It was a grueling decision to stop the sale of our home in Sandy, UT. We were excited for about our new beginnings with an updated home and a better job. I wavered back and forth on which was the right choice. How I missed discussing this with Mark. With every fiber of my being I wanted our life to go on as we’d planned. The home we were most interested in was located in Uintah, just south east of Ogden. Weeks had gone by with no improvement and the hospital staff was not giving any hope there would be any. The realtor that sold our home was encouraging me to go through with the sale and not lose the deposit. Her advice was that we’d need the money now more than ever.
The hospital social worker assigned to us counseled me to stay put. He suggested the kids and I would need the support of our nearby friends. We had lived in our home for ten years and had established great relationships with many of our neighbors. His suggestion made sense to me, but backing out of an agreement seemed not only wrong, but felt like a giant step backwards. I wanted to move forward and not give up on our plan.
How would Mark feel when he wakes up? Would he be upset that I didn’t follow through with the sale? Would he feel like I gave up on him? I wanted to make the right choice…a choice that would be best for Mark, the kids and I. Believing that Mark would wake up any day, I wanted to put off the decision, but realized it wasn’t fair to keep the buyer wondering if the sale was going to go through or not.
One night I had a dream that I went through with the sale of our home. Because Mark was unable to work, we could not qualify for a new mortgage. The kids and I had the stress of moving into an apartment while Mark was still in the hospital. After months of rehabilitation, he came home in a wheelchair which was nearly impossible to maneuver in the apartment. It was hard for the kids and me to make new friends with all the other adjustments we were going through. Mark didn’t know anyone. He felt lost in unfamiliar surroundings and people.
The dream was the first insight I had on what our life could be like…but it was just a dream. I didn’t want to believe it, or even think it. I wanted Mark to be completely healed and for life to continue as we knew it.
The advice of the social worker seemed perfectly logical after the dream. I called the realtor to let her know we needed to back out of the sale of our home. It was the first tough decision I had to make without Mark’s input. I was sad, but relieved at the same time. I didn’t need one more thing to worry about and as much as I wanted to move, I knew the timing wasn’t right.
Over time it became obvious to me that to the doctors, nurses and therapist saw Mark as a body they were in charge of keeping alive. However, to me he was a person, a son, a brother, a friend, a father and most important to me…my husband. While I appreciated the professional healthcare team’s knowledge and skill, I was offended by their bedside manner, especially the neurologist. I had never felt such strong conflicting emotions before. How could I be so grateful yet resentful at the same time about the same person? As the weeks went by, my resentment grew. I knew Mark needed their skills, but they gave no hope for improvement. I was scared and didn’t understand the things they knew through their education and experience. I was discouraged and constantly worried about Mark’s condition. How long must we endure existing on the edge between life and death? Five weeks already seemed like forever.
When I was at the hospital I worried about the children. Were they okay with the neighbors until I got home? School was going to be out soon, then what? Will I need to impose on family and friends all day? I felt like a neglectful mother for not being with my children.
At night when I was home with the kids I worried about Mark. What if he took a turn for the worse? Would I be able to get to the hospital on time? I was grateful for brothers and my dad who took turns being with Mark at night, but how long could I expect them to do this? My mother was driving me every day to and from the hospital, not only because our car was now totaled, but I also had a broken collarbone and my right arm was in a sling. The 60 mile drive twice a day was draining me, what was it doing to my mother? I hated to be dependent on others.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I needed to have Mark closer to home, but how could I make that happen? He was comatose because he had a traumatic brain injury. His right lung had collapsed and his red cell count was too low. His body wasn’t getting the oxygen it needed.
One night I got a call from the doctor. “Mark’s white cell count is dangerously high, which indicates infection, stress and inflammation. We think he may have a serious liver infection and we need your permission to do a liver biopsy.”
I gave my permission and hung up the phone, feeling helpless.
I knelt by my bed and cried out, “I’d been praying for Mark’s red cell count to increase and his white cells did. Why aren’t my prayers being answered? When will this nightmare end? I’m scared he can not get better. I’m worried I don’t have the strength to endure life this way. I am exhausted! What am I suppose to do?”
In my despair, a question came to my mind. Do you believe in miracles? Yes, I believe in miracles! Then assurance came —If you believe, you will see miracles wrought before your eyes. Remember, some miracles take time.