Coming Home to Dixie

When Life Takes an Unexpected Turn

The last two months have completely changed our world.

I have sat down several times to write this post, but each time I have struggled to find the words. How do you put into words something that has so profoundly shaken your world? How do you explain the fear, uncertainty, and overwhelming emotions that come with suddenly facing your own mortality?

Just a few months ago, I was writing about our first anniversary of moving to Mississippi. I was reflecting on how blessed we were to have found our little farm, our church family, and a new way of life here in Dixie. I was looking forward to the next chapter of our lives, watching our girls grow up, expanding our little farm, and growing old with Jim while sipping coffee on our patio and watching the sunrise over our beautiful valley.

And then, almost overnight, everything changed.

When Breathing Became a Struggle

At the end of August, I began noticing that something wasn’t right. I was having difficulty breathing, my oxygen levels were dropping, and even walking short distances left me feeling as though I had just run a marathon.

Having dealt with asthma and pneumonia over the years, I initially thought perhaps my lungs were acting up again. But this felt different.

After talking with a good friend who is also a nurse, I took her advice and went to the emergency room.

I never imagined what I was about to hear.

Congestive heart failure.

Those three words seemed almost impossible to comprehend.

Over the next couple of weeks, I found myself in the hospital undergoing test after test as teams of doctors discussed the best way to treat my severely damaged heart.

The findings were frightening.

My right coronary artery was completely blocked. Another artery, the left anterior descending artery (LAD), had a critical blockage near its beginning. This is the artery sometimes ominously referred to as the “widow maker.”

And then there was my ejection fraction.

For those unfamiliar with the term, ejection fraction measures how much blood the heart pumps out with each beat. A normal ejection fraction is generally between 55% and 70%.

Mine was only 15–20%.

My heart was barely functioning compared to what it should have been.

The doctors initially preferred bypass surgery, but there was a complication. The radiation treatments I underwent more than 25 years ago for Hodgkin’s lymphoma had damaged tissue in my chest, making open-heart surgery exceptionally risky.

Once again, cancer was reaching into my life, even after all these years.

Ultimately, the doctors placed two stents in my LAD to restore blood flow. I was sent home wearing something called a LifeVest, a wearable defibrillator designed to deliver a lifesaving shock if my heart develops a dangerous rhythm.

It’s a strange feeling to wear something every day that serves as a constant reminder that your heart could suddenly fail you.

But I am also thankful for it.

It is there to protect me while we wait and hope for my heart to recover.

When One Crisis Becomes Two

I had barely returned home and begun adjusting to my new medications, physical limitations, and the reality of heart failure when I found myself back in the hospital.

This time, it was my gallbladder.

What should ordinarily be a relatively straightforward surgical issue suddenly became complicated because my heart was too weak to tolerate the surgery.

So now we wait.

Wait for my heart to get stronger.

Wait for the doctors to determine what can safely be done.

Wait for the next echocardiogram.

There has been so much waiting these past two months.

And for someone like me, who likes to plan, organize, solve problems, and take charge of situations, waiting is perhaps one of the hardest things of all.

I am accustomed to being the person everyone depends on. I manage our household, my work, the girls’ schedules, and countless other details of our lives.

Suddenly, I am the one who needs help.

I am the one who cannot do everything.

I am the one who has to sit down and rest.

And I am learning, sometimes reluctantly, that there are things I simply cannot control.

Conversations I Never Imagined Having

Perhaps the most difficult part of this entire experience has been hearing discussions about my life expectancy.

One to three years.

Those words have been floated around me, and no matter how hard I try to push them aside, they have a way of finding their way back into my thoughts.

One to three years?

I’m only 50 years old.

I have two daughters who still need their mother.

I have a husband whom I love dearly and with whom I imagined spending decades growing old.

I have a farm full of animals who depend on us.

And I have so many things I still want to do.

I want to see Siena and Roslynn graduate from high school. I want to watch them discover who they are and find their places in this world. I want to be there when they fall in love, when they marry, and perhaps one day when they become mothers themselves.

I want to hold my grandchildren.

I want to sit on the patio with Jim when we’re old and gray, drinking our coffee and laughing about the crazy things we did when we were younger.

I want more time.

And yet, here we are.

Jim and I have found ourselves having conversations that I never imagined we would need to have at this stage of our lives.

End-of-life decisions.

Important documents.

Final wishes.

What would happen to our girls if something happened to me.

A few Fridays ago, our usual “Friday Fun Day” took an unexpected turn when we found ourselves looking at burial plots and headstones.

Yes, burial plots.

Not exactly the kind of outing I envisioned when we began our little family tradition of exploring our new home state together.

There was something surreal about standing there with Jim, looking at the place where we might one day be laid to rest.

We tried to approach it practically, even with a little humor at times, because sometimes laughter is the only thing that keeps the tears from coming.

But underneath it all was a sadness neither of us could ignore.

We aren’t ready to say goodbye.

Not even close.

The Hardest Part of Being a Mother

As frightening as all of this has been for me, perhaps what weighs most heavily on my heart is how it is affecting our girls.

I’ve written before about the challenges of raising children who have experienced trauma and loss. Both Siena and Roslynn know what it feels like to have their world turned upside down through circumstances beyond their control.

They know what it means to lose people they love.

And now they are watching their mother struggle with a serious illness.

How do I reassure them when I am frightened myself?

How do I explain what is happening without overwhelming them with information they aren’t emotionally prepared to process?

How do I give them a sense of security when so much about our future feels uncertain?

I want to protect them from the fear.

I want to promise them that everything will be okay.

But I also know that I cannot make promises about things that are ultimately beyond my control.

What I can do is remind them that they are loved. That we are a family. That we will face whatever comes together.

And most importantly, that God has not abandoned us.

That is the message I want them to carry with them, no matter what happens.

Finding Strength in the Midst of Fear

Yesterday morning, Jim and I met with our pastor, Brother Daniel.

We needed someone to talk to.

Someone who could listen to our fears, pray with us, and remind us of the truths we believe but sometimes struggle to hold on to when life becomes overwhelming.

It was a much-needed time of comfort and encouragement.

I left feeling a little lighter, a little stronger, and reminded that we are not walking through this alone.

But later that evening, I found myself back in the emergency room.

My blood pressure had dropped dangerously low, and after passing out on the couch, I woke up disoriented, dizzy, and lightheaded.

Once again, I was reminded how fragile my health has become.

It seems that just when I begin to feel a little more confident, something happens to remind me that this journey is far from over.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared.

There have been tears.

There have been sleepless nights.

There have been moments when I have looked at Jim and wondered how we are going to get through this.

But there has also been something else.

Hope.

That beautiful word that has carried me through so many difficult seasons of my life.

A Promise to Hold On To

Those of you who have followed my blog know that my faith has been a constant thread throughout my life.

As a little girl in foster care, I learned to trust God as my Heavenly Father. When I felt alone, abandoned, or uncertain about my future, I found comfort in believing that He was watching over me.

That faith carried me through a difficult childhood, through cancer, through broken relationships, and through countless moments when I had no idea what the future held.

It carried me across the country last summer as we left behind everything familiar and began a new life here in Mississippi.

And now, once again, I find myself leaning on that same faith.

One particular passage has been running through my mind these past several weeks:

Isaiah 41:10

“So do not fear, for I am with you;

do not be dismayed, for I am your God.

I will strengthen you and help you;

I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

I have repeated those words to myself over and over.

When the doctors discuss my prognosis.

When I put on my LifeVest.

When I feel my heart racing or my blood pressure dropping.

When I look at my daughters and wonder what their futures will hold.

When I lie awake at night and the fear begins to creep in.

Do not fear, for I am with you.

What a powerful promise.

It doesn’t say that we won’t experience hardship.

It doesn’t promise that life will be easy or that we will never face sickness, suffering, or loss.

But it does promise that we will not face those things alone.

And that is what I am holding on to.

Looking Toward Thursday

Next Thursday is going to be an important day.

I will have another echocardiogram to see whether my heart function has improved since the stents were placed and I’ve begun treatment.

I am praying for good news.

Praying that my heart is getting stronger.

Praying that the doctors will see improvement and that we can begin talking about a future measured in decades rather than years.

I know that one echocardiogram cannot answer every question about my future, but it can give us a better understanding of how my heart is responding to treatment.

And right now, that means so much.

I think back to the little girl I once was, the one who learned at six years old that God could be trusted even when the world around her seemed frightening and uncertain.

That little girl grew up to face some extraordinary challenges.

And through them all, God was faithful.

I believe He is faithful still.

As I sit here looking out over our beautiful Mississippi valley, watching the mist rise from the trees and the morning sunlight slowly illuminate the fields, I am reminded of why we came here.

We wanted a different life.

A slower life.

A life filled with faith, family, community, and the simple beauty of God’s creation.

We found all those things.

I just didn’t imagine that so soon after finding our little piece of heaven on earth, I would be fighting so hard for the opportunity to keep enjoying it.

But I am not giving up.

I still have dreams.

I still have plans.

I still have two beautiful daughters to raise, a husband to grow old with, animals to care for, and countless sunrises I want to watch from our patio.

I don’t know what Thursday will bring.

I don’t know what the next year will hold.

But I know Who holds my future.

And for now, that is enough.

I’m holding on to faith. I’m holding on to hope. And I’m holding on to the promise that, whatever comes next, I will never walk through it alone.

Coming Home to Dixie was never just about finding a place to call home. It was about learning to trust God with the journey.

*And that journey continues.