Fine: What I Called God Before He Showed Me What He Did

I wasn't frustrated. I wasn't upset. I wasn't sad. I wasn't saying, "No rush." I was saying, "No. RUSH."

I was angry — at God.

Yes, I had a healthy, handsome baby. But that wasn't enough for a God I believed would work a miracle.

Before he was born, they told me about the chances of the mass disappearing. It didn't — but he made it to term. When he was born, they did ultrasounds and X-rays of his chest; I thought they would tell me it was gone. It wasn't — but he was here. Six weeks later, we went back to Children's Hospital of Philadelphia for a CT scan; I just knew they'd rule out the need for surgery. Nope — but he was healthy and happy. Seven weeks later, we went back to CHOP for his pre-operation appointment.

Ok. Here's the height of the anger.

You're really going to make my three-month-old go through surgery? You could make it disappear with the snap of Your anthropomorphized finger. You created the wind with Your breath, the seas with Your voice, the sun with Your light — and You can't do this one, little-for-You thing for this little being You made? Ok, he can't talk, he can't ask, and he's actually unbothered. But can You do it for me? I've been asking. I'm incredibly bothered. I can't believe You are doing this.

Fine. FINE.

The best in the world, apparently.

At my first meeting with Dr. Alan Flake, I was still pregnant. My maternal fetal medicine doctor assured me he was the best — and if she didn't, he surely would. Like everyone else we'd seen at CHOP, with remorse and sincere care, he told us how lucky we were. How, of all the things he'd seen and cared for, a lung lesion is one of the easiest to deal with. He didn't discredit our pain and concern for our first unborn child — but he did let me know that he's "the best in the country... actually, the world."

The surgery would be thoracoscopic — three very small incisions on his side done with a microscope. Recovery: two days maximum barring complications. From anesthesia to waking up: three and a half hours. And off the top of his clearly genius head, he gave me all his lobectomy statistics, which impressed the not-so-easily-impressed.

I didn't feel lucky. But I was more than confident in his abilities. I also told myself his surgical prowess wouldn't even be necessary. God was going to heal Honor all by Himself.

Then Thursday came.

He showed my family and me Honor's CT scan results. The mass could possibly be disconnected from his lung — but they'd still remove some of the lung to be sure it didn't and wouldn't affect anything now or later. It wasn't small. At all. I was surprised at how unaffected Honor had been since birth based on its size on the screen. I asked more questions about complications, hospitalization, and pain management. I was still confident. Still very angry.

Then we reached out to the squad. Everyone we know who knows how to pray. And they prayed.

Friday morning.

6 AM arrival. 6:40 check-in. Nurse. Nurse practitioner. Anesthesiologist. Surgeon. Operating room nurse. 7:20 OR. I cried about four thug tears. 8:24 surgery start.

I somehow managed to eat and laugh with my family as we waited. As early as 8:30, my dad asked if every man who walked out with a surgical hat was our doctor. We joked about surgeons taking smoke breaks. 9:47 — Dr. Flake walked out and directly toward us.

I thought about the smoke break joke and instantly got mad. This was supposed to be a three-and-a-half-hour procedure. What are you doing here, sir?

"We're done. Everything went extremely well. It's always a good thing when I come out early. Remember when I mentioned it could be disconnected? Well, it was. I only removed the mass and left his entire lung in place. No chest tube needed. He's already waking up."

Ok. Fine. I see what You did here, God.

Just because it doesn't look supernatural doesn't mean it isn't a miracle.

Miracle — an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs.

I was told to terminate, but I didn't accept that option. God grants wisdom. Miracle. I discovered CHOP, and we were two hours away rather than across the world. God determines location. Miracle. The mass could've gotten bigger; it didn't. God manages bodies. Miracle. It could've caused heart failure and my son wouldn't be here; he's right here, right now. God gives life. Miracle. He could've been sickly and symptomatic; he's not. God sustains life. Miracle. We could've been placed with any surgeon; we got the best. God promises exceedingly. Miracle. He could've had complications; not one. God moves hands. Miracle. He could've needed morphine to recover; only Tylenol. God regulates systems. Miracle. He could've had a long, terrible stay; he was discharged by early Saturday afternoon. God works quickly. Miracle. He could have only two parts of his right lung; he has all three. God allowed that mass to be exactly out of the way. Miracle.

Spending time in a children's hospital shows you how blessed you are. I'm blessed beyond measure. I'm holding a miracle and had the nerve to be mad at God.

"Fine" is used as a signal of resignation — a simple word that shows pure frustration nearing the end of an argument. "Fine" also means of high quality; very well. The same word I used to express my displeasure with God now describes the state of my son's health to His credit.

Your miracle may not look the way you anticipated. But trust me — if it's done, God did it.

Shoutout to my MFM team. Shoutout Dr. Flake. Shoutout the surgical NICU nurses. Shoutout CHOP. But they can't do what God can. God healed Honor. He's fine. Miracle.

"But if I were you, I would appeal to God; I would lay my cause before him. He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted." — Job 5:8-9