The day before Thanksgiving three years ago was one of the more dramatic days of my life. I was in the Progressive Ventilator Care Unit. I was off the ventilator, but couldn’t eat or drink anything because of my tracheotomy. The respiratory therapist had told me that a tracheotomy would be taken out in stages: that the doctor would remove the large size and insert a smaller one and allow the hole to heal, then a week later go through the same process, then a week later take out the smallest size. I was discouraged that it would take several weeks. And, since it was the afternoon before Thanksgiving, I knew not even the first step would happen until the next week at the earliest.
Waiting is hard.
Suddenly, my pulmonologist, Dr. Cosio, came swooping into the room. He announced to the startled medical personnel that he was going to take my trach out! He asked the nurses for items he needed.
The respiratory therapist said, “You mean you’re going to put in a smaller one, right?” He said, “No. I’m going to take it out. I ordered it to be put in, and I’m going to take it out. He’ll need a nasal canula.” My nurse and therapist (and a couple of aides who were attracted by the action) stood with their mouths open as he worked. A few snips with some scissors, something pulled out of my throat, a bandage applied, held by some tape, making sure the nasal canula was working, and he had swooshed out again.
I was stunned, along with everyone else. I said to my wonderful nurse, “Um. What’s in my throat right now?” She said, “Nothing! And we’ve got to get a speech therapist up here to test your swallowing, so we can get you some food!”
It was way past a reasonable hour to expect a speech therapist, but she came into the room. I said, “I am very thankful that you’ve come in so late.” She said, “I couldn’t have lived with myself eating Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, knowing that a patient wouldn’t be able to eat anything because I hadn’t taken the time to attend to him.”
She started me out on swallowing a sip of apple juice. (After so many weeks of no food or drink, let me tell you, that apple juice was the best thing I had ever tasted!!) Then she tried me with some pudding. Then with a graham cracker.
“He’s doing great,” she told my nurse. “He can have an unrestricted diet.” Unrestricted! So my wonderful nurse put in a call to the kitchen, and soon, up came dinner. Lasagna! From a feeding tube to lasagna, in an afternoon!
And I could breathe — on my own!
The next day — Thanksgiving! — Pastor Cheryl Griffin took the time to come in to visit. She asked if she could offer some readings and prayers. Of course! So she began to read Eugene Peterson’s quirky translation of the beloved 23rd Psalm:
God, my shepherd!
I don’t need a thing.
You have bedded me down in lush meadors,
you find me quiet pools to drink from.
True to your word,
you let me catch my breath …”
And that’s where my mind was caught! It was literally true! God had brought me back my breath!
I pray that these next days, during the pause for Thanksgiving, you will be able to catch your breath. And I pray that you will be moved to give thanks to God our Creator not only for each breath, but for every other blessing of life.
