Scripture excerpts from Isaiah 45 and 46

I spent this past weekend with Heidi in the hospital. It was a rough one. She went in Thursday early a.m. with a fever of 105. They quickly found it was a bacterial infection caused by salmonella that had made her body go septic. By the time I got there Friday afternoon, she was stabilized, but far from recovered.

Over the next day, I struggled to see my sister this way: not just very, very sick and miserable, but also in the deep depression that has been plaguing her for the past months.

Heidi is a super caring person. Even during her hospitalizations, when very sick, she thanks the nurses, the custodians, the dietitians. She asks them about their lives. She connects with anyone and everyone who comes through her room. But not this time. This time, she was at various moments completely unresponsive. As in, a nurse would say something and she wouldn’t even answer. I’m still not sure how much of this was the depression and how much was her body still recovering from sepsis or being on a million meds, but it was scary to see.

I cried out to God on my bus ride to Madison, and at the hospital as I watched Heidi sleep, “please give Heidi something–some good news–some enjoyment–it doesn’t even matter what, as long as it means something to her.” And then, because I can’t leave well enough alone (and in case God was short on ideas), I suggested it could be great if she could just enjoy a few bites of something. For a long, long time, not only has she been nauseous, not only has she been on a super restrictive diet, but nothing tastes good. Between the chemo, creatinine and BUN overload from the kidneys’ failure to work, and antibiotics, her taste buds were no longer working and there was always a weird taste and coating in her mouth. Every bite took willpower. Meal after meal. Nothing was enjoyable.

Just give her one good thing, I prayed. Just one thing.

I listened as Heidi expressed to her doctor that she didn’t want to live anymore. She was tired of being in pain all the time. Tired of the bad news that has come blow after blow after blow, month after month, with no good turns. Tired and trapped and ready to be done.

I called a chaplain and prayed with her outside Heidi’s room. I tried to field interruptions to Heidi’s sleep at night. And all along, angry helplessness burned in my chest. Why have you abandoned Heidi? I screamed to God. Why are you far away when she needs you so much? How could you do this?

Then, Saturday morning, as if things weren’t bad enough, Heidi’s nightmare happened: flash pulmonary edema. Basically, within the space of about two hours she went from breathing normally to feeling like she was drowning, coughing up blood, and fighting for every breath. About fifteen medical professionals rushed into the room, and in a flurry of machines and shouted instructions, she was taken to the Trauma Care Unit, head lolling, unable to even speak. I followed, weeping. On oxygen, getting emergency dialysis to clear her body of the excess liquid, Heidi pretty much passed out, hunching forward every now and then to cough up more blood. I sat nearby. I lowered my face into my hands and wept, silent sobs shaking my body.

I was so angry. How dare you let this happen, God. Where are you? I thought you cared about us. I thought we were precious to you. Obviously we aren’t. Obviously you’ve tossed us away and forgotten. Why are you torturing her? Stop. Just stop.

All I wanted was for God to show up, in the flesh, so that I could rush at him and strangle him with my bare hands. I wanted to hit him, and hard. But I couldn’t. There was nothing to do but sit, and wait. Helpless, I remained in my chair, face in hands, tears hitting the floor while the dialysis nurse sat nearby, tapping away at her laptop, as if everything were normal and the world wasn’t falling apart in front of me.

The day went on. Heidi’s lungs started to clear. My Dad and I got a cafeteria lunch together. Heidi was able to get off oxygen and return to the 6th floor. She napped for a little while. I worked on a puzzle with my parents in the family lounge to give Heidi some alone time with her husband, Mike.

In the evening, Mike ordered Indian food for me and him. Heidi was awake, sitting up and looking more alert. The Indian food arrived; it smelled incredible.

“I think I want some,” said Heidi.

Oh. My. God. Heidi wanted food?

We didn’t care that it wasn’t part of her sodium and phosphate sensitive diet. She wanted it, she was getting it. And in what seemed like a blink of the eye, Heidi was back. Cheerful, interacting. The depression had lifted.

I have never seen such a radical turnaround. From that morning, seeing her unresponsive in the TCU, to that evening, seeing her shovel down Indian food and smile, and even laugh–I can’t believe it.

Heidi does ballet stretches Sunday afternoon, after talking to her kids (first pic), listening to a sermon with me, and getting more dialysis.

God didn’t show up for me to wrestle. Or strangle. But he showed up. Give Heidi a couple bites that she can enjoy, I asked. But he gave her more than just a couple bites. He gave her a whole meal. And she had seconds.

Heidi’s still in the hospital. But her spirits are lifted. The Heidi we haven’t seen for a month and a half has returned. In the hour before I left Sunday afternoon to catch my bus back to Chicago, we had a dance party and shook it to some T. Swift.

Me looking ugly to enhance Heidi. Works every time.

And as I feel the painful two-hour distance between me and her, as I feel the fear of another downturn, as I feel the weight of her kidneys’ refusal to recover, I hold on as best I can to the promise I think God made us: that he will heal her. Which I made sure to mention in front of her primary care doc, as he looked on tolerantly–and dubiously. And I thought, show him, God.

Glorify yourself, God. Let me be ashamed of my anger. Let me be one of those transgressors who doubted and who is proved so, so wrong.