In My Shoes

"In my shoes" is a weekly series that is updated every Thursday. I hope you enjoy the following post and that like me, you will learn more about a different walk of life, which will help you to love better! We love comments or likes and would love to have you follow this series with us. We have some amazing women and amazing topics to share. If you have something YOU would like to write about, please contact me!


Neuroendocrine Cell Hyperplasia. 


These three words haunted me for three years, and truthfully, they still dance around my head every once in awhile.


When our three–month-old daughter, Amelia, turned blue, doctors thought she acquired RSV. They pumped oxygen through her tiny body, and told us our hospital stay would be short.


Eleven days later, we watched our sixth roommate pack up their precious baby, and head home while we stayed. I seethed with jealousy, why couldn’t it be us?


Our daughter’s health changed, but not for the better. As days passed, she required even more oxygen, and more tests.


And the process of ruling diseases out began. With each vile of blood drawn, I held my breath. With each wire attached I willed organs to be healthy.  The tests revealed nothing. 


On day thirteen, we left the hospital, but without celebration. Tubes clung to our perfect baby, and we quickly learned about liquid oxygen, pulse oximeters, and the loneliness of caring for a chronically ill child.

Less than twenty-four hours later—an ambulance ride, another extended hospital stay, more tests.

I remember comparing our daughter to all of the children we encountered at the hospital. I remember becoming preoccupied with death.


During this time, I refused to pray. I believed in God. I believed in miracles, but the words would not come.

Months later, I read the words of Max Lucado.


There is a window in your heart through which you can see God. Once upon a time that window was clear. Your view of God was crisp. Then suddenly, the window cracked. A pebble broke the window. A pebble of pain. And suddenly God was not so easy to see. The view that had been crisp had changed. You were puzzled. God wouldn’t allow something like this to happen, would he?


Would he? I couldn’t fathom an answer.

I celebrated my birthday in that tiny hospital room. A group of friends came with fake smiles, a store bought cake, and encouragement. They whispered a forced version of “Happy Birthday”, and when they left, I found a slip of cardstock paper with a perfectly written verse. 


Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. Hebrews 11:1.

I reread that folded piece of cardstock over and over, and as time passed I began carrying it places.  I tucked it in my purse. I pushed it into my pocket. I tucked it in the inside pocket of the diaper bag.
I couldn’t pray, but slowly I began to believe, and my faith began to grow, and slowly the answers became clearer.

The doctors guessed our blue-eyed girl would remain on oxygen for five years. They were wrong. After three and a half years, we were “ox” (as our three-year-old called it) free. The tubes and shots and endless doctors visits were gone, and we were left with a healthy baby, and a better understanding of faith.

Written by Amy Sullivan.