Breathing Thanks

Waking up this morning feeling even worse than my recent stuffy-nose-aching-body days, I resigned myself to spending the day in bed. Normally this would sound heavenly, but as we all know, resting in bed is the pits when all you have energy for is staring blankly at the wall and waiting for time to pass.

Waking for the third or fourth time, my thoughts turned to my daily blog topic. For the past few months, I've taken each day to live life with my eyes and ears tuned to what God wants to teach me. When a lesson comes along that I think would be remotely interesting, I cheer inwardly to know that I have my blog topic for the day. But what could possibly be interesting about my light blue bedroom wall? Certainly no lessons seemed to be contained in my ceiling fan, or my ever-increasing laundry pile.

"Maybe I'll have to skip today," I thought regretfully, already missing what has become one of my favorite parts of the day. "That's what happens when all you can do is breathe."

Instantly, memories of a particularly difficult season in my life began to assault me.

During the summer of 2000, I began to have complications in my pregnancy. Between 24 and 25 weeks gestation, I was admitted to the hospital three times for pre-term labor. With contractions only two minutes apart, I was warned that there was a good chance that my son would be born too soon. They had tried a mild medicine to stop the contractions, which didn't work. As they inserted an IV into my arm, the nurse told me what to expect from the next medicine, magnesium sulfate. The drug was serious enough that a nurse would sit by my bedside for the first four hours to determine my body's reaction.
And, oh, did my body react. Magnesium Sulfate, from what I understand, is designed to significantly relax muscles. This is why it works to stop contractions, because the uterus is a muscle. But it doesn't just relax those muscles, it relaxes all of them. Because of this, the very act of taking a breath felt like a choice instead of a guarantee.

Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Please, Lord, save my baby. I need to breathe.

A little more than a year later, the little boy who didn't come too soon was crawling across the living room floor. It was a typical evening, though Kahlan, four years old at this time, was sick. Life sometimes turns unexpectedly, and the turn it took that night was swift and frightening.
Our beautiful angel girl went from sitting wrapped in a blanket to limp and lifeless on the floor as a febrile seizure coursed through her body. Before we knew what was happening, her skin paled and her breathing stopped. I ran for the phone to call 911 as Steve picked her up and did everything he could to help her. The seizure had clamped her jaw shut, making the task of clearing her airway impossible. Steve kept trying to pry Kahlan’s mouth open, the muscles in his forearms bunched together with the force he was using.
“Please, God,“ he whispered. “Kahlan,” he said, his voice shaking. “Kahlan this is your daddy! Kahlan open your mouth! If you love your daddy, open your mouth!”
Watching as I waited for more instructions from the 911 operator, I realized I was holding my breath, almost as if I were trying to give it to my little girl.

Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Please, Lord, save my baby girl. She needs to breathe.


A few months later, I was driving with Steve, Joseph, and my precious girl whose every breath counted my blessings. Drinking hot chocolate and watching the city lights pass my window, I realized that something was very wrong. Trying to take another breath, I began to panic. My airway was closing. My heart began to race, my skin grew clammy. "Is this it?" I remember thinking. "Is this the end?"
That night was the beginning of my experience with panic attacks. Before going through them myself, I had always assumed that an attack of anxiety was a mental crisis. I had no idea that it also heavily involved our physical self. For three months I battled my invisible monster, finally becoming bedridden from the terror and pain that constantly assaulted me.
I remember one particular day with complete clarity. I was in bed, gasping for every breath as my airway stayed tightly clenched. I knew at this point that I was in the grip of a serious panic disorder, but I didn't know how to stop it. I remember listening to my husband and kids playing downstairs, and coming to the decision that I couldn't live with the pain anymore. I hated what I had become. How could I live knowing that this might be who I was forever? So as tears coursed down my cheeks, I made the plan that would take me away from my broken body. "I can't do this, God!" I cried.

"Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. I am with you. Just breathe."

We underestimate the gift that each breath is. I've written in previous blogs about not being guaranteed tomorrow, but the truth is that we aren't even guaranteed our next breath. Every breath is God given.

Paul writes, "He Himself gives to all people life and breath and all things." (Acts 17:25b)

When we get in a situation where each breath is important, we truly glimpse the enormity of God's blessings.

How thankful I am that I serve a God who cares about every breath I take.