The Miracle I Needed

On December 31st, I lay in bed praying fervently.  I was praying to have my trials taken away.  Not all my trials, really.  Just one.

Earlier that day, the home care nurse team came to our house for the first time.  Aaron had been home from the hospital for 24 hours and it was time for his wound dressings to be redone.  It had always been the worst part of the day for him in the hospital.  The most painful.  He always had me leave for it because he didn't want me to have to see.  To have to bear it.

The wound care nurse told us that our insurance would only cover 25 home visits.  After that, it would be around $200 a visit, nearly $1,500 a week.  They advised that I learn from them how to do the dressings.

We had discussed the possibility of that while Aaron was in the hospital but I had been hopeful that the wounds from the surgery in November would be nearly gone by the time he came home.

Aaron laid down on our bed and I sat down next to him.  I had had my own surgery 4 days earlier and was still a little uneasy on my feet.  I held Aaron's hand as they start to set up.

There were so many wounds that they decided to do them in stages.

Gloves on.

They uncovered the middle incision from the surgery in December.  A nurse in the hospital, days after the surgery, had tried to explain it to me.  It was worse than I had imagined.

I willed myself to keep watching.  The wound was about 17 centimeters long starting from about two inches above where his belly button used to be.  His belly button wasn't centered anymore.  It looked as if the surgeon went around it, to spare it.

The wound was deep.  Very deep.  It went nearly 3 centimeters down into him.  They had had to leave it "open" because Aaron ran a high risk of wound dehiscence due to the previous infection.  That's a fancy way of saying, splitting open.  The drainage tubes were still in place, covered in dried blood.  They looked like the only things that were holding the two side of the wound together. I could see his muscle.  This huge wound was a bright beefy red (extremely healthy looking, I was told). I was looking into my husband.

The nursing team talked me through what they were doing.  Cleaning out the wound.  Change gloves.  Packing it with calcium alginate.  ...what is calcium alginate?

"It absorbs more drainage than regular gauze.  That way he won't bleed through his bandages and it will keep the wound fresh." Change gloves.  Covering it back up.

Next comes the wounds from November.  They pull off the tape and gauze covering the entrance to this hole.  This. Hole.  I hadn't seen this part of Aaron's body uncovered since the morning he went to the hospital.

A little piece of gauze is sticking out of it.  It doesn't look as bad as the wound on his stomach, I thought.  The new purple colored skin gives me an idea of the original size.  It had healed so much.  I felt myself relaxing.

The nurse grabbed a hold of the "tail" of gauze.  It was like a disgusting clown trick.  I had images of bright colorful scarves coming out of the clowns pocket, seemingly endless.  The comedy is in that cognitive dissonance.  The pocket is only so big....where are all these scarves coming out of?  Except there was only one color.  Red.

"Are you going to throw up?  You can leave if you're going to throw up."
"No.  I'm fine."

All the packing was out.  Change gloves.  It was time to clean the wound.

A wet piece of gauze on a long cotton tipped stick.

I watched as it disappeared inside my husband.  I couldn't wrap my head around that.  Where in my now 105lb husband was this stick disappearing?

The stick and gauze came back out, covered in blood.  Change gloves.

They began to pack the wound.  New clown scarves had to find their way back in.

They told me that I had to pack it completely, but not tight.  They explained complications that could arise if not done properly.  They told me about changing gloves at different stages.  Dirty never touches clean.  They were determined to help me learn.

2 more wounds to dress after that.   The whole process took over an hour.  I was emotionally exhausted. The nurses grabbed the bag filled with bloody garbage and arranged a time for the next day.  It had to be a time I was home and not at the hospital visiting/feeding/loving my daughter. They told me by the end of the week, I needed to show them that I could do it myself.  Myself.

I wanted to cry.  It was so much worse than I though.

So that night, while everyone else around town rang in the New Year, I prayed.

"Heavenly Father, please don't make me do this.  Please, by some miracle, heal Aaron in 25 days so that I don't have to do this.  I can't do it."

A thought came into my head, "Do you have faith that Aaron can be healed?  Do you believe that Christ is strong enough to give you this miracle?"

Yes. Yes. YES!  I have faith He is powerful enough to give me this miracle.  I know He is strong enough!

Another thought, "You don't need proof that Christ is strong.  You need to know that YOU are strong enough."

My prayer changed.  I prayed for strength.

The first day that I did one wound,  I prayed for strength.  The first day I did what I called "The Clown Trick", I prayed for strength.  The first day that I did all the wounds without the nurse there, I prayed for strength.

And I received it.

When I had to take Aaron to the emergency room because another small fistula had formed, I prayed for strength.  As I learned how to redress this new type of wound, I prayed for strength.  While learning the careful art of putting on a Wound VAC, I prayed for strength. When another wound reopened and needed to be cleaned out and widened, I prayed for strength.

Every day I asked for strength.  And I received it.

Tomorrow, Aaron gets his last surgery and if it all goes well, tonight will be my last wound change. It has been nearly 4 months since that night.  The 25 days long ago ran out and I'm reminded of a quote that I found while in the middle of all of this.

"Do not pray for tasks equal to your abilities, but pray for abilities equal to your tasks.  Then the performance of your tasks will be no miracle, but you will be the miracle."  -President Thomas S. Monson

I believe that Christ was strong enough to give me a miracle.  It wasn't the one that I wanted.  It was the one I needed.  And now I'm strong enough to be a miracle.

I say these things, in the name of my Redeemer, Jesus Christ.  Amen.