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Jack gradually displayed less and less strength and/or motivation in his rehabilitation.

One morning as I walked off the elevator, he collapsed right in front of me. He was attempting to take a few steps with the physiotherapist, who that day saw no point in taking him down to the department.

Something was wrong! He was brought back to bed.  A couple of hours later I was called into the social worker’s office.

The physiotherapist was there as well, and together they explained that at a conference that morning it was decided that Jack was no longer a candidate for a rehabilitation institute. His progress had deteriorated to a complete standstill.

On the day Jack was transferred from I.C.U. to the ward the social worker had told me that he was considered a long-term care patient. She had explained that, this being an acute care hospital, patients could stay no longer than three months, and that they were actively seeking a nursing home for him.  Against my will I had signed an authorization form for them to proceed, but had kept standing in faith, not considering the odds.

I believed that Jack would make it back home. His gradual progression and physio sessions had pointed positively towards that, and I had not considered any other option for a moment.  The previous month the Quebec Government Health Services Department had already started charging me for his hospital stay. 

Tearfully I asked why this conclusion was reached so suddenly and whether Jack’s doctor had been part of the decision-making team. Surely the neurological assessment was equally, if not more, important than the physical I mused out loud. They laughed, saying: “You know how hard it is to get a doctor to sit in on one of these meetings?” I retorted instantly that this particular doctor often dropped in on his way to I.C.U. to chat, even though Jack was no longer under his immediate care.

I had come to know this doctor well enough to know that not only would he give his expert opinion, but he would expect to be kept abreast of the patient’s progress or lack thereof. No matter; they were relentless, informing me that arrangements had already been made for him to go the next morning at 8:30 to a nursing home where French only was spoken. The social worker tersely explained that it was the only one available and, if I wanted to see it, I would have to do so that same afternoon; she would make the appointment for me.

I was speechless. I went upstairs and tried not to look at Jack as my face was red from crying. I did not want to tell him anything yet. Instead, I called the girls to see if they could meet me at the nursing home at 4 o’clock. The place, a former nun’s convent, was magnificent. They had allotted Jack a nice bright room to be shared with an English-speaking gentleman. We appreciated that, all the while realizing that once there, his chances of ever coming home would be next to nil.

The girls went on their way and I returned to the General. Approaching the entrance, I walked right into our neurosurgeon! When I asked him if he had heard about the decision to send Jack to a nursing home early in the morning, he was totally surprised and wondered why he had not been notified. 

When I described Jack’s collapse that morning, he exclaimed: “I should have been informed of that immediately! That has to be checked right away! Sounds to me there is a blockage in the shunt!” He was on his way home; yet it took him but a second to run back in. Within the hour Jack had the MRI test done, and it was confirmed that the shunt was indeed blocked. The fluid that had still been draining from his brain was now blocked, causing a build-up in the brain, thereby affecting both his mental and physical condition!

Phew! I can’t describe the relief I felt. Jack was rushed into surgery at 6 the next morning. Then, back into I.C.U.! Imagine the surprise on the social worker’s face as I walked on the floor at 8:30! They could not find Jack anywhere and the ambulance was waiting to take him to the nursing home. 
calmly told her that I had “accidentally” (I know it was a divine appointment!) bumped into the doctor and that Jack was now in I.C.U. Praise God; He is never late!

 I did not even want to imagine what could have happened had Jack been sent to the nursing home. His brain would have filled up with blood and, with no physician on the premises, it would not have been diagnosed on time!

That evening, totally spent and close to tears, I was greeted with a wonderful surprise. As I opened the front door, there were all four of my wonderful brood standing around the tape deck singing songs of praise at the top of their lungs! I was so touched and instantly joined in. A nightmare had turned into a wonderful celebration! Our spirits were lifted, again, and we knew that the tide had turned. Thank you, Lord! 

I had never quite realized the power of singing out loud to the Lord until this season of testing and standing in faith. At the times when we least feel like singing, that is the time to determine to do so! Oh what joy!  Truly, once our heart is set on praising him, regardless of the circumstances, his presence comes in like a flood and fills us with his peace and joy.

“Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. Praise ye the Lord.” (Ps. 150: 6)

With Wings as Eagles

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