The Miracle
A true story told to me by my maternal grandmother Joyce Edwards.
I am not religious, but I do believe in the power of the mind. My maternal grandmother, told me this story when I was a child and it has always pulled at me. It is ironic that I now live in the same city where this story occurred, all the more reason to tell it.
My grandmother was a woman of great faith. She always carried her King James bible in her purse. Black, worn leather, soft, thin, yellowy pages, small writing and beautifully illustrated. I loved looking at those pictures. She took me to church with her often and I would get hot and bored and sleepy. I know I complained loudly, but she was kind and gentle. She would let me lie in her lap, stroke my hair and cool me down with her hand-fan.
For her, every day would begin and end in prayer, kneeling, head bowed, hands clasped, giving thanks and sending blessings to everyone precious in her life. She didn’t just believe, she practiced her faith, extending kindness, support and charity to strangers, to family, to animals, to anyone in need. She did so without hesitation and always quietly, without anyone knowing. She never expected repayment or gratitude. Her faith was solid, unshakeable. She had experienced what few have and all need. A miracle.
My mother was seven when the car hit her. She was crossing the street with her older brother and neither of them saw it coming until it was almost too late. He was faster than she was. He was unscathed, she was thrown violently. She struck her head on the road and broke her leg. Her leg healed over the next few weeks but a brain is not so resilient. Her skull was fractured from the trauma. She began to experience frequent and violent seizures. The doctors predicted that the seizures would intensify and the girl’s life would become extremely difficult, perhaps unbearable without treatment.
It was around this time that a young Montreal neurosurgeon, Dr. Wilder Penfield, discovered a surgical treatment for epilepsy, the brain disorder characterized by sudden and recurrent seizures. My grandmother read about him in the newspaper. She was not a woman of wealth, but of resourcefulness, and she found a way to connect with Dr. Penfield. She managed to find the money to buy two plane tickets to Montreal, booked a room in a hostel and arranged an appointment at the now world-famous Montreal Neurological Institute. I can only imagine that achieving this would have been very challenging, particularly in those days, and especially from a location as isolated as Barbados.
My grandmother was alone with her young daughter in a strange place, determined to do whatever it took to heal her child. She was deeply afraid but continued to cling to her faith. It shielded her.
Upon seeing the girl, Dr. Penfield recommended immediate surgery as the only course of action. I expect she was a perfect candidate for his new technique. The operation was scheduled for the following morning. My grandmother was both relieved and terrified. The risks were great. The procedure was still fledgling and could result in permanent brain damage.
She took her daughter back to the hotel room and prayed all night that the surgery would go well. She prayed for peace. She prayed for strength. She prayed for Dr. Penfield. She prayed for her daughter. She prayed for herself.
In her own words, there was suddenly movement in the room, and a figure appeared. She recognized him as Jesus. She watched him lean over her daughter and touch her head. And then he was gone. She was no longer afraid. She felt calm. She felt strength. She fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. The first in many months.
The next morning, at the Neurological Institute, Dr. Penfield examined his young patient in preparation for surgery. He looked up at my grandmother with a confused look in his eyes. He said he had never seen anything so peculiar, that her daughter was perfect, healed. That she no longer needed surgery. My grandmother told him that she already knew that. She told him that she was confident that her daughter would never suffer from another seizure again. That she had seen her “Lord and Saviour” in her hotel room. That he had performed a miracle in front of her eyes.
My grandmother was not a confabulator, nor was she insane or delusional. She was simply a woman of faith. She believed what she saw. Her daughter Julie, my mother, never experienced another seizure after that night in Montreal. Perhaps miracles do happen.
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