Cystic fibrosis. That’s where I left off. My mom told me that I was treated for cystic fibrosis until I got to see the specialist. My parents had no idea what CF was and they were both scared. I was told that family members researched it for my parents (this was way before Google, internet and house hold computers!). Many people were praying for me. When I finally got in to see the CF doctor, my mom said he took one look at me and said, “She doesn’t have cystic fibrosis.” Had I been healed? Had my diagnosis been a mistake? I have done my own research and, from what I understand, the typical test for cystic fibrosis is a reliable test and usually accurate. Either way, my mom has always believed I was healed and I chose to believe that too. Say what you want to, but that story is one of the first introductions I had to the power of prayer and the power of God.
There is another part to that story that I feel is very significant to me. Back then, when children were in the hospital, parents didn’t typically stay with their children the whole time. I am told that my parents came to visit me daily but were not allowed to stay over nights and, sometimes, could only look at me through a window. At one point, I was so visibly upset I just would not stop crying. I was frustrated and rubbing my knees into my blankets until they were bleeding. There was blood all over my sheets. I guess, seeing me laying there like that really upset my dad. He was yelling at the nurses and telling them, “When we brought her in here, her skin was just fine. If I had a baby that looked like that at home, I’d be bringing her into the hospital!” And he promptly took me out and brought me to London. I still have scars on my legs from that hospital experience at only six months old. I also have scars on my ankles from where they had to put IVs into them. I guess that was the only place they were able to get needles into me.
Basically, the story of my dad taking me out of the hospital was another reminder of how much my dad loved me. When I was really little, it would never occur to me that you would second guess what a doctor or nurse told you. My grandma was a nurse at one time and I remember stories she told me of everyone standing up when a doctor would enter the cafeteria at the hospital. Standing up was a sign of respect for the doctors. My dad standing up to them made him seem like a hero. It was also my first lesson that sometimes standing up to people in authority is necessary. I’m so thankful for that lesson at such a young age.
emboldenedgal 