Reflections on Eight Years of Bonus Life — Nicole O'Meara

“This month—Superbowl Sunday, to be exact—marks eight years since my lungs burst,” I said.

”Burst?” my daughter interjected.

“Well, what would you call it?” I said, although I cringed thinking about how she remembered it. I held my breath till she answered.

“Leaked,” she said.

* * *

Ah, yes. Back then, that’s how we explained it to the kids. They were so little. How do you explain a catastrophic bleed that sent your mother away by ambulance and kept her away for months? Chris drew them a rough picture of human lungs with pipes running through them. “In Mommy’s lungs, one of the pipes broke and it’s leaking. She’s at the hospital where the doctors are. They are working to stop the leak.”

That was enough for my daughter’s seven-year-old mind.

We didn’t explain that those pipes weren’t supposed to be there, and they certainly weren’t supposed to leak. Nor did we explain that the leak was more like your water main bursting. We definitely didn’t explain that the fix the doctors came up with was not much better than what a plumber could come up with.

We didn’t need to. Our kids just needed to know that they were okay and we would get through this together.

By grace, we have.

When I finally came home to begin a long recovery, I came home changed. Physically and mentally. And to be honest, spiritually too.

Physically, I had a long scar and a broken rib.

Mentally, I carried a permanent fear of the future.

Spiritually, I had a deep desire to learn how to lament and think theologically about suffering.

Looking back from eight years down the road, the scar has faded, the fear has changed, and God has fine-tuned my ability to see his goodness in the midst of unspeakably hard things.

For the first few years, I prayed God would let me see my son graduate high school. I couldn’t see into the future beyond that. So, I picked his graduation as the way-marker farthest down the path and begged God to get me there.

Then, I got there! It was so surreal, I felt euphoric. I’ve never been drunk but perhaps it felt something like that—drunk on complete, absolute, unbelievable joy. God had done it! He had kept me alive to see my son walk across the stage to the raucous sounds of his friends and family shaking cow bells and doing that whistle thing with your teeth that pierces eardrums. I felt like I had earned some kind of award by just living to see the day. Oh God, you are so good to me.

So, I picked a new way-marker, one further down the path, and began praying for that.

I did this pray—get there—pray—get there routine for years. Until one day, I realized I had arrived at a really cool place without praying to get there. I had lived a day (well, several days) without thinking about my lungs. I made plans without making backup plans. I had been freed from a slavery to fear that I never wanted but couldn’t seem to get rid of on my own.

This year, when Superbowl Sunday rolled around, I felt an undercurrent of apprehension. But I hadn’t felt anxious in the days leading up to it like I had every year prior. And that’s a miracle. God did that, healing my body’s stress response to the point where I no longer have anxiety leading up to the anniversary of that horrible day at the park.

I see it in other ways, small but significant. I can drive by the park where I collapsed without feeling a thing. I can make travel plans without mapping the nearest hospitals along the route.

Still, I have moments when panic surprises me. Yesterday, I had a very insignificant MRI of my ankle. Which means, I wasn’t even in the tube, only my foot was. I wasn’t sick. I wasn’t even at a hospital; it was an off-site imaging center. I was all set, laid out with a warm blanket over me, when the loud clicking of the machine started, and immediately my chest pinched and my breaths turned shallow. Panic was coming. It took me completely by surprise. Thankfully, I was able to speak the truth to myself—yes, I spoke outloud. No one could hear me, so why not!—telling my body Knock it off. This isn’t an emergency, so there’s no need to go down the road to panic. Amazingly, that worked.

Or, not so amazingly. God was right there in the room with me. He was the one who stopped the panic.

And that’s how I would describe what my life is like “eight years later.” I’m a lot more aware of God’s presence with me, all the time. More aware of how quickly fear can take over my mind, heart, and body. And much more dependent on God to help me through my day.

I’m living more in the present and less in the future. Oh, I could tell you about how the what-ifs held me captive. About how I weighed the risks and rewards before ever saying yes to a friend’s invitation to coffee. I could tell you how I made plans and backups plans for my kids, to control any possible stress they might experience because of me. I could tell you all the no’s I spoke out of fear that I might be sick or have a bleed, and I wouldn’t be able to keep my commitment.

The what-ifs held me captive and still do sometimes. But I’ve learned to recognize that dwelling on what-ifs is my personal way of imagining a future without God’s grace in it. And as soon as I recognize I’m doing it, I confess I’m doing it. It’s getting easier to beg God to release me from the grip of trying to control my life without him. Hasn’t he proven to me, over and over, that he will be with me and show me the way through—no matter how hard it gets?

Me, before my lungs broke, was addicted to control.

Me, eight years later, is not even interested in it. Control is exhausting. I created backup plans for my backup plans for situations that never arose. I’m not good at control. I muck it up. I’m done with it.

I say all that and I know it’s not 100% true. I still flinch every time someone remotely close-by spits out a wet cough. I want to run in the opposite direction. It’s an impulse. I can’t help it. Without thinking the thought through, my body reacts with some kind of “runaway and hide” mentality, as if there were little germs swarming for me with killer bee intent and I could somehow outrun them if only I moved, now.

Despite my failure, releasing control is truly my goal. Depending on God to keep my lungs intact is my goal. Trusting him to be with me, to hold me steady when I want to run from fear, is my goal. Stay, I tell myself. I’m ok. Stay here in this moment, not in the graceless Land of What-if. These are my goals.

Eight years ago, I couldn’t have imagined goals like these. By grace . . .

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