Faith can become unexpectedly public

Life can come to swift end, despite longtime health and careful habits. At an hour unexpected, vitality can dim.
 
So it happened on a cold, clear January evening this year. 
We’d put the Christmas tree out at the curb, and I was planning for an upcoming business trip.

Then I was rattled at midnight with a thundering heart, profuse perspiration, and a premonition that things were terribly wrong. A weeklong sore throat cut like sliced glass over my windpipe. Breathing and swallowing became frantically difficult. My temperature crept to 103.
 
“I should go to the hospital tomorrow,” I told my husband. “Nope, we’re going right now,” Joe said. He sped through our quiet little town, running lights and stop signs. I teetered into Emergency, crumpling into a chair. After a nurse silently took readings and blood, she said I was very sick. As they rushed me to ICU, I begged Christ for help.

Nurses hurriedly hooked me up to infusions, monitors, and a large respirator. I asked questions but got vague responses. “I’ll be here a few days, right?” Longer, they said. I had Covid double-pneumonia, acute respiratory failure, a blood clot in my left lung, and dangerously low blood oxygen. And sepsis. They skipped mention of multiple organ failure. No visitors for 10 days. I passed out breathing the cool oxygen.

The pulmonologist stood bedside the next morning, looking deadly serious. “Will I make it?” I asked. He answered, “We don’t know. You have a fifty-fifty chance, if that. But I’m praying for you.” I’d never heard a doctor say that. He said he’d lost many Covid patients, and I was their worst case.

And there it was. I might not survive 10 days to see my husband and sons. I felt alone, but not entirely. I knew Christ wouldn’t leave me and sensed Him sitting there. I faced imminent decisions – whether to consent to a full ventilator, certain pain-management protocols, and organ-donation directives.

Before Dr. Les left, I said, “I need one visitor now – my priest. If I’m approaching the most important meeting of my life, I must be ready.” 
He agreed. An hour later, Father walked in.
 
In a surreal instant, I was confessing my final sins, palms anointed with oil, and saying the last prayers. So this is it? I asked God silently. The ICU nurses and doctors peered in, watching everything.

I wasn’t afraid, but I became mentally scattered for weeks and couldn’t remember prayers. But Legatus, our church, friends, family, and colleagues kept praying for me.
 
I suppose I deserve this, I thought, recalling my youth. I told Christ I was sorry for being such a disappointment to Him during those years.
 
One night, as the ventilator roared, I dreamt I stood before a celestial flowering meadow, its gate ajar, beckoning me upward. I thought, “That is where I want to go!” I woke up, bewildered.

Another pulmonologist, Dr. Carlos, said, “Good morning,” asking how I was feeling. I mentioned my hope in the Divine Physician to guide my doctors. He broke a full smile, admitted he was Catholic, and invited me to pray with him. After that, he came every morning, even his days off, to discuss our faith and life. He asked about my work and for copies of Legatus magazine.
 
After 11 days, Dr. Carlos came in grinning. “Well, young lady, I’d like to say the monoclonal antibody treatment saved you. But I believe it’s your faith in God that’s done it.”
 
I needed another four weeks in the hospital, then months of recuperation. Today, those doctors say my full recovery is miraculous. And right in their office, I thank Our Lord aloud.

CHRISTINE VALENTINE-OWSIK
was recently named communications director for Legatus, after serving previously as editor for Legatus magazine.