A Nineteen-Year-Old Miracle

She’s 19. Beautiful. Violent red hair. And smart. Morgan is one of those rare humans who honestly thinks math was not invented by Satan. 

The girl climbs into my truck, buckles herself in.

“Hey,” she says. Fresh-faced and happy. Slightly out of breath. The flushed cheeks of youth. 

I like that she feels so at home in my truck. 

She’s got big plans in life. Pre-med student. Wants to be a doctor. Maybe. Or a nutritionist. Perhaps. Or someone whose job is to shop at Target all day with unlimited stacks of cash. Maybe she’ll be all those things. 

Who knows. Who cares. Doesn’t matter right now. Because she’s at that age where she isn’t expected to know exactly what she wants to be. It’s a big world out there and she’s allowed to change her mind as often as she wants. 

Technically, she shouldn’t be here right now. Here in my passenger seat. Namely, because last month they were planning her funeral. Literally. They were choosing ceremony music. Choosing guest speakers. Choosing photos. 

She was in a hospital bed, too weak to open her eyes. Or speak. Malnourished. Unable to walk. Her gastroparesis complications are many. 

“I finally came to the place where I was done fighting. I was praying for God to let me die.” 

There is a small tear in her eye. And in mine. Nineteen-year-old girls aren’t supposed to pray to die.  

“It’s not that I wanted to die,” she explains. “It’s just, I’ve just been fighting for so long. I was praying to go to heaven.”

Doctors kept fighting. They tried new treatments. New medications. New everything. Now she’s on Total Parenteral Nutrition (TPN), which feeds her directly through her bloodstream, bypassing her digestive system altogether. It’s a form of life support. 

Thanks to TPN, suddenly, she could move again. Suddenly she wasn’t sleeping all day. Some of her muscle mass came back. Doctors discharged her and told her to live her life. 

I flip my blinker. We pull into Red Mountain Park, I throw the vehicle into Park and sniff my nose covertly. We’re going for a two-mile walk today. 

“Are you sure you’re good to walk?” I ask. 

“I’m totally good,” she says. 

“But you’ll tell me if you’re not?”

“I will.” 

She’s been relearning to walk in physical therapy. Putting in long workouts.

On our walk, she talks. I listen. I hear about her hopes and dreams. Nineteen-year-old girls have a lot of dreams. 

Wants to see the world. Wants to go to Hawaii. Wants ride water slides. Wants to fall in love. Wants to leave a mark on the world. Wants her people to know how much she cares. Wants to have so many Birmingham friends it takes five hours just to walk through Piggly Wiggly.  

When our walk is finished, we embrace. And I just hold this child in my arms. I can’t think of anything to say. So we just stand there. Hugging. One of us might have been crying a little. I can’t remember.   

And I’m grateful God left her prayer unanswered.