When our son was about seven months old we were told he had Hydrocephalus, otherwise known as ‘water on the brain’. It was obvious that something was wrong. His head was too large to fit through the necklines of his shirts so we had resorted to cutting them to get them on. His baby ballcap no longer fit. He made no effort to crawl or scoot, couldn’t lift his head very well, and was a bit developmentally delayed compared to other babies his age.
He was diagnosed on a Friday, and on the following Monday went in for surgery. We had no idea what was in store for us. That first surgery led to another, then another, and by the end of it he’d had thirteen surgeries, including a craniotomy and three external shunts. We spent most of his babyhood in the hospital, or the doctor’s office, or the emergency room, because his shunts (tubes) kept getting blocked and he would have to go back in and get them fixed again.
I was exhausted…mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually. This particular surgery had earned us a two week stay because the doctor was worried about the fact that the fluid wasn’t draining as quickly as he expected. Doctor Moss gave him external drains, with little tiny pumps that had to be pumped manually twice a day, which made Alex cranky and tired due to the pressure they created. So I spent my days rocking him in a rocker, sleeping in the lobby, and praying until I felt like my lips were going to fall off.
At the time St. Joseph’s was remodeling their Pediatric ICU, so it was located in a giant room partitioned off with curtains. When shift change came all parents were kicked out, no exceptions, so we would retreat to the lobby to wait until we could come back in, usually an hour or so. I hated it. It was a major production to get Alex settled in my arms with all of his tubes and monitors and IV’s, and just as challenging to unsettle him back into his crib.
The day had been a rough one. Alex had been cranky and crying most of the morning and we had already suffered through one shift change. He had finally fallen asleep as I rocked him, so I was dreading the upcoming one. But I could see the nurse heading my way, determination on her face, and felt the tears rise to the edge of my eyes.
I was feeling drained in every way. Mentally exhausted, physically spent, and spiritually dry. My faith wasn’t just wavering; it was on the verge of a full blown mutiny. Why wouldn’t God heal my son? What was I doing wrong? What could I do better? If only I knew what to do, I’d do it, but there were no answers heading my way. I felt as though God had closed up shop and hit the road, leaving me to fend for myself.
Then, a miracle happened.
The nurse paused, gave me a smile, and turned around to chase someone else out instead. A little more than shocked, I settled my head back, closed my eyes, and felt the tears roll down my cheeks. It wasn’t much, but it was something, so I grasped at this brief respite. It wasn’t the answer that I wanted, but it would do in a pinch.
About ten or twenty minutes later there was a slight commotion across the aisle, so I opened my eyes and saw a little family being ushered into their own little alcove. Not wanting to stare, I couldn’t help but notice the little girl, about four years old, was not acting the least bit sick. She was jumping on the bed, talking mile a minute, and acting very healthy for someone who had been admitted to the ICU. I also noticed that her father kept glancing my way, so not wanting to intrude I looked down and focused on the still sleeping baby in my arms.
A few minutes later a pair of rough looking sneakers appeared in my vision, and the father from across the aisle cleared his throat. He said that when they had come in his little girl had been violently ill, vomiting and such, but the moment they reached the bed she was fine. Whatever had been bothering her went away, just like that. And then he said words that changed my life. Just eight little words.
He asked me, “Can I pray for you and your son?”
So he prayed. He laid one hand gently on Alex’s little forehead, and with the other took my hand in his. He prayed for healing, for health, for restoration of my faith. He asked God to give us peace of mind, comfort in this time of stress, and to clearly see how much God loved us. And then he looked me in the eye and told me that he had no doubt that God had used his daughter’s illness so that he could pray for me.
How could I possibly deny his assertion? Who else but God would cause a nurse to allow me to defy shift change rules so that I would be there when that little family came in? Who else but God would send a man who was willing to pray in public over a perfect stranger to the same ICU in a city as large as Phoenix? Who else but God?
He went back to his family, and I watched the nurse gather them up and release them. And within twenty minutes it was as if they had never been there.
Wow…right?
Did our son get healed that very same night? No, no he didn’t. In fact, he went on to have more surgeries, including a major craniotomy where they took off half his skull and scraped out the membranes that were preventing the fluid from draining. But he did get healed, eventually. His last surgery, the thirteenth, was to take out the shunt permanently. That had never happened before. The doctor told us Hydrocephalus has no cure, it was a lifetime illness. Alex was just past three when he was declared to be healed.
Did I still struggle with my faith? Yes, yes I did. But even though God didn’t whisk it all away in one fell swoop, I realized that He had never left me, not once. He was right there with me, in the trenches of my despair and pain, fighting back the demons and sending strangers to pray for me when I had no strength left of my own to pray.
Maybe you are in that same place, wondering if God is listening, feeling abandoned and alone. Can I just encourage you…DON’T GIVE UP! Even now, God is fighting for you. He’s there with you. His answer is already on its way.