"Your pulse ox is too low. We must intubate you again." I heard the urgency in his voice, but it meant nothing to me. I felt fine. "I can breathe! I'm good," I quipped. But as they continued to press and I continued to argue, I caught a glimpse of my husband's worried face peering just over the doctor's shoulder. "Fine, do it," I conceded.
The next time my eyes opened wasn't nearly as pleasant. I had a tube down my throat and, over most of my face, a mask rivaling anything out of Silence of the Lambs. I was drooling, my incision stung from the sweat collecting in the creases of my neck, and all I could think was how badly my face was going to break out inside this pimple factory. The tube irritated the back of my throat, causing me to cough and constantly change positions to alleviate the burn; my lips were chapped and sore, and the "breathing" part of all this was like trying to suck a Wendy's Frosty through a coffee stirrer. I could not seem to fill my lungs; it felt as though I was suffocating. All night long I struggled and tossed and buzzed the nurse, begging her -- via pen and paper -- to "Get this thing off!". When the poor woman wasn't, with the patience of a saint, trying to reassure me, she was rushing to my bedside. It seems the only comfortable sleeping position I could find collapsed the tube, somehow setting off the pulse ox monitor and summoning the entire ICU. Fear. Misery. Rage. Bound by all of these, I counted off the hours in that long, black night.
Where was my faith? Where was my prayer? Instead, I texted my all too gracious friends at ridiculous hours, panicked and tormented the nursing staff, and barely endured one of the longest nights of my life. I think of Paul and Silas, bound and in prison, their earthly future uncertain. Luke's account in Acts 16:16-40, tells us they were beaten with rods and given "many stripes." They were then thrown into prison and fastened in stocks. Imagine open wounds, bleeding and sore, pressed up against dirty stone walls; legs constrained tightly at the ankles, muscles aching and cramping from the beating they'd undergone and the inability to move, lying in the filth of a prison cell floor. "But at midnight, Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God..."
If anyone had reason to fear, it was Paul and Silas. A multitude had come against them; the magistrates of the city were convinced of their guilt. When would they ever be released? And what of their misery? Bruised and lashed from head to toe. Extreme cold or unbearable heat -- animals were kept better than prisoners in those days. Hungry. Exhausted. Who would have blamed them for being angry? What had they done wrong? A young woman was freed from the bondage of a demonic spirit as well as possession by those who would profit from her plight. They had served the Lord and proclaimed the truth of salvation. But here they sat, shackled, bleeding, and locked behind bars, counting off the hours in that long, black ni-- Hardly! They prayed and sang praises! And those nearby who listened were blessed by the sound of worship!
When I recall that first night -- the shock of this "easy breezy, in one day and out the next" surgery gone wrong, the pain and discomfort, the sensation of suffocating, the loneliness, and unanswered questions -- I pray I would do things a little differently today. I pray I would be able to thank the Lord for sparing my life. I pray I would cry out to Him, my Friend and my Deliverer. I pray I would pray. And like those sitting through the night with Paul and Silas, others would be blessed by the sound of worship and freed from their chains.
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