Love Like There's No Tomorrow E-Book

Ocieanna Fleiss

• Herausgeber: BroadStreet Publishing Group, LLC
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 279

Beschreibung

A few years ago, Ocieanna Fleiss—wife and work-at-home mother of four young children—would have described herself as overwhelmed, stressed, and focused on finishing her to-do list. But when at age forty-two, a sudden cardiac arrest stopped her heart, everything changed. During those quiet months of recovery, as she reflected on her life, a pattern arose. Like a loving father, Christ had always walked with her—through childhood neglect, miscarriages, the death of her parents, and even through her own death! Amazed by God's loving hand in her life, Ocieanna overflowed with a desire to love in a new, more profound way. Out of this desire, transforming truths gently came to light: truths that changed her life forever and will show you how God can weave everything in your life into His elaborate plan.

Leseprobe

Endorsements

Love Like There’s No Tomorrow is a beautifully encouraging book about the second (and third!) chances God grants us, and how he intersects our trauma with genuine grace. Poignant storytelling, raw honesty, and glimpses of God’s plan—this book will remain with you.

—MARY DEMUTH, author of Worth Living:How God’s Wild Love for You Makes You Worthy

Ocieanna’s dying wasn’t the beginning nor the end of her story. The suffering of one moment has given her a clear vision of who she was, who God is, and what she is to do now. She reminds us that serving Christ isn’t the same as knowing him, along with so many more lessons of love that will have me thinking and incorporating them for years—perhaps my entire life.

—PETER LEAVELL, author of Gideon’s Call,award-winning novelist, speaker, and historian

Ocieanna’s personal journey of trials, emotional pain, and ultimate redemption will inspire you to look at yourself and others the way God does—like a child who is loved, like there’s no tomorrow.

—ANNA DEBORD, mom of two

In the grips of a cardiac event, life becomes a vapor Ocieanna can’t grab onto, drifting away from her grasp. In her book Love Like There’s No Tomorrow, she describes the intensity a cardiac arrest has on everyone around her—and the residual effects it leaves forever. Through the experiences and stories she shares, her candor and openness transport the reader into a changed life and changed world. But the goal is clear: Ocieanna offers the privilege, discovery, and new life derived from her faith in Jesus. Cardiac arrest need not be fatal, but instead, a gateway to renewed love for life and our Creator.

—CINDY SCINTO, heart transplant recipient, speaker, teacher,and author of A Heart Like Mine and A Heart Like Yours

There are few memoirs like this one. Love Like There’s No Tomorrow is at once an exploration of our common human wounds, a vulnerable account of spiritual failings, very solid theology, triumphant, longing, hopeful. Young, old, rich, poor, alive or nearly dead, it is likely you’ll find elements of your own story echoed in these pages. And it is certain you will find the grace of Jesus, which has clearly shaped every word.

—MATT BARKER, pastor, Grace Reformed Church, Walkerton, Indiana

God’s faithfulness and healing is revealed in this inspiring true story. I was deeply moved by Ocieanna’s openness and vulnerability in her memoir of love.

—HEIDI DALRYMPLE, homeschool mom of three

Love Like There’s No Tomorrow taught me one thing above all else: he LOVES me. I can stop striving to please him by my works, worrying that he’s frowning on me, or doubting his grace. He LOVES me. I will always be grateful for this book’s reminder of that.

—CAROL PERLOT, entrepreneur and mom of two

If you’re going through a struggle in life, whether emotional, physical, or financial, you should read Love Like There’s No Tomorrow. It is a wonderful and wonder-filled book about how God works in our lives, especially in our trials. It’s a reminder of how graciously he gives us second chances, and how he brings beauty from ashes. You will not be the same after reading this book.

—MARY STARMAN, product marketing and management maven

I thought this was going to be Ocieanna’s story, but instead I found myself in the middle of my own story, which helped me to evaluate my own relationships with my immediate family, parents, and God. What wonderful reminders that each moment was orchestrated by God and that these relationships are a gift from Him and should be treated as such. Thank you for sharing your heart, Ocieanna!

—STEPHANIE JOHNSON, teacher and mom of four

Ocieanna provides insight into the most humbling of experiences in a way that takes the reader alongside her life-changing journey.

—ABBY RIEB, marketing manager, Christian Care Ministry

BroadStreet Publishing Group, LLC

Racine, Wisconsin, USA

BroadStreetPublishing.com

Love like there’s no TOMORROW How a Cardiac Arrest Brought My Heart to Life

Copyright © 2016 Ocieanna Fleiss

ISBN-13: 978-1-4245-5142-2 (softcover)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4245-5143-9 (e-book)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version (ESV). Copyright © 2000; 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers. Used by permission.

Cover design by Yvonne Parks at www.pearcreative.ca

Interior design and typeset by Katherine Lloyd at TheDESKonline.com

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

This book is for my Ben, who watched his mom die.I pray you’ll always know the love of Christ. I love you like there’s no tomorrow.

Not to us, O Lord, not to us,but to your name give glory for the sake ofyour steadfast love and your faithfulness!(Psalm 115:1)

CONTENTS

Foreword

Author’s Note

PART ONE: MICHAEL’S STORY

Chapter One

The Midnight Hour

Chapter Two

The Dead of Night

Chapter Three

A Broken Morning

Chapter Four

Shadow of Death

PART TWO: OCIEANNA’S STORY

Chapter Five

My Father

Chapter Six

Searching for Michael

Chapter Seven

Longing Love

Chapter Eight

Sisters

Chapter Nine

I Just Wanted Them

Chapter Ten

Ricky

Chapter Eleven

On the Way Home

Chapter Twelve

Rest Embraced

Chapter Thirteen

I Can Pray

Chapter Fourteen

Big

Chapter Fifteen

Strength of My Heart

Chapter Sixteen

A New Mommy

Chapter Seventeen

Humiliation

Chapter Eighteen

The Last Casserole

Chapter Nineteen

Imperfect Offerings

Chapter Twenty

Thy Word

Chapter Twenty-One

Nothing to Prove

Chapter Twenty-Two

Side of the Pool

Chapter Twenty-Three

Home

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About Medi-Share

FOREWORD

This is a story of faithfulness—a testament of God’s unceasing a faithfulness toward those he loves. Prior to her medical crisis, Ocieanna Fleiss had no way of knowing what lay ahead of her or the challenges she would face. However, a life of following and depending on Christ prepared her and her family to weather a storm that hit them out of nowhere. The importance of being in fellowship and connected to other Christians is also a central theme. God truly knows what we need, and who we need, before we ever do.

From the prayers of a desperate husband watching powerlessly as the paramedics frantically tried to revive his wife, to the simple words uttered in confidence by a child who was trusting the Lord for a miracle, the Fleiss family was faithful. Their pastor and their church family were faithful. Their friends were faithful. And ultimately Christ was faithful.

Ocieanna’s story is an extraordinary one, and while most of us will never face a life-and-death crisis like hers, the challenges of everyday life are ones to which we can all relate. Regardless of the severity of our struggles, through them all we see God’s hand of healing, protection, and provision. We, at Medi-Share, were privileged to walk alongside Ocieanna on her medical journey, but we will always give God the glory for the fact that her fellow Medi-Share members shared her healthcare expenses. Our God is faithful, and He uses the faithfulness of His people to work in the lives of others to meet their needs.

Thank you, Ocieanna, for sharing your story. Seeing your faith lived out has been a blessing to all of us. His kingdom come!

Tony Meggs

President & CEO, Christian Care Ministry

Let love and faithfulness never leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart. Proverbs 3:3

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Although events and people in this book are real, names and some minor details have been changed. In one case (with the pastor in the third chapter) I combined two characters into one to avoid confusion. Every emotion in this book is absolutely real.

Part One

MICHAEL’S STORY

Chapter One

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR

The snares of death encompassed me;the pangs of Sheol laid hold on me.

(Psalm 116:3)

That Saturday in January, the day my wife died, was the best day our family had experienced in months. It was relaxing, fun, and family centered. I loved it, a pocket of peace between the holidays and the return to life’s heavy busyness.

The scent of bacon and pancakes lingered through our home as we broke out the longed-for Wii that Ben, our ten-year-old, got for Christmas. We jumped around our messy family room playing tennis, boxing, and bowling.

Well, I didn’t jump. I hobbled like a peg-legged pirate on my broken ankle. Three months before, I had slipped on wet grass in a sloped parking lot. Yeah, not that dramatic, but it sure impacted our life. Since I’d been laid off, I’d taken a commission-only job. Not bringing home income for three months—not good.

Gabrielle, my nine-year-old daughter, slammed her winning shot, then punched the air. “Ha! I beat you again.”

I grabbed her and tickled her. “Hey, cut me some slack for my broken ankle.”

Gabrielle donned a sassy grin. “That’s not why you lost. You lost because I’m awesome!”

Ocieanna watched from the couch, with Christian, six, and Abigail, four, cuddled next to her.

“Okay, let me give it a try.” Ocieanna broke away from the little ones and commandeered the controller. “But I want to bowl. C’mon, Ben.”

“You’re going to play? Cool!” Ben offered an excited grin. “I always love beating you, Mom.”

“Hey, I was a master bowler in my day, I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah, right.” Ben switched the game.

“But it’s my turn!” Abigail protested.

“No, it’s not,” Christian said. “You played twice. I had only one turn. Gabby beat Papa twice. And Ben gets to play because it’s his game.”

“Whatever, Christian.” Abigail’s chin quivered. Tears sprouted from her eyes. “I never get to play.”

“Don’t worry, honey.” I scooched in next to her. She climbed onto my lap and popped her thumb in her mouth, content.

Ben beat Ocieanna at bowling, and then pizza around the kitchen table bookended the memorable day. I offered thanks for the food. “Heavenly Father, thank you for my family. Thank you for this time together.”

As Ocieanna tucked the kids into bed, I heard her singing, and I paused, listening to my wife shower love on our children. I’d spied a light in her hazel eyes today, a joy I hadn’t seen in a long time. Normally she wore stress like a leaden coat, wearing her down. I parked on the bed and my broken ankle throbbed as I slid off the medical “boot” that kept my bones in line. The cool air made my wrinkled, damp skin tingle. I hated that Ocieanna had to work so hard, but what could we do? We couldn’t possibly survive without her income.

Ocieanna shut the door to Christian’s room as I stretched the ball of my foot as far forward as the implanted metal posts would allow. Then I twisted it back, cringing at the pain but enjoying the freedom of movement. Gingerly, I lobbed my still-swollen hoof onto the bed. On Monday, I’d have a quick surgery to remove the metal pins. Then life would get back to normal. As soon as I could catch up with the work I’d missed.

She walked in and unclasped her hair from its ponytail. It spilled down her back and I marveled again at how beautiful she was. I longed for her to hurry. Get ready for bed. Be with me. But I kept my hopes to myself. Work constantly pressured her. She might have to retreat to her computer tonight. I lay back, waiting.

“Hey,” she softly said.

My heart wavered as she moved toward me, sat on the edge of the bed, and massaged the muscles around my sore ankle. She tilted her head and snagged my eyes with her gaze. “Do you want to watch something tonight?”

“Really? You don’t have to work?”

At the word work, gloominess fell over her face, but only momentarily. “I will have to get back to editing on Monday, but tonight I want to be with you.”

I stared at her, studying her. Her eyes seemed relaxed, loving. A thrill coursed through me. She hadn’t looked at me like that in a long time. She didn’t allow herself time to feel. Maybe that was my fault, for pushing her to work so much.

After changing into her nightgown, she snuck to the bed and laid her head against my chest. Her breathing slowed to a rhythmic pace as she relaxed. I felt her heart beating next to mine. I cherished her soft hand on my skin, the smell of her hair.

About a half hour passed, and she wormed to her side of the bed. Still engrossed in the show, she reached for my hand, caressed my arm.

We watched together, in silence. Weariness lingered nearby, pulling me toward blissful sleep. Ocieanna’s eyes drooped.

Thank you, Lord.

But then as a character in the show gasped as if dying, Ocieanna made a similar sound. Ha. Maybe she wasn’t so near to falling asleep. I thought she was mocking the character.

But she didn’t stop.

“Darlin’?”

Within half a moment, I knew something was wrong, but what? A seizure?

Her labored breathing increased until it was a gravelly rasping. My heart raced. Her back arched, her mouth opened, and her eyes rolled up. The subtle birthmark on her neck glowed a violent purple. What was happening? Her face was turning pale. She reached for her throat, her fingers curling like stiff branches.

Fear lit and blazed through me, igniting me to action.

“Ocieanna!” I tried to wake her, but she wasn’t responding. I slapped her face, once, twice. It didn’t work. She kept gasping. I veered toward surrendering to an overpowering panic, but the kids in their bedrooms—I couldn’t freak out. I had to stay strong for them.

And Ocieanna—her life seemed to be in my hands. Could I save her? What should I do? This question pounded on the door of my thoughts as snarled emotions stormed, tossing me on a sea with no way to steer.

And then her raspy wheezing stopped.

The silence was much worse. Alarm coursed through every cell in my body, but I fought it. I had to save my wife. She would die if I didn’t act. She was already dead.

“Darlin’!” I yelled again, now more of a begging than expecting her to respond. I did what I’d learned as a child and strove to breathe life back into her, an attempt at mouth to mouth. Nothing. Sometime in the midst of this Ben faltered in. My boy stood motionless, staring at his mom who wasn’t moving.

I yelled at him, shocking him alert. “Get the phone!”

Ben raced down the stairs and then charged back up to our bedroom. Terror engraved his face, which was pale despite his spurt of exercise.

I grabbed the phone from Ben and dialed 911. While I waited, I ordered, “Make sure the kids’ doors are closed. Unlock the front door.”

Ben’s blue eyes, full of panic, focused on his mission. Then he rushed away.

The 911 operator answered. “What’s your emergency?”

“My wife. She’s not breathing.”

After taking more information, she asked, “Are you giving her CPR?”

“I’m trying.”

“Okay, an ambulance is on the way. Here’s what you need to do …”

She talked me through CPR. She said not to do the mouth to mouth, but to focus on chest compressions. One, two, three, four, five … to one hundred. With every pump, I begged, Please God. Please. Please. Please.

“Okay, I got it,” I said. “I’m going to hang up.”

But she wanted to stay on the line with me. I struggled to pump and count and hold the phone. It felt insane. Let me hang up! I didn’t care about the woman on the phone. I needed to focus on Ocieanna.

We finished one hundred compresses. “Okay, start over,” she said. “You’re doing great.” Her words furnished no comfort.

“Don’t go, darlin’. Don’t leave me.”

The operator stayed on the line as we counted together to two hundred, three hundred, four hundred. Still no response in Ocieanna’s body. She was limp, not moving. The intense fear blended with sharp pangs of grief. She’s slipping from me.

Her face turned blueish white.

Five hundred pumps.

“Oh, darlin’, come back to me!”

Minutes after I called, though it seemed like forever, the lights from ambulances glowed through our window. I heard Ben let the paramedics in. They stormed up the stairs and into my room, carrying machines, bags, a gurney.

A frigid January chill entered with them.

A tall, thin man asked, “How old is she?” He didn’t look at me, but focused on Ocieanna.

“Forty-two.” I stepped back as another man and a woman lifted her from the bed and laid her on the floor.

“Any medications?”

“None that I know of.”

A man kicked open the bathroom door to make room. Another set up a defibrillator.

The first man spoke into a radio. “Forty-two-year-old woman. No known medications. Apparent cardiac arrest.”

More paramedics rushed in.

Cardiac arrest? Ocieanna had a cardiac arrest? What did that even mean? I stepped back, out of the fray, and in those short moments, sobs clawed at my throat. I wanted to weep, to scream, to cling to my wife. But I held it all back. I wouldn’t lose it. The kids. The kids. The kids.

Each medic performed a vital task—all geared toward reviving my darlin’s dead body. One ripped off her pajama top. Another inserted an IV.

Two paramedics hooked her up to monitors. Erratic spikes and drops on the monitor displayed the only sign she’d been alive. I had felt her limp body. She was gone. How long? Five minutes? Ten minutes? I couldn’t be sure. In a moment, even these residual electrical impulses slowed, stilled to a flatline.

Overcome with shock, I felt numb. I couldn’t believe the reality screaming at me. I studied her still body. It was almost peaceful, like a body in a casket. She’s dead. Ocieanna’s gone.

My thoughts flashed to the idea of being a single dad. What would we do without her? How would I tell the little ones? Thank God they weren’t seeing this.

The paramedics stuck the tabs of the defibrillator onto her chest. After a moment, the machine spoke. “Please stand clear.” A feminine mechanical voice. “Push button.”

I held my breath. This would get her heart going again. It had to. Everything would be okay.

The woman pushed the button, then we collectively waited in stilted silence as the machine shocked my wife. Her arms flinched, her torso jerked upward, but she didn’t cough and start breathing like in the movies.

No change in the monitor. Still a flatline.

My heart sank to my stomach.

The tall paramedic instructed them to reset the defibrillator. His eyes—all their eyes—showed intense focus.

After less than a second the machine beeped, and again the mechanical voice said, “Please stand clear. Push button.”

Every muscle in me tensed. Come back, darlin’.

The machine shocked her. The same jerking.

Still no response. No change.

The paramedics, still so focused, also displayed worry. I couldn’t wake her. Neither could they. Was that it? Was this over? Would they give up now?

The room around me became a blur. I heard rustling, footsteps, and muffled words, but couldn’t focus. Outwardly I remained calm, but inside, torrents of panic raged. All I could think was I’d lost her. Ocieanna’s gone. My wife. My best friend. My girl.

They tried again.

The machine spoke a third time. “Please stand clear. Push button.”

Her torso jerked. Her arms twitched, like before. And like before, she didn’t cough and wake up. I saw no signs of breathing. No signs of life. My legs felt weak. A rancid heat rose from my stomach to my aching head. I almost collapsed, but then …

“I have a pulse!” the tall man shouted, and immediately the room burst with activity.

“Oh my God,” I cried out. Through tears, I inspected the monitor. The line now moved with small jagged rises and falls, but it was moving.

I stumbled over my broken ankle and had to grab the wall to steady myself. Was she really okay? Her heart beat again. I battled to hold onto that, but uncertainty crept in. I wanted to feel relieved, but fear—so strong—brought doubt. Her body had lain still for so long.

In quick moments, they inserted a respiratory bag to manually breathe for her, secured her body, and loaded her onto the gurney. I found security in the paramedics’ decisive speed, such a contrast to my earlier confusion.

Less than a half hour after I first heard her gasping, they rushed her down the stairwell. My mind and emotions raced to catch up with reality. Did this really happen? As they transported her through our sage-green living room, I scrutinized Ocieanna—long waves of light-brown hair, bunched behind her head, eyes closed, arms and legs motionless, respiratory bag disfiguring her mouth. Was this really my beautiful, vibrant wife? I yearned to retreat to the moments when she caressed my arm as we watched TV. When our gazes linked as she crawled into bed. Could my life fall apart this quickly? How could it be true?

I posted myself at the bottom of the stairs. Ben found me. He was crying, spewing sobs. I enclosed him next to me.

The team of medics didn’t pause for us to say good-bye, to touch her. We observed helplessly as she passed through the door and into the ambulance. One by one the first responders climbed into their vehicles, turned off their flashing lights, and disappeared into the darkness. The head paramedic remained—the tall, thin one who had asked the questions.

“Well, we’ve got a heartbeat. For now.”

I clutched Ben to my side. “What do you mean, ‘for now’?”

“Not many people survive the trauma she’s been through.” He looked at Ben. “You need to be prepared. Your mom may not come home.”

Ben and I gawked at the man. Why would you tell him that? I thought, already powerless to comfort my son.

“I’m sorry. You may want to follow us in a few minutes. We’ll be taking her to Valley.”

I nodded, appreciating him and his crew but at the same time wanting the last intruder to leave my home. I shut the door behind him, and with Ben beside me, I watched as Ocieanna was driven away, not certain if I’d spent my last moments with my wife.

Chapter Two

THE DEAD OF NIGHT

In my distress I called upon the LORD;to my God I cried for help.From his temple he heard my voice,and my cry to him reached his ears.(Psalm 18:6)

Ben and I continued gazing out the window, dazed. The night, both inside and outside, loomed dark, quiet now, as if sucked of life. A wave of grief struck me, like a violent gale in an ice storm. Fear attacked my throat at the finality of death. I longed to run from this truth, to deny the fact that Ocieanna would probably die, but I forced myself to wrestle with it, to hold on to the fear, to let the freezing pain numb me.

I had to. The unrealistic hope that reached toward me, like a rescuer’s hand, terrified me even more. If I hoped—as I longed to—that Ocieanna would survive, the disappointment afterward would destroy me. I knew this. The truth resided in those ten minutes. She hadn’t moved for ten minutes. Her body had been cold beneath my hands, my lips. It was futile to hope she’d be okay. So instead, I focused on preparing myself to be strong for the kids. They would need me.

“C’mon, Ben.” I rubbed his back as we knelt before the green couch. I folded my hands like a child. Ben did too.

I couldn’t pray my heart—I would break down, and Ben needed me—so I prayed stiffly, words I knew I should say and wanted to believe. “Heavenly Father, if it’s your will, please bring Ocieanna home. We know you’re with us, even now. Help us to trust you, no matter what happens.”

After these words, I bided in silence a moment as God’s presence enveloped me. He accepted my weak attempt at prayer. My wife was going to die. This reality, which all the facts screamed, terrified me. But in my broken anguish, I also knew God was with me. No great theological truth, no wise sermon, no memorable hymn lyrics comforted me in that moment. Just “I will be with you.”

Finally, my mind reeled back to the puzzle before me. What to do next? Would I have to wake the other kids, take them to the hospital with me? Should I call someone?

A knock on the door interrupted these thoughts. It was Cynthia, our neighbor, asking if she could help. “I saw the ambulances.”

I could hear my voice shake as I told her what happened.

Her shoulders slumped, as if in shocked disbelief. “I just saw her get the mail today. We chatted …” She sighed. “Are you going to the hospital? I’ll stay with the kids.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Where are they?”

I glanced around. Other than making sure their doors were shut, I hadn’t checked on them. “They must still be asleep.”

Her eyes widened. “They slept through paramedics racing up and down the stairs right next to their doors?”

A sense of awe filled me. “I don’t know how, but they didn’t wake up.”

“That’s amazing.” Her voice softened with compassion. “I’ll sack out on the couch until you get back. Don’t worry about the kids.”

“Thank you, Cynthia.”

I turned to Ben and cupped his head in my hands. “We’re going to the hospital, bud. Get dressed.”

As I drove, I had Ben dial, and then I put my Bluetooth in as it rang. It was almost 1 a.m., but I didn’t hesitate to make this call.

“Pastor Barker … uh … Matt? I’m sorry to call so late. Ocieanna’s in the hospital.”

“What?” the associate pastor of our conservative Presbyterian church asked groggily.

I fought to be strong. “They think she had a cardiac arrest. She’s at Valley Medical Center.”

“A cardiac arrest? That’s not possible.”

I explained the events of the night, feeling like I relayed someone else’s story. This couldn’t be happening to us—to me.

“Be right there. I’ll send out a prayer e-mail to the church first. And, brother, I’m praying.”

I drove through the wooded darkness toward the hospital, and my heart wavered between trying to trust God and crushing fear.

Pastor Barker’s praying. Others will be soon. God is with us. God is with us.

At about 1:30, Ben and I warily strode across the parking lot. I wanted to rush to see Ocieanna, but I also hesitated, my stomach knotted. What would they tell me? Did Ocieanna survive the ambulance ride? Ben grasped my hand, hugged my arm as we strode under the electric illumination from the streetlights.

When we reached the glass door of the emergency room, I couldn’t help but remember another time Ocieanna and I had arrived through this door late at night. Past her due date, we’d waited too long to go to the hospital. She was hunched over with intense nonstop contractions, moaning and crying. How helpless I felt, wanting to stop her suffering yet proud of my amazing wife. The mother of my children.

They rushed her to labor and delivery, then twenty minutes later, she held our youngest child in her arms, sweet Abigail. Ocieanna never looked more beautiful as I kissed her forehead, gazed into her eyes. We shared a moment, a connection of awe and love and thankfulness. We’d had two miscarriages before having kids, so each birth seemed amazing, remarkable—worthy of our most heartfelt praise. Out of loss came the light of adoration, and out of these beams flowed unbounded joy.

Holding our tiny bundle of life, I couldn’t believe how blessed I was to have Ocieanna. As hard as parenting was at times, I could do it—providing we journeyed together.

How different this night felt.

I grabbed the door’s cold metal handle, but it wouldn’t budge. I jerked it, and it rattled against the lock. They must’ve installed new security measures. My heart raced with frustration. I couldn’t bear even the slightest obstacle. I would break. Irrational panic rose as I shook the door. Ben gazed up at me, and then a nurse inside spotted us, frowned, and pointed toward a communicator on the wall. Suddenly embarrassed, I lowered my head as she buzzed us in.

“My wife was brought here,” I said, approaching her desk. “Ocieanna Fleiss.”

The young African American woman didn’t look at us as her fingernails clicked on the keyboard. Then her eyes rounded, and she let out an almost unnoticeable gasp. She lost her angry frown, her forehead creasing in concerned empathy. Her compassion felt like a punch, and I liked the frustrated frown better. “They’re taking care of her,” she said gently. “I’ll get you checked in.”

After a too-long process of filling out forms and donning wrist bands, she finally directed us to the family waiting room.

We crossed through the door into the room’s false warmth and contrived comfort. I imagined designers trying to pick the most comforting colors, muted tones, lighting. The couch and chairs perfectly suited the mood of the room yet failed to invite emotion. I couldn’t picture someone falling down in tears on the taupe pleather. The room communicated Hold yourself together. Everything’s comfortable. Nothing’s sad. I wondered how many other families had huddled in this room, what news they’d heard. “Grandma made it through her surgery.” “I’m sorry, your daughter lost too much blood …” What news would I hear?

“The doctor will talk to you when he’s ready,” the woman said as she turned to leave.

“Can we see her first?”

She paused, laid a hand on my arm, and I bristled. I didn’t want this stranger’s compassion. I wanted Ocieanna.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Not right now.”

The sterile scent of rubbing alcohol wafted in as we waited alone. A TV hung from the ceiling in a corner, tuned to CNN, yet with the volume turned down and subtitles flashing across the mute news anchors’ faces.

Ben shivered, and I pulled him next to me, smoothed his hair. “I love you.”

With a stifled sob, Ben burrowed his head into my chest. My son needed his dad. Eager to be there, holding him, I found purpose in fathering him. And his presence comforted me too. Waiting wordlessly, I strained to hear signs of the doctor coming. Muffled voices spoke of medications and patients. Doors opened and closed. Footsteps approached, but no one came.

Warily, Ben sat up. “I’ve been saying memory verses to myself.”

I rubbed Ben’s shoulder. “Oh, bud, that’s the perfect thing to do. Which ones?”

“The Lord is my shepherd.”

Together, we quoted, “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want … yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.”

You are with me …

The door opening interrupted our time. Pastor Barker entered. He was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair skewed from sleep probably, unshaved—but a good sight. In my heart I sensed a visible picture of Christ, loving us at this moment, sending his shepherd to care for us in the dark of night. At the sight of him, sobs erupted, but I constricted them back down, making it hard to breathe. I stood and reluctantly received a hug, uncomfortable with physical displays of compassion, even from him. Pastor Barker embraced Ben too.

“The church is praying,” was all he said, but his eyes held questions.

“We’re okay,” I started. “They haven’t told us anything about Ocieanna yet.”

The door squeaked open again. Laury, a dear friend’s daughter, glided in. An emergency room nurse dressed in scrubs, she’d obviously been on duty for a while. I’d known her since she was a young teenager, remembered her hard years in nursing school.

She threw us a questioning look. “Pastor Barker? Hey, Michael. Hey, Ben. What are you guys doing here?”

I squeezed Ben’s shoulder. “Ocieanna was brought in about twenty minutes ago. They think she had a …” I swallowed. “A cardiac arrest.”

Color emptied from Laury’s face, revealing concern, almost panic. “What? That was Ocieanna? I saw … I didn’t know it was her.” Her hands shook, her eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry.” She pivoted toward the door. “I have to go.”

What were these medical people not telling me?

Ben eyed me. “What’s wrong with Miss Laury? Dad, is Mom … gone?”

The door had barely closed behind Laury when a nurse arrived and took us to a long barren room with no windows and two doors. Medical equipment lined the walls and a four-foot-high machine, with tubes flowing in and out, hummed at the other end of the room. Monitors stood guard around it, blocking like a parapet.

It took a moment before I realized Ocieanna was encased between the machines like Snow White. She wore a blue vest that received the gray tubes. The room felt like a morgue.