Relapse isn’t the point here
Ricky’s relapse isn’t the point at all; the focal point is God. That Friday night, Ricky was rushed to the University of Alabama at Birmingham (UAB) in a desperate bid to save his life. He underwent a complex thrombectomy to remove the dangerous clot that had formed in his brain and was causing a debilitating stroke. I arrived at the hospital at 4:30 a.m., my heart heavy and my mind racing, waiting in the waiting room all alone. My mom and sister were completely exhausted from the night before, so I encouraged them to get some rest. As I stepped into that waiting room, terror gripped me; the atmosphere was thick with uncertainty. A doctor eventually emerged, calling me back to speak in private. She began with a stark announcement: “We performed the thrombectomy, but it wasn’t successful.” Panic surged through my veins like electricity. She continued, explaining that Ricky had tested positive for methamphetamine but not for fentanyl. How could that even be possible? The drugs found at Ricky’s house contained fentanyl... But GOD. Maybe this tragic turn of events was divine intervention to prevent Ricky from experiencing the true horrors of fentanyl? I don’t claim to understand God’s intentions, and I won’t dare to question them. The doctor informed me that Ricky would remain unconscious from the surgery for an extended period and was currently on a ventilator. While they expected damage to his left side, the exact severity was still unknown. Compounding the seriousness of the situation, she revealed that he had a significant blood clot in his heart called a thrombus, which couldn’t be treated immediately due to the risk of bleeding after his stroke and the impossibility of putting him on blood thinners. His heart function was alarmingly low, operating at less than 20%.
Later that day, the medical team made an attempt to wake Ricky, removing the ventilator briefly, but he didn’t awaken, and his breathing rate drastically changed, prompting them to quickly reattach the ventilator. Everyone I knew began praying for a positive outcome, seeking divine intervention. By Sunday, we received unsettling news: Ricky had been diagnosed with Neisseria Meningitidis—a term we had never heard before, and the reality of it was utterly terrifying. Even though Ricky couldn’t open his eyes, when his sedation was paused, he could squeeze our hand with his right hand.
That night, I left the hospital in anguish, crying throughout the two-hour drive home, consumed with prayer for a miracle. On Monday morning I returned to UAB. The medical team placed arterial lines in Ricky so that medications could be administered more effectively. He remained sedated. After the earlier failed attempt to remove the ventilator, the doctors began offering us bleak prospects, painting a grim picture for the future. But once again, we continued to pray for a miracle.
