90 Minutes in Heaven (6 page)
Our children, other family members, and friends then began to piece together just how horrendous the accident was and how close I came to not surviving it.
One of the EMTs said, “We’re here now. You’re going to be all right.”
I was aware of being wheeled into the hospital. I stared uncomprehendingly at a large number of people who pulled back to make space and watched the gurney roll past them. Faces stared down at me, and our eyes met for a split second as the gurney kept moving.
They took me into a room where a doctor was waiting for me. It’s strange, but the only thing I recall about the doctor who examined me was that he was bald. He spent quite a while checking me over. “Mr. Piper, we’re going to do everything we can to save you,” he must have said three times. “You’re hurt bad, seriously hurt, but we’ll do all we can.” Despite his words, I later learned that he didn’t expect me to survive. But he did everything he could to give me hope and urge me to fight to stay alive. Several people moved around me. They were obviously trying to save my life, but I still felt no pain. It was like living in some kind of twilight state where I could feel nothing and remained only vaguely aware of what went on around me.
“We have your wife on the phone,” someone said. They patched her through on the telephone to the emergency room. A nurse laid the phone beside my ear, and I remember talking to Eva, but I can’t recall one word either of us said.
Eva remembers the entire conversation. According to her, the only thing I said was, “I’m so sorry this happened.”
“It’s okay, Don. It’s not your fault.”
Over and over I kept saying, “I’m so sorry. I just wanted to come home. Please bring me home.” In some kind of childlike way, I suppose I felt that if I couldn’t be in my heavenly home, I wanted to be back in my earthly one.
I was alert enough to know that they wanted to transport me on a Life Flight helicopter to Hermann Hospital Trauma Center in Houston. But they decided that the weather was too bad and the cloud ceiling too low, so their helicopter couldn’t take off.
My condition was deteriorating rapidly, and they didn’t know if I was going to survive the afternoon. Despite that, the medical team made a significant decision: They decided to put me back inside an ambulance for the eighty-mile trip to Houston. They didn’t have the facilities to take care of me. Hermann Hospital was the only place for me if I was to have any chance to survive.
They brought around a new ambulance. It’s amazing that as injured as I was—and they still thought I could “expire” at any second—I became aware of little things such as the fresh odors of a new vehicle, especially the fresh paint.
“You’re our first patient,” the attendant said as we drove away.
“What?”
“You’re the first person to ever ride in this ambulance,” he said. “We’re going to take you to Houston. We’ll get you there as fast as we can.”
“How fast do I go?” the driver asked the attendant who sat next to me.
“As fast as you can.”
“How fast is that?” the driver asked again.
“Put the pedal to the metal! We’ve got to get there—
now
!”
Before we started the trip, I still had felt no pain. I was in and out of consciousness. I felt weightless, as if my mind had no connection with my body. However, about ten minutes down the road, a slight throbbing began. At first, I became aware of a tiny pain in my left arm. Then my left leg throbbed. My head started to ache. Within minutes I hurt in so many places, I couldn’t localize any of it. My entire body groaned in agony and screamed for relief. The full force of the trauma invaded my body. It felt as if every part of my body had been wounded, punched, or beaten. I couldn’t think of a single spot that didn’t scream out in pain. I think I cried out but I’m not sure. Every beat of my heart felt like sledgehammers pounding every inch of my body.
“You’ve got to do something! Please!” I finally pleaded. That much I remember. “Medicine—just something to—”
“I’ve given you all I can.”
“You’ve given me all you can?” His words didn’t make sense. If they’d given me medication, why was I feeling so much pain? “Please—”
“I can’t let you go unconscious,” the attendant said. “You have to remain awake.”
“Please—just something to—”
I couldn’t understand why I had to remain awake. If they’d just knock me out, the pain would go away. “Please,” I begged again.
“I’m sorry. I really am, but I can’t give you anything else. You’ve already had enough to throw most people into a coma. You’re a fairly big guy, but I just can’t let you go unconscious.”
I’m sure I whimpered, moaned, or even screamed several times during the rest of the torturous ride. The vehicle rocked back and forth, in and out of traffic, and the entire time the siren blared. It was the most painful, nightmarish trip of my life.
Even now I can close my eyes and feel the ambulance vibrating and bumping on the shoulder of the road as it took the curves. One of the EMTs said something about rush-hour traffic just getting heavy, so I assumed it must be around 5:00. Momentarily, I wondered how it could be so late in the day.
The drive seemed interminable, although I think I passed out several times from the pain. We finally arrived at the emergency room in Houston at Hermann Hospital.
It was 6:20 p.m. Six and a half hours had passed from the time of the accident.
By the time I reached the hospital in Houston, thousands of people were praying. They spread the word so that members in hundreds of churches also prayed for my recovery. For the next few days, word spread about my injuries, and more people prayed. Over the years, I’ve met many of those who asked God to spare my life. Perhaps some of you reading this book prayed for my survival and recovery. I can only add that the prayers were effective: I lived, and I’m still alive.
As the EMTs lifted my gurney out of the ambulance, I spotted Eva’s face. Next to her stood a deacon from our church. I felt as if they were looking at some lost puppy, given my pathetic appearance. They were amazed, gawking, but saying nothing.
Eva stared at me. Until that moment, I had been only vaguely aware of what was going on with my body. The pain had not abated, but I still had not reasoned out that I had been in an accident. It didn’t occur to me that I was dying.
As I stared into her face, I recognized the anguish in her eyes. She probably said something to try to comfort me, I don’t know. What stays with me is that I sensed her pain and that she feared I wouldn’t live.
That’s when I knew I must have been in really bad shape—and I was. My chest had already turned purple, and medics had bandaged almost every part of my body. Tiny pieces of glass were embedded in my face, chest, and head. I was aware that tiny shards had fallen out of my skin and rested on the gurney next to my head.
No one had to tell me that I looked hideous. Anyone who knew me wouldn’t have recognized me. I wondered how Eva had known who I was.
My pain was off the scale. Once inside the trauma center, a nurse gave me a shot of morphine—and then followed up with several more shots. Nothing helped. Nothing dulled the pain.
Shortly after my arrival at Hermann, they sent me to surgery, where I remained for eleven hours. Under anesthesia, I finally felt no pain.
Our dear friend Cliff McArdle valiantly stayed with Eva throughout the night. Cliff, my best friend David Gentiles, and I had been ministry friends since our graduation from seminary and remain close to this day.
By the time I was conscious again, it was Thursday morning. When I opened my eyes, somehow I knew that I had become the first patient in a newly opened ICU pod. One nurse was cleaning my wounds while another was putting me into traction. I could feel that she was putting rods between my ankle and my arm. I heard myself scream.
“We’ve done an MRI on you,” the doctor said. Until then I wasn’t aware that he was also in the room. “You’re very seriously injured, but the good news is that you have no head or thoracic injuries.”
At the time, I didn’t care where my injuries were. The throbbing pains were racing through my body. I hurt more than I thought was humanly possible.
I just wanted relief.
When Dick Onerecker came to see me two weeks after the accident, I had just been moved from the ICU to a hospital room. He told me about God telling him to pray for me and that he had done that for several minutes.
“The best news is that I don’t have any brain damage or any internal injuries,” I said.
Dick chuckled. “Of course you don’t. That’s what God told me to pray for, and God answered.”
“You believed that? You believed that God would answer that prayer?”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “I knew with all the other injuries you had incurred that God was going to answer my prayer.”
It took a few seconds for me to absorb what he’d said. From the force and intensity of the impact, I would have had internal injuries. Even the doctor had commented—in amazement—that I had neither head nor thoracic injuries.
“I’ll tell you this,” I said. “I know I had internal injuries, but somewhere between that bridge and this hospital I don’t anymore.”
Tears ran down Dick’s face, and he said, “I know. I wish I could pray like that all the time.”
And we can be confident that he will listen to us whenever we ask him for anything in line with his will. And if we know he is listening when we make our requests, we can be sure that he will give us what we ask for.
1
J
OHN 5:14–15
P
ain became my constant companion. For a long time I would not know what it was like not to hurt all over my body.
Despite that, within a few days of the accident, I began to realize how many miracles had occurred. I refer to them as miracles—although some may call them fortunate circumstances—because I believe there are no accidents or surprises with God.
First, I wore my seat belt. I shamefully admit that I had not “bothered” to wear one until I got ticketed. That morning, I had consciously belted myself in.
Second, the accident happened on the bridge. What if it had happened on the open highway across the lake when I was headed toward the bridge? My car would have plunged down at least thirty feet into the lake, and I would have drowned.
Third, I had no head injuries. Anyone who saw me or read the medical report said it was impossible that I suffered no brain damage. (Eva still jokes that on occasion she’s not so sure I didn’t.) Just as bewildering to all the medical people was that the accident affected none of my internal organs. That fact defied all medical explanation.
Fourth, orthopedic surgeon Dr. Tom Greider, who was on duty at Hermann Hospital that day, saved my leg. Dr. Greider “just happened to be” one of the few experts in the United States who deals with such bizarre trauma. He chose to use a fairly new, experimental procedure, the Ilizarov frame. He performed the surgery one week after my accident. The implanted Ilizarov not only saved my leg, but also allowed them to lengthen the bone in my left leg after I had lost four inches of my femur in the accident. The femur is the largest bone in the human body and quite difficult to break.
