Someone once told me that trying to get a book published was akin to having a mistress. If taken seriously it can be time and mind-consuming. I think that may be true. That is why I haven't really worked harder at getting this story in print before now. It is also the reason that Judy and I decided to collaborate in telling the story. It belongs to her as much as it belongs to me. In fact, if it weren't for her support, tenacious spirit, loving heart and Type A personality, there would be no story to tell. She was by my side everyday during the darkest times immediately following my accident and she has been my companion on the journey for the twelve and one half years since as well. Her contributions to this manuscript are vital and offer a unique vantage point to the events described.
No one asks for an experience like ours. We didn't. And we weren't the least bit prepared for it when it did happen. One of the principal promises from God that we have based our 37 years of marriage on is that "when we pass through the water, God would be with us; when we pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over us. When we walk through the fire, we will not be burned, the flames will not set us ablaze. For He is the Lord our God....we will not be afraid for God is with us."
(Isaiah 43:2,5)
In the days following the accident in which I was run over by our church bus, driven by a close friend, people said to me, "Fred, someday you'll have to write a book about your experience." After all these years - and after a few discouraging replies from publishers, we decided to make the story available electronically. Should there be enough interest, perhaps we will self-publish. Our primary interest is in telling the story - from two sides: Judy's and mine.
Some who read this may be passing through stormy waters right now. Others may feel washed up on shore - beaten, bedraggled, bruised and discouraged. Some who know us and who lived through the storms with us might find encouragement in knowing that we have come through it with more confidence in God's promises than we had in 1997. We hope, for all who read this story, there will be encouragement, comfort, and renewed faith. That's what it did for us.
Yet others may not have passed through any storms in life at all. For those readers, we pray you never have to navigate through similar waters but that the lessons we've learned will still be of encouragement and help.
So, over the next several weeks (or months) you can read our story. We invite questions, comments, and most of all, an examination of your heart so that when you pass "THROUGH STORMY WATERS" you will not be overwhelmed because God is with you.
This is our story and we are sticking to it.
Fred and Judy Davis
Enumclaw, Washington
December 2009
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Run Over by a Bus
CHAPTER 2
16:18 MDT
8 May, 1997
Las Cruces, NM
"No, NO! Stop! What are you doing? Please stop!" I heard these words explode out of my mouth but it hardly seemed possible that I was speaking them. It was like a surreal dream. You know the kind; you are running from some danger but can't find your footing or you are falling free fall through thin air with no way of controlling your descent. That is what it felt like was happening. I kept hoping I would wake up at any minute and it would all be over; nothing but a distant, hazy memory of the previous night's sleep. It was no dream.
I was pinned between the front bumper of a 1981 Blue Bird School bus and the side of my friend Bob's Dodge Van. In spite of my pleas, the bus kept up its relentless pressure. With each second, my voice was weaker as my chest was compressed and ribs began to crack. The pain was like nothing I could ever have imagined. What was happening? How could this be happening to me?
Desparately clawing at the hood of the bus, I tried frantically to extracate myself from between the two vehicles. My feet were swinging wildly beneath the bumper as I tried to get a solid foothold that would enable me to somehow climb up and over the bus's grill to safety. No luck. There was not enough room to maneuver. The bus kept going; kept crushing me. I could hear the metal panel of the van's door beginning to creak under the pressure as my body was pressed into it's door like clay being forced into a mold.
Finally the van could take no more and it's rear wheels broke free, allowing it to be pushed aside. The bus lurched up and over the concrete curb separating the paved parking area from the gravelled area beyond. As I lost the last remnant of support from behind, and with no footing on the ground I fell backwards onto the gravel and thorns and watched in horror as the bus began to run over me. Thankfully, one of our potential buyers was standing next to me. Though he was slightly injured himself, he was able to move my splaying legs to the side and out of the path of the bus's tires. The front bumper and suspension of the yellow behemoth, caught my legs in mid air and folded them back over my chest.
Freakishly, the bus continued its forward momentum. My pleas continued unheard. Gradually I was vacuumed under the engine, the drive train, the muffler as the bus durg me for forty feet. Each foot of that journey was painstakingly real; grindingly slow; inconceivably painful. My back was absorbing the rough, gravelly surface of the ground beneath, ripping away not only my clothing but flesh as well.
In what seemed like a timeless hell but was in reality only a few seconds, the bus finally careened up over a 6" ledge and onto the church's basketball court. As it jostled up and over this last obstacle, the back of my neck was caught against it with sufficient force to flip me over without crushing the vertabra completely.
Finally. It was over. The only sound I could hear at first was the ticking of my Casio watch. My right arm and wrist were contorted and now rested under my head which was turned to the left. I thought I should probably get up and see what had happened. As hard as my mind willed my limbs to move, there was not the slightest ability to move. What was to happen next? I should have been terrified. I wasn't. In what should have been a moment of extreme fear and panic, became a peaceful place of God's presence while I lay there waiting.
16:18 MDT
8 May, 1997
Las Cruces, NM
"No, NO! Stop! What are you doing? Please stop!" I heard these words explode out of my mouth but it hardly seemed possible that I was speaking them. It was like a surreal dream. You know the kind; you are running from some danger but can't find your footing or you are falling free fall through thin air with no way of controlling your descent. That is what it felt like was happening. I kept hoping I would wake up at any minute and it would all be over; nothing but a distant, hazy memory of the previous night's sleep. It was no dream.
I was pinned between the front bumper of a 1981 Blue Bird School bus and the side of my friend Bob's Dodge Van. In spite of my pleas, the bus kept up its relentless pressure. With each second, my voice was weaker as my chest was compressed and ribs began to crack. The pain was like nothing I could ever have imagined. What was happening? How could this be happening to me?
Desparately clawing at the hood of the bus, I tried frantically to extracate myself from between the two vehicles. My feet were swinging wildly beneath the bumper as I tried to get a solid foothold that would enable me to somehow climb up and over the bus's grill to safety. No luck. There was not enough room to maneuver. The bus kept going; kept crushing me. I could hear the metal panel of the van's door beginning to creak under the pressure as my body was pressed into it's door like clay being forced into a mold.
Finally the van could take no more and it's rear wheels broke free, allowing it to be pushed aside. The bus lurched up and over the concrete curb separating the paved parking area from the gravelled area beyond. As I lost the last remnant of support from behind, and with no footing on the ground I fell backwards onto the gravel and thorns and watched in horror as the bus began to run over me. Thankfully, one of our potential buyers was standing next to me. Though he was slightly injured himself, he was able to move my splaying legs to the side and out of the path of the bus's tires. The front bumper and suspension of the yellow behemoth, caught my legs in mid air and folded them back over my chest.
Freakishly, the bus continued its forward momentum. My pleas continued unheard. Gradually I was vacuumed under the engine, the drive train, the muffler as the bus durg me for forty feet. Each foot of that journey was painstakingly real; grindingly slow; inconceivably painful. My back was absorbing the rough, gravelly surface of the ground beneath, ripping away not only my clothing but flesh as well.
In what seemed like a timeless hell but was in reality only a few seconds, the bus finally careened up over a 6" ledge and onto the church's basketball court. As it jostled up and over this last obstacle, the back of my neck was caught against it with sufficient force to flip me over without crushing the vertabra completely.
Finally. It was over. The only sound I could hear at first was the ticking of my Casio watch. My right arm and wrist were contorted and now rested under my head which was turned to the left. I thought I should probably get up and see what had happened. As hard as my mind willed my limbs to move, there was not the slightest ability to move. What was to happen next? I should have been terrified. I wasn't. In what should have been a moment of extreme fear and panic, became a peaceful place of God's presence while I lay there waiting.
"What is God Trying To Teach Us Now?"
CHAPTER 3
16:50 pm
Las Cruces, NM
Hear O Israel. The Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength...Impress these on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. (Deuteronomy 6: 4 - 7)
Everything in life changed on May 8th, 1997.I had often told people I that I loved reading Guidepost articles but I never wanted to be one. Now I was smack dab in the middle of one. This is my story.
It was 4:30 in the afternoon when I first received the call. For most of the day I had been interviewing applicants for a new Head Start teacher. In fairness to each person, I had been meticulously asking the same questions over and over. I was feeling drowsy and the prospect of one more interview was not exciting me.
As I greeted the next the next person to be interviewed, my secretary told me I had a call from Janet, my husband’s secretary and I needed to take the call. Janet simply told me that Fred had been in an accident in the church parking lot and he wanted me to come. She did not give me details but there was something about the tone in her voice that left no question. I needed to go to the church immediately.
I made my apology to the man who was waiting to be interviewed and flew out of my office. The second I stepped out into the hallway our daughter Melissa rounded the corner. She was on her way to tell me she had turned in her last paper as a student at New Mexico State University. I pulled her next to me and kept walking down the hallway thinking how fortunate it was that she arrived at that exact moment.
As we walked I told her about the phone call. She wanted details and I didn’t have any to give her. Frankly, I was kind of irritated. What was I going to do? I would probably just have to put Fred in the car and take him to the nearest Family Medical Center. I certainly was no nurse. I didn’t know why Janet couldn’t just do that herself. She had a background in nursing and should know what to do. How serious could an accident in a church parking lot be?
The moment we pulled into the parking lot of the church, I knew that there was something more going on than I had suspected. I noted that police cars, an aide car and an ambulance were all present. There were numerous emergency personnel scurrying around with a sense of urgency but not panic. They acted professionally and calmly in spite of what, I would soon learn, was the dire nature of the accident. My heart began to race.
Melissa and I ran to the back doors of the ambulance where Fred was just being loaded into the imposing mobile emergency room. He was strapped to a backboard. His neck was in a brace.His head was taped as well to keep it completely immobilized. An oxygen mask covered his mouth and most of his face. Clothes had been cut from his body. There were long, deep lacerations and smeared blood visible all over his body. His eyes were swollen and gave off a ghastly reddish purple color. His skin also appeared reddish purple and he was breathing far more rapidly and shallow than a normal, healthy person. At once I knew that Fred had been the victim of a horrible accident. How could something so unthinkable happen in an almost vacant church parking lot late in the afternoon on a weekday? It would be weeks before I really understood exactly what did happen.
Everything was moving at an urgent pace. The medical attendants were almost set to take him to the hospital. I leaned over Fred, touched his hand and told him I loved him. He returned with words of affection and then, what he told me made me smile. He told me to get someone else to drive me to the hospital. He didn’t want me to drive and get in an accident because I was upset. Worried about me getting in an accident? If a person can find humor in this kind of situation, this was one of those moments. The bitter irony made my chuckle under my breath. The EMTs closed the doors and hopped in.
The ambulance took off with sirens mournfully wailing. Melissa and I followed after them. We had not traveled three blocks when Melissa asked, “So, mom, what do you think God is trying to teach us through this?” At first I was taken back by such a spiritual response. It came so quickly I was unprepared for the query.
True, we had talked numerous times about how God teaches us through difficult situations. We had never been a family who pretended to have all of the answers or claim that leading a life with Christ at the center would insure smooth sailing. Yet our family had been relatively immune from major crises. My parents had both passed away – my father the victim of a freak accident while working underneath his car; my mother from a prolonged and gradually worsening condition of dementia. Fred's dad had died the previous May. Otherwise, the usual trials that every family faces - juggling busy schedules; making a dollar stretch; handling the pressures of stressful jobs;of raising adolescent girls (dates, grades, curfews, driving, science projects and college applications) – had been the norm.
Maybe it is because I am a teacher and teachers always seem to be intent on their students learning or discovering something new in any and every situation. Or perhaps it is because I have always been aware that we are a work in progress. God has begun a work in us but the work of making us more in the image of Christ continues daily. Regardless of the reasons, “What is God trying to teach us?” was quite often the basis for discussions in our family when we faced unusual or challenging circumstances.
I have to admit that pondering what I was to learn from this terrible accident was far from what I was thinking at the time, but it was a question that would come back again and again to my mind over the next months and even years after the accident. Nothing is wasted in God’s economy.
When we ran into the Emergency Room I wanted to go straight to Fred. Instead I was seated at a booth with a clerk who needed me to fill out admission and insurance paperwork. Insurance? My husband was broken, bleeding - maybe dying - and I had to fill out forms give them insurance numbers and cards? It seemed absurd and not just a little irritating.
Finally the paperwork was completed. Melissa and I were ushered into a small waiting room that is reserved for families of patients who have a life threatening illness or injury. Adjacent to the trauma bays, we could hear and sense the commotion and busy tasks the medical staff at the hospital were taking.
The tears that had been at the surface poured out. One of our friends told me crying was a good thing. When her husband was in a serious accident, she couldn’t cry. I remember thinking, “well I certainly don’t have to worry about that.” Just when I would get under control, I would see Fred as I last saw him in such obvious pain and the flood gate of tears would open up again.
The next several hours were a blur of different doctors and nurses giving updates. "They are taking Fred for x-rays. They are taking Fred for an MRI. We are trying to set up a Flight for Life to take Fred to a Level One Trauma Center either in Albuquerque or El Paso. Can we get you anything?" As if a cup of coffee was going to help at this point! I would find that over the next several weeks, people were always trying to get me to eat or drink something.
After the initial x-rays and the MRI were completed, we received our first bit of good news. An ER doctor reported that Fred had not sustained any serious damage to internal organs and there were no obvious signs of internal bleeding. His organs were bruised but still in tact. It was my friend Betty who is a nurse that said, “Do you know what really good news that is?” I had to admit I didn’t. Once again as time progressed and I learned the extent of Fred’s injuries that fact became a miracle. It was amazing that with the crushing force that had broken so many bones in his torso, not one of them punctured an organ.
While all the conversations were going on about where to transport Fred, Doctors continued to examine Fred and try to stabilize him. What Fred wanted was to make sure Bob knew he didn’t blame him for his injuries. I was amazed through all the pain he was experiencing he could think of anyone other than himself.
When I was finally allowed to see him, they were trying to get him to wiggle his toes, push down and lift up his feet, lift his fingers, raise his arms and make a fist with his hands. He could not do any of these things. My mind was in a whirl. Was he completely paralyzed? Would he ever regain any of those functions which we all take so for granted?
Dr. Bruce San Filippo, the neurosurgeon who had been called in to diagnose and attend to Fred, said they were going to do an x-ray of his neck. When he called me back in a second time, he showed me an x-ray that even I, who have no medical training or history with hospitals aside from childbirth, could tell it showed something serious; very serious. One of the vertebrae in his neck was dislocated and was resting on top of the other. I would later learn it was his C5 and C6 vertebrae that were involved. His spinal cord had been pinched but not severed. This was causing the paralysis symptoms.
Dr. San Filippo said that it was imperative to reduce the pressure causing this neural weakness right away. Hopefully, damage to the all important spinal cord would be minimized. The longer these vertebrae remained in this position the more critical the situation would become. He explained they would put tongs in Fred’s head and then slowly add weights to pull his neck so that the top vertebrae could be released off of the bottom one. A series of steroid injections was also prescribed.
I needed to sign some papers to give them permission to do this procedure. Flashes of a Frankenstein movie loomed in front of me. They are going to put holes in my husband’s head? Pull his neck back into alignment with weights? The room began to spin, I felt nauseous. I sat on a stool with my head between my legs until the feeling passed. Only then was I able signed the papers.
As I returned to the small family room I tried to explain what was happening. I knew we had to pray that the procedure would accomplish its purpose. As the hours drug on, we would get periodic updates. At first they put on 40 pounds of weights then took another x-ray. The top vertebra was still putting pressure on the bottom one. They begin placing successively larger weights until, finally, there was eighty pounds of pressure working in traction to separate those vertebrae.
Finally, I was allowed to go back and see Fred. Thankfully, the procedure had begun to show signs of promise. He was wiggling his fingers, lifting his arms a few inches, pushing on a doctor’s hand with his feet. Sensation, particularly in the feet was minimal and he couldn’t raise either foot nor raise his toes upward. They told me they would need to keep this hideous apparatus on him until surgery could correct the injury.
After several conversations among the doctors involved, they decided not to move Fred to another hospital. As I understood it, the main reason was that he was on a special board called a Stryker Frame that kept him immobile. They would not move him from this yet and the contraption would not fit in the helicopters that were available. Since the time that Fred remained in the hospital before being moved to a rehabilitation center in El Paso was over a month, this became a decision for which I would be grateful. It would have been so hard to have him in another city.
Feeling more and more helpless as the night went on, I remembered the times of anointing people with oil and praying for healing that we had begun at our church. Was this the time to do that? I did feel a desperate even urgent need to call out to God for special intervention. Dave suggested we all go the hospital chapel to pray. Melissa and I joined our friends that had been in the waiting rooms. This was a precious, calming time of prayer.
One of the elders from Northminster did go home and put some Wesson oil in a bottle and was ready to do this. It brought a different kind of tears to my eyes when someone told me this had been done. Just knowing they were ready to do this out of obedience to God comforted me. I realized that Fred had taught and trained his elders well. Fred was certainly not an autocratic leader, a one man show. And it showed during this difficult time.
At about 1:00 in the morning several friends from our congregation, including the elder with the oil, were allowed to go back into the examining room with Fred for a few moments. We all had to stand far away from his “bed” so we would not overstress him. It was obvious it was too much for him to have that many people around him, so the special anointing and praying for him was not to be done in that particular way, at that particular time. We did have a short time of prayer with him, however.
A good friend, Dave, agreed to stay the night with Fred which allowed us the freedom to get some rest. So at about 2:00 a.m. Melissa and I decided we should go home. Although exhausted, I didn’t know if I could sleep but I had a sense that I would need to stay strong for the long road ahead of us.
What would we learn through this accident? What was God trying to teach us? I certainly did not know that first night. Sometimes we learn things quickly like a child who touches a hot stove. That child will very likely never have to repeat that lesson. The consequences are quick and painful. I learned a lesson like that when I was supervising Head Start teachers. One teacher was struggling with the management of her class. Without thinking, I mentioned this to another teacher, one of her colleagues. This got back to the teacher who was having problems and she was rightfully angry and resentful that I had shared this with someone else. I touched the stove and it hurt. I asked forgiveness of the teacher I had observed and told the other teacher how wrong I was to have shared with her details that I should not have shared. I can safely say this was a lesson that did not need repeating.
Other times we learn to do things and it is not obvious when they were mastered. Learning to read is often in this category. I know I was in first grade when I learned to read but I don’t remember the day, the time, or a particular lesson. Now that I have taught reading to young children I understand more about the process. It starts with being read to and looking at books with a parent. Then you will notice a child “reading” a book by looking at the pictures. Often the first books that are read are memorized, much to the dismay of some parents. Finally, some sight words are learned, and then these are joined with predictable, phonetic words. Before you know it, you are reading. Now this description may break down when someone who has a learning disability such as dyslexia learns to read. They often must work much harder at accomplishing this task.
Most of the lessons I have learned as a believer are those that are learned gradually. I actually think I have exhibited learning disabilities when it comes to some spiritual lessons. It seems I have to be taught over and over. I all but stopped praying for patience because I knew some unwanted situation would present itself where I could “learn” again how to be patient. I still have not mastered this skill!
To be taught something, you need to know the goal. When I think about growing and learning in spiritual terms we have to start with knowing what it is God is trying to teach us. What are his learning objectives for our lives? We don’t have to spend much time reading in the Bible before we find these clearly spelled out. Some of them are so big I find it difficult to put my mind around them. I am to become holy, like Christ. That is huge! Other times it is more specific, yet still seemingly hard to master. We are to put our complete trust in God no matter what the circumstance. And then there are the instructions I really hate to read. We are to love our enemies, forgive again and again, let trials and tests produce … love, hope, patience and perseverance.
I “asked Jesus into my heart” when I was six years old. My faith in Christ was just a natural part of my life. As a teenager I mingled with the in-crowd but was always too busy with my youth group and Campus Life Club to join them in the party life. I was a regular goody two shoes.
It was during these years when I was involved in Sunday School, youth camps, and Navigators conferences that I memorized verses and became grounded in my faith. These verses that had made their way into my heart so many years earlier came to my mind again and again during the time Fred was in such serious condition. They became my textbook for learning lessons of faith.
Some of the verses that played over and over in my head like a broken record were:
All things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purposes. Romans 8:28 (I learned that one in the King James Version and that is how it remains in my mind!)
Cast all your anxiety on Him because he cares for you. I Peter 5:7
For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8: 38 & 39 This verse was shortened in my mind to “Nothing, no matter how awful it is, can separate us from the love of God.”
I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned, the flames will not set you ablaze. Isaiah 43: 1b – 2
These verses became my cornerstones for learning more about trusting a trustworthy God, that out of trials good does come, and God is working in and through all situations. What was God trying to teach us through this?
I had no idea how many ways I would be taught these lessons nor that I would still be learning some in a big way years later.
16:50 pm
Las Cruces, NM
Hear O Israel. The Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength...Impress these on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. (Deuteronomy 6: 4 - 7)
Everything in life changed on May 8th, 1997.I had often told people I that I loved reading Guidepost articles but I never wanted to be one. Now I was smack dab in the middle of one. This is my story.
It was 4:30 in the afternoon when I first received the call. For most of the day I had been interviewing applicants for a new Head Start teacher. In fairness to each person, I had been meticulously asking the same questions over and over. I was feeling drowsy and the prospect of one more interview was not exciting me.
As I greeted the next the next person to be interviewed, my secretary told me I had a call from Janet, my husband’s secretary and I needed to take the call. Janet simply told me that Fred had been in an accident in the church parking lot and he wanted me to come. She did not give me details but there was something about the tone in her voice that left no question. I needed to go to the church immediately.
I made my apology to the man who was waiting to be interviewed and flew out of my office. The second I stepped out into the hallway our daughter Melissa rounded the corner. She was on her way to tell me she had turned in her last paper as a student at New Mexico State University. I pulled her next to me and kept walking down the hallway thinking how fortunate it was that she arrived at that exact moment.
As we walked I told her about the phone call. She wanted details and I didn’t have any to give her. Frankly, I was kind of irritated. What was I going to do? I would probably just have to put Fred in the car and take him to the nearest Family Medical Center. I certainly was no nurse. I didn’t know why Janet couldn’t just do that herself. She had a background in nursing and should know what to do. How serious could an accident in a church parking lot be?
The moment we pulled into the parking lot of the church, I knew that there was something more going on than I had suspected. I noted that police cars, an aide car and an ambulance were all present. There were numerous emergency personnel scurrying around with a sense of urgency but not panic. They acted professionally and calmly in spite of what, I would soon learn, was the dire nature of the accident. My heart began to race.
Melissa and I ran to the back doors of the ambulance where Fred was just being loaded into the imposing mobile emergency room. He was strapped to a backboard. His neck was in a brace.His head was taped as well to keep it completely immobilized. An oxygen mask covered his mouth and most of his face. Clothes had been cut from his body. There were long, deep lacerations and smeared blood visible all over his body. His eyes were swollen and gave off a ghastly reddish purple color. His skin also appeared reddish purple and he was breathing far more rapidly and shallow than a normal, healthy person. At once I knew that Fred had been the victim of a horrible accident. How could something so unthinkable happen in an almost vacant church parking lot late in the afternoon on a weekday? It would be weeks before I really understood exactly what did happen.
Everything was moving at an urgent pace. The medical attendants were almost set to take him to the hospital. I leaned over Fred, touched his hand and told him I loved him. He returned with words of affection and then, what he told me made me smile. He told me to get someone else to drive me to the hospital. He didn’t want me to drive and get in an accident because I was upset. Worried about me getting in an accident? If a person can find humor in this kind of situation, this was one of those moments. The bitter irony made my chuckle under my breath. The EMTs closed the doors and hopped in.
The ambulance took off with sirens mournfully wailing. Melissa and I followed after them. We had not traveled three blocks when Melissa asked, “So, mom, what do you think God is trying to teach us through this?” At first I was taken back by such a spiritual response. It came so quickly I was unprepared for the query.
True, we had talked numerous times about how God teaches us through difficult situations. We had never been a family who pretended to have all of the answers or claim that leading a life with Christ at the center would insure smooth sailing. Yet our family had been relatively immune from major crises. My parents had both passed away – my father the victim of a freak accident while working underneath his car; my mother from a prolonged and gradually worsening condition of dementia. Fred's dad had died the previous May. Otherwise, the usual trials that every family faces - juggling busy schedules; making a dollar stretch; handling the pressures of stressful jobs;of raising adolescent girls (dates, grades, curfews, driving, science projects and college applications) – had been the norm.
Maybe it is because I am a teacher and teachers always seem to be intent on their students learning or discovering something new in any and every situation. Or perhaps it is because I have always been aware that we are a work in progress. God has begun a work in us but the work of making us more in the image of Christ continues daily. Regardless of the reasons, “What is God trying to teach us?” was quite often the basis for discussions in our family when we faced unusual or challenging circumstances.
I have to admit that pondering what I was to learn from this terrible accident was far from what I was thinking at the time, but it was a question that would come back again and again to my mind over the next months and even years after the accident. Nothing is wasted in God’s economy.
When we ran into the Emergency Room I wanted to go straight to Fred. Instead I was seated at a booth with a clerk who needed me to fill out admission and insurance paperwork. Insurance? My husband was broken, bleeding - maybe dying - and I had to fill out forms give them insurance numbers and cards? It seemed absurd and not just a little irritating.
Finally the paperwork was completed. Melissa and I were ushered into a small waiting room that is reserved for families of patients who have a life threatening illness or injury. Adjacent to the trauma bays, we could hear and sense the commotion and busy tasks the medical staff at the hospital were taking.
The tears that had been at the surface poured out. One of our friends told me crying was a good thing. When her husband was in a serious accident, she couldn’t cry. I remember thinking, “well I certainly don’t have to worry about that.” Just when I would get under control, I would see Fred as I last saw him in such obvious pain and the flood gate of tears would open up again.
The next several hours were a blur of different doctors and nurses giving updates. "They are taking Fred for x-rays. They are taking Fred for an MRI. We are trying to set up a Flight for Life to take Fred to a Level One Trauma Center either in Albuquerque or El Paso. Can we get you anything?" As if a cup of coffee was going to help at this point! I would find that over the next several weeks, people were always trying to get me to eat or drink something.
After the initial x-rays and the MRI were completed, we received our first bit of good news. An ER doctor reported that Fred had not sustained any serious damage to internal organs and there were no obvious signs of internal bleeding. His organs were bruised but still in tact. It was my friend Betty who is a nurse that said, “Do you know what really good news that is?” I had to admit I didn’t. Once again as time progressed and I learned the extent of Fred’s injuries that fact became a miracle. It was amazing that with the crushing force that had broken so many bones in his torso, not one of them punctured an organ.
While all the conversations were going on about where to transport Fred, Doctors continued to examine Fred and try to stabilize him. What Fred wanted was to make sure Bob knew he didn’t blame him for his injuries. I was amazed through all the pain he was experiencing he could think of anyone other than himself.
When I was finally allowed to see him, they were trying to get him to wiggle his toes, push down and lift up his feet, lift his fingers, raise his arms and make a fist with his hands. He could not do any of these things. My mind was in a whirl. Was he completely paralyzed? Would he ever regain any of those functions which we all take so for granted?
Dr. Bruce San Filippo, the neurosurgeon who had been called in to diagnose and attend to Fred, said they were going to do an x-ray of his neck. When he called me back in a second time, he showed me an x-ray that even I, who have no medical training or history with hospitals aside from childbirth, could tell it showed something serious; very serious. One of the vertebrae in his neck was dislocated and was resting on top of the other. I would later learn it was his C5 and C6 vertebrae that were involved. His spinal cord had been pinched but not severed. This was causing the paralysis symptoms.
Dr. San Filippo said that it was imperative to reduce the pressure causing this neural weakness right away. Hopefully, damage to the all important spinal cord would be minimized. The longer these vertebrae remained in this position the more critical the situation would become. He explained they would put tongs in Fred’s head and then slowly add weights to pull his neck so that the top vertebrae could be released off of the bottom one. A series of steroid injections was also prescribed.
I needed to sign some papers to give them permission to do this procedure. Flashes of a Frankenstein movie loomed in front of me. They are going to put holes in my husband’s head? Pull his neck back into alignment with weights? The room began to spin, I felt nauseous. I sat on a stool with my head between my legs until the feeling passed. Only then was I able signed the papers.
As I returned to the small family room I tried to explain what was happening. I knew we had to pray that the procedure would accomplish its purpose. As the hours drug on, we would get periodic updates. At first they put on 40 pounds of weights then took another x-ray. The top vertebra was still putting pressure on the bottom one. They begin placing successively larger weights until, finally, there was eighty pounds of pressure working in traction to separate those vertebrae.
Finally, I was allowed to go back and see Fred. Thankfully, the procedure had begun to show signs of promise. He was wiggling his fingers, lifting his arms a few inches, pushing on a doctor’s hand with his feet. Sensation, particularly in the feet was minimal and he couldn’t raise either foot nor raise his toes upward. They told me they would need to keep this hideous apparatus on him until surgery could correct the injury.
After several conversations among the doctors involved, they decided not to move Fred to another hospital. As I understood it, the main reason was that he was on a special board called a Stryker Frame that kept him immobile. They would not move him from this yet and the contraption would not fit in the helicopters that were available. Since the time that Fred remained in the hospital before being moved to a rehabilitation center in El Paso was over a month, this became a decision for which I would be grateful. It would have been so hard to have him in another city.
Feeling more and more helpless as the night went on, I remembered the times of anointing people with oil and praying for healing that we had begun at our church. Was this the time to do that? I did feel a desperate even urgent need to call out to God for special intervention. Dave suggested we all go the hospital chapel to pray. Melissa and I joined our friends that had been in the waiting rooms. This was a precious, calming time of prayer.
One of the elders from Northminster did go home and put some Wesson oil in a bottle and was ready to do this. It brought a different kind of tears to my eyes when someone told me this had been done. Just knowing they were ready to do this out of obedience to God comforted me. I realized that Fred had taught and trained his elders well. Fred was certainly not an autocratic leader, a one man show. And it showed during this difficult time.
At about 1:00 in the morning several friends from our congregation, including the elder with the oil, were allowed to go back into the examining room with Fred for a few moments. We all had to stand far away from his “bed” so we would not overstress him. It was obvious it was too much for him to have that many people around him, so the special anointing and praying for him was not to be done in that particular way, at that particular time. We did have a short time of prayer with him, however.
A good friend, Dave, agreed to stay the night with Fred which allowed us the freedom to get some rest. So at about 2:00 a.m. Melissa and I decided we should go home. Although exhausted, I didn’t know if I could sleep but I had a sense that I would need to stay strong for the long road ahead of us.
What would we learn through this accident? What was God trying to teach us? I certainly did not know that first night. Sometimes we learn things quickly like a child who touches a hot stove. That child will very likely never have to repeat that lesson. The consequences are quick and painful. I learned a lesson like that when I was supervising Head Start teachers. One teacher was struggling with the management of her class. Without thinking, I mentioned this to another teacher, one of her colleagues. This got back to the teacher who was having problems and she was rightfully angry and resentful that I had shared this with someone else. I touched the stove and it hurt. I asked forgiveness of the teacher I had observed and told the other teacher how wrong I was to have shared with her details that I should not have shared. I can safely say this was a lesson that did not need repeating.
Other times we learn to do things and it is not obvious when they were mastered. Learning to read is often in this category. I know I was in first grade when I learned to read but I don’t remember the day, the time, or a particular lesson. Now that I have taught reading to young children I understand more about the process. It starts with being read to and looking at books with a parent. Then you will notice a child “reading” a book by looking at the pictures. Often the first books that are read are memorized, much to the dismay of some parents. Finally, some sight words are learned, and then these are joined with predictable, phonetic words. Before you know it, you are reading. Now this description may break down when someone who has a learning disability such as dyslexia learns to read. They often must work much harder at accomplishing this task.
Most of the lessons I have learned as a believer are those that are learned gradually. I actually think I have exhibited learning disabilities when it comes to some spiritual lessons. It seems I have to be taught over and over. I all but stopped praying for patience because I knew some unwanted situation would present itself where I could “learn” again how to be patient. I still have not mastered this skill!
To be taught something, you need to know the goal. When I think about growing and learning in spiritual terms we have to start with knowing what it is God is trying to teach us. What are his learning objectives for our lives? We don’t have to spend much time reading in the Bible before we find these clearly spelled out. Some of them are so big I find it difficult to put my mind around them. I am to become holy, like Christ. That is huge! Other times it is more specific, yet still seemingly hard to master. We are to put our complete trust in God no matter what the circumstance. And then there are the instructions I really hate to read. We are to love our enemies, forgive again and again, let trials and tests produce … love, hope, patience and perseverance.
I “asked Jesus into my heart” when I was six years old. My faith in Christ was just a natural part of my life. As a teenager I mingled with the in-crowd but was always too busy with my youth group and Campus Life Club to join them in the party life. I was a regular goody two shoes.
It was during these years when I was involved in Sunday School, youth camps, and Navigators conferences that I memorized verses and became grounded in my faith. These verses that had made their way into my heart so many years earlier came to my mind again and again during the time Fred was in such serious condition. They became my textbook for learning lessons of faith.
Some of the verses that played over and over in my head like a broken record were:
All things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purposes. Romans 8:28 (I learned that one in the King James Version and that is how it remains in my mind!)
Cast all your anxiety on Him because he cares for you. I Peter 5:7
For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8: 38 & 39 This verse was shortened in my mind to “Nothing, no matter how awful it is, can separate us from the love of God.”
I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned, the flames will not set you ablaze. Isaiah 43: 1b – 2
These verses became my cornerstones for learning more about trusting a trustworthy God, that out of trials good does come, and God is working in and through all situations. What was God trying to teach us through this?
I had no idea how many ways I would be taught these lessons nor that I would still be learning some in a big way years later.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Trauma: Life in the ER
CHAPTER ONE
8 May, 1997
16:45 MDT
Las Cruces, NM
“Mr. Davis, stay with us! Mr. Davis, keep breathing! Sir, can you hear me? Can you tell us what hurts?”
Sirens blaring, engine roaring, paramedics busily and professionally performing their life-saving work: I always wondered what went on inside an ambulance. Now aware from an eyewitness point of view, I was in shock and in way too much pain to be fully cognizant of what was happening. The Paramedics - just as the EMT first responders had done - did their jobs with a grim and determined sense of urgency. At the same time they remained professonal, calm and efficient. IV drips were running. An oxygen mask was placed over my face. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped securely around my immobile right arm as my rapidly dropping blood pressure was regularly checked and written down. It was way too low. My respirations and pulse – way too high. This had to be a quick trip diagonally across town to get to Memorial Medical Center; Las Cruces and Dona Ana County’s only hospital.
In one sense, the trip by ambulance seemed to take no time at all. From the concerned tone in the voices of those attending to me I assumed I was drifting in and out of conscious awareness. At the same time, the pain from my right hip, which had been dislocated and pushed completely through the socket, was sending shrill, unbearable waves of nauseating pain throughout my body Unable to move - in part because of being strapped securely to a gurney and more to the point, because there had been some as of yet undetermined level of injury to the spinal cord - there was no relief. As routine practice, pain medications were not issued until further testing at the hospital could confirm the severity of my injuries. It would be a long night.
Even though I couldn’t see where we were going, I knew the route. I had driven it hundreds of times. It was the same route I had often taken to the hospital when visiting hospitalized parishioners. The ambulance tore south by southeast down Valley Drive to University Boulevard. I remember feeling the wide sweeping left hand turn, just in front of the Spanish Territorial Holiday Inn with its bright white stuccoed walls and its sienna tiled roof. The ambulance swayed slightly to the right as it careened around the corner. Even though lashed to the gurney I felt I might slide off just the same. Then it was East on University Blvd., up the slight hill past New Mexico State University, and across Interstate 25 then past the NMSU Golf Course. The driver, a man who attended our church on occasion, artfully dodged through afternoon traffic, honking his horn through the numerous intersections regulated by traffic lights. Then it was left on Telshor Boulevard, the street which was home to the hospital. Up under the covered drop off in front of the Emergency Room entrance, personnel from the ER/trauma unit were there to meet us at the door. Their voices echoed vaguely in the recesses of my semi-conscious mind.
“Pedestrian MVA. Mr. Davis was allegedly run over by a school bus and was drug approximately 40 feet. Blood pressure 60 over 40, pulse 150, respirations 50 and shallow. Pupils are equal and reactive. Patient complains of pain to pelvis and right hip. No movement or sensation of the bilateral extremities. Severe abrasions and bruising to the back, face and head.”
The businesslike communication was just like something from television’s, “ER.” Interestingly enough, “ER” was Judy’s and my regular television show to watch every Thursday. It would be on TV that later that night and I wouldn’t be able to watch. Judy probably would miss it as well. But then I guess we didn’t need to watch the show. We were living it.
With Ambulance and Hospital personnel running alongside, I was wheeled into Trauma Room 1, the room reserved for the most seriously sick or injured patients. Bright overhead lights glared down on bruised and swelling eyes. The blinking and beeping of all the ominous monitors, gauges, instruments and other unidentifiable paraphernalia gave this small room the look of some mad scientist’s laboratory. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster.
I was slightly aware that all my clothing had been cut off my body including my new, peach colored Land's End shirt, a pair of Polo Khakis and my favorite tie bearing the picture of a bottle of Tobasco Hot Sauce. I was totally exposed and vulnerable. I could not have cared less.
Under the glare of the overhead lights, it was painful to open my eyes. They were swollen and bloodshot. The scratching of the eyes must have been from spraying gravel as I was drug underneath the bus. I wondered if my contact lenses had gotten folded up in the corners and were further irritating my eyes. At some point they had come out. An Opthomologist confirmed that there were no contact lenses in place.
A bevy of nurses, doctors and attendants began introducing themselves to me and asking me how I was doing and reassuring me that they were going to take good care of me. "How was I doing?" What a stupid question. But their calm, reassuring voices did have the desired effect. I felt I was in good hands. Each one in turn asked, “Where does it hurt?” Then came the poking and jabbing; testing to see if my belly was tender from any internal bleeding.
Someone said, “Dr. San Filippo should be called in.” Dr. Bruce San Filippo was Las Cruces’ only neurosurgeon; one reason why the Hospital did not have Level 1 Trauma status. In most cases, patients who incurred serious head or spine injuries had to be sent to El Paso or Albuquerque to such a Trauma Center. On this particular night he was on call. He arrived shortly - I have no idea as to how long - to consult on my case.
CT scans, MRIs, X-rays all revealed that there was a subluxation/fracture or dislocation of the spine between the C5 – 6 vertebrae. The spinal cord had been pinched. It wasn’t severed but it had been compromised. As a result I was experiencing partial quadriplegia or, as it would later be diagnosed, quadra-paresis. I had very little if any movement in any of my extremities. People began taking my arms and asking if I could push against their hands. There was very little movement; even less strength. The same routine began with legs. However first, they asked if I could wiggle my toes. Try as hard as I might, I could only slightly bend them downward. Soon I was being pricked with some little instrument and then alternately tickled with a finger. “Can you feel this Mr. Davis? Where am I touching?” I had very limited sensation.
Judy was finally allowed to come back to this small room bustling with busy professionals to be with me. I don’t remember if we talked or if she simply observed what they were doing. I could see she had been crying. She told me later she had to sit down with her head down, lowered between her legs to prevent her from fainting. I didn't know that but I was extremely glad she was there by my side right then.
In a little over one month, June 17th, we were to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. We dated for four years before we were married. We had been through a great deal together over the previous 29 years including career changes, cross-country moves, the birth of our children, and graduate school for each of us, the death of two parents. We were close and she was my best friend. Would we make it to our anniversary? I wasn’t sure. But I knew these moments were important and I don’t think I could have endured them without her.
She told me that people from the church had already gathered at the hospital. They were taking turns, going in small groups to the small hospital chapel to pray. There seemed to be about 60 or more she said.
There were more tests. An MRI, more CT scans, Xrays, EKGs and more. I was placed in a Stryker frame to keep me immobile. The Stryker frame looks somewhat like a thrill ride from an amusement park. It is no thrill; especially if you are the one strapped in and completely immobile. It is a frame in which the patient is sandwiched between two firm sides and strapped down. These hard surfaces are mounted to large wheels at either end which allow the patient to be rotated alternately between resting on the back and laying face down; suspended in mid-air, yet without the freedom of movement or weightlesness. Neither view - staring at the ceiling and the overhead lights or the floor, littered with discarded medical supplies - had much to offer. Each was excruciating and fearsome. The specter of paralysis was real. Judy and I were both scared.
It was explained that the C-5 vertebrae was dislocated a measure of 3/4 in. Fortunately, though termed a fracture, the vertabrae was in tact and no chips had broken free to sever the cord. However, in order to reduce the degree of dislocation in the spine, Gardner-Wells tongs were attached to my skull allowing traction weights to be hung off the end of the bed. This allowed for the stretching of the spine back into its original alignment. Local anesthetic was used for this procedure but nothing could dull the sensation of the attaching screws being bolted into my head. I remember telling someone, I am not sure who, “This all hurts too much, why not just let me die right now.”
By the time the night was over, all the tests had revealed that, in addition to the dislocation and subsequent damage to my spinal cord, I had sustained numerous broken ribs (7 I think), my pelvis was fractured in 9 places and my right hip had been severely damaged. There were also abrasions, bruises, exhaust burns and cuts on my head, back, arms and legs. Thankfully, even though they had been “insulted” by the severe jostling, Drs. could not detect any obvious bleeding from my internal organs. And, even though I had suffered multiple abrasions and contusions on my face and scalp, no major blow to the head had occurred and they felt there had been no brain damage.
Dr. Tafoya, the attending physician in the ER that night told us later that mine was one of the most difficult cases they had seen in their hospital. Usually such serious injuries are medi-vaced by helicopter to facilities better suited to such trauma. He said that with each test further, more serious injuries became apparent.
The biggest concerns however, Doctors had told Judy, were the threat of infection from the many deep lacerations on my back and legs; the likelihood of pneumonia from being immobilized for what might be a very long time; and finally the real possibility of a pulmonary embolism. The pelvis is a very vascular part of the human anatomy. Even though I was not bleeding internally from ruptured or lacerated organs, the severe damage to the pelvis was an immanent threat to any recovery.
All the while this was taking place behind the closed doors of the ER, outside, in the waiting room and in the chapel, a cadre of Christians had gathered to surround Judy and Melissa with love and reassurance and to pray for me. Many of those gathered were from our church. But others had gathered as well. The host of a local radio talk show had gotten news of the accident and had broadcast the general details and had asked for people to be in prayer. A number of my colleagues in the Evangelical Minister's Fellowship and the Las Cruces Ministerial Association had also come to stand in prayer.
I, of course, was essentially unaware of what was going on out there. Yet I continued to feel a strange peace. There is great power and peace in the united prayers of God’s people. By later that night, Christians from many different churches in Las Cruces and around the country had begun praying concertedly for us. That knowledge has always been a humbling and powerful thing. It gave us all courage to keep going.
Having experienced few such trials myself, I had always asked how people faced such terrible crises. The answer I found was that God carried me – carried us – through, moment by moment; need by need; supplying just enough strength and grace to face each new stage in our crisis.
We didn’t know what the next day would bring. And to be real honest, the prognosis was not favorable that there would be many tomorrows. But somehow we knew that God held that future and we could rest in him.
Around one a.m., I was moved from the Emergency Room to the Intensive Care Unit. Judy and Melissa went home to rest. David Sallee, my friend and the local Presbyterian Campus Pastor stayed the rest of the night with me. Finally, pain medication was administered and it began to subtly dull the worst of the pain. Finally, a few moments of fitful but welcome rest.
8 May, 1997
16:45 MDT
Las Cruces, NM
“Mr. Davis, stay with us! Mr. Davis, keep breathing! Sir, can you hear me? Can you tell us what hurts?”
Sirens blaring, engine roaring, paramedics busily and professionally performing their life-saving work: I always wondered what went on inside an ambulance. Now aware from an eyewitness point of view, I was in shock and in way too much pain to be fully cognizant of what was happening. The Paramedics - just as the EMT first responders had done - did their jobs with a grim and determined sense of urgency. At the same time they remained professonal, calm and efficient. IV drips were running. An oxygen mask was placed over my face. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped securely around my immobile right arm as my rapidly dropping blood pressure was regularly checked and written down. It was way too low. My respirations and pulse – way too high. This had to be a quick trip diagonally across town to get to Memorial Medical Center; Las Cruces and Dona Ana County’s only hospital.
In one sense, the trip by ambulance seemed to take no time at all. From the concerned tone in the voices of those attending to me I assumed I was drifting in and out of conscious awareness. At the same time, the pain from my right hip, which had been dislocated and pushed completely through the socket, was sending shrill, unbearable waves of nauseating pain throughout my body Unable to move - in part because of being strapped securely to a gurney and more to the point, because there had been some as of yet undetermined level of injury to the spinal cord - there was no relief. As routine practice, pain medications were not issued until further testing at the hospital could confirm the severity of my injuries. It would be a long night.
Even though I couldn’t see where we were going, I knew the route. I had driven it hundreds of times. It was the same route I had often taken to the hospital when visiting hospitalized parishioners. The ambulance tore south by southeast down Valley Drive to University Boulevard. I remember feeling the wide sweeping left hand turn, just in front of the Spanish Territorial Holiday Inn with its bright white stuccoed walls and its sienna tiled roof. The ambulance swayed slightly to the right as it careened around the corner. Even though lashed to the gurney I felt I might slide off just the same. Then it was East on University Blvd., up the slight hill past New Mexico State University, and across Interstate 25 then past the NMSU Golf Course. The driver, a man who attended our church on occasion, artfully dodged through afternoon traffic, honking his horn through the numerous intersections regulated by traffic lights. Then it was left on Telshor Boulevard, the street which was home to the hospital. Up under the covered drop off in front of the Emergency Room entrance, personnel from the ER/trauma unit were there to meet us at the door. Their voices echoed vaguely in the recesses of my semi-conscious mind.
“Pedestrian MVA. Mr. Davis was allegedly run over by a school bus and was drug approximately 40 feet. Blood pressure 60 over 40, pulse 150, respirations 50 and shallow. Pupils are equal and reactive. Patient complains of pain to pelvis and right hip. No movement or sensation of the bilateral extremities. Severe abrasions and bruising to the back, face and head.”
The businesslike communication was just like something from television’s, “ER.” Interestingly enough, “ER” was Judy’s and my regular television show to watch every Thursday. It would be on TV that later that night and I wouldn’t be able to watch. Judy probably would miss it as well. But then I guess we didn’t need to watch the show. We were living it.
With Ambulance and Hospital personnel running alongside, I was wheeled into Trauma Room 1, the room reserved for the most seriously sick or injured patients. Bright overhead lights glared down on bruised and swelling eyes. The blinking and beeping of all the ominous monitors, gauges, instruments and other unidentifiable paraphernalia gave this small room the look of some mad scientist’s laboratory. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster.
I was slightly aware that all my clothing had been cut off my body including my new, peach colored Land's End shirt, a pair of Polo Khakis and my favorite tie bearing the picture of a bottle of Tobasco Hot Sauce. I was totally exposed and vulnerable. I could not have cared less.
Under the glare of the overhead lights, it was painful to open my eyes. They were swollen and bloodshot. The scratching of the eyes must have been from spraying gravel as I was drug underneath the bus. I wondered if my contact lenses had gotten folded up in the corners and were further irritating my eyes. At some point they had come out. An Opthomologist confirmed that there were no contact lenses in place.
A bevy of nurses, doctors and attendants began introducing themselves to me and asking me how I was doing and reassuring me that they were going to take good care of me. "How was I doing?" What a stupid question. But their calm, reassuring voices did have the desired effect. I felt I was in good hands. Each one in turn asked, “Where does it hurt?” Then came the poking and jabbing; testing to see if my belly was tender from any internal bleeding.
Someone said, “Dr. San Filippo should be called in.” Dr. Bruce San Filippo was Las Cruces’ only neurosurgeon; one reason why the Hospital did not have Level 1 Trauma status. In most cases, patients who incurred serious head or spine injuries had to be sent to El Paso or Albuquerque to such a Trauma Center. On this particular night he was on call. He arrived shortly - I have no idea as to how long - to consult on my case.
CT scans, MRIs, X-rays all revealed that there was a subluxation/fracture or dislocation of the spine between the C5 – 6 vertebrae. The spinal cord had been pinched. It wasn’t severed but it had been compromised. As a result I was experiencing partial quadriplegia or, as it would later be diagnosed, quadra-paresis. I had very little if any movement in any of my extremities. People began taking my arms and asking if I could push against their hands. There was very little movement; even less strength. The same routine began with legs. However first, they asked if I could wiggle my toes. Try as hard as I might, I could only slightly bend them downward. Soon I was being pricked with some little instrument and then alternately tickled with a finger. “Can you feel this Mr. Davis? Where am I touching?” I had very limited sensation.
Judy was finally allowed to come back to this small room bustling with busy professionals to be with me. I don’t remember if we talked or if she simply observed what they were doing. I could see she had been crying. She told me later she had to sit down with her head down, lowered between her legs to prevent her from fainting. I didn't know that but I was extremely glad she was there by my side right then.
In a little over one month, June 17th, we were to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. We dated for four years before we were married. We had been through a great deal together over the previous 29 years including career changes, cross-country moves, the birth of our children, and graduate school for each of us, the death of two parents. We were close and she was my best friend. Would we make it to our anniversary? I wasn’t sure. But I knew these moments were important and I don’t think I could have endured them without her.
She told me that people from the church had already gathered at the hospital. They were taking turns, going in small groups to the small hospital chapel to pray. There seemed to be about 60 or more she said.
There were more tests. An MRI, more CT scans, Xrays, EKGs and more. I was placed in a Stryker frame to keep me immobile. The Stryker frame looks somewhat like a thrill ride from an amusement park. It is no thrill; especially if you are the one strapped in and completely immobile. It is a frame in which the patient is sandwiched between two firm sides and strapped down. These hard surfaces are mounted to large wheels at either end which allow the patient to be rotated alternately between resting on the back and laying face down; suspended in mid-air, yet without the freedom of movement or weightlesness. Neither view - staring at the ceiling and the overhead lights or the floor, littered with discarded medical supplies - had much to offer. Each was excruciating and fearsome. The specter of paralysis was real. Judy and I were both scared.
It was explained that the C-5 vertebrae was dislocated a measure of 3/4 in. Fortunately, though termed a fracture, the vertabrae was in tact and no chips had broken free to sever the cord. However, in order to reduce the degree of dislocation in the spine, Gardner-Wells tongs were attached to my skull allowing traction weights to be hung off the end of the bed. This allowed for the stretching of the spine back into its original alignment. Local anesthetic was used for this procedure but nothing could dull the sensation of the attaching screws being bolted into my head. I remember telling someone, I am not sure who, “This all hurts too much, why not just let me die right now.”
By the time the night was over, all the tests had revealed that, in addition to the dislocation and subsequent damage to my spinal cord, I had sustained numerous broken ribs (7 I think), my pelvis was fractured in 9 places and my right hip had been severely damaged. There were also abrasions, bruises, exhaust burns and cuts on my head, back, arms and legs. Thankfully, even though they had been “insulted” by the severe jostling, Drs. could not detect any obvious bleeding from my internal organs. And, even though I had suffered multiple abrasions and contusions on my face and scalp, no major blow to the head had occurred and they felt there had been no brain damage.
Dr. Tafoya, the attending physician in the ER that night told us later that mine was one of the most difficult cases they had seen in their hospital. Usually such serious injuries are medi-vaced by helicopter to facilities better suited to such trauma. He said that with each test further, more serious injuries became apparent.
The biggest concerns however, Doctors had told Judy, were the threat of infection from the many deep lacerations on my back and legs; the likelihood of pneumonia from being immobilized for what might be a very long time; and finally the real possibility of a pulmonary embolism. The pelvis is a very vascular part of the human anatomy. Even though I was not bleeding internally from ruptured or lacerated organs, the severe damage to the pelvis was an immanent threat to any recovery.
All the while this was taking place behind the closed doors of the ER, outside, in the waiting room and in the chapel, a cadre of Christians had gathered to surround Judy and Melissa with love and reassurance and to pray for me. Many of those gathered were from our church. But others had gathered as well. The host of a local radio talk show had gotten news of the accident and had broadcast the general details and had asked for people to be in prayer. A number of my colleagues in the Evangelical Minister's Fellowship and the Las Cruces Ministerial Association had also come to stand in prayer.
I, of course, was essentially unaware of what was going on out there. Yet I continued to feel a strange peace. There is great power and peace in the united prayers of God’s people. By later that night, Christians from many different churches in Las Cruces and around the country had begun praying concertedly for us. That knowledge has always been a humbling and powerful thing. It gave us all courage to keep going.
Having experienced few such trials myself, I had always asked how people faced such terrible crises. The answer I found was that God carried me – carried us – through, moment by moment; need by need; supplying just enough strength and grace to face each new stage in our crisis.
We didn’t know what the next day would bring. And to be real honest, the prognosis was not favorable that there would be many tomorrows. But somehow we knew that God held that future and we could rest in him.
Around one a.m., I was moved from the Emergency Room to the Intensive Care Unit. Judy and Melissa went home to rest. David Sallee, my friend and the local Presbyterian Campus Pastor stayed the rest of the night with me. Finally, pain medication was administered and it began to subtly dull the worst of the pain. Finally, a few moments of fitful but welcome rest.
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