On January 7, 1992, I was in a serious car wreck. My husband was an over-the-road truck driver, only home every few weeks or so. It was time for him to go back to work. We only had one car, so he would drive all of us to the city he worked out of, then I would drive myself and our two children back home.

I don't remember that day at all. I don't remember saying goodbye to him, nor do I remember anything that happened once I got behind the wheel of the car. The next time that I remember anything, it was almost Valentine's Day.

On our drive home, one of my children apparently wanted something that had fallen in the floor of the front seat of the car. I leaned over to get it and lost control of the car. It rolled over and over down a steep hill. Thankfully, someone witnessed the accident, and called for help.

My children, then 3 and 5 years old, were easily removed from the car; not so for me. The "jaws of life" had to be used to pry me out of the wreckage. My children, Mandi and Kyle, were sent to stay with my parents and the authorities contacted my husband, who immediately left for the hospital where they were flying me by helicopter. He was already at the hospital when they wheeled me into emergency surgery to stop my internal bleeding.

A chaplain met him in the waiting room. He asked my husband, Todd, if he wanted to pray. Todd said he did and grabbed the chaplain's hands and led him in a prayer for my healing. I came out of emergency surgery much faster than they expected. The doctors easily found the problem - my injured spleen had to be removed.

My husband was told that I would be in a coma for at least 6 weeks, if I lived. Most doubted that I would survive. If I didn‘t die, I would have brain damage and think on about the level of a six-year old. They said I would never walk again, nor regain full use of my left arm, which had bent at the elbow and become pinned up against me.

My husband camped out in the waiting room. He stayed with me, continually praying over me, asking the Lord what he should do. He really didn't want to prevent them from doing something that would save me, but neither did he want to allow them to do something unnecessary. They had inserted breathing tubes and I was hooked up to all kinds of monitors. When they decided that it was time to remove my breathing tube, I couldn't breathe on my own. They attempted it several times with no luck and then wanted Todd to sign papers allowing them to insert a trach. He really had a hard time with this one. He asked God to send him some sort of sign. Later that night, while he was in my room praying over me, a nurse entered the room. She looked around to make sure that no one else was around, closed the door and pulled the curtains around my bed.
She grabbed my husband’s arm and whispered to him, “According to her charts they want to trach her. Listen, I’ve been a nurse for a long time. Your wife is going to be alright. There is no need for them to trach her.”

The doctor came in the next day and told my husband to sign the papers for the procedure. Todd remembered what the nurse had told him and said, “Tell you what, try one more time to remove the breathing tubes. If it doesn’t work, I’ll sign your papers.” So, they tried one more time, and were successful.

I was at Humana Hospital in Louisville, Ky. After spending about a week there, they moved me to Cardinal Hill in Lexington, Ky. That is where I have my first memory.

Don't miss the miracles God has in store for Lisa. A Story of God's Healing.