Six months ago today, at this very moment, I was standing in the ICU waiting room on the fifth floor of Duke Hospital. John’s parents were there with me, and his sister, Jamie, and brother-in-law, Will, had just arrived from Georgia. John had gotten matched with a heart, and we were waiting for the nurse to come and tell us it was time for us to see him for the last time before his transplant.
I remember her coming into the waiting room. We weren’t the only family in there. Others were waiting, too, to see their loved one a last time before visiting hours ended. Typically only two family members are allowed back at a time, but this time she told us we all needed to come back.
I walked out of the room first and started shaking, and not crying, but just breathing hard. Jamie walked with me with her arm around me, and we squeezed each other hard.
At the end of John’s bed was the machine as tall as me that had kept him alive for the previous two days. This machine had a name, ECHMO, which confused me at first, because it took me several hours after he was hooked up to it to realize that its real name is LIFE SUPPORT.
I looked at John. I want to say he looked peaceful. But he did not. Every part of his body had some type of tube coming out of it. I knew that this was the next step – only not the last step. John was unresponsive to commands even though he was off of all sedation medications. The doctor told me, “We’re going to take him into surgery, but you need to know that he may not wake up.”
We stood around John’s bed as doctors and nurses hurried around us preparing him – disconnecting and reconnecting medicines, transferring his oxygen and tubes to portable versions that could take him into the operating room. I felt like I had no time. There was so much I needed to say to him to comfort him to love him, but he had to go.
I asked Will to pray over John, and as I held John’s hand, Will prayed. We then left the room, stood in the hall and waited for his bed to be rolled down the hall. Finally, he came out – and ECHMO followed.
I remember watching John go right as I went left to the surgery waiting room. And I remember feeling closer to my Heavenly Father than I had ever felt before and than I have ever felt since.
Surrender. That was my only choice. In most prayers of my past I felt like there was an element of responsibility or control that I had. I could try harder, make better decisions, work more at it, and then God would help me. But with this prayer, to save John’s life, there was absolutely nothing I could do.
I laid John down at Jesus’s feet that night – again – after laying him down the week before when he got so sick. I knew God may take John from me. I knew John may be disabled for life. I knew. And yet the only thing I could do was lay him down – give him to Jesus – and ask for Him to hear my prayer and answer it.
You would think that I would feel out-of-control, frantic, fearful that’s God’s will was not my own. But I wasn’t. I knew that God’s will was perfect – no matter what happened.
And in those moments I experienced divine peace. The peace that the Bible describes, but I had never experienced. The peace that transcends all understanding (Philippians 4:7). And, wow, did it transcend understanding.
So tonight, six months later, I praise my Heavenly Father, whom I have the awesome privilege of knowing as a person who talks to me daily, and I thank Him for each extra day with my precious husband, John, that He has blessed me with, and for allowing me to experience His presence in a way that I never had before so that I can be a witness to the reality of the Cross available to every person on earth.
Happy 6 Month Birthday, John! You are one of God’s many miracles!