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Posts Tagged ‘nurses’

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Looking towards heaven we remember the miracle of Easter, and gain hope for other miracles.

“Then why do we have Easter bunnies?” asked Haley, a few years back when, as an extended family, we talked about the holiday and all of the traditions.  The little ones gathered with us that evening were the third and fourth generation of Ken’s and my progeny, but one doesn’t have to be very old to question rabbits, especially small bunnies, hopping around delivering Easter Baskets.

“Tradition,” they were told by one of the adults, who continued to explain how bunnies and chicks born in the spring represented new life to the ancients, many of whom converted from pagan idol worship to the teachings of Christ, but brought with them some of their pagan symbols.  Over the centuries those symbols became intermingled with the “new life” of the resurrection of Jesus on the third day following His crucifixion.  Succeeding years of symbolism and generations of adding glitter to old traditions, we as a majority Christian nation seem to be more caught up celebrating the season of new life with colored eggs, jelly beans, chocolate bunnies and marshmallow chicks than we do the resurrection and “new life” of our Lord Jesus Christ, which of all miracles is the miracle of miracles.

During His ministry, Jesus performed many miracles which are recorded in the New Testament for us to read, honor and ponder.  And today — miracles continue.  There are countless miracles, recorded and testified to in these modern times.  I am one of them.  Following last year’s automobile accident and being somewhat aware of my numerous injuries and the trauma encountered, I mumbled from my hospital bed, “I should be dead.”  My grown children made no comment, but I could see worry in their eyes, nor did the medical people who constantly surrounded me confirm – or even suggest to me that my condition was grave.  It was later that my young friend, Malena, a former member of an  EMT ambulance team agreed, having been present and an observer of similar accidents where the victims were pronounced dead at the scene.  I am here because of the prompt, efficient actions of another EMT crew, amazing doctors and nurses — and the absolute, undeniable healing power of prayer, the laying on of hands and God’s grace.

There are skeptics, of course, but as a woman of faith I choose not to be one of them, instead I give credit where credit is due.  I accept miracles and wonder how the doubters explain away that which is right before their eyes.  Many in the medical field have witnessed and have been a part of other miracles and some share the experience with the world.

From two different sources on the internet comes the account of Jeff Markin, an apparently healthy man of 53 who was on his way to work when he was overcome with feeling sick.  He called his boss saying he was sweating and suddenly felt ill, and that he may not make it to work.  Encouraged to go to the hospital Markin arrived at the emergency room of Palm Beach Gardens Hospital in Florida and collapsed on the floor with full cardiac arrest.  After 40 minutes of intense effort and being shocked with a defibrillator numerous times Dr. Chauncey W. Crandall, the supervising cardiologist was summoned.

Dr. Crandall said the room was like a war zone with everyone doing all they could to save the man’s life.  However, Markin showed all the signs of death: the heart rhythm flat lined across the screen, his pupils were dilated and it was determined he had been “down” too long for any hope.  The other doctors left, and time of death was determined and recorded.  Dr. Crandall signed his name to the report and turned to leave.  At the door he heard a voice telling him to pray for this man.  Busy with his work load and feeling rushed, he continued into the hall.  Again, he was stopped short and instructed a second time to pray for this man.

Returning to the patient’s bedside where a nurse was preparing the body for the morgue, he placed his hands on the man’s chest.  Markin’s fingers, toes and lips were literally turning black from lack of oxygen when Crandall honored the Lord’s command and began to pray, crying out for the man’s soul.  At the conclusion of the prayer, Crandall asked the ER doctor, who had returned — wondering what was going on — to shock the patient one more time.  Out of respect for his colleague, he complied.  The monitor showed a perfect heartbeat.  Jeff’s fingers and toes twitched, breathing resumed and he began to mumble.  Three days later with the patient still in ICU, Dr. Crandall found Markin sitting up and alert with no brain or organ damage and a healthy heart.

As with all miracles, there is no explanation, nor is there a reason for Jeff Markin’s healed heart. Furthermore, the good doctor makes no effort to provide one.  A Christian all of his life, he made it a policy not to mix his religious beliefs with his practice.  However, he began a search with prayer and the laying on of hands as another avenue to healing when his son was stricken with leukemia.  Dr. Crandall has written “Raising The Dead” chronicling his experiences.

He also commented about faith and its importance, quoting from scripture a portion of Matthew 17:20 when Jesus said, “If ye have faith of a mustard seed…………..nothing shall be impossible to you.”  On the video I watched, Dr. Crandall concluded Markin’s account with, “Miracles are real, and they are real today.”

I pray for Ken that he may be comforted in his affliction, and I pray for me that I may continue to cope, be patient and find joy in my service to him.  This is our assignment, and while it is an assignment I could do without I also understand its importance in a very broad sense.   Every reported case of AD presents to the medical community the urgency of escalating their research.  If Ken’s illness helps to spur that research, even one little bit, it may save future generations from this miserable disease.  I pray for our ability to manage what we are dealing with, not for the Lord to give us a miracle and remove our burden.

Ken and I have had our portion of miracles, including being blessed with full, rich lives — not without our share of other adversities — which have made us stronger.  Moreover, we take delight in our wonderful, ever-growing family – all of them miracles in their own right — and I am still here to care for my husband and be with him as he continues his lone journey home.  Ahead is the assurance for the most important of miracles: new life somewhere in the distant future — all because of that magnificent miracle which happened on a bright, spring morning nearly 2,000 years ago.

As fellow Christians do we really need to be reminded that there is more to Easter than baskets and candy?   The answers might be “more than likely,” “probably,” “I suppose,” and ultimately, “yes,” because we are human, and we become distracted getting caught up in the ways of the world, the pomp and pageantry we have created – and don’t forget — the good taste of chocolate bunnies.  Yes, we do cast a fleeting shadow on the simply stated – yet — majestic message of that long-ago Sabbath morning:  Jesus lives.

Hopefully, in celebration of this Holy Day we call Easter, let us all take the time to peek through the shimmer of cellophane grass, past the colorful, hard-boiled eggs and jelly beans, and gratefully look for and remember what’s important on this and every Easter Sunday: the miracle of the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ and His extraordinary promise to all mankind.

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When I’m thirsty there is nothing more refreshing and satisfying than a tall glass of water with lots of ice, but after the accident both were temporarily denied, and for good reason.

Once stablized I asked for two things: a few extra blankets for warmth and some water.  “I am so thirsty,” I pleaded.  The blankets came immediately, but not the water.  Someone explained that I shouldn’t have anything to eat or drink until further examination to make sure I wouldn’t choke.  Nevertheless, I was still thirsty and begged for water.  Finally, Nurse Keven relented saying, “Try giving her a little ice.”  The droplets trickled down my throat like fresh summer rain on a hot afternoon; cool and gratifying.  I felt rejuvenated — until the next thirst — requesting more ice.

Care couldn’t have been better than in ICU, but the family decided one of them would be with me 24/7 despite the assurance of staff that my needs would be met.  All the same, it was agreed there would be a schedule of six-hour shifts so I was never alone:  My caregivers main function:   watching me sleep and feeding me ice.  Looking back I must agree with staff:  My physical needs were taken care of very well.  However, without Ken sitting near my bedside, there is nothing that fills the vacancy or heals the spirit more than family.  Kevin, our first boy and third child is big and burly like my father, and like his brothers is very good looking.  Casual, laid-back, and a bit detached; at 18 he too had experienced a life-threatening automobile accident.  “Mom,” he asked, “Are you trying to outdo me?” all the while trying to make light of a serious situation.  Kevin’s shift was taken from part of his work day and busy political life.

Kenney, our youngest, is the comic, covering the hurts of life with something amusing or a joke.  He made me laugh even with broken ribs, and despite the pain it felt good to laugh reminding me that life could still be funny.  Yet, my son can be serious and thinks deeply, philosophizing about everything from work to our messed-up world.  He and Keith are in business together.  Kenney came in the evening and stayed until Keith arrived.

Keith is a no-nonsence kind of guy, the middle son, the fixer, the silent one who steps forward to calm the storm.  His shift finished the night and as soon as his wife, Sabina, dropped off their daughter at school, she relieved him.

I slept most of the time, awakened periodically by staff or by thirst.  “Ice,” I would ask, and before me one of my caregivers appeared, a cup of ice in one hand and a spoon in the other.  Gently, the crushed refreshment was placed into my open mouth.  Usually, three spoonfuls were enough and I would  return to sleep.

In my dreams I could see a nest in a tree and in the nest was the most pitiful looking bird imaginable.  It remained seated in a half-broken shell, looking upward; the feathers — lots of feathers — were still wet and stuck together forming a scattering of points sticking out from its skinny body.  The head was round with human eyes and a demanding beak-mouth which was always open.  I thought of the creature as me, constantly calling for ice, and constantly fed.  In retrospect my sons and daughter-in-law would have made wonderful bird parents.

In the darkness I was aware the shift had changed.  Kenney was on his way home for a few hours of sleep before beginning the day.  Keith was the papa bird feeding me ice.  “Mom,” he said, making sure I was awake and listening.  I mumured a soft acknowledgement.  “Mom,” he said once again.  “You need to know that everyone here is working extremely hard to make you better and you’re not cooperating.”   I looked up at him silhouetted against the light from the hall; not even seeing his handsome, troubled face I could hear the worry.  Recognizing that he was scolding me as if I were a naughty child, I still didn’t understand why.  A touch of irritation in his voice caught my attention as he whispered, “You’re not breathing the way you should.  Breathe, mom, breathe — really deep.”  “Hurts,” I burbled.  “That’s why you’ve  got to take the pain medication then it won’t hurt so much.  Now take a deep breath.”  “Okay,” I mumbled.  “Tomorrow.”

With my thirst quenched and the scolding over, I drifted back to sleep; the needy, pitiful bird with its enormopus mouth once again filling my mind.  Yet, another thought continued to nag, and somewhere in that misty place between conscious and unconscious I reasoned that I had better cooperate and begin to breathe deeply because if I didn’t there remained a strong possibility that Keith might not give me any more ice.

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