I Had a Heart Attack

I'm not sure how to even begin this post.  How often do I start this way?  More often than I can count. 

Here goes.

Several weeks before Christmas, a sweet little toddler died.  She and her family are part of a worship community I follow, and whose songs I sing sometimes with arms held high, other times in the fetal position and tears.

Olive died.  And her family looked to God, relying on His promises of miracles, which included raising Olive from the dead.  Her family and community rallied, prayed, worshipped with their full hearts and souls wide open, knowing and believing there would be a miracle in store.  With others throughout the world joining them, they prayed for Olive's resurrection.

God had other miracles in mind, though.

Ultimately, as everyone saw clear, God's miracle was truly in bringing His people closer to Him.  The prayer and worship movement for Olive's resurrection opened hearts, eyes, minds and souls.

To be sure, there was a resurrection here on earth--within the Christian community and many of Abba's lost lambs--but Olive's resurrection remained a heavenly one.

Her life had incredible earthly purpose, and powerful eternal ramifications.  

Throughout the entire phenomenon, I prayed for, and respected where this family and community were coming from.  Regardless, I also maintained what I thought to be a healthy dose of skepticism, guarding many of my own thoughts.  I wasn't skeptical about God and His miracles, but I felt genuinely horrible and awful for what this family was going through.  I know God's ways are often not our ways.  In some cases, He answers prayers in ways our human minds cannot comprehend.  My heart was in true agony for them.  Even so, knowing what I do about grief, I was concerned for their well being, concerned they were in denial and delaying their process.

I was so very wrong to be skeptical.  It was not my place.

Two weeks after Olive died, our family experienced a little bit of our own kind of medical emergency.

I survived 2019.

No, literally--I survived, ringing in 2020 in the critical care unit of the hospital, with all of us--family and friends--feeling more gratitude than we've experienced in a quite some time.

I had a medical crisis, we just didn't know it.

Shawn and I went to the ER when the pain and weakness in my legs became unbearable.  I was only looking for relief; but when Shawn told the staff about my sister and my cousin, family disease history, the fall I had that morning, and numerous other innocuous-seeming symptoms I've been dismissing for the past year, everything suddenly began moving very swiftly.  There was loud talking punctuated with urgency, and so many doctors, nurses, specialists and medical equipment in my tiny little emergency room suite, it made our heads spin. I was moved to the cardiac unit of the ER and the flurry of activity continued.

When my blood pressure plummeted, Shawn turned the monitors away from me, repeatedly trying to reassure me everything was fine each time I asked.  My sweet husband has no poker face, and I remember his facial expressions well from Ezra's labor and delivery, so I knew it was all far from fine.  

While still in the ER, we learned I'd suffered a heart attack and was dangerously anemic, most likely from internal bleeding due to an unknown source.  They had suspicions of other things going on, but my doctors began there.  I was started on meds, and began my first of three transfusions as I was admitted and transferred.

We sent out prayer requests, and Shawn unwillingly left me to go home to the kids, as well as to retrieve a few things for me.  The children needed to be updated and reassured. He returned to me very shortly.

I spent the next week declared a fall risk, confined to my hospital bed not only because of that, but by numerous machines.  I received a total of three infusions, which increased my hemoglobin only slightly, but enough to keep me stable and thrill my doctors.  I began proton pump inhibitors, as the  assumption was the internal bleeding and subsequent anemia were from ulcers, and related disease.  I eventually had an endoscopy, confirming I was no longer bleeding, but also verifying numerous large ulcers and several other smaller ones.  Biopsies were also taken, hoping to learn why I'm not absorbing iron (apart from the bleeding) and to rule out anything else.  From another test, we learned I had blood pooling around my pericardium, in addition to a mass in my abdomen.

It was determined I had what is called a silent heart attack.  There is minimal damage to my heart, and these are considered to be the 'less severe' type of heart attacks, although the more which occur over time, obviously the more damage is caused, which does make them more dangerous.  The symptoms are atypical of a heart attack, and often dismissed, or attributed to other reasons, both by doctors and patients.  There is a possibility I've had more than one.  Mine was most likely caused by the anemia, so there isn't any follow up treatment (aside from continuing to treat the anemia).

While we've downplayed it for the littles' sakes, this entire experience has scared us shitless and left us feeling overwhelmed.  There is still so much to process.  Shawn and I have cried with each other behind closed doors, clinging to each other with everything we have.  There is so much they don't tell you about surviving a medical trauma.  Rather, you hear a lot of hey, you survived a heart attack!  Rejoice and be happy!  You're still alive!  Surviving a medical trauma is much like grief: Most everyone is quick to remind you how good God is--and He is, to be sure--but they diminish your experience, your emotions and everything you're still reeling from.  What no one tells you is you'll develop a sort of PTSD.  You'll be afraid to sleep because what if I don't wake up?  They don't tell you how many times you'll get up to check on your kids throughout those sleepless nights.  They don't tell you how scared you'll be each time you think you feel your heart twitch, or when your arm hurts, or your legs and face start swelling again.  They don't tell you how you will obsessively check your pulse, your blood pressure, and your ECG through your watch app.  They don't tell your husband he will stop sleeping because of his own fears.

They don't tell you how many times an hour you have to tell your fears, and the demon creating them, your God is bigger than them.

This experience has also left us with immense gratitude.  My sister and my sweet friend did not get second chances.  I've been given a new perspective on my grief, as well as my life.  I've grieved my heart dry, but is living this way really honoring their memories or legacies?  It's time to start LIVING like I mean it.  We've been humbled by the outpouring of love, prayers, texts, emails.  We are grateful for deeper friendships, and knowing just how many people our family can count on.  We are grateful to still be a family, to know we didn't have to say goodbye.  We have so much to be grateful for.

I am not finished being Mama, beloved wife, niece, Mamie and Great Mamie, friend, or sister in law.  I remember breaking down, telling the admitting doctor I have three kids, nieces, and three of the sweetest little greats to see through life.  I'm not finished hearing my children laugh, hugging them tight, kissing my husband, or holding his hand.  I'm not finished loving on my nieces and spoiling their littles.  I'm looking forward to daughters-in-law, and maybe grandchildren. I'm not finished laughing and grossing my kids out when they catch me and Shawn making out in the kitchen and embarrassing my kids in public with my antics.  I'm not finished with miracles and everyday messes.  I'm not finished cherishing these times and these moments and my people.

I'm.  Not.  Finished.  Yet.

Apart from desiring to show the world God's abilities and believing in His everlasting Word, that's all Olive's family wanted.  They weren't finished with her laughter, her light, her love.  They weren't finished with her being daughter, child, sister, niece, grandchild, friend.

While my heart is shattered for Olive's family, going through something no parent should ever have to go through, I realized they were not delaying their grief nor were they in denial.  Their eternal hope is in Abba, and they have been an encouraging example to us all.

Because of Olive's family and community, I've been reminded--again--in Whom my Hope belongs, and resurrections come in all shapes and sizes.