Susan:

My story is about one of the scariest days of my life. It happened twelve years ago, before I started seriously writing fiction.

On January 8, 1997, I awoke early. My husband, who works past midnight, slept peacefully beside me. It was quiet, and I reached for my journal. I would write a few lines before getting breakfast and starting home school lessons with the children.

Halfway through a sentence, my pen fell from my hand. I was perturbed and reached for it, but my hand would not obey my brain, and my right arm thudded to the mattress.

Jim opened one eye. “What’s the matter?”

I tried to tell him, “It’s nothing, I just dropped my pen,” but somehow the words would not form on my lips.

Instantly he was wide awake, yelling for our oldest daughter.

Soon he was holding two aspirin and a glass of water in front of me. “Swallow this.” I struggled to sit up, but I couldn’t, and he poked the two tablets into my mouth, followed by a small slosh of water.

Our daughter appeared in the doorway, still fuzzy from sleep. “What’s wrong?”

I was able to move then, and began to struggle.

“Don’t let your mother up,” Jim ordered. “Sit on her if you have to.”

He grabbed the phone from the night stand and dialed 911.

I was outraged when two EMT’s appeared in my bedroom minutes later. I was fine, I insisted, and no way were they going to carry me out of there.

“You need to go to the hospital,” Jim insisted.

To prove he was wrong, I pushed our daughter aside and dressed myself, then walked slowly down the stairs.

“Get in the ambulance.” Jim’s tone brooked no arguments.

Against my will, I climbed into the unit and lay down on the gurney. I was furious. One of the EMT’s sat next to me the fifteen miles to the hospital, asking me inane questions over and over. “Who is the President? What year is it?”

It wasn’t fair. I knew the answers, I really knew them, but this unreasonable man wouldn’t give me a chance to pull them out.

It was hours before I realized how ill I was. When my father and my sister stepped into the examining room, I knew it was serious. But when the aide handed me a brochure on patient rights, it really hit home. I stared at the paper. The runes were incomprehensible. I thrust it into my husband’s hand. “You read it. It doesn’t make sense.”

He was very quiet.

After hours of tests, the neurologist told me I’d had a major stroke. A blood clot had formed on my left temple. He could see its damage on the MRI, but the clot was gone. The aspirin Jim had forced on me in the first minutes of crisis had probably begun to dissolve it. The doctor cautioned that Jim’s action would have made the bleeding worse if I’d had an aneurysm, but in my case, it was the ideal treatment.

I was admitted, and the dietitian brought the menu for the next day’s meals.

Again, I stared at the meaningless print.

“What does this say?” I asked cautiously.

My sister leaned closer. “Pot roast, corn, mashed potatoes.”

I sighed and handed her the menu. The bleak prospect of never being able to read again was devastating.

Not only was reading one of my favorite hobbies, but I worked as a news writer, and I still had two children at home who were too young to read. Jim and I were the parents of six, and home-schooled them all. Our oldest son was in college, and we had three daughters, ages 16, 14, and 11. The two little ones, a girl and a boy, were only 2 and 3 years old. Their education was barely begun. How could I teach them to read? Many, many people prayed for me that night.

Within twenty-four hours my mobility, which had come and gone at first, seemed to have permanently returned. Still I couldn’t read. But through the grace of God, all my symptoms were gone by the second day, and I was able to read and write.

The doctor kept me in the hospital nine days. Because I was only 42, he was determined to discover the cause of my stroke, but found none.

It was with a sense of awe that I returned home to live a “normal” life again, but it would never be the same. I cherish each day with my husband and children. The two youngest are in high school now, both good readers and writers. The four older “children” are all college graduates. Three of them are married, and two have children of their own.

Two years later, I found that I had a story to tell. Not the news stories I’d written for years, but a fiction story that had formed in my mind. I said to Jim, “I have this story in my head, and I think it’s a book.”

He gave me the summer of 1999 in which to put that story on paper. Since then the Lord has blessed me with a career in fiction. When I look back to that bleak day in January when I couldn’t read simple words, I can scarcely believe how my life has changed. I thank God for every day He has given me on this earth. I know He left me here, not only to bring entertainment to others through my stories, but to teach my children and see them become strong readers and writers. More important, they all trust God for their salvation, which is the biggest blessing I have been allowed to witness.

My February book is On a Killer’s Trail, from Love Inspired Suspense. It’s about another Maine journalist, Kate, who wants to help solve a murder. I hope you enjoy it. Visit me on my Web site at: www.susanpagedavis.com.

Thanks, Susan, for that uplifting story.