Do you believe in magic?
What about miracles?
I wasn’t sure I did—at least, not until a simple piece of furniture ended up saving my husband’s life.
It was just another ordinary Saturday morning. I was still asleep, recovering from a c-section I’d had only six weeks before, when I was jolted awake by a sound no one ever wants to hear: a thud. The sound of my healthy, thirty-one-year-old husband—an athlete in his prime—hitting the floor and lying completely unresponsive.
It’s the kind of nightmare that comes from nowhere, the kind that only exists when you have an unknown heart condition. His ventricle walls were three times thicker than normal. His heart, overworked and exhausted, could stop at any moment without warning. And on that morning, it almost did.
Except for one incredible twist: a fortuitous piece of furniture.
You see, my husband is alive today because of a nightstand. A nightstand I had purchased six months earlier when we moved into our dream home, when life still felt picture-perfect with white picket fences and hope in every corner.
The fall wasn’t gentle. When his body hit the floor, it didn’t just crash—it collided with the nightstand, shattering his back. And that jolt—the pain, the impact—did something unbelievable: it restarted his heart. A heart that had already given up. A heart that shouldn’t have had a second chance.
Miracle.
The days and weeks that followed were a blur. We didn’t see our dream home again for a long time. I slept on a tiny hospital couch, bathed him, fed him, and held him as he relearned how to walk. I missed our babies terribly. I can’t recall every medical term or every specialist we encountered, but I’ll never forget one man—the doctor who said, bluntly, that without that nightstand, I would be a widow.
And yet, there’s more than just miracles in our story. There’s magic.
Years have passed, and my husband is still here. He lives with a device implanted in his chest and will need a transplant one day to continue his life, but he’s still here. We’ve survived another heart stoppage, another brush with death. Each doctor’s visit still holds uncertainty, every cold or cough carries a silent worry—but we are alive, together, and that is worth celebrating every single day.
Every July 16th, the anniversary of that terrifying morning, we honor his life. Some years, it’s as simple as Chinese food in bed, served on his old hospital tray—the same one that became a symbol of survival. If all that sodium doesn’t get him, I think he’s destined to live forever.
There are still moments when fear grips me. If he’s late coming home, my mind races, imagining the worst. That’s the shadow PTSD casts after almost losing someone you love. Our family will never be the same, and we carry those scars quietly.
And yet, life reminds us to hope. Sometimes, in the most unexpected ways. On the three-year anniversary of his heart stopping, my husband opened a fortune cookie that read:
“You will live a long, prosperous life.”
Magic.
In the midst of life’s storms—whether it’s a sudden diagnosis, a sick child, or your own mental health struggles—there are lifelines waiting. Sometimes, they come in the form of a piece of furniture. Sometimes, a tiny fortune cookie. Sometimes, just a glimmer of hope when you need it most.
Furniture and fortunes.
Magic and miracles.
They are everywhere, if you’re willing to see them.
