Providence Road

Even though my feelings were hurt by his total lack of concern, I had no time to think about it, as I was getting sicker by the minute.

David had military training, and he automatically went into military mode when transporting Dad and me. He remained calm, as he tried to figure out where the hospital was located. This was a time before GPS and probably before Google Maps. About twenty minutes into the drive, I needed to go to the bathroom.

Dad said, “Can’t you wait?”

“No,” I replied. “I need to go now.” I felt like I was going to throw up as well as wet my pants.

David pulled over into a Quick Mart gas station. He got out of the car and helped me inside, but I began to get weaker and weaker with every step I took. Suddenly, I fell into a big Coke can display and passed out. When I came to, David was holding my head up so I could breath, and I looked straight into his face and said, “David, I am dying. I know that I am dying.”

He said, “No, you’re not.”

I said, “I know that I am. My cigarette smoking has finally gotten the best of me.” I had always wondered if people know when they are going to die. I got my answer. Yes, they do.

David turned to the store clerk and shouted, “Can you call an ambulance?” David knew by looking at my now green coloring that something was extremely wrong, and he didn’t want to take a chance on not finding the hospital or not making it there in time. But he remained calm through the whole ordeal. Soon I was loaded into an ambulance, and David and my dad followed it to the hospital.

Once I was in the ambulance, they put an oxygen mask over my face. When we arrived at the hospital, they rushed Dad to one area to be checked out, and they rushed me into another room. David followed me. The nurse began asking me a few questions, but as she did, I kept coughing and coughing. The nurse finally said, “You need to cough into the bucket.” So I did. She just looked at me and said, “You are a very sick girl.” She kept repeating that fact. “You are a very sick girl.”

I thought, What is she trying to do, scare me to death?

She said, “You are coughing up blood, and that’s not a good sign.”

“No, I am not,” I argued. She said to look into the bucket, and as I looked, my heart seemed to stop. There was blood. After she left the room, I looked at David and said, “I sense that I am going to die.”

At no time did the nurse or doctors confirm that there was a possibility that I was going to die. I wish they would have. I would have liked to know, so I could tell everyone how much I loved them and so I could say good-bye to my children.

Just then, the doctor and nurse entered the room, and the doctor said, “Take off all your jewelry and put it in a plastic bag. You’re going to have to stay in the hospital for about three weeks.”

I asked them what was wrong with me. They said I had pneumonia. I had heard of that before. Pneumonia was an acute inflammation of the lungs caused by bacterial or viral infection. That’s no big deal, I thought. I will finally be able to rest and get some sleep. It will be like a little vacation. No one will bother me. I won’t have any responsibilities. I can finally get some rest. I had worn myself down both physically and mentally, which had made me a perfect target for this virus. At that moment, I was only thinking about restnot needles, surgery, or treatment.

I looked at David and asked him to please take care of my jewelry. I reminded him of its value and asked him not to lose it. By that time, my dad had come back from the other examination room to explain that everything was all right with him. I looked at him and gave him the thumbs-up sign that everything was going to be all right for me too. He then left to go home to get Mom, while David remained with me in the hospital. It was about 2:00 a.m. on December 27, 1991, and my health had deteriorated dramatically in a matter of three hours. It continued to get worst with each passing day.

On the third day my last conscious blur of a memory was of Butch bringing the children to visit me at the hospital. The kids had to look through a window, because they weren’t allowed in the intensive care unit. Shortly after their visit, I was given the news that I was to be put on a ventilator. I asked them what that was. “It’s a machine that will breathe for you,” said the nurse. “We are going to have to cut a hole in your throat, and we need to get it done now.”

Thoughts ran rapidly through my head. Was that the same as an iron lung? Would I be attached to a machine for the rest of my life? I wanted my mama and daddy! Why didn’t they explain things slowly so I could understand? Why couldn’t they ease me into the situation? What was their hurry? I was not ready!

They held me down, and I screamed as they cut a hole in my neck. Then they put me into an induced coma to keep me alive.

I would have another memory at the Charleston hospital later, but not in the natural world. I was gone. I was officially on a leave of absence, not only from my job, but also from life.