal knowledge of that power. I heard it, I saw it, and I felt it. The evidence is abundant: darkness lost to light, cold lost to warmth, fear lost to courage, fatigue lost to strength, pain lost to comfort, and death lost to Jesus. I am still alive, and that is more than enough proof for me. And as strange as this might sound, losing my legs was one of the best things to ever happen to me. The pain and struggle are a badge of honor. Someone once said that each adversity comes with an equal or greater benefit. I believe it. It taught me things about life, living, me, and faith that I would not have learned otherwise. It has taught me more about compassion, patience, perseverance, and faith, among other things. Again, God gave me not what I wanted, but what I needed. And I am so grateful. Psalms 40:1-2 KJV: I waited patiently for the LORD, and he inclined unto me and heard my cry. He brought me up also out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings.
6. Conclusion
I think back to my struggle to survive and wonder about a couple of things.
The first is, why didn’t I ask God to “Please save me” when I was about to die? That seems like the logical thing to ask when you are dying. “Please save me”. It seems obvious. But I did not ask Him for that. Instead, I said, "Please don’t leave me”. I have come to realize that if I had asked Him to “save me”, that would have been more of a petition for a miracle. That plea would have come from my survival instincts, my selfishness. It was me asking for “something” – like I usually do. But in saying “Please don’t leave me”, it was an authentic moment between God and me, where my desire to be with Him was complete. I think that at that moment, the relationship God has always wanted with me had finally happened. It had evolved from just asking Him for things when I needed something – to truly just wanting Him; there by my side, in my heart, in my life. I was asking for Him, and Him only – and nothing more. I cry when I think about how easy it was.
I also wonder why I did not tell most people early on, when I had the chance, about the miracle that happened. Why didn’t I serve as a witness to the power of prayer and God’s mercy more than I did? Why did I tell only people close to me? I’m guessing, but for some odd reason, it seems that some of the moments that change our lives the most are the ones we guard the most. We should not. Perhaps it is because those moments are special, and we covet them for ourselves. We should not. Perhaps we do not talk about our miracles for fear of being lumped together with those who see Elvis or Big Foot (my apologies to those who have seen Elvis or Big Foot). Again, we should not. Regardless of the reason, we are ultimately privileged and obligated to share those moments when God intervenes, and we see Him, perhaps really see Him, for the first time. Because what happened when I completely surrendered to God is something that needs to be told. It is a moment that God wants for all of us, and it is a moment that is there for the asking at any time, not just in times of adversity.
Looking back, I realize that this journey has shaped me in ways beyond the obvious and ways I never imagined. It taught me that resilience and faith are intertwined. Resilience comes from the power of faith, and faith sometimes requires resilience.
I am certainly grateful for the unwavering support of my family. Their love and encouragement were the pillars that held me up during the toughest moments. To anyone facing similar challenges, remember that even in the darkest moments, there is always a glimmer of hope. Keep the faith, stay strong, and never give up.
So, why did God save my life, despite all the damage inflicted? Well, first I think, so He and I could continue the relationship we both have always wanted with each other. Secondly, I believe, so I could learn what I needed to learn; about myself, my life, and my God. And finally, so I would have the privilege to share this with you. Jesus is real and waiting for you. I know it.