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After a near-fatal medical emergency left her facing a lengthy and difficult recovery, she wondered where He had been during her trials.
Springtime in the Rockies. I sat at my desk, gazing out a row of windows at green hills and distant peaks. Golden late-afternoon sun poured into my home office. This was where I worked, writing books and articles about faith.
At least, it’s where I’d worked before everything changed. Now I wasn’t sure I’d ever write again.
A year and a half earlier, giving birth to our fifth child, I’d had complications. I underwent two surgeries, suffering massive blood loss and severe lung damage. My brain was damaged too.
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I was put in a medically induced coma. Doctors couldn’t promise that I would wake up whole. Or at all. But eventually I emerged from the coma. My body began to heal. So did my mind.
“A miracle!” everyone exclaimed when they heard my story.
It didn’t feel like a miracle to me.
Of course, I did my best to keep a brave face. I didn’t dwell on the trauma my near death had brought to my family. I didn’t talk much about waking from the coma barely knowing my own name, not even remembering I’d had a baby.
I didn’t bore people with stories about learning to walk, eat with a fork or brush my own hair again.
And no one saw moments like this one now, as I sat alone, wondering if I’d ever go back to my life as a writer. A notebook lay open in front of me. But all that came to mind as I stared at the blank page was a question that had been haunting me for months.
I didn’t dare utter the words out loud. Where were you, God?
Where were you in that delivery room when everything went wrong and my life nearly ended? Where were you when Caroline, our fragile baby, looked for her mom and didn’t find her?
Caroline was a toddler now and I still wasn’t sure whether we’d bonded. It was months after I came out of the coma before I was able to care for her on my own.
And where were you, God, when waves of sadness and anxiety kept crashing over me? My doctor called it post-traumatic stress disorder, from repeatedly coming so close to death. I didn’t tell anyone about those feelings either. They weren’t miraculous. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. Especially not God.
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About three years earlier, my husband, Tim, and I decided we wanted another child. Our youngest at the time was nine, our oldest headed for college. We were a fun, raucous family. But Tim and I, both in our early forties, felt there was room for one more.
The pregnancy was uneventful, the birth easy. I was a pro at this. The nurse handed Caroline to me all wrapped up. I held her to my cheek. I was all set to nurse her as soon as she got cleaned up and weighed. But before I got a chance, I was in excruciating pain.
Doctors hurried to my bedside. I heard the words uterine rupture. Tim clutched my hand and choked out a prayer: “God, keep her safe!” The last thing I saw as my gurney raced down the hall was Tim’s confused, terrified face. Then it was as if I fell into a black hole.
When I awoke, six weeks later, I was a different person. My muscles, weak from disuse, didn’t work. I breathed through a tube. I couldn’t talk. Couldn’t think. It was weeks before I was fully coherent.
Tim, an accountant, was at work the day I said my first words. With a nurse’s help I called him and left a garbled message. My voice sounded like someone else’s.
Our whole family was turned upside down. I was in the hospital for 107 days. Tim ran himself ragged working, taking care of the kids and spending every spare moment at my bedside.
Jacquelyn, age 18, and Claire, 15, helped look after Collin and Allison, 12 and 9. Sometimes everyone spent the night in chairs in a waiting room.
Lindsey O'Connor is the author of The Long Awakening: A Memoir (2013) from Revell Books.