The Unresponsive Moment in the Bathroom

I hadn’t been feeling well all weekend—nausea, stomach pain, and a sense of unease. By the third day the pain sharpened, making me feel like I needed to vomit or have a bowel movement but could do neither. Hoping to ease the nausea, I lay down, but nothing helped. Eventually, I went to the bathroom to throw up, only to be hit with wave after wave of sickness. My body couldn’t decide what it needed, so I stayed near the toilet, feeling unbearably hot and peeling off my sweater.

Then everything spiraled. While stooped over the toilet, my body released violently from both ends. It went on so long that eventually only clear liquid came, until I started to bleed from my rectum. My best friend called 911 and my brother, who arrived before the ambulance and began to pray. By then I was losing so much fluid and becoming dangerously weak.

On all fours in the bathroom, I felt myself slipping out of reality. My body would not hold me up, my eyes wouldn’t stay open, and my brother’s voice began to fade. My last words were, “God, where are You?” before I collapsed flat on the floor. Time felt suspended. The world muted. My body was unresponsive but my mind was still awake, and then I heard it: “Fight.” A second time, louder: “Fight.” Finally, thunderous: “FIGHT.”

It was the same voice that had called me to strength the morning I learned I had breast cancer. Though my body was shutting down, something ignited within me. In my mind I was speaking with God. The treatment meant to save me was also slowly destroying me, but in that moment, on the edge of survival, I felt His presence. I didn’t leave my body or see light; He met me right there in the stillness—the sanctuary of my mind—where I stopped trying to manage everything and allowed something deeper to take over: surrender, peace, and trust beyond my own strength.