Like every Friday, it was family pizza night. I finished work, exercised with my son, Sam, cleaned up the house, and got ready for everyone to arrive. Nothing unusual.
Except Linda was home!
My wife is never home on Fridays. It’s her busiest workday, and she’s gone in sick or injured more times than I can count. But this particular Friday, she had a badly injured foot and something approaching bronchitis. Apparently, even Linda has limits.
And thank God she did.
When she didn’t hear the shower running, she came upstairs to investigate. She found me sitting on a couch I rarely use, looking a little pale and giving apparently unconvincing answers.
“Do I need to call 911?”
Normally, I would have argued about an expensive ambulance ride interrupting a perfectly good pizza night.
I didn’t argue, so she figured I must be dying and called.
Six EMTs arrived. They examined me, ran their tests, and found nothing obviously wrong. Apparently, I was even my usual cheerful self. When they asked the family whether that was normal, the answer was essentially, “Of course! It’s pizza night!”
Yet something convinced those responders not to send me back to my pizza – or even to the nearest hospital.
They chose a trauma center farther away.
Shortly after arriving, I had a major seizure and stopped breathing.
I was intubated. Doctors discovered a brain tumor. My family faced the terrifying possibility that I might not wake up, or that surgery could leave me profoundly changed.
Meanwhile, I knew none of this. My memories had stopped sometime Friday, followed by a loss of consciousness that left almost two entire days missing.
But then came Sunday.
I woke up. Alert. Talking. Pretty much like nothing had happened.
Suddenly, a much better surgical option was possible. Instead of operating while I was unconscious, the doctors could perform awake brain surgery and monitor my abilities throughout.
No fear. No hesitation. Apparently, once you’ve missed an entire weekend, there’s no sense wasting Sunday.
The surgery went remarkably well. I came through without any noticeable loss of function.
Think about that chain of events. Linda being home. The missing shower. Her decision to call. Six EMTs finding nothing obviously wrong, yet choosing a trauma center. My condition collapsing only after I arrived. And waking up in time for awake brain surgery.
If just one of those things had gone differently, I might not be here today.
Some might call it an incredible series of coincidences. I see God’s hand.
And that brings me to the new math.
Four weeks ago, my life could have ended.
Instead, I’ve already been given four weeks I might never have had.
Every day is a gift.
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