has been completely rearranged.
Never again will I take simple physical ability for granted. During my recovery, even the tiniest movement was a miracle. Every time I relearned how to do something, it felt like an achievement.
Only later did I understand how hard Dr. Greider had worked to find a way to save my left leg and arm. I’ll always be grateful that he didn’t just give up on me.
My right knee was crushed, and I wore a cast on it for quite some time. They put a small, mesh basket around the kneecap so it would heal. My right arm was the only limb that didn’t break.
Even with the success of the Ilizarov frame, however, the pain didn’t leave—not for one minute.
I wonder how many times I asked, “How long?” I wanted to know how long I’d have to endure the device, how long before I’d know if it worked, how long before I’d walk again.
No one would—or could—give me an answer, but I kept asking anyway.
“A few months,” was the usual answer.
“How few?” I persisted.
One of the doctors finally said, “Many months. Maybe longer.”
“You mean possibly a few years?”
“Yes, perhaps years.”
“And there’s no guarantee that I’m going to be able to keep these limbs?”
“There’s no guarantee. An infection could come on suddenly, and we’d be forced to remove your leg.”
“You mean I could endure this for months and still end up with no leg?”
He nodded.
Obviously, that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Even though Eva had told me the same thing, denial must have set in. I kept seeking a guarantee that I would fully recover.
I wanted answers, but perhaps even more than that, I wanted assurance that I would be well. I wanted to be normal again. I wanted to be able to walk out of the hospital on my own two legs and go back to my former way of life. No one was willing—or able—to give me those assurances.
Many months passed, but one day I did walk back into that hospital and hug all those nurses.
During the months after I received the Ilizarov frame, I had other problems. I developed infections—several times. Each time, I faced the reality that it might rage through my body and I would wake up without my leg.
I also had infections after they released me. Three times I had to be rehospitalized, put in isolation, and receive massive amounts of antibiotics to cure the infections.
Even then, many nights I prayed, God, take me back to heaven. I don’t know why you brought me back to earth. Please don’t leave me here.
God’s answer to that prayer was still “no.”
I still don’t know all the reasons, but in the months and years ahead, I slowly understood at least some of the reasons I had returned to earth.
The healing process had begun. As I lay in that hospital bed day after day, I slowly acknowledged that God had sent me back to earth. I couldn’t figure out why I had to endure the physical suffering, but I kept thinking of the words of David Gentiles. He and others had cried out in prayer for me to live. Because God had answered them, there had to be a purpose in my staying alive.
Through days of intense agony, I would remember David’s words. Sometimes the sense that God had a purpose in my being alive was all that kept me going.
I was in Hermann ICU for twelve days. Then I stayed four to five days in Hermann Hospital before they transferred me down the street to St. Luke’s Hospital. Both hospitals are part of the world’s largest medical center. I remained in St. Luke’s for 105 days. Once I was home, I lay in bed for thirteen months and endured thirty-four surgeries. Without question, I am still alive because people prayed for me, beginning with Dick Onerecker and other people around the country, many of whom I’ve never met.
That’s perhaps the biggest miracle: People prayed and God honored their prayers.
As I look back, I see how many people God used to save me. Dick Onerecker saved my life by his continued praying. Dr. Greider saved my leg and
Never again will I take simple physical ability for granted. During my recovery, even the tiniest movement was a miracle. Every time I relearned how to do something, it felt like an achievement.
Only later did I understand how hard Dr. Greider had worked to find a way to save my left leg and arm. I’ll always be grateful that he didn’t just give up on me.
My right knee was crushed, and I wore a cast on it for quite some time. They put a small, mesh basket around the kneecap so it would heal. My right arm was the only limb that didn’t break.
Even with the success of the Ilizarov frame, however, the pain didn’t leave—not for one minute.
I wonder how many times I asked, “How long?” I wanted to know how long I’d have to endure the device, how long before I’d know if it worked, how long before I’d walk again.
No one would—or could—give me an answer, but I kept asking anyway.
“A few months,” was the usual answer.
“How few?” I persisted.
One of the doctors finally said, “Many months. Maybe longer.”
“You mean possibly a few years?”
“Yes, perhaps years.”
“And there’s no guarantee that I’m going to be able to keep these limbs?”
“There’s no guarantee. An infection could come on suddenly, and we’d be forced to remove your leg.”
“You mean I could endure this for months and still end up with no leg?”
He nodded.
Obviously, that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Even though Eva had told me the same thing, denial must have set in. I kept seeking a guarantee that I would fully recover.
I wanted answers, but perhaps even more than that, I wanted assurance that I would be well. I wanted to be normal again. I wanted to be able to walk out of the hospital on my own two legs and go back to my former way of life. No one was willing—or able—to give me those assurances.
Many months passed, but one day I did walk back into that hospital and hug all those nurses.
During the months after I received the Ilizarov frame, I had other problems. I developed infections—several times. Each time, I faced the reality that it might rage through my body and I would wake up without my leg.
I also had infections after they released me. Three times I had to be rehospitalized, put in isolation, and receive massive amounts of antibiotics to cure the infections.
Even then, many nights I prayed, God, take me back to heaven. I don’t know why you brought me back to earth. Please don’t leave me here.
God’s answer to that prayer was still “no.”
I still don’t know all the reasons, but in the months and years ahead, I slowly understood at least some of the reasons I had returned to earth.
The healing process had begun. As I lay in that hospital bed day after day, I slowly acknowledged that God had sent me back to earth. I couldn’t figure out why I had to endure the physical suffering, but I kept thinking of the words of David Gentiles. He and others had cried out in prayer for me to live. Because God had answered them, there had to be a purpose in my staying alive.
Through days of intense agony, I would remember David’s words. Sometimes the sense that God had a purpose in my being alive was all that kept me going.
I was in Hermann ICU for twelve days. Then I stayed four to five days in Hermann Hospital before they transferred me down the street to St. Luke’s Hospital. Both hospitals are part of the world’s largest medical center. I remained in St. Luke’s for 105 days. Once I was home, I lay in bed for thirteen months and endured thirty-four surgeries. Without question, I am still alive because people prayed for me, beginning with Dick Onerecker and other people around the country, many of whom I’ve never met.
That’s perhaps the biggest miracle: People prayed and God honored their prayers.
As I look back, I see how many people God used to save me. Dick Onerecker saved my life by his continued praying. Dr. Greider saved my leg and
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