90 Minutes in Heaven (17 page)

“I’ve decided to do all the stuff I can. The more I thought about it, the fewer limitations I saw. There are thousands of things I can do—and I’m going to do them for the rest of my life.”

After I read that article, I thought,
That’s exactly what I need—not mourning, pining, and going back over the way things used to be or what I used to have that I don’t have anymore. Instead, I need to discover what I have now, not only to celebrate but also to recognize I’m not helpless.

As I continued to ponder that idea, I realized I had more going for me than I thought. I had focused so heavily on my losses that I had forgotten what I had left. And I hadn’t realized the opportunities I might never have tried otherwise.

In the article, the blind man said something like, “I’m not going to worry about what I can’t do. I’m going to do what I can do well.” Those words seemed simple.

I read that article at just the right time, and the words seemed incredibly profound. God had sent the message I needed when I needed it. It was one of those powerful moments that caused me to say, “I’ve got to get on with my life. Whatever I have, I’m going to use it and magnify it to the max.”

I’m running out of time,
I thought,
but so is everyone else.
I suppose I’m more conscious of time than some people are for two reasons: First, I lost a big chunk of my life because of the accident. Second, I know we don’t get to stay long on this earth. As many of the old hymns say, we’re really like strangers passing through. It’s something we all know from reading the Bible and other books, but those realizations became a wake-up call for me.

I also know that my loved ones are waiting for me at the gate. Some days I can’t wait to get back there.

I also realize that I have to wait until God sends me back.

Members of South Park Baptist Church moved our family while I was hospitalized. We had been living in a town called Friendswood, about ten miles from the church. We had needed a place nearer the church but hadn’t found one. While I was in the hospital, the church leaders found a house, rented it, packed up everything for us, and moved us. When I got out of the hospital, I entered a house I had never seen before. After the ambulance backed up and unloaded me from a gurney to my home hospital bed, I stared at our house for the first time.

I soon adjusted to the new living quarters, because for a long time I could only see the living room, where they set up my hospital bed.

In some ways the move into the rented house was more difficult on the family than on me. I sensed some of the adjustments and difficulties my wife went through with my illness. Eva almost lost her job because she had spent so much time with me that she ran out of conference days, vacation days, and sick days. Other teachers donated their own sick days to her so she could come and be with me in the hospital. Eventually, she ran out of those donated days and had to go back to work. She was our primary source of income.

Eva’s colleagues at Robert Louis Stevenson Primary School in Alvin often graded her papers for her, wrote her lesson plans, and covered her classes when she left early to come see me in the hospital. Her fellow teachers even made little gifts to give our kids each day so they would have something to look forward to. They called them “surprise boxes.” Fellow teachers also came to our home, along with church members, to clean our house and bring meals. Had it not been for the teachers and the church, Eva would have certainly lost her job and so would I. Yet even with all these incredibly sacrificial gifts and assistance, how she and our children got through that spring semester of 1989 remains a miracle.

One time when Eva inquired about my long-term prognosis, a nurse told her, “Honey, you don’t need to know all of that, you’re just a wife.”

To that nurse, she may have been “just a wife,” but Eva took over and functioned for both of us after my accident. I had always taken care of the bills, bank accounts, insurance, and most family matters. She had no choice but to handle them herself, and she did everything well. Eva found strength and a new level of confidence. God provided her with the wisdom to help her take care of family matters. She also learned to remain calm during my complaints and grumbling throughout my lengthy recovery.

The church didn’t stop paying me, but we realized that they might, and they were entitled to because I wasn’t working. We never talked about the money, but it was always a possibility that hung over our heads.

When the State of Texas was found at fault for the accident, the law limited their liability to $250,000. All the money went to hospital bills, and a quarter of a million dollars didn’t make much of a dent.

Ironically, the attorney general of Texas defended the man who drove the truck that hit me, because the defendant was an indigent inmate. Therefore my tax dollars went to defend the state and the man who caused the accident. Isn’t life strange sometimes?

During the 105 days I spent in the hospital, Eva had the most strain. Not only did she take on the burden of everything in our home, she got up at 6:00 every morning and did everything she had to do around the house and hurried to school. As soon as school was over, she rushed to my bedside, where she stayed until 10:30 every night. Day after day was the same stressful routine.

One of the most challenging experiences for her—by herself—was to buy a van to replace my wrecked car. By then, I was home and able to walk with my Ilizarov still attached. That meant, however, that if I wanted to go anywhere, we had to have a van to transport me. We had no idea how long it would be before I could sit in a normal sedan.

Eva had never bought a vehicle in her life, but she didn’t complain. She went to a dealer, test-drove a van, picked out one, and brought it home. “Here’s our van,” she said.

She made me proud of her—and I felt very grateful.

I learned to drive again in that van. One day as the family was washing it, I walked outside still wearing my Ilizarov. As I lumbered around the van, I noticed that the driver’s side door was open. Peering inside, I calculated what it would take for me and my thirty pounds of stainless steel to get behind the wheel. While the family wasn’t looking, I maneuvered myself into the seat and started the engine. My family was stunned.

Eva came around to the door and asked, “What are you doing?”

I smiled and said, “I’m going for a drive!”

Incredulous, she stammered, “But you can’t.”

However, something told me that not having driven for nearly a year, and having had my last drive end in my death, it was now or never for taking the wheel and driving again.

I backed out slowly and drove around the block. It wasn’t a long drive, but it was another milestone in my recovery. I’m still not very fond of eighteen-wheelers or long two-lane bridges, but so far I manage to get where I’m going.

Of course, it fell on Eva to make all my appointments and to see that I got to my doctor’s office twice a week. And I must add that I wasn’t the easiest person to look after. In fact, I was difficult. As my health improved, I became demanding and curt (I wasn’t aware of that), and Eva agonized over trying to please me, although she handled it well.

The fact is that I was very unhappy. Many of my problems stemmed from my feeling completely helpless. For a long time I couldn’t even get myself a glass of water. Even if I could have poured one for myself, I couldn’t have drunk it without help. Even the simplest tasks made me feel useless.

Eva often had to make decisions on the spot without talking to me. She did the best she could. At times, when Eva related what she had done, I was quick to let her know how I would have done it. Almost immediately, I’d realize I hurt her feelings when I did that, but the words had been said. I reminded myself, and her, “I’m sorry. You’re doing the best you can.” I also reminded myself that regardless of how I would have done things, I wasn’t able to do them.

Although she said little during that period, she later allowed me to read what she wrote in her diary. One entry reads: “Don is critical of everything I do. He must be getting better.”

That’s both sad and funny to me. She knew I was getting better because I started to make decisions again. The desire to get active in doing things was her yardstick for my recovery. I seemed to want to get more involved in life and to question what was going on.

I just wish I had been a better patient and made it easier for her.

The worst part of my convalescence for the family was that we farmed out our three kids. They weren’t orphans, but they lived with other people for about six months. Our twin sons stayed with Eva’s parents in Louisiana. I know they weren’t happy about having to move so far away. The distance made the boys feel detached and separated, but they handled it quite well. They were still in elementary school and, at that age, it probably wasn’t too difficult relocating. Nicole, who was five years older and thirteen at the time, moved in with her girlfriend’s family and was able to stay in her middle school. It would have been much more traumatic for her to move away.

The accident happened in January, and the kids didn’t come home permanently until June. I felt terrible that we couldn’t provide for our children.

The kids came to see me on weekends during my hospital stays, which was tough on them. When they made their first visit to the hospital, a staff psychologist did a kind thing for them. He took all three kids into a room and showed them a life-size dummy with devices attached to it, similar to what was on my body. This way he could explain what they would see when they entered my room.

I’m glad he did that for them, because even many adults, not having that kind of preparation, showed obvious shock when they first saw me. In my condition, I interpreted their reactions as horror.

When the children came into my room the first time, all three of them stepped as close as they could to hug me. They loved me and wanted to see for themselves that I was okay. Of course, I was barely alive, but it still did me a lot of good just to see them. The staff didn’t let them stay long. As awful as I looked, the children believed me when I said I would get well.