I Prayed For You by Chynna Laird

I have always been a spiritual person; a characteristic I learned in my early childhood from my beloved grandparents. They taught me the importance of believing in a higher power beyond myself and that even when it doesn’t seem so, there is always someone watching over me. I don’t think I fully understood the significance of these lessons until much later.

Another strong characteristic I possess is being fiercely independent, which others may see as stubbornness. I don’t ask for help unless I absolutely need to, I take care of myself and those most important to me and I keep moving forward. I don’t see obstacles as a sign of defeat, but more as challenges I need to face in order to become who I was meant to be. The same holds true for my health.

After spending a good part of my younger life enduring health issues that were never tested nor diagnosed properly, I simply ignored symptoms until my body said, “Yeah, um, Chynna? It’s time to take a time out and rest.” Now, we all know that a person can only go for so long on ‘empty’. I learned that the hardest of hard ways. I remember it as though it were yesterday.

One of my daughters, Jordy, had a friend, Paige, who has always been more of one of my children, spending the weekend with us. For weeks prior, my health was plummeting. I knew. I felt it. But my spirited nature wouldn’t give in.

“Mom?” Jordy said, concern etched in her porcelain face. “I know you don’t want to hear this but you don’t look good.”

“Thanks so much,” I quipped. “Don’t ever get a job that required building someone’s self-esteem.”

“I’m not joking, Mom. Your skin is yellow, your eyes are even more yellow, you’ve been puking all week, your stomach is bigger than when you were pregnant with any of us and I think the last time I saw you eat something solid was last week. Please. Please let Ryan take you to the hospital.”

Ryan, my husband, had been hounding me to do the same thing for weeks. I’d been battling advanced liver disease for almost two years and my symptoms became too strong for me to fight or hide anymore. I was angry with having no control over something raging my body to the point that I wasn’t functioning and I refused to give up. Yet, I knew the hospital was where I was supposed to be. I just…couldn’t. I never admitted it out loud but I was terrified.

What if it’s gotten so bad that there’s no cure? Who will take care of everyone if I need to stay? Most importantly, what if I don’t come back out?

My daughter’s friend piped up. “Chynna-mom, Jordy’s right. Honestly, you can’t go on pretending nothing is wrong when it clearly is. I know how much you want to take care of all of us but you need to let someone take care of you. Please let us take you to the hospital.”

I looked at the two beautiful faces in front of me as I laid on the couch, nursing a glass of water and fighting the urge not to throw up again. None of it made sense to me. How could this be happening? I was making things worse for myself by pushing away rather than accepting the help I was constantly offered. And the girl’s pleading with me was a sign to listen. So, I reluctantly did what I had to.

“Fine. Get Ryan and take me.”

The girls helped me put on my jacket and shoes while Ryan warmed up the car. As we got closer to the emergency room, I actually felt my body shutting down. It’s hard to explain. It’s like being consciously aware of what’s going on around me but nothing made sense. Medical staff spoke to me, but I had no idea what they were saying. I saw things that weren’t even there. All I remember is fighting any form of treatment. I remember two events at that point: the ER doctor on call telling me that if I left the hospital, I wouldn’t make it until the next day and a very hefty nurse grabbing me and telling me I was admitted. My last semi-clear recollection was seeing my daughter and Ryan walking down the hall as I screamed, “Don’t leave me here! I don’t want to be here!” Then, everything went black.

Apparently, I had been in a deep coma for over three days and there was little hope of me waking up. I had to be put in isolation and restrained because during very brief moments of consciousness, I fought to get out. One person Ryan told me about later, a very tall and muscular security woman, was by my side almost every moment.

When I finally woke up, I had no memory of anything that had happened. In fact, I’d lost all memories from the past year. I couldn’t walk, talk, eat or even go to the washroom on my own. I had to re-learn every single task and movement that everyone else took for granted. I was still hallucinating, extremely malnourished and dehydrated, and frustrated from being on bedrest (unless I had to go for physiotherapy to practice walking) and having an alarm to alert any further escapes, rather than being physically restrained. Every single part of me was weak and beaten down. It was similar to how a newborn must feel and I detested it.

I’m not weak. I don’t need anyone. I can take care of myself. Words I’d always lived by and prided myself on were meaningless then. There wasn’t one single thing I could do on my own at that point. What hurt the most was being away from my children, my life sources, and having them see me so weak and dependent. I gave up. All I could do was pray. It was the only thing I had left no one could take away from me and that I didn’t need help with. I may not have been able to speak, but He could still hear me.

“Lord, I know you tried giving me signs that I should have taken better care. I didn’t want to seem weak, but I guess in turning away that’s exactly what I was. I’m scared, Lord. Never in my life have I admitted that, but I am. I know there are so many things I can’t do right now but I can share with you. Please, Lord. I know I wasn’t hearing you before but I am now. Even when I gave up on myself, you didn’t because I’m still here. Help me to believe in myself.”

After that, I made sure to stay positive, even with the smallest things such as being able to eat more than one bite of food or taking a few steps. After three weeks, I was finally more aware of my surroundings, I was walking with little help and was able to keep small meals down. I still had a very long way to go but each day I got a bit stronger. One evening, just after my nighttime medicine dose and snack, my night nurse came in to introduce herself. She stopped at the foot of my bed, tears in her eyes and simply stared at me for several silent moments.

When she finally spoke, her voice was so soothing and… familiar. “I know that you don’t remember me but I am so relieved to see that you are still with us.” She approached me and held my hand. “I was with you almost every minute when you first got here. I asked to be. There was something about you that touched me. I just knew you needed someone, even if you didn’t believe it. I sang to you, I dried your tears, I comforted you when you fought us and made sure you were never alone. When I’d leave you, I’d stand in the parking lot and pray to God that He stay with you. For some reason, I had a feeling you needed a reminder that you are still needed here with us even if no one else was saying so.”

It was her. The tall, muscular woman who was assigned to watch me when I fought so hard to leave. I didn’t remember her at all but after she’d finished speaking, I cried as she gently stroked my heavily scarred arms from blood collection and various treatments. She stayed with me until I fell asleep, then I never saw her again.

Months after my release, I went back to my ward. It was Christmas and I’d gotten a crystal angel that lit up to thank the nurses who never gave up on me. In my still shaky handwriting, I thanked them for giving me my life back and special thanks and love to my earth angel.

I don’t even know her name, but she is proof that there are people among us who are so close to God they bring Him to us when we need Him the most. And for that, I will always be grateful.