I lay comatose in my still hospital room, the sound of whirring machines and regular beeps from hospital equipment the only noise in otherwise silence. Incessant beeps from the EKG monitoring my weakened heart broke the thick stillness that was my current home in the intensive care unit. I resembled Frankenstein’s monster with all the wires and IVs protruding from veins and arteries throughout my emaciated, anorexic body. Wearily, my grief-stricken family decided the remonstrances of my family unit should possibly have semblance of Thanksgiving dinner. They had little to be thankful for; only 2 years prior, my father had successfully committed suicide at the age of 48. I had found his body and this had left me with PTSD; a diagnosis that had sent me into alcoholic overtime. My family could not travel far from my room, on the off chance I passed away and they were not on hand. The hospital cafeteria would have to do for their big Thanksgiving dinner. This was hardly how they imagined this holiday turning out. The wounds left my father were not yet healed and were now torn back open. My familys still beating hearts were now on display for everyone to see; such familial tragedy was unheard outside of books and film.
They were now praying, and intensely, over a makeshift, lukewarm Thanksgiving dinner in a sterile hospital cafeteria. Praying that God would perform some sort of miracle and allow me to survive the ordeal, however brain damaged I may be. They say that President GW Bush was on the TV that was situated as entertainment next to sterile tables that reeked of hospital disinfectant. The news was comprised of speeches by government officials stated that the United States was officially at war with the Taliban. I remember that while in rehab I watched the breaking new, in sheer horror, as the first bomb was dropped in night vision; the vivid green explosion shaking both me and it’s target. This was all well and good, however, I was currently on the precipice of death at the young age of 23. I do not think that the fact that I had told my mother a war scared me was, at the moment, a very high priority in her life.
So they prayed ;prayed with all they could muster, which was not much. Prayed that somehow, someway; my completely ravaged body would miraculously pull through and actually revive itself back to some form of life. They had little hope; the medical team had prepared them for my demise. This scenario was familiar to them; I had, to date, had 5 suicide attempts and many ambulance rides, ers, icus, hospitals, jails, rehabs, psychiatric wards, rehabs, and treatment center stays since age fifteen. I had recently turned 23; the chances did not look altogether well that I would reach my twenty fourth birthday. Only an act of providence would save me from my fate,now.
My extended family had traveled from as far away as Pennsylvania and North Carolina to offer my mother and siblings support; to be with them while they grieved. Sweet whispers graced my ears with the hopes that, by chance, I would subconsciously receive these messages. I believe in my heart, that I did; I believe that everyone’s prayers came to fruition. I believe in miracles; there is no other way to explain what was about to bring shock to everyone involved. As they prayed for some sort of miracle, on a bleak Thanksgiving, in the cafeteria of a random hospital in Winchester , Virginia, all prayers were answered.
The medical staff interrupted their prayer vigil with the incredible news, that I had just regained consciousness; that as they prayed for me over their Thanksgiving meal, I slowly opened my eyes. I believe, now, that prayers are miraculous if they are sincere. God performed a true miracle on that day; the fact that it was that particular day and situation is enough to incur shock and awe from anyone who is aware of this scenario. This was my rebirth, the day I cheated death; to say this was by far the most miraculous day of my life would be a massive understatement.
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