Healed On Purpose Blog
Published on January 27, 2026 by Tamera Mathis
The Breeze That Never Came
When I looked toward 2026 from my hospital bed back in October, I had a specific vision in my head. I thought that once the surgery was over and I survived the operating table, the rest would be a breeze. I imagined walking out of Duke University Hospital, breathing in the fresh air, and sliding right back into a "normal," healthy life. I was wrong. The truth is, while the surgery gave me a new heart and kidney, the recovery introduced me to a level of suffering I wasn’t prepared for. I thought I was heading for a finish line, but I actually walked into a full-time job—and the hours are grueling.
The Darkest Week
I haven’t shared this part yet, but my discharge from the hospital was actually delayed by a full two weeks. Not because the organs weren’t working, but because my mind and body were under a relentless attack. I struggled with major anxiety and panic attacks that felt like they were suffocating me. On top of the mental weight, I was hit with a nausea so violent and constant that I couldn't even look at food. I watched the scale drop until I had lost a total of 20 lbs. It got so bad that the doctors began discussing something that I never envisioned: a feeding tube. There were moments when the suffering was so intense that I begged to be put to sleep. I just wanted the world to go dark so I wouldn't have to feel the panic or the sickness anymore. Call me crazy, but I even asked them to take me to the psych ward. I truly felt like I was going crazy. The suffering in my mind was taking such a toll on me that I looked around and all I could see were the walls closing in. I felt like I was losing it all. I couldn't trust anyone to understand the weight that I was carrying. I knew the nurses worked with patients like me all the time, but not once had they ever truly felt what the patients go through—they couldn't even imagine the reality of it. I felt like a prisoner in my own body, trapped between a life-saving miracle and a mind-bending nightmare.
The Bed and the Song
In those moments, I felt completely alone. I felt like no one was listening—not the doctors, not the nurses, and sometimes, in my darkest thoughts, not even God. I remember laying in that hospital bed, too weak to move but too anxious to be still. I would literally rock myself to sleep, a grown woman trying to soothe her own soul. I didn't have headphones; I didn't want to hide the sound. I just let my phone play one song on a relentless loop, filling the sterile silence of that room: "Come Jesus, Come" by CeCe Winans. As the lyrics rang out—"Come Jesus, come / We’ve been waiting so long"—I let her voice cry out for me when I had no words left. I needed the atmosphere to change. I needed Him to come into that room, into that nausea, and into that panic. I had to let that truth play out loud just to keep my mind from shattering. It was a roller coaster that I didn’t buy a ticket for, and there were times I looked at the ceiling and asked: "What in the world have I gotten myself into?"
The "Why" Behind the Weight
I knew this wouldn't be easy, but I didn't expect the toll it would take. I didn't expect that "healing" would feel so much like "hurting." But as I stand here in January, home and finally away from the threat of a feeding tube, I realize that the 20 lbs I lost wasn’t just weight; it was a stripping away of my old self. God allowed me to see the bottom so I would know exactly who was holding me up. If you are entering 2026 and you feel "behind," or if you are rocking yourself to sleep because the anxiety of your situation is too much to bear—I see you. You aren't ungrateful for your miracle; you are just in the middle of the maintenance.
Stewardship is a Full-Time Job
Since coming home, the work hasn't stopped. It’s a constant cycle of endless appointments, unexpected hospitalizations, and medication changes. My calendar is a sea of dates and clinics, and I’ve had to return to the very hospital I fought so hard to leave. Every day brings the constant tweaking of the chemical balance keeping me alive. It is exhausting. But I am learning that the cost of this new life is my total surrender. I am no longer in charge of my schedule; my recovery is. And while I still have days where the "What have I done?" thoughts creep in, I look at my family and I remember that the toll is high, but the prize is priceless.
2026: Walking Out the Process
This year, my resolution isn't to be "perfect." It’s to be present. Even in the nausea, even in the anxiety, and even in the appointments, I am Healed On Purpose—even when the purpose feels heavy. We are taking this year one prayer, one song, and one breath at a time. The miracle is the gift, but the recovery is the sacrifice. Don’t be ashamed of the struggle; it’s just proof that you’re still in the fight.
__________________________
Published on December 21, 2025 by Tamera Mathis
Not Delayed, But Reserved: The Victory Found in God's Calendar
The Weight of Hope
If you read my last blog post, “Delayed, Not Denied,” you know I’ve already faced the ultimate test of resilience: the call that came and then fell through. That night in September—the frantic race to Duke, the highway blockade, the flat tire, the kindness of the police officer—all of it was fueled by the conviction that my miracle had finally arrived. To be told at 1:30 AM that the donor heart was unusable, after overcoming every obstacle to get there, was a profound disappointment.
But the emotional cost wasn't paid in full that night. The real price was exacted in the weeks that followed. The wait for a transplant is already a heavy burden, but after the first false alarm, the waiting game transformed into an emotional gauntlet.
How do you keep your phone on full volume, ready to jump, while simultaneously trying to protect your heart from the same crushing disappointment? I had heard stories of others—I knew someone who endured three false alarms before receiving their heart. That knowledge was both a comfort and a terrifying prospect, reminding me that my journey might just be starting.
Every late-night ring became a jolt of anxiety, not just anticipation. I knew God’s word was true—"For I know the plans I have for you..." (Jeremiah 29:11)—but trusting His timeline felt harder than ever. I was living on a knife’s edge, praying for a sign but terrified to let my guard down and believe in the next call. The first call taught me that even when the path is cleared, the ultimate timing is not up to me.
The Return to Routine
The physical demands only compounded the emotional fatigue. After the long, quiet drive home from Duke, we finally arrived home around 4:00 AM. I was running on pure fumes, but I couldn't crash. I took a small nap, and then, just two hours later, I had to wake up at 6:00 AM to go straight to dialysis.
This was the harsh reality check. After nearly being wheeled into the operating room for a new life, I was back in a chair, tethered to a machine, continuing the old routine. It was a stark, brutal reminder that I was still waiting. Going back to dialysis that morning was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done—a quiet symbol of the promise that was temporarily retracted.
I continued to wake up, continued to pray, and continued to tell myself: I am delayed, but I am not denied.
The Real Call
That conviction was rewarded on October 19, 2025. It was 1:30 PM, a Sunday afternoon. My dad and my daughter, Laiya, had just come inside after blowing bubbles, and I had finished cleaning the kitchen. I was getting ready to walk back to my room when my phone lit up. The caller ID glowed: DUKE UNIVERSITY.
I froze. The memory of the last call—the adrenaline, the flat tire, the eventual heartbreak—flashed through my mind. I quickly answered. The transplant coordinator began speaking, explaining that organs were available. I looked at my dad, hope surging in my eyes, and managed to say, “Yes ma'am, I'm on the way.”
I hung up and, barely containing my excitement, turned to my dad and said, “It’s time!”
He was confused. "What?"
“Duke has a heart for me!” I repeated, already rushing to pack. The race was on again.
The Cautious Journey
This time, my approach was different. We packed up and took off for Durham, NC, but I didn't make a big deal of it. I didn't call everyone I knew. I had been burned before, and I wanted to protect my peace. I needed to see this through quietly, taking it easier this time, just me and my faith.
And, unlike the first chaotic trip, this journey was smooth. No obstacles delayed us. No police intervention was needed. We got to Duke University Hospital, and everything began moving smoothly.
The team immediately began prepping me. The surgeons and the anesthesiologist came in, talking me through the process and getting my consents. My mother arrived and came to the room with me. We prayed, we talked, and we took a sacred “before surgery” selfie—a final snapshot of the life I was leaving behind, ready for the one I was about to claim.
Around 9 PM, the team came in and said it was time. I instantly got jittery with excitement. At about 10 PM on Sunday night, they administered the anesthesia for the dual transplant. I was ready to surrender my body and trust God's plan completely.
Waking Up With Purpose
When I finally woke up on Tuesday morning around 4:30, I was disoriented. I was simply aware it was 4:30, unable to tell if it was AM or PM, and oblivious to the fact that I had missed a whole day of my life. My immediate, silent thought was: "Thank God I’m alive." (My mom would fill me in later on what day and time it actually was.)
I couldn't move much, but I began to take inventory: I can't speak, there’s a tube down my throat. Am I hurting? No, I felt no pain.
Where is everyone? I couldn't turn my head or sit up so I couldn't tell if I was alone or not. I began banging on the bed rail with my left hand, hoping someone would hear. My mom immediately got up and came over, calling the team in. They quickly examined me, removed the tube, and carefully sat me up.
The nurses and doctors were in and out for the next couple of hours, assessing my vitals and progress. At around 6 AM, they were ready for the next step: walking. They brought in a special walker, preparing for the slow, small steps they expected from someone who had just undergone two major surgeries.
But that wasn't what I gave them.
I got up like I felt no pain at all, and I began walking with a force and speed that startled the staff. I walked with PURPOSE. They were amazed. One doctor looked at me and said, “Just a few hours ago you were having heart surgery, now you're running down the hallway.” Another said, “Okay, Ms. Mathis, I’m starting to think you didn’t even have surgery.”
They could see it—the same truth I felt deep in my soul. My quick recovery was beyond clinical expectation. The power of God was showing!
Conclusion: Perfect Timing
The contrast between my first and second transplant calls couldn’t be sharper. The first call was a frenzy—a chaotic race against time, filled with roadblocks, a desperate flat tire change, and ended in heartbreak because the organs were deemed unsuitable. That urgency, that rushing, was met with failure.
The second call, the real call on October 19th, was marked by peace and precision. I took the journey slower, trusting the plan, and we arrived smoothly. The whole experience, from the prep room to the operating table, unfolded seamlessly because the time was finally right, and the gift God had prepared for me was perfect.
I want my readers to know that God’s timing is perfect timing. The false alarm in September wasn't just a tough moment; it was His deliberate intervention. He was protecting me from organs that were "no good" because He had something greater planned. He had a heart and a kidney specifically prepared and meant for me.
Sometimes, we try to rush things, fueled by our own impatience and desires, forgetting that rushing may lead to destruction and failure. The waiting may feel agonizingly hard, as I felt waking up for dialysis just hours after the first heartbreak, but that waiting has a purpose! It builds our resilience, sharpens our focus, and ensures that when the blessing finally arrives, it is flawless and perfectly timed.
My miracle wasn't delayed; it was reserved.
🙏 A Closing Prayer
Lord, thank You for Your perfect timing. Thank You that even in the moments of confusion, disappointment, and exhaustion, You are working Your greater plan. Help us to surrender our watches and clocks to Yours, trusting that what You have reserved for us is worth the wait. Amen.
🤔 Reflection Question
Can you look back at a major delay or disappointment in your life and now see how it protected you or prepared you for the greater blessing that followed?
💖 Final Thought
Trust the reservation. God's delays are not denial; they are protection, ensuring the blessing you receive is perfectly timed and exactly right for you.
__________________________
Published on November 24, 2025 by Tamera Mathis
Delayed, Not Denied: The Night My Miracle Was Put on Hold
Finally On The List
It’s easy to talk about a life-changing surgery, but before the miracle, there is the wait. And for me, the waiting game to receive a heart and kidney transplant was a marathon with endless hurdles.
The journey to the official transplant list was almost as difficult as the disease itself. I had faced rejection after my first evaluation in April 2024, primarily because I struggled to comply with the strict rules. In fact, I had a stubborn habit of signing out AMA (Against Medical Advice) whenever I felt confined. This was a non-starter for the transplant team. They needed absolute certainty that I understood the seriousness of the commitment.
After over a year of struggle, preparation, and proving I was ready, the impossible happened: on August 27, 2025, I was officially listed for the dual transplant. The relief was overwhelming, but it was immediately replaced by a new kind of anxiety. I was in a state of permanent readiness. Every phone call, every unexpected chime, was a potential life-changer. I wasn't sure if I had the emotional strength to sustain the wait, or even if I truly had it in me to go through with the surgery when the time came.
But I was on the list. I was ready. Or so I thought.
The Call
The call came just a few weeks after my listing. It was around 11:30 PM on September 12, 2025. I somehow missed the crucial call from the transplant team, which is the exact scenario you spend months preparing to avoid.
Because of this system failure on my part, they immediately initiated the backup plan: they called my mom, who then urgently called my dad, who was staying with me at the time. I heard my dad on the phone, his voice animated and urgent, but honestly, my dad is an animated person anyway, so I paid it no mind.
That is, until he came into my room and shared the news that made my heart stop: "Duke has a heart for you!"
I was thoroughly confused. How did he know? He explained the chain of calls—they called my phone first, then my mom. In an instant, the exhaustion and the wait evaporated. I jumped up, adrenaline surging. The time had finally arrived! I started calling everyone I knew while frantically trying to get ready. I wasn't prepared at all, just throwing things in a bag for my daughter, and then we, along with my dad, jumped on the road for the long drive to Durham, NC.
The Journey: Detours and Divine Intervention
We were fueled by urgency and hope. As we neared the highway, ready to start the long drive, we noticed a barrage of police cars and flashing lights. The highway was completely blocked off due to a major accident. My heart immediately sank; this was precious time we couldn't afford to lose. I quickly panicked, but then found the resolve to act.
I pulled up to a police officer and, with everything I had, explained my situation: "I was just called for a heart transplant! How do I get on the highway?" He immediately understood the gravity of the moment. He told me to turn around and meet his coworker up the street, who would guide us through a quick diversion to get around the blockage. Okay, fine. I told myself. Quick diversion. It’ll be okay.
We finally got on the highway and were cruising along, making up lost time. I called my transplant team to give them an updated ETA. We were about twenty minutes away from Duke when suddenly, something started furiously flapping on my car. I slowed down, realizing the unbelievable had just happened: I had a flat tire.
OMG! What else can go wrong right now?
I pulled over and got out to assess the damage. This was the moment I thought I would finally break, but I didn't. I stayed calm. I knew that panicking would only slow us down further. Calling AAA would take an hour or more, so I opted to call the police again and explain the situation to them. They were incredible. An officer was sent out right away, and he changed my tire in under ten minutes, getting me, my daughter, and my dad back on the road.
Every delay was met with an intervention. It felt like every obstacle placed in our path was instantly cleared away. We were going to make it.
The Answer
We finally arrived at Duke University Hospital, exhausted but riding the residual high of adrenaline. The clock read around 12:45 AM, and the team immediately began prepping me for surgery. After the chaotic, obstacle-filled journey, the hospital room felt quiet and certain. This was it.
As I lay there, ready, my phone buzzed with an incoming call—a Duke University number. I answered, and it was my coordinator. I held my breath as she spoke. It was 1:30 AM.
She informed me, gently, that after the surgical team assessed the organ, the donor heart was deemed no good and was unusable for transplant. She apologized profusely.
I can't say that I wasn't deeply disappointed. Every part of that stressful night, every obstacle overcome—the highway block, the flat tire, the kindness of strangers—was driven by the conviction that this was finally my time. But it wasn't.
However, I immediately felt a sense of acceptance. This was always a possibility. Once again, I had to trust that there was a reason, a greater plan for me.
Conclusion: Trusting the Plan
The long drive back home that morning was quiet, a stark contrast to the frantic rush to get to Durham. The entire night felt like a fever dream—a dizzying journey that ended exactly where it began: still waiting.
The whole experience, with its near misses, police escorts, and roadside tire change, made me realize that even when the path is cleared, the ultimate timing is not up to me. I thought I was ready, but God had different plans. His word gives me strength and perspective in moments like these:
"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11)
My time wasn't September 12, 2025. This was a challenging test of resilience, of patience, and of faith. I may have been delayed, but I know I am not denied. I must continue to trust those plans and keep looking to God for all my help and strength until the night my real miracle finally arrives.
🙏 A Closing Prayer
Lord, thank You for Your protection through the chaos. Help me to surrender my timing to Yours. Give me the strength to wait patiently for the promise, knowing that Your plans are always perfect, and that the blessing I seek is already secured in Your love. Amen.
🤔 Reflection Question
When has a sudden delay or roadblock in your life actually turned out to be God's protection or better timing?
💖 Final Thought
Keep watching for that urgent call—but more importantly, keep listening for that still, small voice of guidance. Your miracle is coming.
