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A year of fear, lined in Godly trust
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November 1, 2020It's been that kind of year, with hour-to-hour reports of things to dread. Virus reports, political polls, business crashes, jobless claims, health sinkholes. And in middle age, even a little late-night arrhythmia sounds mental sirens and visions of trauma.
The October afternoon we saw our president being helicoptered from the White House lawn to Walter Reed Hospital, I admit I was rattled. What is going on? I wondered. After exhausting our margins of patience and optimism during the previous six months, we were running low on hope from too much sudden change. Now he’s sick?
After a number of heart-stopping scares and close-calls of our own, the default activity has become to start begging God for help, and quick. Our president deserved our immediate and serious prayer attention. And he was out of the hospital in four days.
It brought to mind the week in mid-March this year, before all the end-of-life-as-we-know-it COVID panic hit the world. My temperature dropped during a ZOOM call as I shook involuntarily. Trying not to let everyone hear my teeth chattering, intense pain migrated joint to joint, with a searing headache that seemed like an aneurysm. Pain worsened by the minute; after about a half hour, I thought I’d collapse out of my chair. The call ended and I dropped onto the couch.
Practically wrapped in a coat, I passed out for hours, vacillating between sweating and shivering. Even with mega doses of Advil, the wrenching joint and abdominal pain stabbed through. Every breath became labored with a new lung-whistling sound. I had strange thoughts of dying before anyone came back into the room. But I was too weak to care or do anything more. My husband did his best to take care of me, but it was unnerving for him – doctors had told us to just stay home.
By the third night, I realized I was on serious verge of something worse. I strained for air, and had to sit upright to stay awake and concentrate on my breathing, for fear I’d not get enough air. Between coughing, howling to exhale, drinking water, blowing my nose, and worrying, I thought: I really should be in the hospital. I feel like I might die. I thought of early news reports of ventilator shortages, and people who got worse in hospitals. I wasn’t going.
I started praying.
Lord, is this it? I’ve tried really hard to reorient my life, and I’m sorry for being such a disappointment to you over the years. I accept this if it’s what you want. I know I look like hell, but please just help me. Please.
Six hours later, I awoke and realized … I was still alive. I was never so grateful. I slowly stood up, and could walk without continual pain. I could somehow breathe. Wow. I’d turned a corner – He got me through.
Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed; save me, and I shall be saved; for thou art my praise. (Jer 17: 14)
CHRISTINE VALENTINE-OWSIK is Legatus Magazine’s editor.
