By My Hands (2 page)

The service opened as it always did with Adam giving
the announcements first, followed by the congregation standing and
shaking hands with those around them. As the service progressed,
Adam knew that it was going well. He also knew that he felt far
from well. No
doubt about it,
he thought,
I’ve got the
flu. Maybe I shouldn't do any handshaking today.

As the soloist sang, “Cast Your Bread upon the
Waters,” Adam reviewed his opening illustration and rehearsed the
sermon’s three points. He also debated whether to start with a joke
or move directly into the message. When Adam first came to Maple
Street Community Church, he had used a lot of humor, which quickly
endeared him to the congregation. It wasn’t long, however, before
people began to expect their Sunday morning jokes, commenting if
Adam preached a message without them. Fearing that his sermons
would soon degenerate into a stand-up routine, Adam became
judicious in his use of jokes, saving them for sermons that were
weighty or might otherwise be uncomfortable.

Deciding to dispense with the joke, Adam stood and
made his way to the white oak pulpit centered on the rostrum. As he
did, he was seized with a sudden stab of abdominal pain. He
clutched at his stomach and grimaced. He paused for a moment behind
the pulpit, aware of 400 pairs of anxious eyes fixed on him. He
needed to say something.

“Perhaps it’s time I stopped eating my own cooking.”
His voice was shaky, not the usual “pulpit” voice he had cultivated
over the years. The pain subsided and he began his message by
announcing the text: “This morning we will begin by looking at one
of the most exciting passages in the New Testament.” Adam was
attempting to sound confident and relaxed, but he doubted his
success. He felt feverish, weak, and nauseated, but reminded
himself that the message would last only thirty minutes; surely he
could endure that long. “The passage is at the very heart of the
Christian faith. Turn with me now to 1 Corinthians, chapter 15.” He
paused for a moment and listened to the rustling of pages as people
turned to the passage.

“First Corinthians, chapter 15,” he repeated. “Our
morning’s message is entitled, ‘Resurrected to Reign.’ ” Adam was
pleased that his pulpit voice was returning. “Now that you’ve found
the passage, we’ll begin by reading verses—”

Suddenly the pain returned with a vengeful force.
Adam let out a little moan despite himself. He clutched at his
stomach with both hands. His whole insides felt as if they were on
fire. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees behind the pulpit.
Wave upon wave of nausea passed over him.

“Please, God,” he prayed, “don’t let me be sick
here. At least let me get outside.”

Adam was aware that he was surrounded by several
people. They had come to help, but he wished they would go away.
His pain was compounded by embarrassment.

“Pastor, are you all right?” It was Dick Slay, the
chairman of the deacons. “Do you want us to call an ambulance?”

Adam vomited on the floor.

Sunday, March 1, 1992; 8:15
P.M.

ADAM’S MOUTH WAS DRY and his throat raw. His
unfamiliar surroundings confused him. He was in a room with lights
that seemed entirely too bright. There was something he was trying
to remember—but what was it? As his eyes adjusted to the bright
light, he noticed Dick Slay sitting next to his bed.

“I always thought that when I died, I would wake up
in heaven.” Adam was surprised by the raspy sound of his voice.
“But it looks like I was wrong.”

“Cute.” Dick loved to engage in witty repartee with
his pastor. “How you feelin’?”

“Lousy. I assume it’s all over?”

“Yep. You’re now minus one inflamed appendix. It was
a close call. The nurse told me that your appendix came very close
to bustin’, and that would have caused all kinds of trouble.”

Adam thought about that for a moment and then took
inventory of his room. To his left was a large window through which
he could see a steady stream of headlights moving along Interstate
805. Across the room was a shelf filled with flowers sent from
church members. Suspended over the shelf was a color television. An
empty hospital bed was to his right. A small table with a green
plastic pitcher of water and a telephone was next to his bed. Adam
had seen all this before. During his ministry he had made hundreds
of visits to hospitalized church members.

“How long have you been here?” he asked, turning his
attention to Dick again.

“Awhile.”

That meant Dick had been in his room for some time.
“We need to get a speaker for tonight’s service.”

Dick smiled. “I’m afraid your timing is a little
off. Tonight’s service was over an hour ago. And I don’t want you
to worry about the church. We have the next four weeks covered. You
won’t have to do anythin’.”

“I think I’ll be able to be back to work before the
end of four weeks.” Adam tried to swallow, but his mouth was too
dry. He reached for the pitcher of water.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Dick stood, took the pitcher,
and poured the water into a paper cup. “When you come back we want
you at your best. You’re going to be taking the next four weeks
off, whether you like it or not. Besides, we need to hear some
decent preachin’ for a change.”

Dick Slay was a balding, solidly built man whom many
considered intimidating and overbearing. Adam attributed this to
his upbringing. Dick spent his early years on a central California
farm with three older brothers. After a four-year hitch in the
Navy, he started a small trucking company. Dealing with rough and
no-nonsense truckers over the years had caused him to develop an
uninhibited, forceful manner. There was never any doubt about where
Dick stood on an issue. His abrupt manner alienated a few of the
more sensitive church members, but there wasn’t a more loving or
giving man in the congregation. There had been several occasions
when Adam had been called to help a family in crisis only to find
Dick had arrived before him. He was a man who could be counted on
for help at any hour of the day or night.

Although Adam had been out of the recovery room for
hours, he was still struggling to clear his mind of the
anesthesia-induced fog when a nurse entered the room.

“So , we’ve decided to wake up, have we?” She spoke
in a cheerful Jamaican accent.

“Do they teach all nurses to speak in the
third-person plural?” The water had helped Adam’s voice.

“Just the good-looking ones.” She winked.

Adam couldn’t help noticing that her remark,
flippant as it was, was certainly true—she was striking. Her ebony
skin was highlighted by strong facial features: high cheekbones, a
well-defined jawline, piercing dark eyes, and bright teeth that
provided a stark contrast to her dark skin.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked, her eyes fixed on
the plastic IV bags suspended over his head.

“Actually, I’ve felt much better.” As he finished
the sentence, the nurse slipped a sterile covering over the
electronic thermometer and placed it under his tongue. A few
moments later the device beeped and revealed Adam’s temperature in
red numbers: ninety-nine degrees.

“A little above normal, but nothing to be concerned
about,” the nurse said as she recorded the statistic on Adam’s
chart. Quickly and smoothly she finished her examination: blood
pressure, pulse, and general appearance were checked and the proper
notations made on the chart. It was obvious that she had done
hundreds of such routine postoperative exams. Adam read her name
tag—Ramona, R.N.

“While you’re at it,” Dick said, “why don’t you
check his oil too?”

“I’m sure it would be a quart low.” The woman never
missed a beat. She was the kind, Adam decided, who liked to tease
and be teased. He would remember that whenever he needed cheering
up.

“Ramona,” Adam said as she was leaving the room.

She turned to face him. “Yes?”

He wanted to say something witty in return, but his
mind was still too sluggish, so he said, “Thanks.” She responded
with a smile and another wink, then disappeared into the outer
hall.

Sunday, March 1, 1992; 11:00
P.M.

“MR. BRIDGER.” The voice seemed distant. “Mr.
Bridger.” Adam felt a hand on his arm. He struggled, willing
himself awake. Slowly he opened his eyes. The lights seemed dimmer
than before. It was still dark outside. He wondered how long he had
been asleep. Focusing his eyes on the clock on the opposite wall,
he saw that it was almost 11:00. He had been asleep for two hours.
Adam realized that he must have fallen asleep while talking to
Dick. Patients had done the same to him on many occasions.

“Mr. Bridger, I’m Dr. Tremaine, your surgeon.”

Adam shifted his gaze to the figure standing next to
him, a woman in a white smock.

“I had planned to be here earlier, but an emergency
kept me away.” Adam thought he detected impatience in her voice. “I
want to ask you some questions.” She began a series of general
queries about his medical history, followed by questions about his
present condition. She kept her eyes fixed on Adam’s chart
throughout the questioning, never making eye contact. The only time
she looked up from the chart was to examine the three-inch-long
incision on his lower abdomen.

Adam had not been in the ministry very long before
he developed an ability to identify those who were intrinsically
unhappy. Dr. Tremaine was a classic example.

“What were you doing when you had your attack?” She
spit out her words quickly as though she were late for a meeting.
Adam felt as if he were detaining her.

“I was in the pulpit.” Adam began shifting his
position in the bed, but a stab of pain curtailed the action.

“Pulpit?” She sounded shocked.

“Yes. I’m the pastor of Maple Street Community
Church.”

“I see,” she said. The disdain was obvious in her
voice.

“Well, Mr. Bridger, or should I call you Reverend
Bridger?” She emphasized the word Reverend.

“Actually, I prefer Adam.”

“Well then, didn’t you sense something was wrong
prior to stepping behind the pulpit? Didn’t you have earlier
discomfort? Or fever? Appendix problems don’t occur instantly, you
know; they develop over a period of time. Surely you had earlier
abdominal trouble today?”

“I always have stomach discomfort on Sunday morning:
nerves— it goes with the job.” Adam could not understand the
purpose of her questions, and was beginning to feel guilty for his
illness. Taking a closer look at her, he saw a woman of less than
average height, no taller than five-foot-one. Her hair was black
and very short. She wore no makeup.

“I thought clergy feared no evil. ‘Thy rod, Thy
staff’ and all that.” Her antagonism puzzled him.

“Not fear, Doctor,” he explained patiently. “Just a
little anxiety. Keeps me humble.”

“Have you vomited since coming out of surgery?” she
asked. “No. Just some soreness.”

“Your chart shows that you’ve had no trouble
relieving yourself. Is that true?”

“Uh,” Adam flushed with embarrassment. There was no
reason for abashment, but he felt his face become warm anyway.
“I’ve gone to the bathroom once.”

“Is there anyone at home to take care of you?”

“No, I live alone.”

“You should have some help at home. I don’t want you
ripping sutures out trying to get out of bed.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I think I can
manage.” Adam forced a smile.

“It’s more caution than concern, Reverend. Be sure
you get some help for a couple of days. Can you do that?”

“I think I can,” Adam replied quietly. Then he said
firmly, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Dr. Tremaine said. “Sorry for what?”

“For inconveniencing you with my illness.” Adam made
direct eye contact.

This time she blushed. “If I seem curt, it’s because
I’ve had a rather frustrating day. I should’ve been home four hours
ago.”

“I understand,” Adam said with a wry smile. “My day
has been rather annoying too. At least you didn’t toss your
breakfast in front of 400 people, surrender an internal organ, and
find yourself confined to bed.”

An awkward silence hung in the room. Adam could see
his doctor’s discomfort and felt a little guilty for causing it,
but she needed to see beyond her own inconveniences.

Dr. Tremaine started to say something when her pager
sounded. Without another word she turned and left the room. Adam
watched as she strode purposefully away. “Saved by the bell,” he
said, and then closed his eyes and searched for sleep.

Monday, March 2, 1992; 4:00
A.M.

THERE ARE FEW WARDS of a hospital more emotionally
grueling than the one in which Lisa Hailey had spent the last two
weeks. The burn ward at Kingston Memorial Hospital was considered
one of the top three in the United States. Yet, despite its
reputation, it was a horrible place to work, and an even more
horrible place in which to stay. Burn ward nurses were considered
the most dedicated and loving, yet as many as 50 percent of the
staff left every two years. Burn patients faced far more than the
usual discomfort of illness. Their pain was beyond description.
Their burned skin left nerve endings exposed and raw. The halls
were often filled with the groans of patients whose flesh had been
rendered stiff and black. The odor of scorched flesh overpowered
the usual antiseptic smells associated with hospitals. Only those
with the strongest stomachs and the highest level of dedication
chose to work here.

Lisa was alive—barely. The emergency room doctors
had described her injuries as extensive; 60 percent of her body was
covered with the blackened flesh of third-degree burns.

Lisa had been expected to die within one or two
days, but so far she had endured twelve days of physical and mental
anguish. Now that it appeared that she might live, there were baths
of silver nitrate, long periods in a hyperbaric chamber, and huge
quantities of fluid to receive: blood, plasma, and saline
intravenously introduced into her body. At the end of each day, she
was taken to a bed with no covering, for even a soft bed sheet on
her exposed nerves caused excruciating pain.