An Invalid for the Rest of My Life by Eugenia Sanderson San Diego, California, will never be the same since the healing of Eugenia Sanderson. Neither will you be the same after talking with her. When we were making a telecast at CBS Television City, Eugenia turned to me and said, “I want the whole world to know what God has done for me—to think, I would have been an invalid all my life were it not for His tender mercy.” Miss Sanderson was head of the Dietary Department at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital in Los Angeles until 1955, when she accepted a similar position with a large hospital in San Diego. She holds a B.S. Degree from Kansas State University and did intern work in New York City. She is a member of the American Dietetic Association. The future looked bright when I left Cedars of Lebanon Hospital to accept the position as Director of Dietetics at a newly-opened hospital in San Diego. I had just turned forty and my plan was to work there until I reached retirement age. Nine years later, that plan was interrupted when I became acutely ill. I was given a private room in the hospital and the doctors went to work trying to diagnose the strange symptoms of my illness. After extensive tests, my condition still was not diagnosed. I returned to work, but the pain was so severe that my doctor arranged for me to be admitted to a large hospital in Los Angeles. There a diagnosis was made by a specialist — I had a rare disease called dermatomyositis. My doctor in San Diego checked the records and concurred with the diagnosis. Dermatomyositis affects the nerve endings and causes severe pain in all the muscles, joints, and nerves — especially in the skin. I knew something of the symptoms and knew the prognosis was very gloomy. But I had no idea how intense the suffering would become as the disease progressed. Almost every muscle and nerve in my body was affected. I was sent back to San Diego where I spent the next two months in the hospital. My diaphragm was so badly affected that for a while I required oxygen to breathe. Every treatment known to medical science was tried on me. Every time my doctors, who were so wonderful, heard of a new drug, they gave it to me. But nothing helped much. The pain grew worse and most of the joints in my body were swollen. Our hospital staff is well known for its compassion and fine patient care. The nurses were my friends, for we had worked together for nine years. Several told me later how their hearts ached to see the suffering it caused me as they gently bathed me and tended my needs. One dear friend was praying I would die rather than have to continue to live in such pain. Six months later, I was able to return to work, but by May, 1966, my condition had gradually worsened to the extent that my doctor, who is a compassionate Christian, arranged for me to retire from my position on a long-term disability. Then, as kindly as he could, he explained that medical science could offer no cure. I was sent home to live as an invalid. For many years, I had shared an apartment with Viola Eberle, a dear personal friend who is a registered nurse. I knew she would be close by to minister to me. During the next ten months, the pain grew so severe I could hardly stand it. My skin felt like a third-degree bum over parts of my body. Even the movement of my body across the bed sent waves of pain through my system. My muscles began to deteriorate. Then I noticed the nerve endings in my sinus, tongue, and mouth had become irritated. The joints in my knees, elbows, hands, and feet were swelling. And my eyes ... the nerve endings in my eyes were so sensitive that even a bright light caused pain. Viola helped me arrange a frame to fit under the covers so none of the bedding could touch my body. Yet at times, my skin was so sensitive that it could not tolerate even the friction of a soft nightgown. Sleep was almost impossible during this ten-month period and I was only able to nap throughout the long, endless hours. At one time I had been able to be up a couple of hours a day and perhaps even stand a short ride in the car, but as the condition worsened I found myself confined to my bed. My eyes hurt so badly I couldn’t even watch television, and reading was almost impossible. I spent my time with the draperies pulled and the door closed, my only comfort being the small transistor radio that I kept beside my bed. It was through this tiny black box that I had first heard the voice of Kathryn Kuhlman over XEMO in San Diego. The music was wonderful and I found myself looking forward to the daily broadcasts. As the days wore on, I almost forgot the music as I listened to what she had to say. She was talking about the love of God, about the sick being healed, about miracles. And I began to get a glimmer of hope. Much time was spent in intercessory prayer—the only way I could serve my Lord now. I had been reared in a Bible-oriented home back in Kansas. I had grown up loving the Lord and had taught a Sunday school class in the First Presbyterian Church of San Diego. I believed in a God Who could do anything. But healing? As a member of the hospital team, I knew that God worked through doctors, nurses, hospitals, and drugs. I had never really considered divine healing in the twentieth century. But as I continued to listen, I began to think, perhaps there is a chance for me. Maybe, just maybe, the God I had loved so long was bigger than I realized. He was a God of miracles after all. One day, I heard Miss Kuhlman mention her book, I Believe in Miracles. I called a local Christian bookstore and they graciously offered to deliver it to my home. This marked a turning point in my life. The book was very difficult to read because of the pain in my eyes. It took me until February of 1967 to finish the book. By then I realized that my disease was progressing so rapidly that, within a month, I might have to be placed in a nursing home. I was taking twenty-five pills a day and the pain was growing more intense each day. My only relief came when I lay in a tub of hot water. In looking back, I often wonder if God allowed the sickness of my body because it was ”in His plan for my life. I do not know, even now. But I do know that I had reached the stage of desperation. I would have done anything to ease the pain. I heard on the radio that there were chartered buses that drove once a month from San Diego to the Kuhlman services at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles. On an impulse, I made reservations for the next week. When Viola learned what I had done, she offered no encouragement. But she knew how desperate I was and helped me plan to go. Since she was unable to go with me, I asked my sixteen-year-old nephew Randy to make the trip. Oh, how I dreaded that trip! But I had been praying all these months and had asked God to either heal me or call me home. And I had developed a deep feeling, after having listened to Miss Kuhlman’s radio broadcasts, that God wanted me healed. God only knows the terrific effort involved that Sunday morning as I got up and pulled on my clothes. As I dressed, I knew that the time had come to do the impossible. And I was going, even if it killed me. But the worst was still to come. I had rented a wheelchair and Randy wheeled me to the door of the bus. I slowly stood to my feet and approached the steps. For months, it had been impossible to raise my legs high enough even to step on a curb. But I knew I had to get on that bus. I used the few muscles I could, but was unable to close my left hand to grasp the rail. The bus driver started to help me. “Oh, please don’t help me! Please don’t touch me!” I cried out as he started to put his hand on my arm. It took long minutes of determination, but by slowly twisting and turning I was able to climb aboard. I still don’t know how I did it. God was surely with me, helping all the way. They folded my wheelchair and stored it in the bus. The woman I sat next to had been to the services at the Shrine before. She told me of the wonderful miracles she had witnessed and, despite the pain, my hopes soared. She told me about one of Miss Kuhlman’s helpers, a woman who worked in the congregation during the healing service. She said she was often attracted to those who were being healed and would pray with them as their strength returned. “O Lord,” I prayed silently, “please let this be my day.” I had brought my lunch with me, but was too weak to lift the thermos or even peel my banana. The kind lady next to me broke the skin on the banana and peeled it for me. The bus had a flat tire halfway between San Diego and Los Angeles, and the delay caused us to be late in arriving. The meeting had already begun when we pulled up in front of the huge auditorium. I could hear the magnificent singing from the street. The building was jammed to capacity and hundreds of people were packed around the outside doors. My heart sank. I was still on the bus. All the others had gotten off and were escorted inside by an usher. Randy and I were directed to the wheelchair entrance at the side of the building. But those doors were locked; the auditorium was filled. Had I come all this distance and endured this pain only to be turned away because the crowd was too great? My mind turned to the old, familiar Bible story of the man who had come to Jesus for healing — a person much like me. Just as it was today, the crowd had been too great. But four of his friends had carried him to the roof of the house and, removing the tiles, had lowered him down through the roof so he could be at the feet of Jesus. How well I remembered those ringing words of hope and life that I had read in my Bible, “Arise, take up thy couch, and go into thine house” (Luke 5:18-26). “Oh, God,” I prayed, “even if You have to let me down through the roof, please help me get inside.” Randy wheeled me to the front doors, but it was impossible to get through the mob of people. Inside, I could hear the marvelous singing, but I was outside with no way to enter. I remember looking at the roof, hundreds of feet above the busy street. I was willing. God knew that. God had other plans that day. For just then a woman, a perfect stranger, stepped out of the crowd and said, “The Lord just spoke to my heart. You are to be healed today. This is your day.” My heart leaped in my chest as she made her way through the crowd to one of the front doors and began to pound until it nearly came off the hinges. Soon the door cracked open and an usher stuck his head out. I don’t know what transpired, but the next thing I knew the crowd parted and I passed through like Moses through the waters of the Red Sea. Suddenly, I was inside. The wheelchair section was filled to capacity. I saw dozens of crippled and lame persons straining to hear every word that was being spoken from the stage. Down on my left, a man got up and motioned me to a seat in the center section. I slipped out of the wheelchair and lowered myself into the seat. I was in so much pain and I felt so weak. I fumbled in my pocket and took out a pain pill. That was exactly 2:45 P.M. on February 26, 1967. I can be so precise about the hour and date because it was the last one I was ever to take. I looked up and Miss Kuhlman was on the platform. The air was supercharged with spiritual power. She was preaching and every eye in that gigantic auditorium was fixed on her. Every heart beat with her heart. I glanced around and saw I was in a section with several small children, some quite handicapped. Praying parents took turns holding them, their little heads falling back and forth. My heart ached for them and I turned my thoughts from friends for whom I was praying and began to pray for these small children. I felt I had lived a good productive life up until this last year. I was satisfied to die and go home to be with the Lord. But those children — oh, God, how my heart went out for them. Then, without warning, I felt a touch on my shoulder. I remembered it because it was a normal touch, without the pain that usually accompanied any kind of pressure. I looked up and there stood a tall, dignified woman with gray hair. She leaned close to my ear and whispered, “How are you feeling?” I had not thought of myself for those past moments and suddenly I realized that the pain was leaving my left eye. “I just noticed my left eye is better—it is different.” I smiled, hoping this was the beginning of my miracle. “Do you want to get up and walk?” she asked. I was completely surrendered to anything. All around me in the congregation, I could sense the healing power of God at work in other people, and now me. I stood slowly to my feet, dizzy with excitement. “Walk up and down the aisle with me,” the woman said with a gentle voice. “Just trust Jesus to heal your body.” And then I was walking. Even with my limited medical knowledge, I knew the adrenaline was going full blast. But I knew there was something else at work in my body, also. I could sense I had been touched by the power of God himself. The worker was helping me as I walked. She had hold of my arm, but there was no pain. I could feel the strength flowing back into my body like air being pumped into a deflated balloon. I thought of the persons I had seen returning to life in the hospital as they were given transfusions of blood. But there were no needles sticking into my arms. There was no transfusion of blood, only a transfusion of the inpouring power of the Holy Spirit. I could lift my legs. The muscles were slowly gaining strength. We walked back and forth up the aisle. It seemed like we walked for miles. We stopped at the stairs to the platform and I stood there, listening to others who had been healed as they shared their testimonies. I was amazed that I was able to stand so long without pain. Suddenly, it was my turn to step forward. “What is this? What is this?” Miss Kuhlman asked with excitement as I walked toward her. “Come tell the people what has happened to you.” I walked to the microphone and, before more than seven thousand people, testified of my condition and what had taken place as I sat in the audience. “Praise God,” Miss Kuhlman said as she put her arm around my shoulders. “Isn’t Jesus wonderful?” I could only nod through the tears of rejoicing. I turned to her and said, “It’s still taking place. I can feel the power of God surging through my body.” “Walk with me,” Miss Kuhlman said. I forgot the crowd. I forgot everything as I walked back “and forth across the platform. Miss Kuhlman’s face was aglow as she walked with me. Turning back to the microphone, she put her hand into the air in a gesture of glee. “See, I had nothing to do with it. It was all the Holy Spirit. I do not even know this woman. I have never seen her before. She was healed without my knowledge. I did nothing. It was all God.” The congregation broke into spontaneous, tumultuous applause, and the organist struck the keyboard with a powerful refrain from the Doxology. “Keep walking! Keep walking,” Miss Kuhlman was almost shouting. “Lift your legs higher. Lift them as high as you can.” I was walking! Back and forth across the front of the stage in front of all those people. I was pulling my knees almost up to my chin and slamming my feet down against the floor. From all over the auditorium, I could hear people saying “Praise God” and “Amen” and even from the choir and those on the platform. I could hear men and women saying, “Thank you, Jesus.” Perfect strangers were rejoicing over my healing and thanking God. Oh, how I thanked Him, too! I returned to the microphone and Miss Kuhlman, her face wreathed in smiles, her eyes glistening with tears, laid her hands on my head and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving. Suddenly, I was on my back on the floor. I had no idea how I got there, but I was stretched out full length on that hard wooden floor, having fallen under the power of the Holy Spirit. Equally amazing was the fact that my joints and skin, which minutes before were in such pain, were now relaxed and strong. An usher helped me to my feet. I found my wheelchair on the way back down the aisle and pushed it ahead of me through the back door and out into the sunlight. I was the happiest person on earth. I walked across the street to the bus. The warm California sunshine felt good and soothing on my skin. I climbed aboard the empty bus and took a seat. I could still hear the excitement from inside the auditorium as others were healed. But on the busy streets, the traffic roared as usual and people walked up and down the sidewalks, staring curiously at the auditorium and the mob of people still gathered around the outside doors. I knew someone else had already claimed my seat. “Thank You, Jesus,” I whispered, “oh, thank You.” My mouth felt dry from all my praising God and I reached for my thermos. I effortlessly twisted the top. “I am healed!” I shouted to the empty bus. “I am healed!” I leaned over the seat beside me to raise a window. This act, too, was effortless. I sat back, laughing, remembering how the bus driver had struggled to raise that same window when he had our flat tire. On the way back to San Diego, a festive spirit prevailed on the bus. Everyone was rejoicing, patting my back and clasping my hands. All this physical contact, I thought, and no pain ... no pain. Even those who had come and not been healed were rejoicing. It was almost more than I could stand. My nephew was as excited as I and he told everyone he had not seen his aunt look like this in more than three years. When I arrived home that night, Viola met me at the door. She was almost panic-stricken since I had been gone so long. Now she saw me enter the door of the apartment, walking normally and my face sparkling with excitement. My dark circles were gone. I was a walking miracle. Thirteen hours before, my body had been full of pain. Now, I stood before her healed and whole. She remained speechless as she watched me undress and examine myself. My joints were still swollen, but my muscles were much stronger and the pain — all of the pain — was gone. “I am still being healed,” I told her. She just shook her head. That night, I pulled the canopy frame off my bed and put on the first nightgown I had been able to wear in a week. We praised God together and then I crawled into bed — actually, I bounced into bed — and pulled the covers up snugly around my chin. That night, I slept soundly for the first time in almost a year. When I awakened the next morning, the excruciating pain which always had accompanied the first movement of muscles was gone. I felt wonderful. Three weeks later, I attended the next service at the Shrine Auditorium. That day, sitting in the center section, I felt that same excitement and anticipation. Suddenly, I felt my shoes loosen and drop to the floor. I looked down at my stocking feet and saw the swelling had completely and instantly left my lower extremities. The healing was complete. All that was needed now was time for my natural strength to return. I returned to my doctor a few days later. He was astonished to see me walk into his office and questioned me closely. He was happy, very happy, but also cautious in stating his opinion. I knew he was thinking I was in a state of remission and the old symptoms would soon return. At his request, I returned several times for examination. On my last visit, he pronounced me totally cured and stated my healing could be classified under no other category than a miracle. The most wonderful thing that happened to me was the change in my life. I am a new person — a changed person. I wake up singing. The sun always seems to be shining and my heart is constantly filled with praise and gratitude to the Lord for His tender mercy. When my minister at the First Presbyterian Church heard of my miraculous healing, he called and asked me to testify before the church on Wednesday night. Since then, I have had opportunities to testify before many groups in the church and community. It took a little more than a year for my strength to completely return so I could go back to work. However, I was afraid it would be impossible for me to return to the strenuous work in a Dietary Department. I had hired hundreds of people and knew I must prove to myself, my doctor, and my employer that I was able to produce the work required. So, as my strength returned, I went to work in our church office as a volunteer receptionist. After several months, my doctor released me for work and I returned to the same hospital, this time as a therapeutic dietitian. Only God could have made such a complete change. I give Him all the glory. And now, when I stand in my church on Sunday morning and sing, “Praise God from Whom all blessings flow,” it comes from the bottom of my heart. My friends look at me in amazement and wonderment and say, “I cannot believe it!” I believe it. It has happened to me.” Portrait in Ebony: Chapter 12 |