In the fall of 2007, Jacob was away at college, thoroughly
enjoying his time at Shorter College, when he called me one day and said he
wasn’t feeling well. In the company of
some of his friends, they brought him to Egleston Hospital to get checked
out. It was discovered then that his
body was trying to reject the transplanted heart he received three years
earlier.
We were told that the average ‘life’ expectancy of a
transplanted heart was 10 years, so this caught us quite by surprise. Jacob had
escaped death’s clutches several times already and we were hoping, for him and
for us, for a few years of ‘normalcy’.
The doctors put Jacob into the cardiac wing and began the
anti-rejection treatments. I’ve been
told this treatment is akin to chemotherapy treatments in that the medicines
they inject seeks and destroys whatever it is (don’t you like my medical
vocabulary?) that is causing the cancer.
In Jacob’s case, it is the anti-bodies that were attacking a foreign
body, unfortunately it being his transplanted heart. In both cases, the
treatment lowers your body’s resistance to death’s edge.
During one of the initial anti-rejection treatments he
experienced a seizure. Throughout the
remainder of the day, a stream of doctors with varying specialties came in to
check him out. They discovered that he
had endured a small stroke and that there was a possibility that he would not
be eligible for a transplant if it was determined that there was some brain
damage. Our jaws dropped as far as our hearts.
For several days he was tested and observed …. And we
worried and fretted.
One evening (I usually served the evening shift in being
with him) Jacob became uncharacteristically agitated. Nothing could be said to calm him. He would allow no one to touch him and he was
saying nonsensical things. The doctor on call grew very concerned that it was a
precursor to another, more damaging stroke.
Over the next half hour, I threw myself over him like a
weighted security blanket. I hugged him and comforted him. I talked to him soothingly and talked to God
requesting intervention and comfort. I continually sang songs of God’s peace
and comfort over him. Words like:
I love you, Lord,
and I lift my voice to worship you,
O my soul,
rejoice.
Take joy, my King,
in what you hear,
may it be a sweet,
sweet sound in Your ear.
------
My peace, I give
unto you; it’s a peace that the world cannot give,
It’s a peace that
the world does not understand
Peace to know,
peace to live,
My peace I give
unto you.
------
Great is thy
faithfulness, O God, my Father
There is no shadow
of turning with thee,
Thou changest not,
thy compassions they fail not
As thou hast been,
Thou forever will be.
Great is thy
faithfulness, great is thy faithfulness,
Morning by
morning, new mercies I see,
All I have needed
thy hand hath provided
Great is thy
faithfulness, Lord unto me.
I sang these over and over as a prayer for Jacob and for
me. In those scary, uncertain moments
those years of church attendance; those years of singing in choirs; those years
of listening to these great hymns and choruses of faith - they flowed through
me, first to comfort Jacob but, ultimately, to comfort me. In those moments,
that ICU hospital bay became a cathedral that sheltered two scared children.
One child was incoherent; the other, inconsolable.
Eventually, Jacob settled down and slept through the night. I was left alone to ponder….
…why was this happening?
…what if Jacob can’t have a new heart?
…is God really listening?
…why can’t I fix this?
…what’s around the next bend?
I didn’t find any answers, but I did feel a presence, and
that had to suffice.
Thankfully, Jacob was soon well enough to be
put back on the transplant list and on this day twelve years ago, his life was
extended once again to live, to love, and to laugh.
That day began our season of Thanksgiving. Now our Thanksgiving is somewhat tinged with grief.
