The first time I laid eyes on Lydia Decker, I couldn’t speak. Or breathe. Or string two coherent thoughts together.
And I don’t mean any of that figuratively.
I’m not talking about a guy being floored by the sight of a gorgeous woman—although, of course, Lydia is gorgeous beyond words.
No, when I first laid eyes on Lydia Decker—my physical therapist—I was lying flat on my back in the ICU, high as a kite on painkillers, breathing on a ventilator, my bones as broken and splintered as my spirit.
When I first laid eyes on Lydia Decker, she was a ray of light in the dark. Hope for the hopeless. A salve for my singed and battered soul.
She said she’d been assigned to fix me. That she was there to bring me back to life. She said helping me was her calling.
And then she touched me. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. She healed me.
And I fell in love.
But what I didn’t know… what I couldn’t possibly know… was that Lydia Decker needed fixing far more than I ever did.