Angel in Jeans

Thirty-five of us had just spent nearly a month in rural India conducting evangelistic meetings, praying with the people in the villages, and teaching them how they could live healthier lives. We had experienced miracles of God’s providential leading, delays that worked out for the best, and even some instances of physical healings. Between the seven teams, nearly 5,000 people had given their lives to Jesus. No longer did the fear of their many gods rule their lives. They had a joyful purpose for being on this earth and a heaven to which look forward to. I was grateful because most of us in the group had not even gotten sick with the many ailments which seem to plague delicate American stomachs.

Nearly everyone flew home on a Monday and soon there were only three of us left in Hyderabad till Wednesday evening, George Wheeler, treasurer for the NY conference, his wife Sandy, and myself. As we shopped one evening, I stumbled over a dirty pipe gouging my toe. Despite taking care of it promptly, it developed an exceptionally painful infection overnight.

The local pharmacist suggested I take Cipro, a common antibiotic.

On Wednesday afternoon, I took my antibiotic before we left to do last minute shopping. Suddenly, I went into a sneezing frenzy, my eyes itched, and my upper lip began to swell. Grabbing Sandy’s arm, I said, “Sandy, I have never had a reaction to a medication before in my life, but, apparently, I am very allergic to Cipro which I took before leaving the hotel. I am going into anaphylactic shock. I need you to go with me to a doctor’s office or the hospital.” Sandy looked at me in disbelief. How could I be fine one second and so sick the next?

We asked a friendly policeman for help. He took one look at my rapidly swelling face. Stopping all traffic and got us a motor rickshaw, yelling instructions to the driver. By the time we arrived at the hospital, my face was so swollen that my lips stuck out beyond my nose, and I could sink my finger into ¼ - ½ inch of edema on my forehead.

Though the receptionist was very gracious, she did not grasp the severity of the situation. To her, I was probably just one overly-anxious, puffy-faced American. The doctors in the ER were busy, so, we waited. I felt extremely tired and fought like never before to stay awake. I reached over, grabbed, George’s hand and hung on tightly. He felt sorry for me, figuring that I was really frightened. Of course I was scared, but, I told him, “No, the reason I am hanging on to you is that when I faint, you will be the first to know it because my grip will go limp.” My lungs began to close down, but, miraculously my throat remained open. Suddenly, my field of vision shrunk to about a 4-inch grey hole. In seconds, I was essentially blind. “Sandy, I am going blind. My internal organs are shutting down. I can feel it. I don’t have much more time.….”

Poor Sandy ran to the nearest open door and barged into an office where a neurologist was consulting his patient. “Please, Sir, my friend, she is dying; she cannot breath well, she cannot see, she is in anaphylactic shock, please help.” The doctor leaped from his chair and dashed to another door. Throwing it open, he hauled the startled patient out, and sat me down in front of a physician specialized in emergency medicine. He slapped a blood pressure cuff on my arm and squeezed it for an interminable length of time. “Please, doctor, what is my blood pressure?” I slurred. Ignoring my question, he fired questions at me, “What medication have you had? How long ago did you take it? Now open your mouth and stick out your tongue.” When I told him I had taken Cipro, now some 25-30 minutes before, I heard him suck in his breath.

Finally, they wheeled me into ICU. By this time, I was so exhausted I couldn’t have walked if forced. They plunged in an IV, gave me five injections, and hooked up a heart monitor. I was horrified to hear what sounded like an erratic flat line of buzzzzzzzzzzz, bleep, bleep, bleep, buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, bleep, bleep, buzzzzzzzzz. “Put her legs up”, commanded the doctor. Instantly, my heart rate went to bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep,…about 140 beats per minute. My tongue was thick, dry, and swollen. Fighting unnatural fatigue, I knew this was it. I was going to die in India. “Oh, God, please take away the fear of dying. I really can’t handle that on top of feeling so sick.” Instantly, a peace washed over me that nearly made me cry, only I was too tired to cry. I thought, “Oh, Lord, please let my family know that I love them, that I wish I could be with them, but that it is o.k. if I die. For what little part I played at our meeting, 525 precious people have given their lives to Jesus and that is worth everything!”
A couple of hours after I was admitted to the hospital, George Wheeler left and alerted the officers at the Union office. They dropped everything and ran to the hospital, panting as they came in, sweat dripping off their foreheads. Those dear men and women surrounded my bed and prayed for me. My translator for the meetings, Pastor Rao, stayed for quite a while praying for me. Pastor Methuselah went with George to cancel our flights. My family was called, and they, along with people all over the USA, including the NY conference officials, dropped to their knees and prayed for my recovery.

The man next to me coughed and hacked so badly that I thought he was going to die. In the middle of one of his coughing fits, he cried out, “Oh, God! Someone help me! I am going to die!” Together, our small group prayed that the Lord would help the patient in the next cubicle. After many prayers and endless hours of waiting, Sandy and George reluctantly left to sleep at the hotel, promising to be back first thing in the morning. They had been with me the entire time, never considering what the last minute change in their international tickets could cost them. Their loving care and prayers were so comforting to me.

Throughout my time in ICU, I understood a lot of what the competent doctors and nurses were saying, since medical terminology was thrown around in English. The cries of people fighting for their lives permeated the ward. About every 15 minutes, they woke me up to check my blood pressure, my IV, or to give me more medication. I took that opportunity to pray for my fellow patients. Around 2 a.m. I woke up to a deathly silent ICU. Had everyone died except me? No, what a relief, I could hear the steady beep, beep, beep, of the heart monitors. They were just peacefully sleeping!

Sitting up in bed leaning on my elbow, I looked towards the nurse’s station which was right outside my cubicle. What I saw surprised me greatly. Sitting in a chair at the desk, was an American-looking man with straight blond hair styled in a retro bowl hair-cut. He had on a t-shirt and jeans and no lab coat. In India, there is a uniform for everything, especially in a hospital setting. This man couldn’t be a doctor or a nurse dressed like that. He was looking through the charts. Then he looked over at me and smiled, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he said, “You know, you are going to be all right.”

“That is nice to know! Thank you, but what about all the others here? They are so sick.”

“Yes, but they are doing better now.”

"I was praying for them!"

"I know," he smiled.

"Who are you anyhow," I asked him.

"That's for me to know and for you to figure out," he said throwing his head back and laughing his eyes dancing with happiness.

"I mean are you a doctor, or a nurse or what?" I persisted.

He just shook his head and smiled at me.

I told him, "That is a strange answer! I wish I could talk to you more, but I am so exhausted.”

“That’s o.k"., he smiled, "We'll talk later."

"When?"

"Much later."

I lay back down and was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow. A short while later I awakened with an all too familiar sensation. I was starting to itch all over again. Now, I don’t know whether it is possible to have a secondary reaction, but that is what it felt like. My lungs started to tighten up again, inspite of the oxygen I was on. At that precise moment, a short, wiry, male nurse with laughing eyes stepped into my cubicle, syringe in hand.

“Madam, are you feeling OK?” he asked.

“No, I am feeling agitated, itchy, and breathing is difficult.”

“I know, Madam, that is why I am here”

“How could you know? I just woke up.”

His eyes danced, “Oh, Madam, I just knew. Now here is some more hydrocortisone for you. I will put it in your IV.”

"So who are you?", I asked.

He just smiled and chuckled softly to himself as he said "That's for me to to know and for you to figure out."

He stayed for a few minutes monitoring my breathing and blood pressure and I began to feel better. As he turned to leave, I asked him again, “But how did you know?”

Chuckling to himself as if he knew a secret I didn’t, he walked around the corner and I never saw him again, not that day, not the next, not ever on that floor. Who was he? I don’t know, but I am sure my blond-haired, blue-eyed, angel in jeans had told him I needed that injection.

The next morning, the ER doctor stopped by to see me. “Oh, Madam, I would NEVER recognize you today! (However as you can see in this picture I was still very puffy and swollen, but apparently I had looked much worse than this when he first saw me...what a comforting thought!) I thought for sure you were going to die, and, if not, that you would at least go into cardiac arrest. I was so worried about you! I prayed to all my gods last night. I am a Hindu, but I absolutely know that it was your God that saved your life. You see, the reason I wouldn’t answer you there in the ER about your blood pressure is because you had NO blood pressure! Most people with such a severe reaction die within 20 minutes without intervention, but, for you, it had been nearly 35 minutes. I have never seen anything like this! You are a walking miracle!”

A day after leaving the ICU, I returned to thank everyone again, to get their pictures and email addresses. One young doctor asked me, “Why are you here in my country?” Since he was a Hindu, I was careful in my response. “Well, I was here for several reasons, but one of the things we did as a group was to give health lectures in remote villages, teaching them how to avoid common diseases.” The doctor looked down at his spotless lab coat and began to roll and unroll his tie. When he looked up, his eyes were full of unshed tears. “Madam, it is wonderful to see your compassion and to know that you have done this for my fellow countrymen, but, I have another question. Why did you look so worried last night about the man next to you in the ICU?”

“Well, I thought he was dying, and so I prayed for him.

“That is true, Madam. He was critically ill, as were all the patients, but, somehow, they all got better and slept. I think that some will even fully recover. I don’t understand it!”

“Well, God loves everyone!” I smiled.

Now I knew what I had always suspected. It was not an accident that I ended up in that hospital. This was providence, and I felt so honored and humbled to be a part of it.
From our Muslim travel agent, the pharmacist who sold me the Cipro, the guard at the hospital, the janitor who saw me in the ER, to the people at the hotel, they all heard the story of how God worked a miracle. It made a deep impression on them. They were puzzled by the evidence they had seen. The God of heaven IS more powerful than all other gods.

(To participate in such a mission trip to India log on to www.sharehim.org or email Bob Robinson robertr@sud-adventist.org)