My Story—Part One
My Miracle — A Journey Through Death, Healing, and Awakening
When I woke up on the morning of November 20, I was yellow. Not pale or sickly—yellow. Yet I didn’t feel ill, so I went to work as usual. My students said nothing, but my coworkers certainly did. They insisted something was wrong and made me promise to see a doctor.
When I got home, I called my daughter‑in‑law, a registered nurse, and casually told her, “I’m yellow.”
I also mentioned that my stool was white.
She didn’t respond calmly.
She screamed at me. “You are in liver failure.Go to the emergency room immediately.”
I hesitated. As a trained homeopathic practitioner, my instinct was to run a scan on myself first. But she had never yelled at me before, and her urgency shook me. Against my intuition, I went to the local hospital.
Deep down, I knew it was a mistake.
But I caved.
They discovered I had gallstones—nothing dramatic on its own. But during surgery, I stopped breathing. I was placed on life support and kept unconscious with propofol—the same drug that killed Michael Jackson. I remained on a ventilator, drifting in a strange, surreal world.
After about three weeks, they finally let me “come back to life.”
Television dramas make it look like a comatose patient wakes up, sits up, and starts talking. That is pure fiction. I couldn’t sit, stand, write, or even feed myself. I had to relearn everything.
And then things went from bad to worse.
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The Hidden Crisis
My daughter‑in‑law later researched propofol. At first, everyone was too busy praying for a miracle to question anything. But she discovered that propofol is recommended for no more than ten days.
I had been on it much longer.
One of its side effects is pancreatitis. (In my case, it caused pancreatic necrosis—my pancreas was literally digesting itself and other body organs.)
I was dying.
She insisted on an MRI, but no doctor bothered to read it. Finally, after I vomited a pan half‑full of bile, spiked a 105° fever, and after my daughter‑in‑law threw an absolute fit, someone finally reviewed the scan.
The radiologist had clearly written: pancreatic necrosis. Unfortunately, the pancreas was not only destroying itself, it was also attacking some other internal organs.)
They rushed me to Vanderbilt, where an excellent surgeon saved my life.
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The Aftermath
Saving me required drastic measures. They opened my abdomen, removed over one‑third of my pancreas, and didn’t sew me back up. My midsection was filled with tubes and plastic bottles. My pancreas was furious, and my long‑term prognosis was grim.
Depending on which statistics you read, up to 80% of people with pancreatic necrosis as severe as mine die.
Would I ever walk again?
Would I be confined to a wheelchair?
Had I suffered brain damage from being without oxygen during the first surgery?
My family never told me how serious my condition was, and I was too weak to ask. In hindsight, I’m grateful. Many people cling to a doctor’s prognosis as truth. I had no negative belief to hold onto.
I was determined to walk again—even while carrying four plastic drainage bottles in my arms. I called them my “babies,” and apparently, I was reluctant to give them up.
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Relearning Life
Eventually, I was transferred to a rehabilitation hospital. I practiced walking, feeding myself, and simply existing in a body that had been through war. A massive open wound stretched from my breastbone to my navel, four inches wide. (I called it the Grand Canyon.) The bandages had to be changed daily.
Before I could go home, I had three hurdles:
1. The wound had to close.
2. I had to lift myself out of bed using the hospital bars. (It took weeks.)
3. I had to climb three steps.
Every entrance to my home required three steps.
This proved the hardest of all.
But I did it. One day, I climbed those three steps. I could finally go home.
During this time, my first granddaughter was born. Joseph and Jeannie brought her to the hospital and laid her in my arms. I couldn’t hold her, but they placed her gently on my arm. It was pure joy.
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Home, But Not Whole
After nearly three months in the hospital, I returned home—confined to a hospital bed most of the day. I couldn’t walk, sit in a chair (the bottles leaked fluid), or even hold a book. For the next five months, I had to be taken to Vanderbilt’s ER once a week for a three‑ to four‑day stay.
My younger son worked full‑time, came home on lunch breaks to feed me through a tube, and cared for me with exhaustion etched into his face. A coworker came several times a week to change my bandages. Insurance only covered two visits per week, but the dressings needed daily care.
I felt like a burden.
I prayed to die.
I didn’t want to be here anymore.
But God did not answer that prayer.
One day, I looked at my son—tired, stressed, carrying far too many burdens. I saw what my illness was doing to him and to everyone who loved me.
And I made a decision:
I would live.
If God wasn’t going to take me, then I wanted the best possible outcome.
I remembered the Law of Attraction, Joe Vitale’s books, and Joseph Murphy’s teachings. I knew the power of the mind. It was time to use it.
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The Turning Point
I began singing little healing songs to myself:
“I’m getting better for Michael’s sake,
Michael’s sake,
Michael’s sake.
I’m getting better for Michael’s sake,
all day long!”
Friends stepped in with love:
• Colleagues graded papers, planned out classes and raised money.
• A Reiki practitioner gave me weekly sessions for free.
• A reflexology student offered a free session.
• Churches within a 150 mile radius offered prayers.
• Eventually, I was strong enough to visit my acupuncturist.
I was on the road to recovery.
And then came the deeper realizations.
Continue to My Story Part 2.
If you’d like to follow the rest of my journey, you can continue reading in Part 2.
Read my post "Realizations" next.
Sharon’s Healing Space 