Testimonies
Date: November 12, 2010
Time: Around 9:30 am EST
Place: Wheeling, West Virginia Medical Park Hospital
Subject: Me
Pain level: 11 on a scale of 10
Frame of mind: Foggy as I finished my last cigarette before entering the ER.
The Last Day Of The Old Me
“Can I help you, sir?” the registration nurse asked.
“I hope so ma’am. I’m having some terrible chest pains and I think I need to see a doctor.”
She looked me over with those kind, grandmother-type eyes and signaled with a pointed finger my way to a young and slightly nervous aide. Instantly I felt the gentle nudge of a wheelchair tapping my Achilles.
“Young lady,” I said. “I can walk back—I’m not that weak.”
“Not here you can’t, sir. ER orders, you’ll have to ride.”
I’d been driving a tractor trailer since 8 pm the night before and I was just too tired to argue. I climbed from the chair to the bed with at least twelve nurse hands close in case I fell. Before I could even think to take my Fed Ex shirt off I had at least a dozen of those evil round patches stuck to my hairy chest and a doctor reading the slip from a crazy looking machine. But they’re only evil when it comes time to remove them. If I ever thought of getting my chest hair waxed and removed, I gave it up that day.
“Mr. Rinkes, you are having a heart attack...in fact, this is your second one in the last twenty four hours. Did you know you were having that first one?”
“No, I didn’t know I was having one now. I just thought I was having a bad bout with indigestion.”
“Then what made you come in?” she asked as if she already knew the answer.
“Ran out of Pepto-Bismol.”
“Do you drink alcohol?”
“Not for two years and...about thirteen days...I think.”
“Do you smoke?”
“Not since 9:30”
“Am or Pm?”
“Am, ma’am. Sad to say, am.”
Beside manner cannot be taught in the way she used it. It was a natural “What am I going to do with you?” type of look, and a quick smile, that made all the difference in the world to me. If Dr. Trenton ever goes into private practice, she’s my primary; no doubt in my mind.
Next door to the ER was the Cath Lab, where I found out later I was to receive a stint. A new group of nurses were tending to me there, all wearing surgical masks, which scared the heck out of me.
“Is Suzzy working today?” I asked. She was my cousin’s ex, but I always liked her. She’s good people, and I didn’t take sides in that one.
“Yes she is—why?”
“Tell her Tom is here, would you please?”
About ten seconds later Suzzy flew to my side and I knew then I was in trouble. She was always upbeat and perky as a good Christian woman usually is, yet the look in her eyes gave her fear away. As the cardiologist put in the stint we exchanged small talk; her kids, my kids and grandkids. Then a nurse with very warm hands began to stroke my forehead back and forth just like my grandmother did when I was a kid. All this time I’m praying—in my mind—and receiving answers from several guardian angels.
My pain subsided to a comfortable level—if there is such a thing—and I was moved to ICU. I thought that was standard procedure but soon I was surrounded by a U-shaped array of digital machines. I thought I had died and been given—by the Lord—the “Com” of the U.S.S. Enterprise, and that was now my Heaven. I remember thinking: This ain’t bad, but where’s Spock? He didn’t make it? Percocet, can be a beautiful thing.
Turns out the Cath doctor had also put a pump in my heart because it was only working at a 10% level. I stayed in ICU for two days getting stronger and being VERY well cared for by a team of highly trained nurses. I prayed harder than I’d ever had in my life that weekend because, even though I’m not a righteous man, I’ve always known where to go when I need help and who was my best Friend.
On Monday the surgeons came and got me around daybreak, told me that they knew of three bypasses that I needed for sure, and this would be a routine operation. They exuberated an aura of confidence that put me and my wife and children at ease from the start, but I had an ace up my sleeve anyway.
I believe in angels. I always have and I always will. I believe in the order of Archangels as laid out by the Book of Enoch, and before the nurse gave me my first drip of anesthesia I made this request.
“Dear Lord in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name. I humbly ask you to send your servant Raphael, the Angel of Healing, to my side this day. May he guide the hands and minds of these good doctors as they use the gifts You have given them. I ask these things in the name of Your Son and my Messiah, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
Three hours later I came out with six—yes, I wrote 6—bypasses and the arteries, the lead surgeon told my wife, of an eighty year old man. I turned 58 one month after that, I just received a defribulator two weeks ago, and I think I’ll be up and running on June third.
Six months, start to finish. God didn’t change my life so drastically, I did by smoking and drinking heavy all my life. I’m a very lucky man, but the Good Book says everyone is appointed a time to live and a time to die; a birth date and a death date. I’m guessing my number hasn’t come around yet, but when it does, I want to thank God personally for the good ride I just had. Who knows...maybe He’s not done with me yet.
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