First the back story.

Not so long ago, in a galaxy not too far way, somebody with sleep apnea came out of surgery with too much anesthesia, went home and died. Understandably, the family sued everybody. Not to speak ill of the unknown dead, but we learned some time ago to have the anesthesiologist temper the anesthesia to “just enough” rather than a “ten-count knockout”. Recovery is much faster.

But……….[Hospital Name Deleted] Hospital now has a new policy………no surgery until you are sleep-study-certified. If you’re cleared, fine. If not, you get to buy a fancy $1500 face fan that you bring with you to surgery. Yet another instance of preventive medicine. Preventive not in the sense of preventing illness……….preventive in the sense of preventing lawsuits.

This little bit of preventive medicine starts with $2500 per night stay at the [Hospital Name Deleted] Sleep Disorders Clinic Hilton. 4 rooms…….$10 Grand per night gross……..you do the math.

So last week I went to the doc for my preop appointment (it’s time again to replace the stents in my whicherdoodles.) And he springs the new requirement on me.

Gosh……… isn’t it ironic…………..[Hospital Name Deleted] won’t let me enter Operating Room B without first going through Sleep Clinic Room C.

Back to Friday.

I check in to the Sleep Clinic at 9:00 PM. That sucks on several levels. First, since my hospice time, I’ve never slept anywhere but my bedroom. Second, Friday was the season premiere of Monk. Lastly, no remote control for the tv. For $2500 a night, you’d think there’d be a remote. I admit to having an attitude at bedtime.

First they pasted 28 nodes on me that attached to 28 wires that wrapped around me like a 28 lassos. I had to be asleep by 11:00 PM so they can get two hours of readings by 3:00 AM. Then, at 3, they came in to fit me for that fancy face fan – called a CPAP. (That spelling is off by one letter.) And they need two hours of sleep to get new readings.

One by one they tried to fit me with masks that covered my whole face, partial face and nose only. Some of them had “pillows” that stuck up into my nose. They all were fastened to my head with head harnesses. And the masks were attached to the compressor on the bed stand.

After only a few minutes with each mask………….in a dark strange room with my head harnessed to a portable wind tunnel…………..I freaked.

Turns out I have claustrophobia. I always knew I had it on the macro level. Like going down into Hoover dam and such. But I always figured those feelings were the feelings of a normal, safety concious person. But this was claustrophobia on the micro level. I wasn’t about to have my face covered by any kind of mask. No way. No how.

They finally found a small nose cover that I could tolerate and I fell asleeep. But that’s not good enough. After a while they have to test to see just how much of a galestrom they can blow up my nose. They got it to the point that the plastic in the mask began to vibrate. There’s no way I can adequately describe that feeling in an email. It of course woke me up.

Finally, at 6:00 AM, it was over. But before I could go, I had to fill out a bunch of paper work. My doc had put a rush on the testing (he’s the Chief of Staff at [Hospital Name Deleted) so they put me through the rigors BEFORE I filled out the paper work. Turns out that most of the paper work is a personality inventory. Clearly, from the questions they asked, and the experience I'd just had, they were making sure that their patients wouldn't wake up and try to kill the tech.

Now we have to purchase a CPAP. We opted out of [Hospital Name Deleted]‘s generous offer to sell us one for $1500. Online medical supply stores sell them much cheaper.

So that’s it folks. That’s how I spent my summer vacation by experience being buried alive.

Hope your summer turns out better.

———-

Grace Happenings – Chapel Hill United Methodist Church
February 11, 2004

Inspiration and Perspiration

Grace Happens

Right before Christmas I had the privilege of witnessing a miracle, one of those events that logic and understanding don’t support. A family that has been related to our church for sometime saw a loved one go from health to the verge of death in just a few short days. Doctors told the family that nothing could save this life, not medicine, not amputation to stave off infection, not an extended hospital stay. Go home, call hospice and prepare for the end. So that is what they did. They went home.

People in our church and folks from far and near heard of the plight and did what could be done: there were prayers, prayer chains, cards, calls, even some meals delivered. We waited and watched and prepared for the end. Then I received a call…maybe a miracle was in the works.

Now for years I’ve lived in between observing the miraculous and the disappointing. So often I’m left as a pastor to try to offer some explanation for the reasons prayers haven’t “worked”. I preach series of sermons helping people to give some purpose to the hardships of life. I’ve presided over funerals of children and teens and young parents. None of that has fit very neatly into my understanding pf prayer and miracles.

My youth was spent with Christians who sought miracles on a regular basis. We prayed, we believed, we claimed, we expected miracles. Sometimes there were great reports, sometimes there were intermediate reports of good news. We looked for good news wherever we could find it. Some of my friends began to believe that quoting certain Bible verses ensured success in prayer, and if you did not experience their success rates then you must not have faith. To tell you the truth, there were times when I questioned my own faith in the midst of some of our family trials and illnesses. There was even a time in my ministry when I was afraid to pray for healing or blessings for fear that I would have to explain what was going on when the best didn’t happen.

Over the years I’ve come to believe that sometimes miracles do occur. I really can’t explain them easily. Sometimes they come to people I really don’t believe should get them, some real scoundrels. Quite often they occur with people who don’t have the kind of faith one would expect. The very people we expect to receive miracles are the very ones who seem to be left off the list. So you can imagine my surprise and delight and even a little skepticism when I heard that a miracle might be in the making.

The doctors were just as surprised as any when the blood poisoning could no longer be detected, and the gangrene began to sluff off and new skin was produced. Day by day this loved one improved. The joy that invaded the family cannot be overstated. They have experienced a miracle. Hospice has been sent away! Praise God.

I got to thinking about this. Life brings with it some really difficult times. So much so that one cynical group of folks have printed up a bumper sticker that reads, “Fertilizer Happens”. I think we need a new bumper sticker that acknowledges that in a world of the unexpected, sometimes grace happens. Sometimes God touches us when we least expect it. Sometimes good comes to those of us who don’t deserve it. Sometimes a blessing comes our way and we didn’t do one thing to bring it about. Sometimes GRACE HAPPENS!

I really complain when bad things happen. I wonder if I celebrate as much when grace touches my shoulder, my family, my friends. I’ve begun to look around for more of the grace happenings in our world. As a friend and colleague, Lesley Rose, would say, “God is good, all the time. All the time, God is good.”

Guy Ames

Looking back on it all, one of the most interesting days was the day I was brought out of the coma.  The events of that day, have, in fact, changed my attitude towards mental illness.

After the decision was made to take me out of the hospital and place me in the hospice program, I was brought out of the coma and taken off the respirator.  Some of the doctors didn’t think I would survive at that point, but I did.  I don’t know how long it took me to regain full consciousness, but when I did, I was very much aware of everything around me.  That happened to be the day that Saddam’s capture was announced, so I was glued to the TV reporting.  I was not, however, able to verbalize.  To be conscious but not verbally coherent was very frustrating.

Although I was accurately processing what was said and seen around me, I was also hallucinating.  And those hallucinations added to my version of reality.  My son, for instance, was by my bedside and was communicating with me as best he could.  I understood everything he said and tried to respond as best I could.  But in between our conversations, I was convinced that he was entering and exiting my room through the window.  I watched him do it several times.  At least I thought I did.  I tried to explain to him that the nurses would soon get on his case for doing that and that he should start using the door like everyone else, but what little of that message he could understand only confused him.

But that wasn’t my only delusion.  There was the matter of those self-cleaning walls.  Somehow, the hospital had installed a new system of tiles that would clean themselves on a regular, rotating, basis.  Whenever I got bored with TV, I could watch those ceiling and wall tiles drip cleaning solution on themselves, turn inside out and back again, and then move on to the next group.  I remember thinking about what a great cost reducing invention that was and how excited I was to be one of the first to see it in action.  At one point, even the wall clock moved itself out of the way as the wall behind it was cleaning itself.  I wasn’t exactly a Flower Child in the 60’s, but I did have a few Height-Ashbury type experiences.  But nothing like those walls.

There were other things, too.  I complained to the nurse about a lousy meal that I had just eaten when they had given me no food at all.  I kept asking my son to push the button above me on the ceiling, when there was no button and not even a reason to push the one I thought was there. But the Grand Champion Hallucination was the one when I was ready to be transported out of the hospital.  My leaving the hospital had been delayed two hours (fact).  I believed it was because my orderly had locked the transport people out of the hospital (not a fact).  To make matters worse, another orderly had accidentally closed and locked my door when she left the room (also not a fact).  Then, because I had already been checked out paper-work wise, the hospital’s master computer had changed the security code to my room (so, so much not a fact).  So there I thought I was……..locked in my room, with my transportation people locked out of the hospital.  At that point computer programming code began to appear on the wall near the door.  Clearly, the problem was that their system was an NT system, not a Unix system.  I tried to call out using what could only have been the nurse call buttons, but there were not enough buttons to make a phone call.  It was very frustrating.  Eventually the maintenance crew was able to take off the top of the door.  (Presumably so the computer tech people could see that computer code.)  And then the door opened and there were the transport people.  My rescue was complete.

Life can be very exciting when you supply your own reality.

What was NOT a hallucination, however, was my conversation with the doctor when he came in to give me his CYA speech.  He wanted to make sure that I knew that I was going home to die and not to be treated.  I understand why he had to give me that speech, but I didn’t appreciate it much then.  When he finished, I mumbled as best I could, “suuut uuut”.  He couldn’t understand me, so he leaned in closer.  I tried again, “suuuuuuuuuut uuuuuuuuut!”  I still didn’t get through so I mustered up all my energy and verbal skills and said as best I could, “shuuuuut uuuuuup!”  “Oh,” he said, “you want me to shut up.”  And he did.  Even though I was hallucinating, I was still always able to understand everything that was said TO me, so I really believe that conversation with the doctor happened.  At any rate, it’s too precious a memory so I choose to believe it was real.