The Other Terry
A neighbor had come over to tell me the hospital was trying to contact us. There had been a bad accident. My husband Jerry was out on errands with our other two sons, Perry, and George, ages seventeen and ten. Terry’s place was about a mile away, so I drove over to break the news to his wife, Sandy. With a car full of family members, we sped off to the hospital in a panic. We prayed unceasingly, pleading for the lives of Terry and Chubs. My shock prevented any tears. I could not believe this was happening to us.
For several days the doctors tried in vain to stop his brain from swelling. Day after day the only word was: “We don’t know what the extent of his injuries will be.”
But whatever kind of life Terry would have, as his mother–the one who gave him life–I would be there for him. For weeks I slept on a couch in a waiting room. Jerry came often with the other kids. Together, we kept praying and reassuring Terry to hang in there.
Terry was in a coma and was placed in a nursing home two hours away from our house. At this point, some people questioned if perhaps it would have been better for Terry to have died in the accident. If he never came out of the coma, was my desire to keep him alive selfish? I did not want to let him go, and yet, what did Terry want?
The months turned into years–five, ten, fifteen– and people saw no improvement. Terry’s young wife got on with her life. His daughter, Amber only occasionally saw her father as she grew up. A few people questioned the wisdom of bringing him home every weekend but most of our family and friends supported us. It was a strain, but Jerry and I were united in our unwavering love for Terry.
I asked God what He wanted. “Lord, I love Terry and I want you to heal him, but your will be done,” I prayed. “I trust in you, God.” In the midst of my pain, I began to feel some peace. If Terry continued to live, it would be because God wanted it.
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