My Miracle Story

I approach every doctor appointment with a great deal of trepidation. I've never experienced a "routine doctor appointment" without anxiety levels that exceed the charts. My recent dermatologist visit was case in point. After reviewing the results of our short-term effort to address an itching problem (benzoyl-peroxide wash, bar soap wash, steroid cream application, covered by layer of Vaseline), the doctor seemed dissatisfied. He hastily ordered blood work to test my thyroid levels, hormone levels, and several other things and then, offhandedly added "we will now treat this with two shots of steroid to the buttocks."

The minute I heard the word shot ... (no, rewind, that wasn't singular, it was PLURAL, and where? in my BUTTOCKS??????) I began to reel. Really? You're going to do that now?? "No," he explained, he "wouldn't be doing that, but his assistant would." Oh joy. I promise I didn't begin hyper-ventilating, but it wouldn't have been out of the question.

You see, I have a life-long fear of shots. No, let me clarify that. I have a life-long fear of shots and medical situations. I often begin my visits with doctors with an explanation of the root of my fears so they will understand where I am coming from and so they will know to anticipate my insane squeamishness! At my first gynecological exam in DeKalb, the doctor actually looked at me and said, "And what doctor do you plan on using when you decide to have children???" (indicating that it wouldn't be him).

So, is it a miracle that I endured the two shots to my buttocks yesterday? No! They weren't even as bad as my mind anticipated. The miracle story of the title of this blog post is the one that explains why I agonize so much over shots. It explains why I've always believed in some grand purpose to my existence and why I grow disillusioned when my life doesn't seem to be fulfilling any kind of grandiose vision. And I have carried this story since the age of three.

In March of 1969, my Salvation Army officer parents had four children under the age of seven. My oldest brother, David, would have been 6-1/2 and Mark, would have been 5. I was approaching 4 and my sister had just turned 1. In the wee hours of a Sunday morning (of course, it had to happen on a Sunday morning!), my parents headed to the hospital with me and my sister (and must have brought my brothers along). We were having difficulty breathing and they admitted both Dawn and myself to a room. My sister was diagnosed with pneumonia and I had what they termed "double pneumonia" (affecting both lungs).

Given the urgency of the situation, my parents hadn't had any time to make alternate arrangements, so my mother left my father with us and headed off to the church to perform the start of the Sunday morning service. My dad intended to stay until my mother returned and then he would head off to preach the sermon and end the service.

However, before my mother returned, things took an awful turn. I was hooked up to machines monitoring my vitals. My father was seated next to my box (I'm assuming a ventilator) and was praying for me. I have been told the story numerous times and have often shared the testimony of my miracle. I don't remember a thing, but I know the details because it is an integral part of "my story," the story of me and what led me to become who I am and even probably who I will be in the future. I only recently learned that my sister was in another crib across the room.

As my father tells the story, he was praying for me. Struggling to understand what was going on and gripped with love for me, he pleaded with the Lord for His protection and intervention. Suddenly, the machine alarms sounded and workers began to flood the room. I had stopped breathing. He could tell that things were seriously wrong. It was as if I had died and they were trying to resuscitate me. They removed the cover over my cot. They held a knife over my ankle and began to cut into the vein (I later learned this was necessary because they can't cut into the wrist veins in such a small body). I believe they were planning to inject something to attempt to re-start my breathing.

My father explains that during these moments of prayer over me, the focus of his prayer shifted. He realized that I was a gift from God and that He could not ask for my life but only for the grace to accept whatever God willed. In that very moment, I sat up and asked the doctors what they were doing. One minute I was on death's door and the next, I was asking for an explanation.

So, early on, I learned a variety of lessons from that life imprint. I learned that children are a gift for whatever length of time the Lord gives. I learned that God must have had some further purpose for my life because He spared me when He could have taken me. I learned that my father trusted in God enough to let me go, if need be. I learned that God still performs miracles. I learned that I should share my miracle because it might encourage another Christian in their walk. And so, very often, at an early age, I would stand during testimony time in our church services and share the story as I knew it (second hand, but still my story - and a powerful one - of God's love and God's purpose).

However, I also learned to fear shots and to psychologically agonize over any medical interventions. My parents informed me that I was in the hospital for eight days and in those eight days I received 64 shots! SIXTY-FOUR! I remember my mother telling me that my body was small and after several days they had to administer shots in the same locations I'd already received shots. It was like I was a human pin-cushion.

I don't remember the shots. I don't remember the hospital. I don't remember double pneumonia. However, I could regale you with stories of the further ramifications of my ordeal.

For example, the year we took a group of kids to a clinic for our camp physicals. It was crowded and when the nurse came to take my blood-pressure, I was standing in a doorway. I fainted and slumped to the ground - just over the squeezing of the blood-pressure cuff.

Another time, my mother had taken me, my sister and my baby brother, Timmy, (who was probably five - which would have meant I was 14 or 15) to get our shots for school. Dawn and I stood arguing over who would go first. Finally, Timmy pushed past us and took his shots. He sat in a chair sucking his lollipop and waiting for us to finish. My sister and I both ended up fainting. There was my mom, hovering over two girls with their heads pushed between their legs, trying to revive after the torment of getting shots and Timmy just enjoyed his lollipop.

I know my mother dreaded taking us to the doctor as much as I dreaded going. At another visit, I was told to bend down and touch my toes. I bent at the knees and touched them with ease! Ha! Then, the doctor touched my sister and she winced, proclaiming in her defense, "I have sensible hips!" Going to the doctor never got easier.

When I decided to head to the mission field after college, I seriously dreaded all of the shots I would have to endure. I remember a nurse giving me pointers on the gamma globulin shot (which is also administered in the buttock). She explained that the problem is when the thick liquid (yes, she told me how long and thick the needle had to be in order to give the injection) sits in one spot. To avoid the typical soreness, the key was to rub the heck out of the buttock as soon as the shot was administered. I had to walk from the clinic to work and continued to rub my sore bum regardless of what the passing motorists must have thought!

Yes, I am a case. Of course, I put off having the blood drawn (even though I could have gone to the lab today). Hopefully, I'll have it done when the little boys aren't with me. No need to create trauma in their tender psyches (as I did when I screamed at the shot in my toe to remove a wart last spring - the nurse said, "Oh my, we weren't expecting that!" - meaning, my reaction! I should have said, "Well, yes, I wasn't expecting that!" - meaning, the shot!). I can promise you I'll be looking away. And I'll be praying that the Lord's will doesn't include my continuing to get these steroid shots and blood draws on a regular basis. Perhaps the itching isn't really so troublesome after all. It is a miracle I ever had kids - and three, by c-section, no less!