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Authors: Betty Malz
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another small piece of ice for my parched lips.
6
The Crisis Point
T he days went by; the month of July was almost over. Six weeks had passed since the first attack of appendicitis. Yet I was still fighting for my life as doctors tried different drugs to clean out the poison in my system. By now I had gone through four rounds of surgery, and my weight was down to eighty pounds. John and my parents were near exhaustion from the daily bedside rituals.
I learned later that the final crisis was brought on by pneumonia. What little resistance I had left was sharply eroded by this new invasion of germs. Nurse Mary Barton had the shift from 3:00 to 11:00 p.m. and was monitoring my vital signs carefully. Both Dad and Mother were in the room the afternoon of the emergency.
It happened around 4:30 p.m. Mary had come in to check the IV equipment because several times when the needle had been inserted, a collapsed vein had rejected the fluids. Little bubbles had formed in several places on my skin where this had happened.
Suddenly she grabbed my hand and took my pulse. There was none. Startled, she looked at the pupils of my eyes. Then she called for emergency equipment. All my parents could do was watch helplessly and pray.
There followed a tense desperate drama as both the doctor on duty and several nurses used emergency measures to get my heart, pulse and blood pressure functioning again. By the time my vital signs were back to normal Dr. Bherne and John had arrived. The strain was too much for Mother. She fainted and a nurse ministered to her. The doctor then pulled my father aside and told him that he felt it would be only a matter of hours before I slipped away. He said quite frankly that death might be the best solution. He suspected that I might have such severe brain damage, plus the extensive assault on other internal organs by gangrene, that I could never live a normal life.
Depressed and exhausted, Dad decided to drive my mother home, get some sleep and return early the next morning. John, who was now spending his nights at my parents’ home with Brenda, decided he would close his Sunoco station early and join Mother and Dad and the children for a late supper.
Here again, I learned about the events which followed from my parents, especially Dad. And it was strange how certain experiences in Dad’s early life were to affect the present crisis.
During the thirty-one-mile drive back to their home in Clay City, Mother did most of the talking. “I just can’t believe God wants to take a vital twenty-seven-year-old woman from her husband and daughter. She’s needed here, Glenn. Why, Betty has only begun to live.”
“God doesn’t take a young wife away from her husband and child in a cold-blooded manner, Fern,” my father answered. “Often we don’t understand why things happen the way they do until later, but we know that we must trust Him to do what’s best in the long run for His children.”
“But God can heal Betty?”
“Yes. He certainly can.”
“Then let’s keep praying that He will.”
In a few minutes, Mother’s depression returned. “Where will we bury Betty? Do you think John will let us bury her in our family plot—or will he want a plot of his own?”
Once again my father tried to comfort Mother; both were silent during the rest of the drive home.
As Dad walked into his study, his first thought was to read something from Scripture. Then he noticed on his desk five cards lined up in a row—five Father’s Day remembrances received many weeks before from each of his children, four sons and one daughter. Once again he read the words I had written to him:
Dear Daddy,
Happy Papa’s Day to thee! . . . from me! You have been more than a Dad. You’ve been a priest and teacher too. I didn’t realize until I became a parent myself, how much like Jesus you are. You are the son of a carpenter, as He was, learning to work with your hands with wood and shavings . . . even building
6
The Crisis Point
T he days went by; the month of July was almost over. Six weeks had passed since the first attack of appendicitis. Yet I was still fighting for my life as doctors tried different drugs to clean out the poison in my system. By now I had gone through four rounds of surgery, and my weight was down to eighty pounds. John and my parents were near exhaustion from the daily bedside rituals.
I learned later that the final crisis was brought on by pneumonia. What little resistance I had left was sharply eroded by this new invasion of germs. Nurse Mary Barton had the shift from 3:00 to 11:00 p.m. and was monitoring my vital signs carefully. Both Dad and Mother were in the room the afternoon of the emergency.
It happened around 4:30 p.m. Mary had come in to check the IV equipment because several times when the needle had been inserted, a collapsed vein had rejected the fluids. Little bubbles had formed in several places on my skin where this had happened.
Suddenly she grabbed my hand and took my pulse. There was none. Startled, she looked at the pupils of my eyes. Then she called for emergency equipment. All my parents could do was watch helplessly and pray.
There followed a tense desperate drama as both the doctor on duty and several nurses used emergency measures to get my heart, pulse and blood pressure functioning again. By the time my vital signs were back to normal Dr. Bherne and John had arrived. The strain was too much for Mother. She fainted and a nurse ministered to her. The doctor then pulled my father aside and told him that he felt it would be only a matter of hours before I slipped away. He said quite frankly that death might be the best solution. He suspected that I might have such severe brain damage, plus the extensive assault on other internal organs by gangrene, that I could never live a normal life.
Depressed and exhausted, Dad decided to drive my mother home, get some sleep and return early the next morning. John, who was now spending his nights at my parents’ home with Brenda, decided he would close his Sunoco station early and join Mother and Dad and the children for a late supper.
Here again, I learned about the events which followed from my parents, especially Dad. And it was strange how certain experiences in Dad’s early life were to affect the present crisis.
During the thirty-one-mile drive back to their home in Clay City, Mother did most of the talking. “I just can’t believe God wants to take a vital twenty-seven-year-old woman from her husband and daughter. She’s needed here, Glenn. Why, Betty has only begun to live.”
“God doesn’t take a young wife away from her husband and child in a cold-blooded manner, Fern,” my father answered. “Often we don’t understand why things happen the way they do until later, but we know that we must trust Him to do what’s best in the long run for His children.”
“But God can heal Betty?”
“Yes. He certainly can.”
“Then let’s keep praying that He will.”
In a few minutes, Mother’s depression returned. “Where will we bury Betty? Do you think John will let us bury her in our family plot—or will he want a plot of his own?”
Once again my father tried to comfort Mother; both were silent during the rest of the drive home.
As Dad walked into his study, his first thought was to read something from Scripture. Then he noticed on his desk five cards lined up in a row—five Father’s Day remembrances received many weeks before from each of his children, four sons and one daughter. Once again he read the words I had written to him:
Dear Daddy,
Happy Papa’s Day to thee! . . . from me! You have been more than a Dad. You’ve been a priest and teacher too. I didn’t realize until I became a parent myself, how much like Jesus you are. You are the son of a carpenter, as He was, learning to work with your hands with wood and shavings . . . even building
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