For two weeks in late August, I hovered between life and death in a remote Alaska hospital, having been transported by medevac there from a cruise ship. Instead of celebrating my 50th wedding anniversary with my husband, leisurely enjoying the beauty of glaciers and wildlife along Alaska's scenic Inside Passage, I was anxiously peering out of a rain-drenched helicopter window, huddled under heavy, metalliclike blankets.

Could this actually be happening to me on only the third day of the 15-day cruise? What had gone so wrong that I should suddenly and unexpectedly be diagnosed with a potentially fatal double pneumonia after going for years without so much as a common cold? Was it my class reunion only days before, where I had hugged and kissed too many? Was it my last-minute dental cleaning, an appointment wedged between coughing schoolkids by a too-busy hygienist? Was it my postponement of flu and pneumonia booster shots until after the cruise? Or was it the sick couple who sat in front of me on the flight from Honolulu to Vancouver who should have been at home in bed instead of spreading germs on a crowded airplane?

The ship's doctor, alarmed at my extremely low oxygen count, could not believe I was still walking around. “;Your pneumonia is the size of an apple,”; she announced, after examining the X-ray. She hooked me up to the ship's largest oxygen tank and spent the night by my bedside. “;You're a very sick lady and need immediate intensive care in a hospital,”; she said gravely.

At dawn a helicopter crew whisked me away, halfway through my breakfast and wearing only a paper hospital gown. The ship's captain, with whom I was to have had dinner that evening, came to say goodbye. My husband followed in a miniplane with a noisy “;engine that could.”;

At the hospital, doctors told me mine was the most deadly form of pneumonia for seniors, a virulent strain that suddenly claimed many victims as they slept. Hearing that, I spent nights staring at the ceiling with eyes wide open. My room was quarantined, as masked, plastic-ponchoed nurses moved in silence, only their solemn eyes visible.

One morning, I asked my nurse to raise the blinds so I could see outside. The view was breathtaking—a cone-shaped mountain draped with a mantle of soft white snow like an ice-cream desert. I enjoyed gazing at the beautiful, tranquil scene as the passing hours changed the patterns of sun, light and shadows. My heart filled with joy and gratitude as I savored God's beauty in nature while on the road to recovery.

When I was finally released, I faced another hurdle trying to fly home. The airline did not want to spend large sums of money on an oxygen supply, should I need it, nor did they want to risk an emergency landing. They implemented their own lengthy, stringent medical clearance before I could travel.

Throughout my ordeal I realized, as I have in past crises, how strong and resilient I am, and how maintaining a sense of humor and an attitude of gratitude goes a long way. Certainly, dwelling on petty negatives has diminished, but enduring thankfulness for the positives has not.