The Outpatient Surgery That Almost Killed Me – Twice, Part 1

The surgery was a hiatal hernia repair on the morning of Thursday, November 9, 2006. The plan was for me to stay at the hospital overnight for observation and go home the next morning. By 4:00 A.M Friday morning I was in CCU on life support. 

After emergency surgery by a cardiothoracic surgeon later that morning, my husband and son were told that I was in very bad shape. Ninety percent of people in my condition don’t make it, and they should call the rest of the family and begin making arrangements.

The week before, I met with the general surgeon to discuss the surgery and what I should expect. He told me, in part, that he was going to do a minimal-invasive, laparoscopic procedure. The incision would be about an inch, which would result in quicker and less painful healing than opening me up. What he did not tell me was that this was a new procedure for this type of surgery, he had never performed it before, and his “training” for it was a 30-minute video. The week before that the hospital where he practices offered the training for that procedure, but he declined to take it, feeling confident that he had learned all he needed to know from the video.

During the surgery some tears occurred in my esophagus and stomach which, due to the small incision, he was unaware of. The tear in my esophagus was next to a membrane that began inflating like a balloon, taking in oxygen when I inhaled.  Also, everything I swallowed went into that ‘balloon’.  By the early morning hours of the next day it had enlarged to the point it was filling my chest cavity.  It collapsed my left lung and pushed my heart to the side, which caused a fold in the main artery shutting off the circulation. All of my major organs shut down.

I was in the hospital 84 days. I was given anesthesia 13 times for surgeries – 5 total, and various procedures. And, I developed a viral infection in my blood stream because someone drew blood with a dirty needle.

Between the time I was discharged on January 31, 2007 and August 14, 2008 I required four additional surgeries due to issues resulting from the initial out-patient surgery. On August 29, 2008 my new general surgeon released me for normal activities.

On November 9, 2006, following the surgery, I was in and out of sleep, and oblivious to time. I knew by the nurses’ shift change that It was night when I realized that I was getting worse instead of better; and I knew I had reached a serious condition. Breathing had become a desperate struggle when I asked the nurse to call my pulmonologist, who was also the hospital Chief of Staff at the time.

“Do you know him?” she asked. “Yes”, I replied. “How do you know him?” she asked. “My husband’s pulmonologist,” I replied. She just stood there. “My pulmonologist,” I stated. She just stood there. “His wife and I are very good friends through Homemade Gourmet,” I stated. She turned toward the door and someone asked, “Where are you going?” “To call the Dr.,” she stated. She would not have called him if I had not been able to say that I knew him on some personal level.

As I was being wheeled down the hall to CCU and a ventilator I prayed, “Father, hold me,” and I felt God swoop me up in His arms, and He and I were alone. I did not die. I did not move toward a bright light. There was no pearly gate. There were no streets of gold. There were no angels. There was no music. There were no loved ones who have gone before me there to greet me. It was just me and God in a place with a pale greenish light, and it was very quiet and peaceful.

I did not see His face. My back was to Him. The closest thing that I can think of to describe what it was like is when I was a little girl sitting on my Dad’s lap. I could feel him holding me, but I was facing away from Him.

The closest thing I can think of to describe what I saw would be sort of like a series of video clips. I was watching people going about their everyday lives. One person would say or do something that caused someone else to say or do something, and so on. At first, I didn’t know the people and I didn’t know what to make of it. Then I saw the pulmonologist’s wife persuading my friend to have a Homemade Gourmet party. My friend really didn’t want to, but she finally agreed.

Then I saw my friend writing out the invitations to her party, sealing them, stamping them, and putting them in the mail. Next, I saw myself bringing in the mail and glancing at each piece on my way in from the mailbox until I came to my invitation. I remembered that moment and I remembered thinking, “I’ll just call her and explain that I don’t do home parties.” And I saw myself lay the invitation on the table in the entry to deal with later.

In the next scene I saw myself dusting the furniture. I picked up a stack of papers from the table in the entry and began sorting through it, throwing some away and putting some on my desk, until I came to the invitation. I remembered that moment, too. It was the day of the party and I hadn’t called my friend to tell her I wouldn’t be coming. I started towards the phone to call her but then I thought, “She’s been such a good friend to me, and home parties are often not well attended. I know she went to a lot of effort to get her home extra clean and nice for the event. It’s early enough I’ve got time to get ready; I really should go.” Then I understood what I had been seeing.

That party was in May 2005, 18 months before my surgery. That’s where I first met the doctor’s wife. I signed up to sell Homemade Gourmet products as a result of my friend’s party, which is how his wife and I became such good friends. God had begun a long time, even before that, arranging for the right people to be in the right places in preparation for what He knew was going to happen to me on November 9, 2006. I knew that He had everything under control and I had nothing to worry about.

Then I thought, “What time is it? It seems like I’ve been here a very long time.” God said, “Don’t worry about the time. You need to rest.” Then I went to sleep. When I woke up I was still there, but I knew it was time for me to leave. Then I woke up in ICU on Monday, November 13. At that point, I was told that 80% of people in my condition don’t make it.

I was in intensive care until just before Christmas. When I was awake and alert enough to understand what happened, where I was, and my condition I considered what I know about God. I know that God is Sovereign. I know that God had a good purpose for creating me. I know that God loves and cares for me. I know that He promised never to forsake me, and He cannot break His promise. I concluded that the circumstances I found myself in must somehow relate to God’s purpose for my life.

I’ve always believed that the single most important thing for anyone to accomplish in their lifetime is to fulfill God’s purpose for their life. In light of what He suffered for me at Calvary, this wasn’t too much for Him to ask of me.

If it didn’t relate to His purpose for my life – since Satan does have a hand in this world’s events; that didn’t really matter because God said, “All things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” God would use it for good even if Satan intended it for evil. I decided to just go with it. The hospital became my mission field. I witnessed to everyone I could.

I made a full recovery. After I was released from the hospital, I had an appointment with my pulmonologist. During that visit one of his staff commented, “You have no idea how many odds you beat.” She’s right I don’t. But I know that the list starts looking pretty long when you go one-by-one and think about the potential consequences if one of my organs had not resumed functioning, or only partially resumed. Whatever the number of odds there were that I beat, it’s because God intervened at every point.

My doctors told me, “We did everything we could, but the truth is the only reason you are alive and well today is Divine intervention.”

But the ordeal was far from over.