I didn't really know if I were going to wake up. This was one of those decisive days, where life or death depended on the training, skill, and dedication of others. Not to mention the will of God.
It felt like a test, although it wasn't really a test of faith. Honestly, it wasn't a test of courage either...I had no choice. No options were good. What exactly was tested in following through I don't know, but that's the feeling I had.
I'm told the odds of making it through the 10 hour surgery ran around 20%. I didn't know that at the time. Fortunately, I had some divine help...significantly raising those odds :). I had a fantastic hope that the surgeons would find nothing wrong, as they did for Dodie Osteen which I recently read about in her novella Healed of Cancer. I suppose that was partly true, as the surgery proved less difficult than they feared...only lasting 6 hours or so. The liver specialist told me they didn't have to remove every organ in the abdominal cavity and replace them...only some. But they were ready to.
Obviously I woke up. About a week later, I'm told. It's that time in-between that I'm fascinated with.
Julie tells me that I woke up many times during that week. Mostly, my behavior was rude and voilent. Evidently when they pulled the ventilator tube out, I thrashed around and tore apart everything I could get ahold of...until the nurses rushed back and sedated me again. Sometimes I would wake up groaning for water, only to snap at the nurses or my wife when they tried to help. Julie would often be reading some verses to me and I would wake and bark at her, making her stop. All very embarrassing and definately not acting like myself. Ah well.
What I DO recall is something wild and different. Yes, there were those feverish glimses of the ICU and a face or two along the way, but those were like dreams from long ago. I remembered something a little more intense, something I'd completely forgotten about since my childhood.
I was a sickly child, often in the hospital and once or twice under heavy sedation while they performed some procedure. Something about a chemical imbalance in my blood. But there's a place you become aware of, somewhere between chemical dreams and reality. You drift around barely able to think, but you CAN feel. You can feel the effects of the drug waning after some time, and become aware of your body. I came back to that place, and it was a place of intense pain. Discomfort so abrupt and disturbing that, if I could, I would've screamed and cried out for help. There's no getting away from it. That fog of sedation wouldn't let me wake up, would barely let me think, but it's effects no longer kept the pain, nausea, thirst, and general feeling of wrongness away.
I wollowed in that place for what seemed like an eternity. Mentally, I was screaming and crying out over and over again, but I doubt if my lips even moved. The fog would overtake me from time to time, taking me back to blissful unconsciousness, but I always returned. It's in this place that something interesting happened.
I couldn't think very well in this state, mind you. I know I wanted to cry out to Jesus, to ask him please help me!. But I just couldn't think of his name. In my feverish state, I reasoned that if I couldn't think of his name...I could try to spell it. It didn't occur to me that spelling was even harder, that's just what I came up with. In-between mental whimpers I would try and put together letters, over and over again, to try and spell Jesus' name. Of course I couldn't, as I couldn't remember his name anyway. But I kept trying. The fog would take me, and I'd return back at square one again trying to spell JESUS. I know...pathetic...but that's where I was.
And then I hit a major milestone. I knew, somehow, that I got one letter right. I was thrilled, and what followed was even more amazing. Immediately, I was calmed. A warmth began somewhere in my midsection and spread throughout me. My mind was eased, the pain would vanish, and I could drift back to sleep again. I could sense the effect of my medication, hovering between me and consciousness, and it had nothing to do with this phenomena. It was something entirely different.
I'd wake in that bad place again, and I'd fixate on that letter "J" I remembered...trying to come up with the next letter. Again, the warmth and blissful peace would return. Over and over I'd face the pain, only to have it taken away when I tried spelling Jesus' name. When I did the only thing I could possibly come up with to try and cry out to Him.
It makes me tear up just remembering it. Hope I'm expressing the urgency and desperation I faced.
I must have cried out to Jesus a hundred or more times during that week. Always subconsciously, pathetically even. But every time, the pain was taken away and I could cope. A fantastic memory.
Eventually they waned me off of the meds. I came through the fog and pain into awareness, was able to open my eyes, and begin answering questions they threw at me.
The nurses would smile and keep asking me silly questions. "Do you know where you are? Remember what year it is? Why you're here?" After awhile, I got irratated with the repeat questions and yes, got a little grumpy. On purpose this time. I'd make stuff up and croak it out, and I think they caught on. They quit asking me things.
Eventually they moved me into a regular hospital room. Sometime in that first day, I remembered to be thankful to God...not just for letting me live through the surgery (honestly, it didn't feel like a blessing at all to wake up after that), but for being there and taking away the pain when I cried out to him. When I was exactly helpless.
Well, I was still helpless. Tubes into my neck and both hands, with my belly stapled up all over. Not much I could do on my own, awake or not. At least I could talk and groan alot.
And I could listen. I think it was my second day awake...my wife left to go back home, take care of the kids, but promised to come back in a couple of days. I didn't know it, but after the verbal abuse I'd given her while unconscious...she needed a break from me and from her day and night vigil over the past week. My mom also stayed with her during that time...and I hear Darrell came and prayed the whole time during surgery. What amazing people.
But for awhile, there was nobody I knew with me. The nurses would often come in doing various things. They'd talk to me to as if talking to themselves. Maybe they didn't think I could hear or understand them. I remember a time two nurses came in, and they were discussing me right there in the room. One was telling the other what they'd done...completely removing my IVC and sewing up the veins running to my legs. Removal of a kidney and some other things. She told the other nurse that I would have a rude awakening when I got better. I wouldn't be able to work, run, or do just about anything a normal man expects to do. Even walking would always be painful and hard to do. Etc, etc. Then they left.
For some reason that got to me. The more I thought about it, the more my hope for the future and my composure slipped away. On cue, I had a visit from some really cool people. First, Jim and Sharon Furb came in, sharing their recent cruise experience and trying their best to keep up a conversation with me. Then Peggy and Steve came in...Paula and her kids...all about the same time. While there was a reunion of sorts amongst them outside the room, I completely broke down and lost my composure. Began crying like a little baby.
Jim and Sharon were fabulous. They immediately began praying for me. What they did, in effect, was remind me who I am and what I believed in. How could I forget what Jesus had just recently done for me? My God beats all the odds, he's greater than the gossip of some nurses.
Their prayers snapped me back to who I was, after awhile. What caring, precious people. Later, I realized that they were there with me exactly when I needed them...probably for that reason. God is truly amazing when I think about Him.
Unfortunately, the whole crowd probably witnessed me losing it. Ah well, they all left soon enough...damage done. Evidently Peggy called home and told Julie and my mom I wasn't doing very well, which may have been helpful. Next thing I knew, my mother was back and she camped out in my room the remainder of my stay. Julie had the kids to worry about, so she wasn't there much that week.
I really, really tried NOT to irritate my mother during that time. I realized that my composure wasn't very gracious, and I would grump about things often. But I tried not to. She was so dedicated, a real trooper.
It was pretty cool that my friend Eric would stop by almost every day. He worked nearby, and usually made the time to stay awhile during his lunch, I suppose. I tried to maintain my composure and engage in normal conversations with him, as I was extremely grateful he took the time to visit. Maybe I did...I sure hope so.
I talked with Darrell a few times and my wife often on the phone. Eventually I recovered well enough to begin sitting up, performing the usual functions, and even begin walking again.
Even today, my gut hurts when I walk. But it's alot more bearable than those first couple of weeks. Ick.
Eventually, thanks to dozens of people, I finally made it home. Julie diligently changes my disgusting dressings twice daily, and I gimp about trying to do things around the house. It's been slowly getting better. I can drive now, and do most things so long as I don't lift or push heavy weights.
I can certainly be thankful. And I can pray. Praise God who shows grace and mercy, even to me!
And thanks for taking the time to read this novella. I've done my best.
It felt like a test, although it wasn't really a test of faith. Honestly, it wasn't a test of courage either...I had no choice. No options were good. What exactly was tested in following through I don't know, but that's the feeling I had.
I'm told the odds of making it through the 10 hour surgery ran around 20%. I didn't know that at the time. Fortunately, I had some divine help...significantly raising those odds :). I had a fantastic hope that the surgeons would find nothing wrong, as they did for Dodie Osteen which I recently read about in her novella Healed of Cancer. I suppose that was partly true, as the surgery proved less difficult than they feared...only lasting 6 hours or so. The liver specialist told me they didn't have to remove every organ in the abdominal cavity and replace them...only some. But they were ready to.
Obviously I woke up. About a week later, I'm told. It's that time in-between that I'm fascinated with.
Julie tells me that I woke up many times during that week. Mostly, my behavior was rude and voilent. Evidently when they pulled the ventilator tube out, I thrashed around and tore apart everything I could get ahold of...until the nurses rushed back and sedated me again. Sometimes I would wake up groaning for water, only to snap at the nurses or my wife when they tried to help. Julie would often be reading some verses to me and I would wake and bark at her, making her stop. All very embarrassing and definately not acting like myself. Ah well.
What I DO recall is something wild and different. Yes, there were those feverish glimses of the ICU and a face or two along the way, but those were like dreams from long ago. I remembered something a little more intense, something I'd completely forgotten about since my childhood.
I was a sickly child, often in the hospital and once or twice under heavy sedation while they performed some procedure. Something about a chemical imbalance in my blood. But there's a place you become aware of, somewhere between chemical dreams and reality. You drift around barely able to think, but you CAN feel. You can feel the effects of the drug waning after some time, and become aware of your body. I came back to that place, and it was a place of intense pain. Discomfort so abrupt and disturbing that, if I could, I would've screamed and cried out for help. There's no getting away from it. That fog of sedation wouldn't let me wake up, would barely let me think, but it's effects no longer kept the pain, nausea, thirst, and general feeling of wrongness away.
I wollowed in that place for what seemed like an eternity. Mentally, I was screaming and crying out over and over again, but I doubt if my lips even moved. The fog would overtake me from time to time, taking me back to blissful unconsciousness, but I always returned. It's in this place that something interesting happened.
I couldn't think very well in this state, mind you. I know I wanted to cry out to Jesus, to ask him please help me!. But I just couldn't think of his name. In my feverish state, I reasoned that if I couldn't think of his name...I could try to spell it. It didn't occur to me that spelling was even harder, that's just what I came up with. In-between mental whimpers I would try and put together letters, over and over again, to try and spell Jesus' name. Of course I couldn't, as I couldn't remember his name anyway. But I kept trying. The fog would take me, and I'd return back at square one again trying to spell JESUS. I know...pathetic...but that's where I was.
And then I hit a major milestone. I knew, somehow, that I got one letter right. I was thrilled, and what followed was even more amazing. Immediately, I was calmed. A warmth began somewhere in my midsection and spread throughout me. My mind was eased, the pain would vanish, and I could drift back to sleep again. I could sense the effect of my medication, hovering between me and consciousness, and it had nothing to do with this phenomena. It was something entirely different.
I'd wake in that bad place again, and I'd fixate on that letter "J" I remembered...trying to come up with the next letter. Again, the warmth and blissful peace would return. Over and over I'd face the pain, only to have it taken away when I tried spelling Jesus' name. When I did the only thing I could possibly come up with to try and cry out to Him.
It makes me tear up just remembering it. Hope I'm expressing the urgency and desperation I faced.
I must have cried out to Jesus a hundred or more times during that week. Always subconsciously, pathetically even. But every time, the pain was taken away and I could cope. A fantastic memory.
Eventually they waned me off of the meds. I came through the fog and pain into awareness, was able to open my eyes, and begin answering questions they threw at me.
The nurses would smile and keep asking me silly questions. "Do you know where you are? Remember what year it is? Why you're here?" After awhile, I got irratated with the repeat questions and yes, got a little grumpy. On purpose this time. I'd make stuff up and croak it out, and I think they caught on. They quit asking me things.
Eventually they moved me into a regular hospital room. Sometime in that first day, I remembered to be thankful to God...not just for letting me live through the surgery (honestly, it didn't feel like a blessing at all to wake up after that), but for being there and taking away the pain when I cried out to him. When I was exactly helpless.
Well, I was still helpless. Tubes into my neck and both hands, with my belly stapled up all over. Not much I could do on my own, awake or not. At least I could talk and groan alot.
And I could listen. I think it was my second day awake...my wife left to go back home, take care of the kids, but promised to come back in a couple of days. I didn't know it, but after the verbal abuse I'd given her while unconscious...she needed a break from me and from her day and night vigil over the past week. My mom also stayed with her during that time...and I hear Darrell came and prayed the whole time during surgery. What amazing people.
But for awhile, there was nobody I knew with me. The nurses would often come in doing various things. They'd talk to me to as if talking to themselves. Maybe they didn't think I could hear or understand them. I remember a time two nurses came in, and they were discussing me right there in the room. One was telling the other what they'd done...completely removing my IVC and sewing up the veins running to my legs. Removal of a kidney and some other things. She told the other nurse that I would have a rude awakening when I got better. I wouldn't be able to work, run, or do just about anything a normal man expects to do. Even walking would always be painful and hard to do. Etc, etc. Then they left.
For some reason that got to me. The more I thought about it, the more my hope for the future and my composure slipped away. On cue, I had a visit from some really cool people. First, Jim and Sharon Furb came in, sharing their recent cruise experience and trying their best to keep up a conversation with me. Then Peggy and Steve came in...Paula and her kids...all about the same time. While there was a reunion of sorts amongst them outside the room, I completely broke down and lost my composure. Began crying like a little baby.
Jim and Sharon were fabulous. They immediately began praying for me. What they did, in effect, was remind me who I am and what I believed in. How could I forget what Jesus had just recently done for me? My God beats all the odds, he's greater than the gossip of some nurses.
Their prayers snapped me back to who I was, after awhile. What caring, precious people. Later, I realized that they were there with me exactly when I needed them...probably for that reason. God is truly amazing when I think about Him.
Unfortunately, the whole crowd probably witnessed me losing it. Ah well, they all left soon enough...damage done. Evidently Peggy called home and told Julie and my mom I wasn't doing very well, which may have been helpful. Next thing I knew, my mother was back and she camped out in my room the remainder of my stay. Julie had the kids to worry about, so she wasn't there much that week.
I really, really tried NOT to irritate my mother during that time. I realized that my composure wasn't very gracious, and I would grump about things often. But I tried not to. She was so dedicated, a real trooper.
It was pretty cool that my friend Eric would stop by almost every day. He worked nearby, and usually made the time to stay awhile during his lunch, I suppose. I tried to maintain my composure and engage in normal conversations with him, as I was extremely grateful he took the time to visit. Maybe I did...I sure hope so.
I talked with Darrell a few times and my wife often on the phone. Eventually I recovered well enough to begin sitting up, performing the usual functions, and even begin walking again.
Even today, my gut hurts when I walk. But it's alot more bearable than those first couple of weeks. Ick.
Eventually, thanks to dozens of people, I finally made it home. Julie diligently changes my disgusting dressings twice daily, and I gimp about trying to do things around the house. It's been slowly getting better. I can drive now, and do most things so long as I don't lift or push heavy weights.
I can certainly be thankful. And I can pray. Praise God who shows grace and mercy, even to me!
And thanks for taking the time to read this novella. I've done my best.
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