On January 29, 2021, I woke up, stood up from my bed, and a real-life nightmare had begun. The most intense, searing pain I had ever felt in my life started shooting, non-stop, from my foot through my spine, and I could not tolerate walking without crying out or shrieking in pain. My children were terrified as they watched me battle six steps from my bed to my door frame, where I clutched on with all my might, not certain how I was going to continue any further. I quite honestly thought I was going to die that morning.
God gave me the strength to walk the short distance across our apartment, where I tried my best to sit in a chair, but was splayed out as straight as I could be, crying and trying not to slip out. Nothing was making the situation better. My mortified children got ready for school as quickly as they could, and I battled again as I made my way down the stairs and into our van, crying continually as I felt I was being stabbed, electrocuted, and tortured from the inside out during the school drop-off drive. It was unsafe to drive that way, I know, but I was in a panic and did not know what else to do.
As my scared children got out of the van at the school, I couldn’t turn to face them as I told them I loved them, and my oldest son simply said, “You’re going to the doctor today, right?”
He knows I’m stubborn. Even after having gone through covid twice by that point, and having had been to countless doctor and specialist visits as we tried to tackle the issues that lingered from that sickness, I hated the idea of going to the doctor unless it was absolutely necessary.
“I’m going there next,” I said, realizing it was necessary. I decided in that moment to go to the emergency room, because I was quite afraid that if I went home and called to make an appointment somewhere, I may not make it up and down the stairs again.
I pulled up to the ER, forced myself out of the van and walked through the torture, tears running down my face, trying not to scream. After quite a long visit where the doctor told me over and over she didn’t know what the issue was, serving me multiple strong pain killers and muscle relaxants and telling me it was probably just sciatica, she advised me to find someone to give me a ride home, and come back if it got worse- otherwise, just try to rest.
I went home and unable to function, I slept again. I woke up many hours later, mustered the strength to try to stand up from my bed, and as I moved into standing motion, it was WORSE. In no way had I ever imagined it could be worse, but it was. It was then, crying and shaking, I realized also that I could hardly feel my left foot.
Panicking, I messaged a friend or two who advised me that yes, that was considered worse, and one of them offered to give me a ride back to the emergency room after work. I agreed and tried my best to survive laying in bed again as I waited. I was terrified. I had no idea what was going on and if it was going to be something we could fix. I thought back to the morning and how the doctor figured it wasn’t really a big deal and told me over and over it just didn’t make sense. I did not want to go back, but I also could not imagine staying home and living through the pain any longer.
I have a high tolerance for pain. I’ve had fractured ribs and worked through them the best I could, broken nose, daily intense pain in one foot, intense neuropathy in my legs for almost a year, natural childbirth, and other things… and I know that I am strong. I know I have a high tolerance, usually.
I thought maybe I was being ridiculous, but I really, truly, was afraid I might die. It was that bad.
I returned to the ER to the same doctor as the morning, because it had not been even twelve hours. I did not want my friend to see me in pain, so I said I would just go in on my own. When I entered the door, they all were so shocked to see me back. I explained through gasping breaths and full-body shudders that it was in fact worse, and that I was losing feeling in my foot.
Still, that doctor insisted on pain killers and that it was probably sciatica. She offered that I wait so she could consult the next doctor on shift change.
He was much more helpful. I could tell he believed me. As I laid flat in bed the pain was tolerable, but any time I would move, or try to sit up, I just could not any longer. He told me that he did not know what it was, but he was certain it was serious, and he suggested I be admitted to the hospital.
I came up with an abundance of reasons not to go. I consulted family and friends, who all urged me it was the right choice, and I reluctantly agreed. The ER doctor told me that in the hospital at least they would likely give me steroids (which was his suggestion) and do imaging to get to the bottom of it. He did not feel it was in my best interest to refuse, and after another long wait and a visit from my friend, I took the ambulance to the hospital and was admitted.
The entire time, I felt so foolish. While I was strapped flat to the stretcher, I was okay. Getting me from the bed to the stretcher, I sobbed uncontrollably. When we got to the hospital, it was the same. I was not even moving my body on my own, but it was completely intolerable- unless I was laying flat and not moving.
It was a long, terrifying night, as I waited until the early morning hours to receive and MRI. I was so exhausted, and at this time again on strong meds, that I slept through it. The nurses and doctors and physical therapists throughout the day assured me I was not crazy, calling it a spinal injury, and assuring me they are insanely painful. My nurse insisted I was incredible as she helped me to sit upright on my bed, lifted me to standing, and walked the 10 feet with me to the bathroom. I was using a walker and I was being held up by that strap they fasten around your chest. I couldn’t stand straight, and I every time I would put any weight on my left foot, which I still could barely feel, it was that searing, incredible pain. It took many minutes to get there, as I cried, and shuddered, and screamed, and grappled for air, yelling “I can’t do this anymore! I don’t think I can make it!”
It took a very long day and a half, doing multiple physical therapy sessions for suspected sciatica, before I had any results of the MRI were finally revealed. My spinal injury was a ruptured, bulging disc, spinal stenosis, bone spurs and deterioration of some discs. I had multiple doctors advise me that the only course of treatment that would likely be effective was spinal surgery. While I waited, we were trying physical therapy moves lying in prone position, as well as ice and a nearly constant TENS unit, to help with pain and the constant twitching in my buttocks and thighs. None of these did much to help.
The idea of spinal surgery terrified me as well. My thoughts swirled to the morning prior, and how it could have possibly been the very last time I saw my children face-to-face, because there was a risk of death with surgery, of course. I couldn’t even hug them… all I had done was scream and cry. I prayed, and asked for prayer from as many people as I could think of, scared to even share the news. I had one visitor (because that was all I was allowed), my dear friend again, who brought me some clothing and a few things to do.
I agreed to surgery. I had to covid test first. I had told my nurse earlier in the day that I had already been sick with covid twice in 2020, so there’s no way it could come back positive.
An hour or so after the test was given, I had a notification in my phone that my results were posted.
I was covid positive. Again.
I broke down emotionally. I could not fathom this result. I called the nurse back in, and now that I was covid positive it took a long time for her to arrive in my room.
Everything had shifted. I had gone from having surgery in the morning so that I could hopefully function on my own again, to having no idea if and when I would be treated. They thought that due to the severity, they would still likely do surgery- initially anyway. I was told not to worry, as they transferred me to the covid wing of the hospital for isolation and development of a new plan.
I will be completely honest in saying that the moment I entered the covid room, I lost any shred of emotional strength I had left at that point, and sobbed for hours. I cried all night long. The staff had hooked me up to all the necessary wires and then booked it out of there so quickly, leaving me alone, late at night, in a bright, loud room with the TV blaring, no remote near me, and the bed call button not functioning… and I bawled hysterically. I was so exhausted. I felt so defeated. I was completely and utterly overwhelmed and it was the only thing I could do.
Sometime the next morning, I had calmed down enough to speak with the new morning nurses who were not only much kinder, but so compassionate and understanding. The news broke that I couldn’t have surgery and would have to isolate for ten days until I was cleared. They held my hand as I cried.
Throughout the day we realized not only had I lost feeling in my foot and leg, but I could no longer feel my bladder or bowels and was at risk for rupture or other complications. I was on multiple pain killers and steroids so I was able to sit up to about 25-30 degrees in the bed for short periods of time. I pushed my way through the new PT moves, still barely able to tolerate the pain enough to function. Even on all those pain meds, it was still so incredibly severe.
Without God and the prayerful love of family and friends and the nursing staff, I do not think I would have emotionally or mentally survived. I could have no visitors. The staff rarely came in, because I wasn’t actively sick, so I didn’t need anything except meds, food, and to be helped to the bathroom. I fought with infectious disease and made phone calls to the CDC and DOH to try to get another covid test and cleared for surgery. I was allowed another covid test after begging, and that came back negative. The CDC told me it was DOH’s prerogative how to handle it, and DOH said that if I had two negatives I could be considered clear. They wouldn’t test me a third time, even after I argued with infectious disease. I was defeated. I was on so many painkillers. I gave up on myself making decisions and allowed my sister to be the one to do so. She also fought long and hard for me, for days, trying to get me cleared for surgery. We did not win. They offered that I could go home and isolate if I didn’t want to stay in the hospital, but we argued that I could not do that as I could not complete any simple daily tasks on my own, and if I had covid and they didn’t want to be exposed to me, I shouldn’t be “forced upon” others who could catch it from me either. They offered to send me to a nursing home. Thank goodness my sister was in charge, because in my defeated haze, I agreed.
It was my darkest point in years, if not maybe ever. It was such a dark, somber room, surrounded by noises from other covid patient rooms and the talk of nurses outside. It was incredibly lonely. I tried my best to remain positive and joked with staff that would come and go, and tried not to complain or make their days harder. They all seemed surprised by my faith and my smile and laughter, and I quite frankly told them that if they ever came in and I could not do either of those things they needed to be seriously concerned for my mental health. They did so good on holding to that promise, making sure I was hanging on in every facet possible, as best as I could. I felt like the hospital system was failing me, but my nurses most certainly weren’t. God had definitely placed them there.
God gave me my church family to help me through as well. There were many prayers and messages from them and one particular night, my pastor, Brent, sang a song to me that was a message from God. I listened to it over and over for the remaining days, and even in the weeks after I was released from the hospital. My friends and family provided the same support. I received some flowers and gifts dropped off to help me pass the time, as well as a few good lattes. I had perfectly timed messages of worship songs sent to me multiple times, and I listened and let those be prayers over me repeatedly. There was not a lot that anyone could do, but these things were huge.
Some of the nurses even commented that God had placed me there for them as well. It was one of the things I held dearly in my heart as I continued to live the nightmare for days on end.
Finally, on February 10, I was cleared of isolation and prepped for surgery. Another of my best friends came that day to be with me and pray while the procedure was going on, and to keep my dear ones informed. She was the first familiar face I had seen in almost two weeks, and it was a huge breath of fresh, promising air.
I told her how scared I was that I wouldn’t see my children again. I did not really believe I was going to die, I admitted, but that fear was there, knowing it was a possibility. I was anxious about potential complications, or that it wouldn’t solve the issues anyway. She prayed over me in the hallway outside the operating room, and then I closed my eyes and it seems to be the last thing I remember.
While I was in between surgery and being awake afterward, in an anesthesia haze, I had this vision. It was a spinal column, and the lamina were in rainbow formation. I felt that God was telling me I would one day walk on my own again, without pain. It was His promise- just like the rainbow centuries ago was His promise. I woke up with hope.
I do not remember much of anything else that day, except seeing my friend’s face again, and being so thankful and relieved.
The next day, I sat in a chair, upright, for breakfast. It was only a few minutes, but it was the first time in over two weeks I was able to sit up past 30 degrees without crying or yelling or trembling in pain. I knew God would fulfill His promise. I had another of my dearest friends visit me that night, and seeing her lit up the hope inside of me even further. I broke into tears as she told me she had seen my kiddos at the daycare where we worked and they were smiling and happy that I was okay.
The next day, my sister, who had fought so valiantly on my behalf came. She stayed for such a long time, watching me as I learned to walk all over again.
When I was finally discharged a day or two later, I went to her home to heal. I stayed there for weeks as I continued physical therapy and learning to walk, do stairs, sit, and other things, all over again.
I was so incredibly blessed during the nightmare I was living through, by so many people. I know there are even more people praying over me than I consciously know about, and so many other ways we were blessed- people caring for my children, getting them to and from school and daycare, praying over me, sending me flowers, and so much more. I knew the entire time, that even though I felt lonelier than I ever had before, we were most definitely not alone.
It’s a year later. I have regained a little sensation back in my left foot and slightly more in the inside of my calf. I have not noticed any progress in that area in many months, but I believe it can still happen. If it doesn’t I have went through months of physical therapy and can do everything I could before, even if it’s a little clumsy, or I can’t do as well or as long as I used to. I still have pain during some tasks or body positions, but it is in no way like the pain I had during the ordeal. During surgery, they not only removed lamina from l4/L5, bone spurs, part of disc and ligament, but they also found calcification that was pressing on my spinal cord internally in addition to the spinal stenosis, and it was speculated that the inflammation from six weeks of fighting off covid fevers the first time could have dislodged that calcification, which could have been the cause for the neuropathy I had suffered from since having covid that first time. That pain has not returned since surgery! So, while I am not pain free, I still believe God is fulfilling that promise that I will walk on my own (which I am again) pain free. It took me months, but I was finally able to return part time and with some restriction to the job I have loved for seven years. I know I'll continue to gain the strength and stamina to be there full time again.
A few months after this nightmare took place, knowing I was going to find a counselor to help me process through the countless layers of trauma, I decided to get a tattoo to commemorate my journey. I went with this design. The rainbow symbolizes God’s promise to me. The guitar is symbolic of worship and praise carrying me through.
For the most part, I’m doing really well, having processed through most of the trauma. Sometimes, things still trigger me or catch me off guard. I have cried about the journey multiple times since coming home, and I know I will continue to heal physically, emotionally, and mentally for quite some time. I have bad days where I’m frustrated by physical limitations or restrictions, but I have become much better at reminding myself of how far I’ve come. I tell myself I had to learn to sit again, walk again, and so many other things… again. I did those hard things. God walked alongside me and carried me through when there was nothing I could do but cry.
So, one year later, I can again say, even through this, God is good.
