The Early Years
Pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, but shouts in our pains. It is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.
C. S. Lewis
RYAN
Selena and I celebrated our second anniversary on a jumbo jet somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. By the time we boarded that flight, we had already faced doubt, division, and financial ruin. And I had almost died. Seriously. Here’s how it happened.
We got married in early September just before our junior year of college. Almost two years later and just a few weeks before graduation, neither of us had strong career prospects. I was a janitor for the mid-rise apartment building where we lived (for the record, I preferred to be called a Master of the Custodial Arts). Selena worked as a barista at Starbucks.
Somewhere between studying for finals and procrastinating, Selena found a job opportunity on an equestrian recruitment website. She’s always been passionate about horses—riding, jumping, grooming, and everything else.
When she discovered a job offer for an “au pair/groom” position at a private show-jumping facility near Zürich, Switzerland, it piqued her interest. She didn’t think I’d go for it because the pay was totally unrealistic. However, when she half-jokingly proposed the opportunity, my response surprised her: “Let’s do it!”
“Wait. What?” She was shocked.
“I’m serious, let’s do it!”
That evening Selena emailed the person who posted the job, and in less than a week she was hired for the position. I was a “tagalong” hire who would perform random tasks around the equestrian facility. Together we would make two thousand Swiss francs per month, around eighteen hundred dollars at the time. It wasn’t enough to live on, but we didn’t care. We’d make it work.
After our college graduation ceremony, we were bursting with anticipation as we packed our bags, sold everything we could, and parked my bright yellow 1977 VW Bus in Selena’s mom’s garage. (I couldn’t bring myself to sell it.) I’d miss her, but “The Twinkie” would have to wait there until we returned. Three days later we boarded a plane to spend a year in Europe.
There we were, a couple in our early twenties headed out for an adventure we’d never forget. We had seen the pictures of where we were going to work and live, and the facility looked like a dream—nestled in rural Switzerland with a breathtaking view of the Alps.
We had no clue that the adventure was doomed weeks before we boarded that first airplane.
Sabotaged by Sickness
My symptoms first became obvious on our layover in Copenhagen. I’d had a lingering cough for two months prior to our departure, but it was totally manageable until then. I assumed it was just allergies or, at worst, a mild case of bronchitis. Regardless, I’d been able to power through my shifts as a janitor, drink a few energy drinks, study all night, and go to class in the morning.
Sleep was truly an option during college, and one I’d opted out of far too many times. At one point during finals week I stayed up for three days straight in order to finish my capstone presentation. I faithfully lived my college-life motto: “When in doubt, caffeinate.”
The long hours working and studying caught up with me in Europe. By the time we arrived at the Zürich airport, my body ached, I had constant chills, and nothing I did made me feel warmer. We both reasoned that I had a cold or viral sickness and it would pass in a few days. I figured it was my body detoxing from the long hours and horrible diet from the previous months (and by that I mean my whole college career).
Our new boss, Dani, met us at the baggage claim. We loaded our luggage into his car and headed off to his home—our workplace—in a small town about thirty minutes away. We would get settled, get acquainted, and within thirty-six hours, get to work. I informed Dani of my sickness and he agreed that I could take a few days off to feel better before starting my job.
As we discovered, the Swiss work ethic is just shy of superhuman! Our work hours were 6:00 a.m. until well after 7:00 p.m., Monday through Saturday. At one point we calculated our hourly rate was around thirty cents per hour. Ridiculous, I know, but what an adventure!
Weeks passed, and instead of feeling better, I felt worse. Dani grew suspect of my sickness. He was a man of impressive stature, both physically and socially, and the closest thing to a real-life Terminator I’ve ever seen. He was six feet three inches tall, wore a tattered black leather jacket, spoke at least three languages, and had successfully built a small commercial empire through hard work and business acumen. He was a self-made man with a disdain for slackers.
Honestly, I don’t blame him for his suspicion. We had been there for several weeks, and I had yet to work a full day. For all he knew, I was a “lazy American.” I certainly felt that way. We had flown halfway around the world in pursuit of Selena’s dream of riding horses in Europe, and I could hardly even get out of bed.
At the advice of a friend (and because we didn’t want to pay full price for medicine), we had purchased traveler’s insurance for thirty-five dollars per month. It wasn’t in the budget, but we thought it would be a good investment. We decided it was time to use it. With some translation help from Dani, I scheduled an appointment for the next day with a small doctor’s office a few kilometers away.
We didn’t know what was wrong, and as it turned out, the doctors didn’t know either. My doctor did the best he could with the equipment he had on-site. He deduced that I had an aggressive bacterial infection that was best treated by antibiotics, pain medicine, and rest. He prescribed the appropriate medications and told me to call back in a week.
I left, made a beeline to the closest pharmacy, and swallowed those pills as quickly as I could. The medicine helped! Finally I felt better and my energy was restored. I carried on with my tasks as a farmhand: shoveling dung, building and repairing barns, and anything else Dani assigned. I didn’t enjoy the job, per se, but getting fresh air felt incredible.
My enthusiasm didn’t last long though. While the pain medication made me feel better, the antibiotics weren’t curing me. My symptoms subsided while the problem—whatever it was—grew worse. Nonetheless, I pushed through. I worked every day until my strength was gone.
Every morning I woke up, popped a painkiller, took my amoxicillin, and started work. By noon my body was throbbing and weak. So I’d take a thirty-minute power nap, down another painkiller, and get out to the barn. Sometimes I’d finish the entire day; other times I was too weak to continue. Eventually I became incapable of working as the sickness overwhelmed my body.
One morning, Dani called a meeting with us and his wife, Sabine. It didn’t take long to realize where the conversation was going. Dani and Sabine were unsatisfied with our performance. Though Selena worked very hard, Dani said she only completed the tasks of “one third of a person.” They had hired two workers and, in their minds, we equaled less than one. I was nearly useless with some unidentified sickness and Selena, though well intentioned, was ill-suited for the job. (To be honest, there were some dynamics going on with other workers at the facility that may have influenced their perception. But it’s not worth getting into. Besides, perception is reality, right?)
I felt helpless. I understood Dani’s frustration with my output, but I was powerless to do anything about it. Was I the reason our dream—Selena’s dream—would end here? Was I the reason for our failure?
To make matters worse, we were supposed to teach their five-year-old daughter English in our off time. She was very shy and hardly warmed up to either of us. We managed to teach her ten words. Dani and Sabine added that to the pile of failed expectations.
After twenty minutes of hearing their disappointment, we settled on an arrangement. We had two weeks to prove we were worth keeping around. Otherwise we were fired and had to return to the States.
Disaster Deepens
Selena and I spent the evening discussing possible ways to work harder and faster. What if we woke up earlier and slept less? How about sweeping and mucking stalls in a new pattern to reduce the time required? It took a few hours to get there, but eventually we resigned all hope of staying.
Any pace increase would be unsustainable and the pay wasn’t worth it. We could barely afford groceries, let alone travel throughout Europe. Even if we could, we wouldn’t get far with one day off each week. Also our student loans, although deferred, would be knocking on our financial door soon, so any money we might have “saved” was already spoken for.
Reality is such a buzzkill.
After about two hours of deliberating, we decided to propose a new plan to Dani and Sabine. We would spend the next two weeks working our tails off, then we’d pack our nonessentials into their plastic crates and toss them in their basement before hopping on a train to explore Europe for two to three weeks. We had no clue how we’d pay for the trip, but that wasn’t important. I started planning our trip on an Excel spreadsheet, meticulously mapping the days, train times, and hostel options one by one.
We were literally going for broke. Our original plan had failed, but at least we’d go out in a blaze of glory!
The next morning we spoke with Dani and told him our idea. He agreed to let us store our stuff at their place. I could tell he was relieved to end our arrangement.
I may have been short on strength but I still had plenty of pride. I wanted to prove to Dani that I wasn’t lazy—that he had made a huge mistake doubting the Fredericks. I wanted him to wish we would stay.
We returned to our jobs with refreshed vigor. My final task was a big one: I had to remove, level, and rebuild the floors of four horse stalls. It may not sound like much, but for one guy who had never done anything like it, it would take all of two weeks. I was determined to get it done. I had to convince myself—and Selena, I thought—that I wasn’t the reason we couldn’t cut it.
I started by prying up the old rubber mats that lined the floors of each stall. The smell of horse urine was so strong I had to hold my breath while pulling each two-foot by two-foot square up to set it aside.
The next step was to level the floor, which was now a sloppy, muddy, pee-soaked mess. Dani had a pile of gravel delivered and waiting nearby. I shoveled the material into a wheelbarrow, dumped multiple loads in each stall, and compacted the new base with the underside of the shovel. After some fine adjustments the foundation was ready. All of this took about three days, and I went to bed exhausted each night.
My next task was to place twelve-inch hexagon paver bricks on the gravel to create solid flooring for the horses. The bricks had been delivered fifty feet away from the project site. I got to work loading them into the wheelbarrow and carting them across the rugged terrain to my site. The labor was tough, but with my mysterious sickness it seemed impossible.
Surely I’d start feeling better soon. I just had to work harder. I had to prove I wasn’t the reason for our dream’s demise.
Again I pressed on with the help of my pain meds. The only problem was that my antibiotic medication ran out on Friday and my doctor’s office was closed on the weekends. So I doubled down on the painkillers and finished Saturday’s work the best I could.
Throughout the whole ordeal, I experienced wild swings of hot and cold flashes. One moment I’d be shivering so violently from chills that I needed to soak in a blazing-hot bath. The next moment I’d be so hot I would drip sweat like I was in a military-style CrossFit class. The Sunday my pain meds ran out was the worst yet. The hot/cold cycles were amplified and there was no chance I’d work the next morning. I told Dani I needed to rest and mentioned I should go into town to see my doctor and refill my prescription. He informed me that it was Swiss National Day and no businesses were open. I was out of luck.
I spent Monday trying to rest, except I was feeling worse than ever. Selena and I started to worry. Whatever this sickness was, it was accelerating and there was nowhere to go and nobody who could help. I hunkered down for the evening and decided to call my doctor as soon as his office opened.
The next morning was much chillier than usual, and it had started to rain. I immediately called my doctor’s office once business hours resumed, but no one picked up. I asked Dani if he could give me a ride; he was apologetic but unavailable. I asked to borrow the bicycle, but Sabine had taken it for the day. My only option was to walk the four kilometers by myself in the rain.
I couldn’t take another day of this, so I headed out on foot.
The Awful Truth
About forty minutes later I arrived in the lobby of my doctor’s office. Usually I would practice my German as I spoke with the receptionist and nurses. Today was different; I had nothing German to say. Thankfully most Swiss people speak English pretty well.
“I need help, now!” I said with urgency and an elevated volume.
“But you don’t have an appointment,” the receptionist replied, a little puzzled.
I’m sure I was a sad sight to behold: shivering out of control, soaked from head to toe, and the color of my face matching the stark white on the walls.
“I don’t care, I need to see a doctor now,” I insisted.
“Well, your doctor is on holiday for Swiss National Day and won’t return for another week,” she said.
Not only had my prescription run out on Friday afternoon but my doctor’s office was closed Saturday, Sunday, and Monday—and now he would be gone for an entire week. I honestly didn’t think I’d survive that long.
“Please help me,” I said, as I shuddered.
The receptionist had mercy. She instructed me to sit in the lobby so she could assess the situation.
After a few minutes a nurse invited me back to a part of the clinic I had never seen before. She ran the routine tests I’d grown accustomed to: check the pulse (always fast), take the temperature (always hot), prick the finger to test the blood (still infected). Nothing new.
What was new, however, was the profuse sweating, shaking, and elevated panic I was experiencing.
By that time she sensed something was very wrong. She asked me to wait a few more minutes so she could speak with the other doctor and bring him up to speed on my case.
I needed to lie down. I was seated on a metal table about the length of my body so I swiveled around, put my feet up, and lay back. It felt good to rest after walking all that way in the rain. However, by then I was shaking so violently that it was a fight to stay on the table. I barely managed not to fall off.
Finally the other doctor entered the room.
“Please sit up,” he said with Swiss efficiency.
I obliged.
He pressed an icy stethoscope to my chest and listened. He moved it and listened some more, now with a concerned look on his face.
He pulled the earpieces from his ears, pushed his glasses back into place on the bridge of his nose, and glanced through my medical chart again. Then he paused.
Again with the stethoscope. This time he didn’t move it at all; he just kept it positioned in the same place. After two minutes of listening, he pulled the earpieces out again and stepped back.
“We need to get you to the hospital right away,” he said.
I immediately thought of our meager pay and limited insurance. “How much is that going to cost?”
He responded with something I’ll never forget.
“You either go to the hospital or you die. You choose. Something is terribly wrong with your heart.” I immediately thought of Selena.
SELENA
Ryan had been gone for over an hour, but I didn’t think anything of it. Rain was pouring down, and I had just finished exercising one of the younger horses. Wet, muddy, and a bit frustrated from the past week’s events, I was more than ready to get the horses put away and start their lunch so I could get my own and take a nap.
“Selena?” Dani called for me in the barn.
“Yes, in here,” I hollered back while brushing down the fidgety young horse.
“We need to go to the hospital. A doctor called us. They said Ryan is sick and we need to go.” The anxiety in his voice made my heart skip a beat.
“Okay, I’ll be there in a sec . . .”
“We need to go now,” Dani said more forcefully. “The other groom will finish here.”
I left immediately with Dani—with stained breeches, muddy boots, a damp sweatshirt, and my wallet. Off we went to the local hospital.
I remember thinking, I hope he’s okay. I wonder why we all need to go down there. Maybe he’s too tired to walk back and it’s really rainy. I had no idea what to expect.
Growing up with a mom who is a registered nurse showed me how to keep a level head when sickness or injury happened in our family. My worry level for Ryan’s health was about a three on a scale of ten. Being the young wife and naïve twenty-three-year-old that I was, I figured Ryan and I would have plenty of time to chat and process the day’s events back at our little apartment on the farm that evening (antibiotics in hand, of course).
After arriving at the hospital, Dani and I walked into the room where Ryan was sitting up in a bed. The doctor came in and explained that they were going to do an ultrasound of his heart (an echocardiogram) because they had heard a murmur during their examination.
The severity of the situation started to sink in after the technician gave us the results of the ultrasound. Ryan had a bacterial growth, approximately two centimeters long, attached to his mitral valve. Every time his heart beat, and the valve opened and closed, the growth would flap around like a flag. That was the murmur they heard.
“Okay, so how do we treat this?” I asked with fear in my voice. “What do we do?”
After the technician explained the ultrasound results, the doctor said that we needed to go now to the main hospital in Zürich via ambulance so the staff there could monitor Ryan. They had called to consult the head of cardiology at the state hospital in Zürich, and his orders were to get Ryan there as quickly as possible.
We were escorted to an ambulance. Ryan was wheeled in a hospital bed while hooked up to a heart monitor. I walked alongside him in my muddy attire. I had nothing but a few Swiss francs in my wallet, my passport, a nearly empty international calling card, and a rail pass. More importantly, I had no idea where we were going, how or when we’d get back, or if Ryan would be alive for the next week.
I felt numb to the situation. Neither of us could process exactly what was happening, and as we sat in the back of the ambulance with few private moments to ourselves, shame set in.
What did I say to my husband, who had given so much for me? Out of my own selfishness, I had allowed frustration and bitterness to build up in my heart. I had let myself grow angry at him because of a situation—a sickness—that was out of his control.
How and where did I begin?
I thought, I’m sorry for being so frustrated with you for being sick the last few weeks. I’m sorry for trying to push you to work a little harder and a little longer so we could stay in Switzerland in pursuit of my riding dream. I’m sorry that I am a horrible and selfish wife. I’m sorry that I had no idea that my pushing you was almost killing you.
All I wanted to do was apologize. There were no tears or other emotions yet.
We arrived at Triemli Hospital, where the Swiss head of cardiology was waiting to examine Ryan. After a long afternoon of tests, fear and frustration started to set in. I felt like paperwork and bills were already piling up and we had no money to pay them. With everything being written and spoken in Swiss-German, it took us twice as long to communicate with hospital staff and insurance people.
I spent the night holding his hand and sleeping in a chair next to his bed. I was still in my dried, muddy riding clothes, and Ryan was finally experiencing some comfort—a sweet relief for both of us.
The doctors didn’t know what type of bacteria the growth was. So the plan of choice was to administer a cocktail of antibiotics intravenously for a week in hopes of killing the infection.
We were looking at being in the hospital for at least a week. That meant I needed to figure out how to get back to the farm to get everything we needed.
Smartphones weren’t a thing yet, so I had to find my way back the old-fashioned way: ask someone for directions and write them down with pen and paper. I needed familiarity, I needed to get back to the only place we knew as “home,” and I needed some time alone.
Through broken English, a kind nurse talked me through the best route home. He spoke, I wrote. His directions guided me to navigate to the trolley, through the main train station to the correct train, and eventually to my stop. I kissed Ryan goodbye and assured him that I would be back the next day.
I set out alone back to the farm. As I rode the trolley and trains, fear began to grip my heart and mind. I was alone in a foreign country, and my husband—my best friend—was helpless in the hospital. We had little money to our name, and I was in the same stinky clothes I had worn for the past two days.
Finally I made it back to the farm. Upon my arrival I received a stern reprimand from Sabine for not doing the laundry correctly. Another failure.
I couldn’t take any more. I broke down and cried. I cried because I was afraid. I cried because I was angry at myself and furious at God. I relentlessly asked him, “Why! Why Ryan? Why now? What did we do to deserve this?”
No answer, only more tears.
The reality of the situation sank in as the shock wore off. Ryan was dangerously sick and at death’s doorstep. Death. I had finally reached the end of my already-frayed rope. I got down on my knees and opened my clenched fists that I had been shaking at God. Then I raised my hands in surrender and humbly pleaded with him to help me. To help us.
At that moment, his peace flooded my soul.
Even though I had no idea what the coming days would bring, I knew God was with me. He was there with us, and his presence was all we needed.
A Life-or-Death Gamble
Within days Ryan’s parents had arrived in Zürich and were at the hospital with us. We were both deeply relieved and thankful for their presence and support.
After a week in the hospital with Ryan on intravenous antibiotics, the doctors performed another ultrasound to measure the size of the bacterial growth. If it was smaller, we’d have tangible hope. If it didn’t shrink, Ryan would have to undergo one of the most invasive surgeries a human can face, with a real chance of not making it out alive.
The test results confirmed our fears. Despite the treatment, the bacteria had actually grown. The doctors needed to open him up and remove it as soon as possible or risk it breaking off, flowing to his brain, and causing a stroke.
They put Ryan on the schedule for open-heart surgery the next morning.
Ryan was twenty-two years old, and he’d always been concerned with his legacy. He’d always wanted to make a lasting mark on the world, even if he wouldn’t be here to see it made. So he took to his journal and began to write.
As surgery approached, Ryan wrote his will. He wrote last letters to his parents, his brother, a few best friends, and me. After he finished, he closed his journal and we began to talk—just us.
We talked about our future and the babies we would have if he survived. We discussed the reality of my life if he didn’t make it—how he didn’t want me to be alone, how he wanted to make sure I was cared for in his absence. Needless to say, it was an emotional conversation.
He spent the last part of the evening watching Swiss TV and chatting with his dad before we all returned to our own beds, anxious for the morning.
The next day we woke and went to the hospital. They let me walk alongside Ryan to where they would prep him for surgery. We held each other in a long hug, kissed goodbye, and said, “See you in a few hours.”
After the four longest hours of my life, the doctor finally called us over.
“We removed the bacterial growth,” he said, “and did not have to use a prosthetic valve. He has a bit of backflow, but it is manageable. And since we kept his valve, he won’t have to be on blood-thinning medicine the rest of his life. He’s in recovery right now, and we will let you see him after he’s moved to the ICU.”
Praise God! He’d made it! In a moment, with a few sentences, we had our future back. Our dreams of life together, babies, and memories would still happen. I still had my husband.
After a few minutes they informed us that Ryan had been moved. I followed the nurse down the corridor, through the heavy doors, and around the curtain to where Ryan was resting. I raced over to kiss him on the forehead. He was still on the ventilator, and countless other machines were beeping, flashing, and pulsing. It was a difficult sight to see, but my husband was still alive.
After a few hours the doctors gave the go-ahead to remove the ventilator. Once it was removed, he began to wake up. The doctors and nurses were gathered around with Ryan’s parents and me.
Disoriented, he asked, “Is it over? Is it over?”
“Yes, babe! You made it!” I replied. “The surgery is over!”
He opened his eyes and with a groggy voice exclaimed, “We can have babies!”
Giggling, I replied, “Yes! Lots!”
He recognized my voice and became more aware of the situation.
“No . . . ,” he said with a drowsy sigh.
We all had a good laugh.
I was relieved, to say the least. My Ryan was here, alive. Soon he would be on the mend.