A little over a year ago, my husband Scott and I were living out what we thought would be our dream vacation. We had planned our Greece trip for years, Athens, Mykonos, and Santorini (we saved the best for last). I pictured sunsets, whitewashed buildings, blue domes, endless hummus, and the Mediterranean breeze. 

 

What I didn’t imagine was that this trip would nearly take my life and change it forever. 

 

By the time we reached Santorini, six days into our ten-day trip, I wasn’t feeling well. I was nauseous, tired, and uninterested in food. I chalked it up to travel fatigue or the Greek food. A good night’s sleep, some Tums, and Gatorade would fix it, I thought. 

 

It didn’t. 

 

I woke up in the worst pain of my life, and I gave birth to three nine-pound babies without an epidural, so I know pain. I was vomiting uncontrollably, unable to lift my head off the bathroom floor. I told Scott I thought I was dying and to call for medical help. A nurse arrived from a small clinic at the bottom of the hill, gave me shots to stop the vomiting, and helped Scott half-carry me down the steep path through crowds of tourists. 

 

At the clinic, the doctor scolded me for not seeking help earlier. I was dangerously dehydrated, and after a CT scan confirmed his suspicion of a ruptured appendix, he told us I needed emergency surgery. But Santorini doesn’t have a hospital. I would need to be flown to Athens. 

He stabilized me with IV fluids, antibiotics, and pain medication. At one point, he asked, “Are you a person of faith?” When I said yes, he replied, “Your bowel is covering your appendix and keeping the poison contained. God is saving you. You are a blessed woman.” 

 

He was right. 

 

While waiting for an air transfer, I notified my kids across different time zones. Madison, my oldest, who lives on the East Coast, answered first, despite having a newborn at home. Morgan and Maguire, both in California, were next to get the news.  We tried to be strong for each other, but ended up in tears. I texted my Bible study group and friends for prayer, knowing I needed spiritual backup. 

 

The transfer to Athens was brutal: an ambulance, a medical flight, then another ambulance, where I bounced around like “a soda can in a truck bed,” as Scott described it. By the time I reached the hospital, twelve hours after diagnosis, I was in critical condition. 

 

The surgeon met me at the ambulance bay. Something in my spirit whispered - This is serious. I kissed Scott goodbye before being wheeled away, praying not only for healing but to live. 

 

The surgery lasted two and a half hours. My appendix had ruptured, and I was dangerously septic.  My surgery couldn’t be done laparoscopically and required a large incision. I was left intubated for twelve hours after surgery. The doctor later told Scott, “If you had waited two more hours, she wouldn’t have made it.” 

 

I woke in the ICU surrounded by tubes and machines. A central line stitched into my neck delivered multiple medications at once, and I needed oxygen to breathe. The room was sweltering hot, filled with foreign voices, and Scott was allowed to visit the ICI only one hour a day. I was alone, terrified, and plagued by extreme pain and hallucinations from the medications. 

 

I prayed constantly and sang my favorite worship song in my head, “Run to the Father,” by Cody Carnes. But despair was closing in. 

 

And then God sent me a miracle. 

 

Her name was Lydia. 

 

She came on shift the afternoon of my second day in ICU and spoke English. She had kind blue eyes, strawberry-blond hair, and a calming smile. She touched my arm and said, “You’re going to be okay. This same thing happened to me.” 

 

I could hardly believe it. She explained that her appendix had also ruptured in Santorini and that I’d be in the hospital for about a week. Up until then, I felt like a broken body under a sheet, not a person. But Lydia saw me. She cared for me. 

 

When I said I was hot, she turned on a fan. When I complained of cracked lips, she moistened them with a damp cloth, then gave me mouthwash and lip balm. She even pulled back my tangled hair with a clip from her purse, which I still have. 

 

She restored my humanity and my hope. Through tears, I told her she was an answer to prayer, an angel sent by God. She smiled and said, “I’ll be your angel.” 

 

That night, she comforted me through coughing and choking fits. By the next day, after receiving four units of blood and plasma, my labs improved enough to move me out of the ICU. Lydia’s shift hadn’t yet begun. I never saw her again.  

 

But her impact on my life is unforgettable. 

 

In a regular room, Scott could finally stay with me. He slept on a couch while I lay in a bed with a distant view of the Acropolis. Just a week earlier, we had toured it as carefree travelers. Now I stared at it as a survivor. Physical therapists helped me walk again, and slowly I gained enough strength to move on my own. 

 

We learned we couldn’t be discharged or fly home until our hospital bill was paid in full. Travel insurance covered the emergency transport and return flight, but not the hospital stay. We didn’t have the funds. Our daughters suggested a GoFundMe. Swallowing our pride, we agreed. 

 

The response was overwhelming. Friends, family, coworkers, and strangers donated and sent encouragement. Reading their messages felt like attending my own funeral and surviving it. We cried with gratitude, humbled and overwhelmed by love. 

 

But recovery didn’t end when we got home. 

 

I faced multiple infections, a second hospitalization, a blood transfusion, C. diff (Clostridioides difficile), and another surgery to remove a 6-inch non-dissolvable stitch. I battled fatigue, pain, and anxiety. I was fragile in every way. But I was home. And my people showed up. Neighbors delivered meals. My children traveled from across the country. My kitchen was stocked, my house filled with flowers, my arms wrapped around those I love. 

 

Over a year later, I’m still processing it all. Some scars are visible; others are not. I still cry when I tell the story. I still get emotional when someone says, “I prayed for you.” But I’m here. And I’m grateful. 

 

To my family, friends, church, neighbors, coworkers, and even strangers - thank you. Your prayers, encouragement, and support carried Scott and me through the darkest days. You were part of my miracle. 

 

To Lydia, my angel in the ICU - thank you for reminding me I was still a person, for seeing me when I felt invisible, for giving me hope when I didn’t have much. 

 

And to God - thank you for never letting go, for carrying me through the valley and showing up in the form of an ICU nurse named Lydia. 

 

If you’ve read this far, let me leave you with this: 

 

Miracles still happen. God still sees you. He still heals. And He still sends angels, even if they wear scrubs and carry lip balm. 

 

Whatever you’re going through, don’t give up. Keep praying. Keep believing. Your miracle might be just around the corner. 

Publisher’s note: It was hard enough to read this version of Michelle’s journey, but if you feel like reading the full version, just scan the QR Code and hopefully you can access the link on LinkedIn.  For you, Michelle, we are all thankful that you had God’s arms around you and at least one angel there to encourage and care for you.  Thank you for sharing your story with the rest of us.