Embracing Miracles: A Journey Through Illness, Hope, and Unforeseen Blessings

The sterile white walls of the doctor’s office seemed to amplify the silence, broken only by the rhythmic thud of my own heart. I sat there, a master of stillness, my body a fragile vessel teetering on the edge. Every slight movement threatened to send the room spinning, and the thought of lying back, of surrendering to the relentless nausea, felt like an absolute defeat. So, I remained upright, rooted to the spot, a silent testament to sheer willpower.

This wasn’t just waiting; it was an exercise in pure existence. Each breath was a conscious effort, a tiny victory in a battle waged within. My mind, usually a whirlwind of thoughts and plans, was oddly quiet, save for one insistent refrain: No feeding tubes this time. Please.

The Unseen Battle: Fighting for Autonomy Amidst Crisis

The next day, feeding tubes were scheduled to be administered, a prospect that filled me with an inexplicable dread. Why this resistance, this visceral opposition? In previous battles with my illness, I had acquiesced. But this time, it felt different, a profound violation of my spirit. The very thought of it felt like the cruelest form of torture.

Just a few days prior, the gravity of my condition had been starkly evident. My husband, Cade, had gently carried me to our bed, and the exertion had triggered a violent bout of vomiting, culminating in a sudden nosebleed. Yet, no words were exchanged between us. There was no need. This wasn’t a moment for conversation; it was a raw, primal struggle for survival. This was our life, laid bare.

As Cade knelt beside me that night, a nightly ritual of shared prayer, all I could do was lie there, my only desire for the day to simply end. Another day crossed off, another step closer to… what, exactly? It was in that moment of profound vulnerability, clinging to the hope of another sunrise, that the phone rang. A voice on the other end, casual yet momentous, asked, “Hey, we’ve been sitting on things for the last two months and wondered if you’d still be interested in buying the house.”

THE house. The one we had dreamt of, the one that represented home, stability, a future. Cade promised we’d talk, but the news, instead of bringing relief, only intensified my physical sickness. It was the absolute worst possible timing, yet deep within our hearts, we both knew with unwavering certainty: this was going to be our home. It’s often in life’s most inconvenient circumstances that true miracles unfurl themselves.

Within days, my personal battle reached its peak. I found myself on that doctor’s table again, my heart poured out in desperate pleas throughout the week: “Please, no tubes this time, please.” The night before, a profound sense of peace had settled over me, a quiet assurance that I would indeed stabilize without them. I believed I had my answer. The doctor walked in, and though I expected him to deliver the dreaded news, his words were unexpected: “Time to head to Orem for tubes.”

Suddenly, my inner peace, my profound conviction, wasn’t enough. It became clear that sometimes, a miracle isn’t just given; it must be fought for, fiercely and unequivocally. “I don’t want them. I won’t get them. I’ll get better. I’ve been promised.”

Dr. Haskett, a man with whom we shared a good friendship, looked at me with concern, not judgment. “Carrian, your eyes are bulging out of your head; you’re so dehydrated and starved.” His words weren’t harsh; they were a testament to his commitment to protecting and saving me. But my conviction was equally strong. “Dr. Haskett, I trust what I’ve felt. Please, give me a few days.” And he did. In an act of profound trust, he honored my plea. In that moment, the world seemed to pause, and our miracles, both medical and personal, began to unfold.

On the way home from that pivotal appointment, our offer on the house was accepted. That day marked the last time feeding tubes were ever discussed. But as one chapter closed, another, entirely unforeseen, was about to begin. A new, challenging curve was on the horizon, ready to test our resilience once more.

The Power of Retrospection: Unveiling Hidden Blessings

It’s a remarkable gift, the ability to look back at our lives. While there’s certainly a danger in dwelling on the past and hindering progress, most often, reflection offers us a profound opportunity for clarity and understanding. For me, looking back has always been synonymous with growth. It allows me to evaluate my journey: Am I better than I was a year ago? Did I overlook vital miracles while navigating the intense fires of adversity?

Let’s take a moment for a quick recap, to truly appreciate how seemingly disparate events wove together into a tapestry of blessings:

• Career Uncertainty: Cade had finally secured a job. It was acceptable, but far from ideal, leaving us searching for greater fulfillment and stability.
• The Elusive Dream Home: For two arduous years, we searched tirelessly for a new home that would better accommodate our growing family. Frustration mounted, self-doubt crept in, and confusion clouded our path. Each rejection, each unsuitable property, chipped away at our hope.
• Expanding Our Family: We deeply desired another child, sensing an unfulfilled space in our home. However, given my ongoing health struggles, pregnancy seemed an unlikely, even dangerous, option. This led us down the path of adoption, a beautiful alternative we were wholeheartedly pursuing.
• A Leap of Faith: Driven by a profound spiritual prompting, I felt compelled to demonstrate active faith, to show that I believed a miracle was coming. I began packing our entire house, an arduous task that felt both empowering and daunting. By the time our dream home accepted our offer, nearly 85% of our belongings were packed. Yet, the more I packed, the more our existing home became cluttered, and the more hopeless our situation seemed as no offers materialized on our property.

Then, slowly, the picture began to coalesce, revealing a masterful design we couldn’t have comprehended at the time. Each “missed” opportunity, each period of waiting, was a crucial brushstroke in a larger, more perfect painting:

• Optimized Location: Had we moved earlier, we would have settled an hour north. Yet, a year into our house search, Cade secured a new job further south. What a profound blessing it was to avoid the stress and expense of moving twice. The timing was impeccable, aligning perfectly with his career trajectory.
• Invaluable Support System: If we had relocated sooner, my closest friends, who literally lived next door, wouldn’t have been there. These friends, who had become like family, proved absolutely essential during the profound crisis of that pregnancy. Their unwavering support, practical help, and emotional solace were lifelines.
• The Gift of “This” Child: While adoption would have been a wonderful and fulfilling path, it would not have led us to this specific little boy. Both outcomes would have brought immense joy, but I am utterly humbled by the unique privilege and blessing of having him join our family.
• Protected Health: I genuinely believe that had our house offer been accepted any earlier, the immense stress of moving, combined with my delicate health, would have been far more detrimental to both the baby and myself. The delayed timing was a protective shield, safeguarding us during a vulnerable period.

Looking back is truly beneficial because it allows me to perceive His arms, His eyes, His unwavering love. He must have ached to witness my cries, my desperate pleas for miracles, and my forced stillness. It must have been profoundly difficult for Him to ask me to empty my hands of all my immediate desires, knowing He intended to fill them with something far greater. Yes, He is God, but I am also His beloved daughter. If He wept in the scriptures for others, surely He shed tears for me, all while knowing that ‘better’ was unequivocally on its way. I can trust that now; the trial was undoubtedly worth it, forging within me a profound and enduring trust. Yet, there was still another miracle, another layer to this unfolding story…

The Eye of the Storm: Finding Stillness Amidst Uncertainty

Tornadoes, to me, are utterly terrifying. Just last night, we watched #FreeSolo with friends, discussing extreme feats like BASE jumping and the claustrophobia of caves. As I drifted off to sleep, the image of a tornado unexpectedly filled my thoughts.

I’ve never experienced one firsthand. While I don’t harbor an active fear, the concept itself is undeniably terrifying. Survivors often describe the “eye of the storm” as eerily quiet, a profound stillness that belies the destructive chaos swirling all around, a calm that precedes a renewed onslaught. I hit my own personal “eye of the storm” when I was around six months pregnant.

After months of relentless, debilitating sickness that made me long to simply roll over and not wake up, things finally became still. The extreme, harsh morning sickness that had consumed my days lessened its grip. What remained was an occasional bout of vomiting, overshadowed by a constant, pervasive nausea. It was a reprieve, yet still a shadow of my former self.

During my extended hospital stay, I had missed so many irreplaceable moments. My dear friend, Holly, lovingly prepared my girls for their very first dance recital. While I was confined, other friends gathered them for their last day of school, whisked them off on exciting playdates, and Cade, my steadfast partner, held countless little pink-polished hands, standing in my place. It absolutely shattered me. Intellectually, I understood the common adage: “They won’t remember.” But emotionally, it felt like an undeniable failure, a profound absence in their precious, fleeting childhood.

As soon as I regained enough strength, I made a solemn vow. I pledged to cultivate a deeper, more profound gratitude for even the simplest things: a refreshing glass of water, the warmth of holding hands, the sheer act of talking, and the ability to breathe in the scents and sounds of my surroundings. Before, the smell of the air, no matter where I was, had been nauseating. Now, all I craved was to be outside, to feel the sun’s warmth on my face, and to openly acknowledge, both to myself and to others, that my life had been preserved. I was determined to discover and embrace my renewed purpose.

The moment I was well enough, we shifted into “go” mode. We meticulously finished packing our house, arranging every detail for the impending move. We had known the gender of our baby for months but finally decided it was time to share our joyful news with others. Yet, before any grand announcement, I desperately needed to understand what to expect regarding this precious baby’s heart. More than anything, I craved peace, not guilt. Not the lingering guilt I sometimes still carry: Did my illness cause any lasting issues for my babies? Did I inadvertently compromise any part of their perfect bodies or minds?

How do so many parents summon the strength to face the daunting medical challenges that their children sometimes endure? It’s a question that haunts me. Cade and I, tragically, have attended more funerals than weddings and baby blessings. And with very few exceptions, those funerals were for people our age, or heartbreakingly, for children. How does one prepare for the worst, while simultaneously nurturing the most profound hope for the best?

To be continued…