Gratitude

It is difficult for me to write about anything but what is on the forefront of my heart. Today, as I peel away the layers, I find an immeasurable amount of gratitude.

It was two years ago today that I was in bed, suffering a terrible stomach problem. Nausea, vomiting and unbearable pain wracked my frame. I thought it was food poisoning or maybe the touch of the flu. But I had been down for approximately three weeks, and I just wasn't getting any better.

As I munched on a saltine, I prayed that God would make me well enough to go to Nana's for Thanksgiving. I longed for a normal life, one where I could eat and not suffer. I remember tucking myself in extra early that day, so that I would have enough energy to travel over the river and through the woods.

The next day we arrived at Nana's house. The smell of turkey I had always remembered lingered. The same steam covered the windows of her little house. But sadly I was not the same. Carrying my bag of saltines, I attempted to participate by stirring the gravy. But the pain was almost unbearable.

It wasn't just the pain that was so difficult. It was the fact that I didn't know what was wrong with me, and it seemed like I was never going to get better. One day blended into the next until I just couldn't handle the pain a moment longer.

After trying to choke down a very small plate of Thanksgiving dinner, I proceeded to relax in the living room with everybody else - but my body was having a fit. Terrible pain continued all through the night, until Mark finally got me up at about 3am and proceeded to drive me back to Turlock for the emergency room. I cried all the way there, fearing what the hospital would mean. Needles . . . more pain. The thought was unbearable.

As the sun began to rise, Mark dropped me off and then left to take the kids to my in-laws. I sat there all by myself, feeling more alone than ever. I remember getting sympathy from some folks who were waiting to be seen. But their smiles couldn't even touch what I was facing.

Four days in the hospital, undergoing torturous tests and being starved, left the doctors with no answers. Since the pain was gone (because I hadn't eaten or drank anything in 48 hours), they decided to send me home.

Later on that night, after I had eaten again, the pain came back. This time much worse, and I knew that something was terrible wrong. It went from bad to worse, and the next morning I was back in the hospital. After a big protest against being sent home, I finally got an appointment with a specialist the next day. So again, I suffered through the night. The next morning, I was so sick I couldn't even walk into the doctor's office. I needed to be wheeled in. It took all of the strength I had to climb up on that examination table.

One look at me, and the doctor knew that I was in a world of trouble. Hours later, I was admitted into another hospital, where the real torture began. More tests and more doctors revealed the need for exploratory surgery.

It was one of the darkest nights of my life. They would be cutting me open the next day to try and figure out what was going on. A mass in my abdomen had everybody really worried. I cried like a little baby that night. I was terrified to be left alone. My sister stayed behind and talked to me until I fell asleep.

High doses of morphine and unspeakable pain followed the days after surgery. Edometreosis had caused a bowel obstruction. They ended up taking my appendix, one ovary and part of my bowel.

So this Thanksgiving, I need not the aroma of turkey nor a trip to the mall to make things extra special. The air in my lungs, and my healthy digestion brings a deep and lasting gratitude.

Now that I have shared one of my darkest hours with you, what has God brought you through? Was a physical ailment, or more of an emotional storm? Were you bedridden . . . heartbroken? I'd love to hear about it. Send me your story.

One thing I've learned through my experience, is that the darker the clouds, the more vibrant the color. Strangely, turkey isn't just turkey anymore. Every bite has become a feast - and every breath a gift.