On April 13th, I wasn’t feeling well. I had taken my 7:30 a.m. meds and drifted back to sleep. Erika, my wife, was doing things around the house when she came into the room and noticed something was off. My breathing was labored, and my chest sounded congested. She knew something was seriously wrong and didn’t hesitate—she called for an ambulance.

When the EMTs arrived, they checked my vitals and asked which hospital we preferred. Erika suggested Community North, but the EMTs warned us it was full and that we might be waiting in the hallway for hours. They recommended Community East instead. What they didn’t tell Erika—but what we found out later—was that in the ambulance, my oxygen level had dropped to a dangerously low 67%. They managed to get it up to 72% by the time we reached the ER. I was immediately placed on high-flow oxygen, which thankfully brought my levels into the 90s.

In the ER, tests revealed I had ragingpneumonia. One of my lungs was filled with infection. I was admitted to the Cardiac PICU, where they started me on antibiotics and continued high-flow heated oxygen to help break up the phlegm in my lungs. Erika, always by my side, helped me with quad coughing and suctioning as we’ve done in the past. But this time was different. I just couldn’t clear the congestion.

Erika saw my oxygen begin to drop again and called for a nurse. When no one came quickly enough, she ran into the hallway yelling for help. Then she heard something no loved one ever wants to hear—the flatline. Within moments, 15 people rushed into the room. Erika sat frozen on the couch, sobbing, crying out to God, and calling my dad who immediately began praying aloud for my life.

By God’s grace, they revived me and transferred me to the ICU. While sedated, they scoped my lungs and removed large amounts of phlegm. Before doing so, an X-ray revealed that my right lung had partially collapsed. While they prepared another X-ray, Erika sat in the waiting room praying, crying out again and again: “God, expand his lung!” Just five minutes later, the doctor returned—my lung had expanded. A miracle.

That night, around 4:30 a.m. on April 16th, they ordered an ECHO to check for any heart damage due to the CPR. Meanwhile, Erika was visited by our nurse Devin, who said, “I hope I don’t offend you, but I prayed over your husband.” Erika broke down. Devin embraced her and prayed with her. She then told Erika that I was in Room 312—3 was my favorite number (Allen Iverson was my guy—The Answer), and 12 was my basketball number. It felt like God’s fingerprint.

At that time, I was fully sedated and on a ventilator. My body and lungs needed the rest. After nearly 30 days on the ventilator, they tried weaning me off with high-flow oxygen. I did okay for a few days, but then my vitals crashed again. Blood tests showed my CO2 levels had spiked. I had to be reintubated, and that’s when we knew a tracheostomy was the safest way forward.

We hesitated. A trach meant a mandatory 30-day rehab hospital stay—and we had been told that no overnight visitors were allowed. That was a non-starter for us. Erika had to be with me. Thankfully, we found Kindred Rehab Hospital in Castleton, where she could stay. On May 19th, I had the trach procedure. And on May 22nd, I transferred to Kindred. What was supposed to be 30 days? I said, “I’ll do it in 20.” But God had other plans—I was discharged in 14 days, without the trach.

Once the trach was capped, I never needed it again. I wore it continuously for over a week, and three days before my discharge, it was removed. God had answered every prayer.

Through it all, Erika was my rock. My anchor. My advocate. My intercessor. When I was anxious, she prayed with me. When I was weak, she reminded me of my strength. I call her my Rockstar of a wife—because that’s what she is. God worked through her mightily. Her courage, her faith, her presence—it carried me.

Yes, I went through the fire. But I didn’t go alone.