A tale of two tales, Part 5: Not alone

…for He [God] Himself has said, I will not in any way fail you nor give you up nor leave you without support. [I will] not, [I will] not, [I will] not in any degree leave you helpless nor forsake nor let [you] down (relax My hold on you)! [Assuredly not!] Hebrews 13:5b, AMP

This hope we have as an anchor of the soul, a hope both sure and steadfast and one which enters within the veil, where Jesus has entered… Hebrews 6:19-20a

Tuesday evening, August 5, 2003, the day after by-pass. I sat up in my hospital bed, wires and tubes attached everywhere, and watched the news. Time was blurred, and I was aware of the fact that I had completely lost a day or so, but here I was, done with surgery and ready to mend. And then something on the NBC Nightly News jolted me. “The FBI has issued a warning about bombs being smuggled into the country in briefcases, laptops, and cell phones.”

Last night! I remembered. I woke up last night after by-pass in that dark ICU room with nurses fluttering around me like ministering angels…and I heard from God…and saw what this news report is talking about!

Wee hours of the morning, Tuesday, August 5, ICU. I awoke from the sleep of death with a deep, crushing pain in my chest. I’ve been hit by a truck! I thought, and then remembered—I just had by-pass. And as I lay there, pondering, I became aware of Someone Else who had been crushed. He was crushed for our iniquities; the chastening for our well-being fell upon Him, and by His scourging, we are healed (Isaiah 53:5b). That Scripture became my inward fixation; I pulled as much of that chapter as I could from deep within me, repeating it to myself over and over, like a drowning woman clinging to a rope. And as the nurses ministered,  I focused on the One who was crushed for me—and an amazing transaction took place. I became aware of His intense pain that day on Calvary and felt my pain being swallowed up by His. Yes, the pain was there, but I could feel Him bearing it. And the more I mused on His battered body on that cross, bearing my pain, grief for the One who died such a brutal death flooded me. I grabbed the blonde nurse attending me. “Why couldn’t Jesus have gone to this hospital? You guys would have helped Him!”

“O-Kay….” she said. I may have been drugged, but I could tell an “are-you-ever-weird” tone of voice when I heard one. But I didn’t care in the least.

I settled back down and saw a series of three scenes. After each one, I prayed that I would remember it and repeated them all to myself to commit each one to memory. I felt they were significant.

Scene 1: I was in the lobby of a world-class hotel in a big city (I thought it might be New York). I saw a man set a briefcase on a bench under lush plants, leaving it there. “What’s that?” I asked the Lord. “It’s a bomb,” He replied. Less than 24 hours later, I heard about the same thing on NBC.

Scene 2: I was in an empty baseball stadium. I saw three men on the field by the stands who appeared to be from the middle-east. Because they were wearing dark blue baseball caps,  I had a feeling we were at Dodger stadium in LA. I asked the Lord, “Who are these men?” He replied, “They are terrorists.”

Scene 3: I was outside the administration building of my school district. I saw three people confined to wheelchairs. One was the female coordinator of Social Studies and Communication Arts, and the other two were men I didn’t recognize. I asked the Lord, “Why are they in wheelchairs?” He replied, “Because of the work load and the extreme stress they are under, they are being crippled.”

I prayed over each scene and committed to pray even more when I was clearer-headed. Later, in 2008, I ran into the coordinator in Scene 3. I shared with her what I had seen that night. As she repeated the date, August, 2003, a look of recognition and shock came over her face and the color drained out. She identified the men—her fellow coordinators—and remembered the strain and anguish of that season in their careers. “Yes, we were suffocating under the stress in the district; we wondered among ourselves how we would ever make it…you saw that?”

“Yes, and I prayed for you while I was in the ICU. The Lord cares about you three; I guess He just wants you to know how much.”

Sunday, August 3, 2003. At the Sunday night prayer meeting at church, I prayed with others about the time I would be “out” in surgery the next day. My body would be hooked to a machine to circulate my blood and breathe for me while my heart was stopped, but I—the real me—would be out there somewhere. I asked God to do whatever He wanted with me during that “time out” period—whether it was to just rest or to visit with Him or to fight devils—I was ready and available, and I trusted Him for His protection and leading.

Interpersonal attack, summer 2003. After I learned I would be needing by-pass to avoid sudden death, things seemed to ramp up in the spirit against me. I have learned that this is a favorite tactic of the devil to bring despair, defeat, and discouragement right when you need massive doses of faith, hope, and joy. But good news—I’ve also learned that the Lord is faithful to navigate you safely through it all. In a nutshell, this is what I encountered:

• My dad’s fear for my health back-lashed against me in the form of anger and harsh criticism of the way I was approaching surgery and aftercare
• My sister’s plate was already over-filled with the warzone in her own home with an irrationally-explosive, drug-abusing son (who is now doing much better)
• An acquaintance felt the need to warn me that she thought the surgery would make me worse
• A self-proclaimed prophet—a friend of a friend—told me that if I had surgery I would dishonor God by my blatant unbelief—and it would probably cost me my life
• A relationship I’d been in had disintegrated—he moved on and was starting to see other women in my circle; I was beside myself with torment, anger, and hurt
• I learned I had been the subject of false accusations and misrepresentation from outside my current circle
• I became gripped by a deep sense of aloneness in my life

I felt like I was unraveling at the seams. The heaviness of that summer before surgery was beyond any other demonic attack I had ever experienced. As I sat on my living room floor sobbing, I realized that the enemy was targeting me for stealing, killing, and destroying, and that I had to pull out the big guns against him—utter forgiveness of those who had wronged me. I made up my mind—everyone—no matter what their offense—was forgiven. I would hold nothing against them. I couldn’t afford to enter into this life-and-death procedure with even an ounce of unforgiveness in my heart.

Physical attack, summer 2003. In addition to the strange interpersonal assault I was undergoing, I experienced a couple of odd physical attacks, as well—par for the course for the devil. My elderly cat Amos had been cut while being groomed, and in early July, while his stitches were being removed, the tech clipped him and my peaceful old cat chomped down hard on the first thing he could—my thumb. He pierced it clear through with his fangs and immediately my thumb swelled to the size of a Romano tomato. After a tetanus shot and a ten-day dose of horse-pill sized antibiotics, my thumb shrank back to normal and I could proceed with giving blood to be used for any transfusion I might need. (Every drop was needed—and not a drop more.)

Then, the weekend before surgery, I was preparing for my hospital stay when suddenly the power went out. But this was no weather-related outage—something was on fire! I went to the basement and smoke was coming from behind the electric panel. I called 911, horrified at the big scene that soon landed in front of my house with trucks, lights, sirens and a parade of firemen traipsing downstairs—but the fire was quenched.

Early June, 2003. The harsh reality of what was ahead of me enshrouded me. I sat at my kitchen table, dropped my head, and prayed, “God, I have no husband. Would You be my Husband and find me a good doctor?” He did. I discovered later that the cardiac surgeon I used was ranked second best in the world for cardiac anomalies, the best coming from Japan. A Saudi prince had even flown here to go under the knife of this highly-specialized surgeon.

Late May, 2003. My allergy/anti-anxiety pill prescribing doctor was humoring me. He sent me down to have a stress test, flippantly announcing they would find nothing—but if, in the slim chance they did, I would then undergo an angiogram. I had a feeling I’d be having that procedure.

My sister was swamped at work; my dad lived four hours away; my best friend had a full work load; no one was free to wait with me as I prepared for the agonizingly unknown. Heaviness draped over me like a dull, leaden blanket. I was alone.

The techs attached wires to key points on my body, prepping me for the stress test. A nurse explained the procedure and then abruptly stopped. “Dor? Frick?” She peered into my face. Only high school, camp, and college friends called me that.

I looked at her and she said, “Dor! It’s me! Susie!”

And there she was, standing beside me, straight and strong, smiling and fussing over me with medical professionalism and the connected-depth of shared, conquered trauma.

As I started the test, she told me that she had become fascinated with nursing while in the hospital with her broken back; she married her camp sweetheart; they had kids; and they attended church.

Not too long into the procedure, it became clear that my heart was not functioning properly. She stopped me, got me prepped for cardiac cath, and as we waited, the girl who once-upon-a-time thought she didn’t need God held my hand and prayed for me. The girl who long ago vomited into my hands ministered life and help to me. The girl with whom I once waited at the foot of her cliff now waited with me at the foot of my own cliff.

And God had not left me alone.