2020 has confronted us with the terrifying possibility of dying alone. In my own small way, this July, I felt closer to that than I’ve ever been.
While chopping veggies for dinner, I nicked my thumb, rinsed it, and stuck on a Band-Aid. The skin soon healed over, and I had to sanitize my hands at every turn anyway, so I didn’t think much of it… until the throbbing in my arm kept me awake a couple nights in a row.
My housemate had just gotten married and moved out, so I was living alone. I was hesitant to go to a hospital during COVID. Plus, I imagined I’d sound like a silly wimp, going to the doctor for an invisible cut on a finger.
However, my housemate had gotten a comprehensive physical right before her wedding, which reminded me to schedule one too, before my insurance policy switched and I lost that free benefit. It happened to be that weekend.
My blood test showed an infection. After five days of antibiotics, my throbbing arm was still making it hard to focus at work, and painkillers weren’t helping me sleep. I looked up bloodstream infections online and realized they could lead to septic shock, unconsciousness, and death.
The hospital agreed it was worrying. I was told to come in within 24 hours so they should anesthetize and cut open the thumb to remove the pus inside. I hate needles and scalpels. I called a friend in a panic, who prayed for me on the phone as my neighbor drove me to a nearby clinic.
That doctor said to wait 24 hours to see if the infection subsided. Before bed, I texted three friends to call me if they didn’t hear from me first thing in the morning, to make sure I was still conscious.
My vulnerability hit me: I lived alone in a foreign country, my work was remote, church was virtual. The only person I spoke to more than once a week was my boss in Nashville – Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons.
It was a Friday night. If I hadn’t known I was in danger to warn someone, I could have been unconscious or dead for three days before anyone noticed. I prayed desperately yet again and cried myself to sleep.
The next day, the throbbing was gone. Still, the terror of the experience had scarred me. I knew I was alone, but I’d always thought I could reach out for what I needed. But what if I was incapacitated and couldn’t call?
No one was responsible to look out for me. I had no missions team leader or spouse. My family and colleagues were too far away to know what was going on. My friends wanted to be there for me, but their own families would come first.
Holding my life in my own hands was too much. It was dangerous.
Months later, I cried out to God, “I almost died! How could you let that happen?”
I felt God place a thought in my head: “I died alone so you’ll never have to.”
Jesus was betrayed and abandoned by his closest friends. On the cross, he cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He died utterly alone on a Friday night. After three days, his friends came to find his body. Jesus has faced our worst fears and conquered them. He has crossed the threshold of death and returned for good. He is with me, so I will never die alone.
“If I wasn’t alone,” I told God, “where were you? I didn’t feel you holding my hand. I was in freefall, plummeting unhindered to my doom.”
I recalled how just after the thumb incident, I was fighting insomnia, crying at my desk weekly, trying to find energy to work eight hours and shower and eat. I needed a restful and social get away. I finally found an Airbnb within the locked-down city limits. But this friend had the flu, that one was returning to work, this one was having a baby, that one was leaving the country. No one was available. I was falling fast.
As I reflected on this, I felt a nudge suggest: “It was not freefall, but bungee jumping.” Terrifying, definitely. But there was a limit. God’s hand was never going to let me go further. “Surely the arm of the Lord is not too short to save, nor his ear too dull to hear” (Isaiah 59:1).
I began to see all the ways God had been protecting me:
I’d prayed for a housemate, and in January an old friend showed up from New Zealand with a couple days’ notice. Her presence kept me sane for those six months, and at her bachelorette party and wedding I laughed more than I had for months.
Then I survived living alone for a month. I had held out hope for September, when I hoped my brother’s job offer in Kenya would come through. Though I wouldn’t have gone to the hospital, my infection got bad when I already had a physical scheduled.
After my vacation plans fell through, I called my mom. She suggested coming to the US, since my siblings were all gathering in four days. International flights reopened the next morning, and I booked a ticket immediately. My friends leaving the country had figured out COVID testing to fly. They booked my test when they went to pick theirs up. The morning before takeoff, my results came in, along with news that my brother’s job offer had been rescinded. Any earlier and I might have despaired; any later and I couldn’t have packed my fall jacket and snow pants in case I extended my stay.
I thought if I didn’t text someone, no one would know or come for me. But God saw. I cried out for help, and he rescued me out of the depths. “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? … neither death nor life… neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation” (Romans 8:35-39).
Of course, I never want to be in that situation again. I’m discerning what needs to change to avoid that level of isolation. For now, my emergency trip has turned into a year of working from my parents’ house, taking time to process and heal. But I am grateful that the pain was bad enough that I acted on it, that when I didn’t realize the danger, God was at work to save me. I didn’t have to be tough and hold myself together. God held me fast, like a bungee rope. I was never alone.
hannahras 