“Matthew, Matthew! Please stay with me! Matthew, please wake up!” My wife’s voice broke through the haze, desperate and pleading as she found me hunched over and unconscious in our bathroom. My skin was pale, my breath shallow. In that moment, she thought I was gone.
“I’ve never seen someone alive look so dead,” she would later tell me, her eyes still carrying the weight of fear. She truly believed my time on this earth was over.
My wife’s face hovered just inches from mine, but it seemed as though I were looking at her from miles away. It was as if I were seeing her through binoculars turned the wrong way—so close yet impossibly distant. I wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her, to tell her everything would be okay, but I couldn’t.
Within minutes, the ambulance arrived. I was barely clinging to life, completely unresponsive. The paramedics rushed me to the highest trauma unit in the ER, where doctors and nurses gathered around, working frantically to figure out what was wrong. I could hear them—faint voices swirling around me like distant echoes. It was like I was trapped in my own body. I remember hearing the doctor’s voice, filled with uncertainty, “We’re not sure what’s happening, but something is clearly wrong.”
The memory of that day still haunts me. I had always considered myself healthy. I exercised, ate relatively well, and tried to live an active life. By all accounts, I thought I was doing everything right. But nothing could have prepared me for what was about to unfold. There I was, a “healthy” man fighting for my life.
When Dad Becomes the Patient
For two of my children, my 6-year-old daughter and 4-year-old son, it was as if their world had been turned upside down.
I had always wanted to be someone they looked up to, someone who inspired them to be brave, to be kind, and to believe in themselves. But now, I was the one in need of saving. Seeing their dad, their protector, stuck in a hospital bed shattered their innocence.
I remember the sadness in their faces when they saw me in the hospital. Their little faces were so confused, their big eyes filled with fear. They had so many emotions to deal with—emotions far too big for children their age. They saw me lying there, unable to move much, and they couldn’t understand why their dad, the man who had always been full of energy, was suddenly so different. They didn’t know why I was always sleeping, why I couldn’t play with them anymore. They were so supportive and loving despite not being the same person I was just days before. The unconditional love I felt from them was a major part of what sustained me.
Their confusion and sadness weighed on me more than anything else. I was their dad—the one who was supposed to be strong and capable—and there I was, helpless and hopeless.
A Search for Answers
During that week in the hospital, most of the doctors and nurses tried their best, while some treated me terribly and thought I was making it up. They ran every test they could think of, from blood tests to scans, but nothing showed up that would make sense. They couldn’t explain what was happening to me. There was no diagnosis, no answers, just uncertainty. I felt like I had been forgotten by the very system that was supposed to help me. Some doctors treated me with skepticism, as though I was making it up, but I believe that most of them truly wanted to help. They just didn’t know how.
I understand that not everything can be solved by medicine. Sometimes, the human body is more complex than the science can explain. But lying in that hospital bed, with no answers and no clear path forward, I felt utterly hopeless. I was told that according to their tests, I was fine—but I wasn’t fine. Far from it. And that was a tough pill to swallow so to speak. Pun intended.
I knew I had to take control of my own health. I couldn’t sit idly by while my life slipped through my fingers.
The Battle for Recovery
After being released from the hospital, my battle for recovery was far from over. Nurses came to my house to give me fluids, draw blood, and check on my progress. But despite all their efforts, I felt like a shadow of my former self. Depression crept in, filling my mind with despair. I felt like life had drained me of everything I once was.
I couldn’t play with my kids, I couldn’t be the husband my wife needed, and worst of all, I couldn’t even take care of myself. I felt like I was failing the people I loved most, and it was crushing.
But in the midst of that darkness, I made a promise to myself. I swore that if I ever regained my strength, I would dedicate the rest of my life, however long that God would allow, to helping others who were struggling. I knew there were people out there who felt the same hopelessness I did, people who needed someone to tell them it was possible to rise again.
To be continued…