After being prepped for surgery, Carrie finally allowed herself to fall into the arms of a deep sleep. She awoke eight days later at Parkland Hospital in Dallas, Texas. Her mother, father, and sister were with her.
She had been hit twenty-two times by bullets and shrapnel. In the CSH unit, they immediately gave her a blood transfusion without first screening for antibodies, which is only done when the risk of death without the transfusion is extremely high.
For the first several days at Parkland Hospital, Carrie drifted in and out of consciousness, flooded by memories of the attack, a feeling of helplessness, and a longing to see her husband.
“Mama, where’s David? Tell David to come in,” she would say.
Finally, on the eighth day, when she was firmly lucid, her father spoke to her. “We have something to tell you,” he said softly. “Baby, David didn’t make it.” The room spun as Carrie’s mind and heart reeled at the shock of those words. She cried out in agony, but encased in casts and hooked to multiple tubes and wires, she couldn’t even hug her mother, father, or sister Jennifer. It was the most alone she had ever felt.
She discovered that David had gone into cardiac arrest in the helicopter on the way from Mosul to Baghdad, completely shocking even the surgeons. His internal injuries were more serious than anyone had imagined. He died the day after Carrie last saw him.
On the same day she learned of her husband’s death, she discovered his funeral was being held in Colorado and that she could not travel to be there. Understanding the logic with her mind, her heart wept at not being able to share in the service that would honor and celebrate her husband’s life.
Lord, sustain me through my own moments of isolation and give me the strength to face each new day.
“I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the LORD sustains me.” (Psalm 3:5)