Faith to Be Healed
Part 1 of a Story of Faith Written by Tess Frame
The miracles of comfort, healing, determination, revelation, and peace are available to all of us. God has an arsenal of blessings ready to deliver, conditional only upon our asking for them.
In March 2019, I awoke in a hospital bed, unaware of why I was there or how long it had been. I remembered being held down, drugged, and violated, but I didn’t know when, or by whom. I knew who I was and that I was almost eight months pregnant, but I couldn’t ask for help or answers. I found myself voiceless and bedbound, strapped into a bed with four dozen cords, tubes, stickers, needles, and catheters.
The world of my perception was foggy and scary. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew I was in danger, and I knew no one was going to help me.
In reality, my hospitalization was due to lung failure as a result of septic pneumonia, complicated by third trimester pregnancy. I had been on life support for more than twenty days, and, to my shock and horror, was no longer pregnant.
When my husband brought me to the hospital on March 4th, in premature labor and showing signs of comprehensive organ failure from lack of oxygen, I was rushed in for an emergency c-section and immediately put into an induced coma. My baby - a boy - was driven to the closest children’s hospital where he was monitored for the next eight days. The concern was that the low oxygen in my blood combined with the rampant infections in my body had crossed the placenta and affected him. To everyone’s amazement, he seemed healthy, hungry, and sleepy, like any newborn should be.
I, on the other hand, was less lucky. My lungs were so full of fluid that I was completely dependent on machines. I was in an induced coma or heavily sedated for the better part of three weeks before I began to wake up. The postpartum wiping, massaging, and probing, while necessary, felt like violations to my uncomprehending mind. My main oxygen assistance once I had been extubated was a high-flow cannula. It was uncomfortable, and felt like sticking my head out the window of a jet and trying to take a deep breath. In my addled state, I struggled against these interventions, and had to be restrained, which added to the existing feelings of stress and danger.
When I was finally informed where I was, why I was there, and (worst of all) that I was no longer pregnant, I was inconsolable. Though my baby was healthy and safe at home with his Daddy and brothers, I was unable to fathom his existence without me, and struggled with the grief of loss.
In my memory, this period of high anxiety and fear lasted weeks, but in reality only lasted a few days. I remember bargaining with God that if He would just let me return home to my babies, my life would be His forever. With each passing day, I became a little clearer, a little more determined to heal.
As I began to understand more about my situation and the few (but crucial) aspects I was able to control, I developed an attitude of stubborn optimism. I began asking the doctors what specific measurements they were looking for so that I could meet their requirements. If they wanted me to breathe on my own for twenty minutes, I’d do it for an hour. If they wanted me to walk to the water fountain, I’d walk all the way down the hall.
My progress was measurable and impressive, but I was still on a lot of drugs, and still under a lot of stress. One evening, in a state of total exhaustion, I moved the cannula out of my nose so I could sleep without the discomfort of cold air in my face. After a few minutes, I was unconscious from lack of oxygen, and my monitors issued a code blue. My mom, who had felt impressed to sleep at the hospital with me that night, was the first to respond to the beeping, and called my team into the room, saving ten or twenty seconds, a small but critical amount of time.
I was put back on a vent and under heavy sedation, and the decision was made to give me a tracheotomy and an oxygen collar. From there, my recovery was linear. I restarted the process of physical, occupational and speech therapies. I began weaning from the narcotics and sedatives - a painful and anxiety-riddled process.
Within a few days, I was downgraded from the ICU to the PCU (progressive care unit), where I would finally be able to meet my precious baby and be reunited with my children after a month of separation. I yearned for my kids. The day after I transferred units, my husband brought our baby to the hospital, and I held him for the first time. My arms were so weak that his seven pound body was almost too heavy. I wept silently the whole time, unable to speak to him or even say his name: Thomas.
My husband, Conrad, brought him home that day, and I stayed in the hospital alone. The doctors were optimistic about my recovery, and mentioned that I’d probably only need to live in a rehab facility for a few weeks once I was discharged. The thought of being kept from my family even longer threatened to send me into a deep depression. I pleaded with the Lord to give me the strength I needed to return to my babies as fast as possible. A new surge of determination swelled within me, and I began advocating for myself with a new fervor. I wanted all of the monitors off of me. I wanted the feeding tube out. I wanted a shower after twenty five days of bed baths. I wanted a smaller trach so I could speak again.
I became the obnoxious patient constantly ringing the nurse bell with questions and requests. The nurses saw my increased determination, and instead of becoming irritated, they worked with me to meet every accomplishment I had my heart set on. I worked myself to physical exhaustion. I wept if I needed to sleep, or if I vomited from the exertion.
Over the next 24 hours, I gained enough strength to walk the entire floor of the building, I switched from the oxygen collar to a nose cannula, I had my trach replaced with a red-button trach that would allow me to talk, and then I had the red-button trach removed altogether. I got my feeding tube removed (arguably the worst accessory of the bunch), as well as almost every other tube and monitor. It was such a busy day that I didn’t have time for wallowing.
The next morning, I got my shower, and I had an appointment with radiology to be tested and cleared for a solid-food diet. This test, along with sustained oxygen levels, would be the determining factor for whether I was recovering enough to return home.
I was wheeled to a different floor for the radiology test, and was detached from my oxygen temporarily. After the test, I was hooked back up, and I rested for a while before my kids and husband came to visit me. It lifted my spirits so much for our whole little family to be together after so long!
With their visit, I felt another wave of determination to get better. After they left, I was in the room with my parents and the doctor came in to do rounds. He commented that I had really good oxygen levels, took a look at my tank, and laughed with surprise and told me I had been detached from my tank for about four hours. The tech who had taken me down to radiology hadn’t reattached my oxygen correctly. This meant I was oxygenating on my own, without assistance, and was maintaining stable levels.
With a smile, he asked, “Want to go home today? We can get your discharge paperwork ready in a couple hours.”
We were in total disbelief. The day before, I had been told that I would probably need to spend two to three weeks in a rehabilitative center before I could go home. Now, I was being discharged for home recovery!
What a miracle that the day after I held my baby for the first time I experienced such drastic improvement that I was sent home! The magic of motherhood, of holding my own baby and feeling like there was nothing I wouldn't do to return to him was profound. I know that the Lord blessed me with physical strength and personal conviction every time I asked for it. I know He prompted my mom to remain in the hospital with me the night I coded. I know He watched over my family while I was gone, and that He continues to watch over us now.
The miracles of comfort, healing, determination, revelation, and peace are available to all of us. God has an arsenal of blessings ready to deliver, conditional only upon our asking for them. As I’ve learned to articulate the songs, sorrows, and desires of my heart, I’ve been blessed with the vision to see God’s hand in my life. I know, regardless of the person or trial, that God sends relief and hope to His children, and know that if you only ask, those blessings will be yours, too.
