I named this gadget Zelda.
Not sure why.
I didn't have brain cells left to remember it was a spirometer
— an apparatus for measuring the volume of air inspired and expired by the lungs.
I thought of the ugliest name I could think of
(for I was in an ugly state of mind).
I came up with Zelda (with apologies to any Zelda's reading this).
Zelda was my ticket out of the hospital.
Every doctor, nurse, respiration therapist, and physical therapist
reminded me and challenged me with this information.
I hated Zelda.
covid pneumonia resided in both of my lungs.
People are affected differently with covid.
Some have headaches, some vomit.
My body didn't have time for those maladies.
My lungs were busy being taken over by an enemy named covid pneumonia.
Oh, the pain.
Like I had never known.
Every breath in and out felt like someone was
stabbing my chest with a butcher knife.
Moving Zelda's bar to 1500 was the goal.
I could barely move the breathing bar past 250.
grew in my heart as
covid pneumonia filled my lungs.
The prayers kept coming.
Hundreds (perhaps thousands) of people praying for me.
What a powerful cheerleading squad.
The pain didn't subside, but
the Holy Spirit worked in my determination and will.
I needed to see my husband.
Zelda was my ticket home.
Over three weeks later,
my breathing level reached 500.
The doctors relented,
and sent me home with my ticket — Zelda.
Zelda was not my ticket home!
all the faithful prayers reaching Heaven on my behalf were
my ticket home.
"And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well;
the Lord will raise them up . . . . "
Thank you, dear prayers.
You saved my life.
God used your prayers
(with a little help from Zelda)
to make me well.
I will be thankful to Him, to you, and to Zelda
Splashes of Serenity,