http://www.livingundertheshadowofhiswings.com/2016/05/the-hospital-decision/

My heart leaped when I saw my two daughters walk into the Guatemalan hospital room. Only God could bring all their plans together. They lived in different states and had jobs, so meeting in Dallas to fly to Guatemala on short notice took some maneuvering. A dear Guatemalan family opened their home and provided the necessary translation and transportation for them. With God’s hand upon me, we flew home, for better medical care, the day after the hospital released me.
I sat on the plane, in a medicated state, breathing refreshing oxygen and sitting with my helpful children. I felt like I had a little bit of heaven right there with me, and I saw the unfolding of my desire to return home. I didn’t realize I would wake up to a reality that would bring another change into my world.

Stacie and I met friends at the airport who hustled us to the emergency room. Dr. Rodriquez, my doctor in Guatemala, suspected I had three blood clots and had me on a blood thinner. That meant I needed continued treatment. I had the medication with me, but the orders were to get to the hospital. He had given me the test results, and armed with copies of the X-rays and CAT scan, I obediently delivered all of these to the medical people in the hospital, only to discover that they meant nothing. These people wanted their own exam results. They didn’t see any clots, and the 88 percent oxygen level didn’t meet the standard 86 percent required for admittance. By this time, I wanted to shout hallelujah and climb into a cozy bed at my daughter’s house.

The next day, I contacted a doctor friend from Arkansas and gave him an update. He commented that clots are easy to define, and with the hundreds of people praying for me, I had seen a miracle in my body. I then checked in with the primary care physician, who gave me more medication and inhalers, noting that I needed appointments with the sinus, lung, and allergy specialists. From there my health turned downward.

Scheduling the medical appointments seemed to take forever, and I couldn’t see the lung specialist for two months. My frantic call to the primary care doctor got me in a month sooner. While waiting in the office of the allergist, my thoughts returned to my care in the Guatemalan hospital. Seeing specialists and testing moved at a faster pace than what I saw happening here.

I remembered the nurse, carrying a tray, came in and checked my blood pressure and pulse. I watched closely as she hung a bag of solution next to the sugar water and inserted the syringe into the IV tube. “What medication is that?” I asked, feeling a coolness as the new liquid entered my body.

“This is the antibiotic azithromycin,” she replied, as she adjusted the drip.

She probably hadn’t made it out of the doorway before I fell back to sleep, only to wake up fifteen minutes later to a horrible burning pain in my hand where the needle lay under layers of tape. I waited ten more minutes and then pressed the help button.

A different nurse rushed in and listened to my description of the burning pain. I asked her what caused the fire in my hand and up the arm. “If the drip is set too fast with an antibiotic, it will feel like it is burning. I will slow it down, and the pain will subside. Call me if it is still hurting you.”

I thanked the nurse and watched the slower drip. Within another fifteen minutes, the pain subsided. It comforted me to know what caused the burning and that the nurse knew what to do about it.

All of the medical people in Guatemala gave me good medical care. I felt peace in the hospital and that the people there held my care as important. In the depths of my fears, the Lord responded to me with His unconditional love.

My ten-minute visits with the doctors here in the States showed me that I was only a statistic to them, and they commented that I had to learn to live with my medical problems. These doctors only had the reports of tests and the few bits of information I could give in the short few minutes with each one. I thought of Dr. Rodriquez in Guatemala and the times he mentioned doing research with my situation. He discussed my health status with the other doctors who got called into my case. Our time in his office usually ended after an hour and included an extensive discussion about the medication possibilities of what might work best.

The Lord patiently showed me something that changed my whole perspective on my health issues. He would take care of me even in a developing country. I had taken the “bull by the horns” thinking that I had to go back to the States for better medical care, only to find that I had the best care in Guatemala City.