90 Minutes in Heaven (12 page)
In spite of my condition, not many people could have pulled off what Jay did. That experience changed my attitude. Even now, years later, I still fight with allowing others to help, but at least the door is now ajar instead of locked shut.
Sometimes when I’m emotionally low or physically down, I tend to brush people off or assert that I don’t need anything. Yet when I can open up and allow others to exercise their gifts and help me, it makes such a difference. Their faces light up as if they’re asking, “Will you really let me do that for you?”
I had seen my refusal as not wanting to impose; they saw my change as giving them an opportunity to help.
I’m eternally grateful for that lesson of allowing people to meet my needs. I’m also grateful because that lesson was learned in a hospital bed when I was helpless.
Someone brought a plaque to me in the hospital. At first, I thought it was supposed to be some kind of joke because it contained the words of Psalm 46:10: “Be still, and know that I am God” (niv). Perhaps it was meant to console me. I’m not sure the person who gave it to me (and I don’t remember who it was) realized that I couldn’t do anything
but
be still.
Yet that plaque contained the message I needed; it just took me a long time to understand.
Weeks lapsed before I realized that part of what I needed was to be still—inwardly—and to trust that God knew what he was doing through all of this. Yes, it was a verse for me, even though it wasn’t one I would have chosen.
God forced me to be still. By nature I’m not particularly introspective, but I became increasingly so; I had no choice. I could do little else—other than feel sorry for myself. The longer I lay immobile, the more open I became to God’s quietness and to inner silence.
Eva found a beautiful version of that same verse engraved in gold and gave it to me as a gift. The plaque is now in my church office; I see it every time I look up from my desk.
Day after day I lay in bed, unable to move. I lay on my back a total of thirteen months before I could turn over on my side. Just that simple action made it one of the best days of recovery. “Oh, I had forgotten how good this feels,” I said aloud.
During that long recovery, I learned a lot about myself, about my attitude, and my nature. I didn’t like many things I saw in Don Piper. In the midst of that inactivity, however, the depression persisted.
I began to wonder if that depression would ever go away.
Then God provided another miracle.
I will praise the Lord at all times.
I will constantly speak his praises.
I will boast only in the Lord;
let all who are discouraged take heart.
Come, let us tell of the Lord’s greatness;
let us exalt his name together.
I prayed to the Lord, and he answered me, freeing me from all my fears.
P
SALM 34:1–4
S
ometimes the depression became so bad I didn’t think I could breathe. It carried me back to the days in the ICU when I received breathing treatments because my lungs had collapsed. Except now my lungs weren’t collapsed, only my spirit. Few things sap the human spirit like lack of hope. For weeks and months, no one could tell me when or even if I would ever be normal again. As a result, I went into a full-scale depression.
As my horribly mangled body mended, I needed spiritual mending as well. I began to think of it this way: The Greek word for “spirit” is
pneuma.
The word can also mean “wind” or “breath.” That Greek word is the root for what we call
pneumonia
. Just as it was necessary to reinflate my lungs to overcome pneumonia, I needed the breath of God to help me overcome the depression of my spirit.
I don’t know when I became aware of that depression. In the first few weeks of my recovery, I was in such constant physical pain I couldn’t hold any thoughts in my mind for more than a second or two.
I also battled a lot of anger during those first weeks. I wasn’t angry with God, though I often wondered why God had sent me back to earth and why I had to go through such intense physical agony. But even being in pain was not the issue for me. From my first day in the hospital, pain has always been present. Like many others, I’ve learned to live with that reality. My struggle is that I had experienced the glory and majesty of heaven only to return to earth. In my weaker moments, I didn’t understand why God would return me to earth in such awful condition. Many live in greater pain, but few—if any—have experienced heaven.
Instead, my anger focused primarily on the medical staff. I suppose it was because they were there all the time. Deep inside, I seethed with an inner rage, perhaps at myself as much as the medical staff. Why wasn’t I recuperating faster? I blamed them for the slowness of my recovery. In my rational moments, I knew they did the best they could. Despite my antagonism and irritation—which I’m sure they sensed—they stayed right with me and constantly encouraged me.
I didn’t want encouragement—I wanted results. I wanted to be healthy again. Why couldn’t my life be the way it used to be? I wanted to walk by myself, and I didn’t want to depend on others all the time.
The medical staff wouldn’t give me any definite answers, and that sent fresh waves of rage through my system. In retrospect, I’m sure they told me what they could, but I was anything but a typical case. No one knew my prognosis. In fact, for several weeks, they weren’t even sure if I would live, let alone make a significant recovery.
I became paranoid—I knew I wasn’t rational even when I complained and demanded more attention or additional medication to alleviate the pain. Nothing suited me. The pace was too slow. They made me wait too long before responding to my bell. No one wanted to answer questions.
“How long will I have to wear this Ilizarov frame?” I asked almost every medical person who came into my room.
“I don’t know,” was the most common answer.
“But I want to know something,” I finally said.
“A long time, a very long time,” was the only other answer a nurse or doctor would give me.
A couple of times I just had to have an answer, so I kept pressing the doctor.
“Weeks. Months,” he said. “We can’t tell you because we don’t know. If I knew, I’d tell you.”
Common sense said they were doing their best, but in those days, I didn’t have much common sense. Part of it was the pain, and perhaps the mammoth doses of medications affected me as well, but I wasn’t a good patient. Instead of being satisfied, I kept asking myself,
Why won’t they tell me? What do they know that they’re hiding? There are things they’re not telling me, and I have a right to know what’s going on.
During many sleepless nights, I would lie in bed, convinced that the nurses conspired against me. It never occurred to me to wonder why they would want to do that.
Then why don’t they tell me anything?
I’d rail as I lay there.
What can they possibly do that will hurt more than this?
The answer was
nothing
. I endured additional pain that resulted not from the accident itself but from the process of healing. For instance, when they harvested bones out of my right hip and put them in my left arm, they made an incision six inches long—and closed it up with metal staples. When the day came for them to take out the staples, they pulled them out of my skin. As they pulled each one, I winced in pain and steeled myself so that I wouldn’t scream at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t remember hurting that excruciatingly. I had, of course, but I had forgotten how much torture my body could take.
The poor nurse who was extracting the staples stopped after each one. Sadness filled her eyes, and I knew she sensed how deeply the procedure hurt me. She was a large woman and always treated me as gently as she could. “I’m so sorry, Reverend,” she said softly.
“I know,” I mumbled. “You can’t help it.” Momentarily, I lapsed into my pastoral role of trying to console her. I didn’t want her to feel bad for the torture I felt.
“Reverend, why don’t you just haul off and yell?”
“It wouldn’t do any good.”
“If it was me, I’d be yelling.”
“Yeah, I bet you would.” I offered a faint sense of humor. “And you’d wake up every patient in the hospital.”
I just never could yell voluntarily. Maybe it was a fear of losing control. Perhaps I feared that if I did scream, she and others would consider me as weak. I’m not sure of the reasons, even now. I know only that I couldn’t scream like others on my floor. From several other rooms, every day I heard patients scream out in agony. I just couldn’t let go like that. Instead, I’d hold my breath and sometimes break out in a cold sweat, but I wouldn’t scream purposely.
Though I know I wasn’t the easiest of patients in demeanor or medical requirements, the nurses of the orthopedic floor treated me with kindness and much compassion. I learned to care a great deal for them and admire their dedication. I guess they must have seen something in me as well. I know the nursing staff often bent the rules when well-wishers showed up to see me, no matter what time of day or night they came. But the sweetest moment came when I was discharged from my 105-day stay at St. Luke’s. Apparently, arrangements were made with nursing staffs of other hospital floors to cover for them as the nurses from my floor all accompanied me down the elevator and to my waiting ambulance on the day of my discharge. Being surrounded by nurses that fed me, medicated me, bathed me, and did only the Lord knows what else, made my going home that day so wonderful. It was as if they were saying, “We’ve done our best. Now you’ve got to get better and come back and see us.” I can only imagine how different I must have seemed to them that going-home day from the day I had arrived wavering between life and death.
In spite of my stubborn resistance to showing emotion, before I left St. Luke’s, the months of intense pain finally crumbled my resolve. I broke down and cried. I felt worthless, beaten down, and useless. I was convinced I would never get any better.
“God, God, why is it like this? Why am I going through this constant pain that never seems to get any better?” Again I prayed for God to take me. I didn’t want to live any longer. I wanted to go back home, and now for me, home meant heaven.
I prayed that way for days, and usually, I’d fall asleep from exhaustion. When I’d awaken, a cloak of hopelessness would spread over me again. Nothing helped.
Just before the accident, I had ordered several cassette tapes of popular Christian songs originally recorded during the 1960s and ’70s by people like the Imperials and David Meese. Eva had brought them to the hospital along with a tape player, but I had no interest in listening to them.
Instead, I watched TV. I once told a friend, “I’ve watched every
Brady Bunch
episode at least eight times, and I know all of the dialogue by heart.”
One morning between three and five o’clock, I couldn’t bear to watch another TV rerun, so I decided to play the cassettes. A nurse came in and helped me set up the first cassette to play.
The first song had been recorded by the Imperials, and it was called “Praise the Lord.” The lyrics suggest that when we’re up against a struggle and we think we can’t go on, we need to praise God. As preposterous as that prospect seemed at three o’clock in the morning in a hospital bed, I continued to listen for any help to bring me out of my deep heartache. There was a phrase in the next verse about the chains that seem to bind us falling away when we turn ourselves over to praise. The whole song centered on praising God in spite of our circumstances.
The instant the Imperials sang the second chorus about the chains, I looked down at my chains—pounds of stainless steel encasing my arm and leg. Before my accident, I’m sure I’d heard and sung that song hundreds of times. I had even played it myself. Just then, those words became a message from God—a direct hit from on high.
Before they had finished singing the song, I lay there and heard my own voice say, “Praise the Lord!”
No sooner had that song ended than David Meese sang, “We Are the Reason.” His words reminded me that we are the reason Jesus Christ wept, suffered, and died on the cross. Meese sang about how he finally found that the real purpose in living was in giving every part of his life to Christ. That wasn’t a new song to me, but something happened during those predawn hours. Other than music, I heard nothing else—no moaning from other rooms or footsteps of nurses in the hallway. I felt totally isolated from the world around me.
