Book Preview: A Physician's Rx for Faith, Life, and Healing

In her book, A Physician's Rx for Faith, Life, and Healing, Dr. McConville bears her soul as she shares her journey through grief to healing and from atheism to profound faith in Christ. We have printed an excerpt with her permission. To receive information when the book officially launches, go to www.kingdomdoctorsacademy.com.

- from Focus Magazine CMDA Canada

Providence

“Hello?” a woman’s voice says on the other end of the phone. “May I please speak with Melissa McConville?”

“Yes, this is me,” I answer, my voice tentative. I don’t know who’s calling—or why.

“This is the provincial coroner’s office,” she continues, her tone official and measured. “Do you have a moment?”

My stomach lurches. My heart instantly races. Heat floods my body in waves. My mind flashes back to last May—standing in that darkened emergency room, meeting the coroner the night Gavin died.

“Yes,” I manage to croak, my throat tightening around the word.

“I want to apologize for how long it’s taken to process your husband’s autopsy results,” she says after a pause.

It’s been just over ten months since Gavin’s death. The autopsy had been ordered by the chief provincial coroner. Every time I speak with their office, the same image hits me like a wave: Gavin’s beautiful body—dissected, piece by piece. It takes all my strength to steady myself.

I try to remind myself—she’s just doing her job, like I was during cadaver dissections in medical school. She doesn’t know what this feels like for me.

“It’s okay,” I say quietly, knowing this report carries weight beyond the emotional toll. I’ve always believed that Gavin’s car accident wasn’t caused by a medical issue. But now, this report has financial consequences that neither of us ever anticipated.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Melissa!” Gavin’s voice bursts through the phone, full of joy.

My hands are dirty from chopping vegetables. The knife rests on the cluttered counter beside me. Jade is at the table colouring. Cayle is sprawled on the floor, building with Lego. We just got home from school. It’s my day with the kids. Gavin’s still at the university, teaching English.

“What, love?” I ask, already smiling. His energy is contagious.

“I got regularized!” he blurts out, barely able to contain himself. “Someone retired from the department, and I guess I was next on the list—I didn’t even know!”

He’s been teaching for years, always on edge, never sure from one semester to the next if he’d still have work. I know how much this weighs on him—on us.

“Oh, Gavin, that’s amazing,” I say, knowing what this means—security, benefits, stability. He’s overjoyed.

“I know …” he says, still in disbelief. I can hear the tears in his voice. “No more guessing if I’ll have a job each semester.”

Then he adds, proudly, “And now, if anything ever happens to me, you and the kids will be taken care of. Isn’t that great?”

“Oh darling,” I say, beaming, “this is such good news!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“The chief provincial coroner has ruled your husband’s death as accidental,” the woman tells me.

My legs wobble, and I grab the edge of the wooden counter to keep myself upright.

“Thank you,” I manage to whisper, but my voice cracks. Tears flood my throat. I can barely say goodbye.

A strange, bittersweet relief washes over me. I knew it in my heart—Gavin didn’t crash because of a health issue. He was strong, healthy, vibrant. His headaches were cluster headaches, not a ticking brain aneurysm.

And yet, the implications hit me full force. This changes everything—for me, for the kids, for our future. I haven’t allowed myself to think about these things yet: where we will live, whether we can stay in the house we designed and built together.

I whisper goodbye and hang up the phone. I lean against the counter and scan the kitchen, then look out into the yard—the yard Gavin and I seeded for the kids, so we could watch them play from the kitchen window.

“Oh, thank you …” I sob out loud, unable to hold it in. I sink to the floor, my body shaking with grief and something else—astonishment. I lie there for a few minutes, letting it all move through me. Then I slowly sit up and lift my soft blue cotton T-shirt to wipe my face. The fabric grazes my skin gently.

“I can’t believe it,” I whisper. My eyes sweep the room—his carpentry, all his hard work. Our dream.

“Really?” I ask out loud, stunned. “Who are you?”

“Really … we can stay? It’s ours?” I mumble, my breath still shaky but now smiling.

That call cracked open memories I’d kept tightly bandaged—the ER, the loss, the trauma, the aching loneliness of these past ten months. The tears still come often, but these feel different. They carry something else. Something almost new.

Hope.

The feeling that I’m not alone. The sense that someone—or something—bigger than me is watching over us. Caring for us. Providing somehow.

Now that Gavin’s death has been officially ruled accidental, two things have been set in motion that neither Gavin nor I were aware of before. First, the bank will pay off our entire mortgage. Second, his employer, the university, will double the initial compensation they gave us.

All of it—because of two things: Gavin being regularized months before his death, and his death being officially declared accidental.

“Thank you,” I whisper again, looking around the house in wonder and amazement. My heart swells with gratitude and awe. The kids and I get to stay. We get to keep our home—the home I designed and Gavin built with his own hands—for us.

Missed Connections

The sky is a clear, brilliant blue. The air up here at our Mount Washington condo feels cool and crisp—different from the salty, sea-level air back home in Yellow Point. I bought this place the year after Gavin died, using the unexpected payout from his work. After the coroner declared his death accidental, a cheque from the university arrived—the day before my birthday. I remember falling to my knees, overwhelmed with tears. The cost of the condominium matched almost exactly the amount on the cheque. A gift. Painful. Beautiful. Bittersweet. Gavin loved skiing.

We come here often. The condo gives us an easy escape from the pain that still burns silently beneath our skin at home.

We arrived late last night. Today, we plan to hike. The kids are inside, cleaning up from our late brunch. I step outside with Molly, our German shepherd, to let her out for a quick bathroom break. The late September air is sharp and fresh. A few red leaves still cling to the deciduous trees, resisting the coming snow. I head toward one of the ski runs. The ground is still brown and dry, cracked from the summer drought.

“Stop it,” I say, pulling back on Molly’s leash as she barks and lunges—she’s spotted another dog.

“It’s okay, Molly,” I add, recognizing the dog— and the people. “It’s just Mya.”

Charlie and Fran own the opposite corner of the complex. They often stop to talk when they see us. Mya, their massive Bernese Mountain Dog, is familiar to Molly. Their interactions are friendly—cautious sniffing, slow tail wags.

“Hello!” Fran calls out warmly, letting Mya’s leash slacken as she notices Molly relaxing. “How are you guys?” she asks, glancing toward the open sliding door where Jade and Cayle are visible in the kitchen.

I hesitate. I haven’t interacted with many people since my failed attempt to return to work. I feel raw—like a stripped electric wire jammed into a live socket. I saw my family doctor again this week. He’s referring me to a psychiatrist now—for active PTSD symptoms. I didn’t see it coming. I’m still stunned by how fast and unexpectedly it hit.

The day I tried to return to clinical practice, I disassociated. I crumbled. I fell apart. I managed to walk into my doctor’s office that same day—I couldn’t drive. He saw me within an hour—a miracle in medicine. Since then, I’ve needed help with the kids again, just like in those early months after Gavin died. In some ways, this feels even worse. The trauma plays on repeat. My hardwiring is raw—reacting over and over again, as if it just happened.

I don’t know how to answer Fran’s simple question. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I grip the steering wheel. My car is parked facing the ocean, waiting for the next ferry to Gabriola Island. I’m beginning three months of supervised retraining through UBC’s Department of Family Practice—a requirement to reactivate my medical licence. It’s been three years since Gavin died, and I stepped away from clinical work. I don’t feel ready. But I keep telling myself I should be.

I’ve spent four months preparing for this return—lining up a preceptor, coordinating with the College of Physicians and Surgeons of British Columbia. I know I have to take this next step. I keep telling myself I should be ready by now.

But I’ve already missed the first ferry. My brain just isn’t working this morning. I got lost on the way here. I’ve lived here for almost ten years. I know the route. I’ve taken this ferry before. Still, I got turned around. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus.

The kids were anxious about whether I’d make it back in time for pick-up, with potential ferry delays and late clinic hours. I’ve arranged a backup for them just in case.

The driver’s window is open. I hear and see a seaplane overhead, lifting off from the harbour toward Vancouver. My breath catches. My chest tightens. My heart begins to race.

Suddenly, the sound morphs—metal crashing, an engine sputtering. In my mind’s eye, the plane becomes the medivac helicopter that came for Gavin, landing next to the wreckage on our small country road. I hear the kids screaming in the back seat. I can’t tell what’s real anymore.

I’m inside Gavin’s body now—looking up at the light above me. Blood spills from my mouth. I hear gurgling. Jade and Cayle are shrieking behind me. I’m gasping. Tears stream down my face. In my mind, it’s Gavin’s blood pouring from his skull. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.

I don’t know how long I’m trapped in this scene. I can’t tell what’s real or imagined.

Then I see her—a BC Ferries attendant in a fluorescent jacket, waving at me with both arms. Her movement breaks the trance slightly. My hands are shaking. I’m gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles are white. I glance in the rearview mirror—cars are lined up behind me, waiting to board.

“I can’t do it,” I whisper. Then louder: “I can’t.”

I feel trapped—in the wreckage. In Gavin’s car. In my car. Both. My mind flickers between memory and present, unable to separate the two.

The attendant walks toward my open window.

“Are you okay?” she calls out—impatient to load the cars onto the ferry but clearly concerned.

“I can’t …” I manage to say. “I can’t move.”

My breath is laboured. My heart pounds like it’s trying to escape my chest. Heat surges through me.

Seeing my face, she quickly waves to the cars behind me to go around. My vehicle becomes an obstacle.

I am frozen. At a standstill.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Ahh …” I begin to respond, stuttering like in the weeks after Gavin’s death. “No … t bad,” I say, eyes on the ground.

Charlie joins us, taking Mya’s leash and greeting me with the same gentle warmth. He asks how I’m doing, and I nod.

I like them both. They’ve been so kind to me and the kids ever since we met. Good neighbours. Thoughtful. They listen. They don’t judge. They’ve heard me talk about the spiritual ceremonies I’ve taken part in—desperate efforts to heal since losing Gavin. Now, standing here, I feel their warmth again. They don’t pity us. They simply care.

I take a breath. Something softens inside.

“It’s been a rough fall,” I finally say, my voice cracking. “Really rough.”

Tears rise in my eyes.

I explain—briefly—what happened when I tried to return to work. The emotional collapse. The neurological symptoms. The nightmares. The fear that keeps haunting me.

“I have an appointment with a psychiatrist next month,” I admit, eyes lowered, embarrassed.

I feel like a failure. Post traumatic stress disorder wasn’t on my radar. I knew that I was struggling—maybe with anxiety, dysthymia, even depression. I knew I had occasional panic attacks. But PTSD? That never occurred to me. I wasn’t in the crash. I wasn’t the victim. And yet … the trauma lives inside me, replaying itself, hijacking me against my will.

Charlie clears his throat. His voice is steady and kind.

“Melissa,” he says, “it sounds like you’ve been plugging into a lot of things since your husband died.”

He pauses, then adds matter-of-factly, “Why don’t you try plugging into the One who created you?”

I blink. My eyes widen.

“Who’s that?” I ask, my voice a mix of desperation, fatigue, and frustration.

“Jesus,” Charlie says quietly.