Epiphany

Throughout my adult life, my belief in God and an afterlife had often been weakly embraced, though never to the extent of abandoning the notion altogether. In fact, for the past 15 years in my struggle through an occasional faithless quagmire, unable to decide whether to sink or swim, I have more commonly chosen the latter option rather than risk falling into a nihilistic nadir. 

Perhaps this longstanding conflict stems from an innate sense of confusion likely influenced by my spiritual upbringing…devout maternal Catholicism on one hand, and an indifferent paternal agnosticism on the other. Notwithstanding etiologic issues, the matter seems banal now, as a resolution of this neurosis occurred just the other night, as unexpectedly as I could have imagined. 

You see, on December 22nd 1991, I became acutely ill with what appeared to be classic symptoms of influenza. However, despite appropriate self-care with rest, fluids and medications, my symptoms worsened instead of remitting, eventually culminating in a hospitalization for treatment of Legionella pneumonia. Indeed, my condition was tenuous, and a prognosis was indeterminable for several days following my admission. During this period, I labored emotionally with fears of death, especially after hearing the tragic news of another patient of similar age having suddenly succumbed to the same bacteria a few days earlier. 

This story progresses to a rainy, cold, and peculiarly quiet New Year’s Eve night. Physically, I continued to struggle in moderate to severe respiratory distress, despite ventilatory support and intravenous antibiotics. My anxiety was exacerbated after clearly overhearing my physician having a discussion with a nurse that my blood oxygen saturation was declining, indicative of encroaching acute respiratory distress syndrome, an ominous harbinger to almost certain demise. My sensorium from that point on ranged from cautious sedation to fitful sleep.

Suddenly, I was struck with a violent episode of relentless coughing that tasted horribly of something resembling metallic blood. The cough rapidly progressed to frightening stridor. In a darkness that seemed to be getting only darker, I became panicked when my trembling hand could not locate the remote control to notify the nurse’s station.  

And then, “it” happened, transpiring over a seemingly hellish eternity that realistically could have lasted for no more than an instant. In my writhing about, I unwittingly glanced to my left, and became awestruck by a towering faceless giant, clothed in solid black, displaying disproportionately huge arms which effortlessly shrouded my head with a blanket, unchallenged by my futile and feeble attempts of resistance. 

Somehow, an opening appeared to my right, through which I was able to view an intensely bright silhouette with a contrastingly illuminating, tranquil, and almost smiling countenance that avoided direct eye contact with me. It initially seemed to be such an inappropriate and unconcerned reaction to my precarious dilemma. Why couldn’t this being come to my aid at a time when my need was of unprecedented magnitude?

And then it ended, almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving me with a paradoxical yet instantaneous sense of relief. I could breathe again and felt alive with an exhilarating self-assuredness that I would also survive. Though my peril had dissipated, a sense of confusion overcame me, as I was alone again wrestling with unsettled thoughts and emotions, trying to make sense of what had just occurred. Had it been a dream, a state of delirium induced by oxygen deprivation, a vision, or some other inexplicable phenomenon? In any case, my internist, as astonished and dumbfounded as I by the remarkable reversal, extubated me during subsequent rounds on that new year’s dawn; and I have continued to breathe on my own since, while continuing my recovery in this hospital. 

In retrospect, I’m not sure that determining the cause of the event is really that important; certainly not as necessary as analyzing its underlying meaning in order to understand its spiritual impact. After some lengthy introspection over the last couple of days and consultation with my priest, I feel unequivocally positive of the following: 1) What I saw to my left on that horrid and miraculous night was definitely sinister in nature, and 2) What I visualized to my right was indeed angelic. The priest, Father Madison Currin, who coincidentally visited me several hours later on a clear blue morn of a brand new year, offered a confident opinion that the particular angel in question was Michael, the patron saint of many causes (including sickness) and the spiritual warrior in the conflict against evil, at times viewed as the battle within. He based his belief on my spiritual and physical predicament, as well as descriptions of the rescuer, which bore an uncanny resemblance to those of Guido Reni’s famous painting. 

In closing, I can only speculate now that the peaceful facial expression of the angel who saved me, was merely an everyday response to being engaged in the repetitive yet satisfying deed of his occupation…enlightening overly controlled, unconsciously insecure mortals such as myself, hopelessly trying to overcome insurmountable forces alone, rather than more sensibly asking for help. And just what is this vague intercession one might call upon? Well, I’ve finally recognized that it is precisely the very Grace of God that I had resisted receiving for so long, but now at last, have humbly and thankfully accepted, and for which I am and hope to be eternally grateful. 

Respectfully submitted,

Scott Zentner

1/4/92