Reflecting On A Miracle, Cherishing The Love Of Family ... And M & Ms

When the phone rang around 9 o'clock last Monday evening, I picked up my mom and rushed to the hospital. Like that scene in the movie "Witness," everyone from everywhere came calling once the bell rang.

From '71 (L-R) Jenny, Julie, Mom, Dad, me, Joey and John

The drive to the hospital was less than 15 minutes, but it seemed like forever. Mom kept recounting the events of the evening: my sister Julie's husband John had called her from Rome, worried because he hadn't been able to reach Julie on the phone. Had anyone heard from her? Could someone go to the house and see what's up? She's been in chronic pain for back and neck problems for years, and the worry was that she was in an emergency room somewhere.

"Boy, it's a good thing John called," Mom said over and over.

Mom immediately called Jenny's husband Terry, who had just come in from working outside. Julie lives about five minutes away, so he was able to get there in short order. Terry found a closed-up, dark house that just didn't seem right. He looked for ways to get inside, telling a 911 police officer over the phone that he was going to break in. "Do what you have to do," he was told.

Terry peered in Julie's bedroom window and could barely see her feet, one on top of another. Julie was on the floor leading to the bathroom. He broke in, found Julie face down, cold and unresponsive, with not much of a pulse, saw that she had been writing in a notebook, with her glasses and a pen on top of it, and promptly met the emergency personnel who had arrived in nothing flat. 

"Boy, it's a good thing John called," Mom said again.

That's all we knew until we arrived at the Atrium Medical Center emergency room. The whole family was there, having come from all over within a matter of a half-hour. We waited in a small room and absorbed whatever information the medical staff could give us, trying to tie it all together. Terry recounted what he had seen and done several more times throughout the evening, usually when someone new arrived and wanted to know.

I sent a text to my wife Kim and daughter Chloe, who were on their way, "Julie's in critical condition. This is unbelievable." With everything we were hearing -- that Julie had been lying there for as much as 24 hours, that her body temperature was 90, that she had supposedly left a note (though we later learned it was a journal she regularly wrote in) and that she has fought chronic pain for many years with a mixture of medication -- there seemed to be only one conclusion to brace for.

My little sister was gone. 

The week had started like every typical Monday, but now it looked like it would end with a funeral. How could that be? It was all so tragic, sudden, painful. It was ... unbelievable.

There was nothing to do but sit in the small room and wait. We talked about Julie's painful surgeries and the terrible aftermath she has had to endure. We talked about the love and influence she has over 11 children -- "her kids," she would say. And everyone wondered how John was handling all this a half-a-world away in Rome.

I wish I could say I was deeply spiritual, and especially comforting to everyone in my family. But I wasn't. Amid all of this, for reasons I still don't understand, I started thinking about M&Ms.

AS KIDS, WE FOUGHT over so many things -- whose turn it was to wash the dishes, whose fault it was that the jug of ice water in the refrigerator was empty, or who got to get into the bathroom first. We fought over anything and everything. But the biggest fights were over M&Ms.

M&Ms were about as valuable as gold to a group of pre-teenage kids because we weren't allowed to have them very often. Worse yet, the number of them inside the bag was not always easily divisible by 5. You can't believe the the commotion in our house over 3 stupid extra pieces of candy.

Threats were made, alliances created, and feelings hurt. What's more, the arguments never really ended, instead just simmering down temporarily until  a new argument came along, like when our brother John got to stay up late and watch TV with Mom and Dad, which just wasn't fair. Why did he get to do that and we didn't? Heaven forbid this ever happened on a night when I was shorted an M & M. Juvenile justice is not complicated.


Mom and Dad were at their wits end with us. Why did we have to act so petty? Is life going to end just because someone has more M & Ms? Mom stopped buying M & Ms altogether.


We fought over the Oreos instead.

   

THE PROBLEM WITH THIS WORLD is that everyone is still fighting for their share of the M & Ms. This is what occurred to me at the Atrium emergency room last Monday night. It's not really M & Ms we fight over when we get older, but instead it's a share of the limelight, or control, or money. People act as though the world will end if they get three M & Ms instead of four, and they spend their lives in a state of anxiety because of it.

But when compared with the loss of losing someone you know and love, is the fight really worth it? Just how many M & Ms do I really need?

MIDWAY THROUGH THE NIGHT, Julie was transferred to ICU and for several days we all gathered at the hospital to offer whatever means of support we could, even though Julie wasn't awake to acknowledge it. It was scary. Would she ever wake up? And if she did, would there be any permanent damage? I'm telling you, it was all so unbelievable.

My sister Jenny was a rock the whole time, refusing to leave her side. Julie's husband John finally got in around 8 o'clock Tuesday evening, and he was there continuously too. And then there John's boys and my family and Jenny's family. And Ginger, Connor, Chase and Sophie. Joey was there, too, offering his mixture of insight and cutting humor. "Did someone say food? The only reason I came here was because someone said there would be food." Mom kept saying, "I just don't think it's her time to go."

I wasn't so sure of that. The image of Julie in the ER stayed with me the whole time. All I knew is that I was learning a huge lesson.

All Julie has ever wanted was a healthy body that allowed her to lead a normal life, and here I had one and I was taking it for granted. All Julie has wanted a chance to do something, to make a difference, and here I have a chance to do just that and instead I absorb myself in my selfish chase to do what's best for me.


Just how many M & Ms do I need?


So as Julie hung on for life, I decided an ugly part of me needed to die. I mean that. As awful as the world views it, our physical death is not the worst thing that ever happens to us. What's worse is the emotional and spiritual death that takes place inside us when we let our priorities get out of whack. The endless pursuit of M & Ms winds up killing us.


By Thursday evening, it didn't look like Julie's condition would improve substantially. She was still on a ventilator, and still unresponsive. And as the whole family sat around and talked and told stories and enjoyed one another's company, I made a point to closely watch Kim and Chloe. Though I think I already knew it, it hit me hard that they were what was most important in life. Them and the other members of my family.

Nothing else mattered all that much. We were together, a big family that had somehow survived M & M warfare, hoping for a miracle that didn't seem to be coming.

THE CLOCK ON THE WALL SAID IT was 4:20 Friday afternoon. John and Jenny were beside Julie's bed. Chloe, Alison and Sophie were nearby. I was actually in the waiting area, sending an email to a client. Chloe came out to tell me incredible news. Julie opened her eyes.


I had to see this with mine. It was unbelievable. Julie looked out as if she recognized the faces she was looking at. When asked to squeeze a hand or indicate whether she was hurting, she responded accordingly. Then, when John asked her a third time to repeat something she was trying valiantly to say, she looked at him with a pained expression and said, "Can't you hear?"

That was the clincher.

Julie was back. We were witnessing a miracle.

Joey soon asked her, "Can you give me a haircut?", a question that for years has sent her into orbit. Then he followed it up with another sensitive question, the kind that only a younger brother can ask, "Can I have your jello?"  

Julie and her husband John, last fall.

And in the 72 hours since then, she's gotten a whole lot stronger. Though she's tired, she carries on complete conversations with everyone who has stopped by. They were talking tonight that she might go home as soon as tomorrow. Yeah, unbelievable. There's that word again. I told her yesterday we're going to have to start calling her "Lazarus." I've never seen such a turnaround. Never. 


There are so many people to thank. For starters, there are the EMTs from the Franklin Township Fire Department. Then there are the doctors and nurses at Atrium Medical Center. Chuck and Mark Wolfinbarger from the Vineyard Church stopped by to see Julie every day. Danny Griffith, a friend of mine since high school who's pastor at Horizon Pointe Church, either stopped by or was in touch all the time, as was Charlie McMahan, my pastor and friend at SouthBrook Christian Church. Then there was the wave of emotional support from so many people all over the country, connected with us largely because of the power of Facebook. 


Mainly, there is Jenny and John to thank. They've been totally selfless, acting in a way that I could only profess. And so here it is, exactly one week from the time I walked into Atrium Medical Center with Mom. No way I would have ever dreamed this story would end the way it did. I keep thinking there ought to be some way to celebrate this, but then perhaps this public expression is all the can be done for now. So let me say this: wow, thanks, and take it from my family that miracles can happen. I think I'll get Julie her own bag of M & Ms, the really big bag, too. 


She can have the whole bag to herself.