2001

It was the 27th of December.

I lay still as the dialysis machine hummed beside me, the rhythm of blood flowing in and out of my body — steady, mechanical, unfeeling.

Across the hall stood a desktop computer. Its screen glowed with a screensaver — an image of the towering Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. Every time my eyes landed on it, I was transported back. That day. That miracle. How I had escaped — somehow — from that cruel tragedy. The memory returned like a slow-moving reel of fiction, unreal yet indelibly etched into my soul.

And every time, I found myself thinking: God must be preserving me for something.

I couldn’t deny it — there was a burden placed on me. A weight I hadn’t chosen, but one I was somehow called to carry. Why does it have to be this complicated? Why must I walk through hell every other day in the name of dialysis?

Is there a lesson hidden in this painful process?

Could this be His way of teaching me how to live — and more importantly, how to fulfill something greater?

What is God’s will for my life?

What is my purpose?

Is this a test — a refining fire to prepare me for service?

Is He slowing me down on purpose — forcing me into silence, into listening?

Will He use this to bring new people into my life — friends, companions, blessings in disguise?

Will this suffering shape me — make me better equipped for my calling, my work, my marriage?

How do I even begin to discern His plan?

Is this my personal calling?

Is there a mission I am yet to understand?

I had no answers. Only questions — waves of them. They crashed in my mind without mercy.

And then, the world shifted.

A wave of dizziness swept over me. The room spun. I was losing control.

I felt a sudden burn in my upper abdomen, spreading across my chest. Slowly, steadily, it grew. Pain radiated from the center — to both sides of my chest. I tried to stay calm, but something wasn’t right.

A nurse rushed over, checking my blood pressure. It was high.

Without delay, she slipped a small tablet under my tongue. I obeyed. Within moments, my pressure dropped — alarmingly fast.

The team sprang into action.

In seconds, they were at my side, tilting my bed, adjusting wires, checking screens. Everything happened in a blur — like a scene from a film, surreal and fast-paced.

A nurse whispered softly, “He’s safe.”

I heard her. I understood.

It wasn’t fiction — it was real. I had just had a mild attack. And once again, medicine had shown its quiet power. Its mystery.

They stopped the dialysis midway and moved me to the renal ward for observation.

Later, the doctor adjusted my fluid intake — 500 ml per day. Just 200 ml more than before — but it felt like a blessing. A small freedom regained.

Then he added, “Include 1 gram of salt in your diet each day.”

That felt like punishment. More sorrow. More joy. The strange paradox of survival.

He handed me referrals to a cardiologist and a gastroenterologist. “You need to follow up,” he said.

Still, I was oddly joyful that day — because the dialysis had been cut short.

With a faint smile, I turned to a kind nurse and said, “Maybe my days are nearing their end. I should prepare for permanent rest.”

“No!” she replied instantly, gently, almost religiously. “Don’t say that. You’ll recover. You’ll live long. Nothing is impossible with Him.”

I didn’t say anything more.

Maybe a few more days, I thought to myself quietly.

I kept my silence… and just smiled.