90 Minutes in Heaven_ A True Story of Death & Life - Don Piper [16]
“I’m sorry. I really am, but I can’t give you anything else. You’ve already had enough to throw most people into a coma. You’re a fairly big guy, but I just can’t let you go unconscious.”
I’m sure I whimpered, moaned, or even screamed several times during the rest of the torturous ride. The vehicle rocked back and forth, in and out of traffic, and the entire time the siren blared. It was the most painful, nightmarish trip of my life.
Even now I can close my eyes and feel the ambulance vibrating and bumping on the shoulder of the road as it took the curves. One of the EMTs said something about rush-hour traffic just getting heavy, so I assumed it must be around 5:00. Momentarily, I wondered how it could be so late in the day.
The drive seemed interminable, although I think I passed out several times from the pain. We finally arrived at the emergency room in Houston at Hermann Hospital.
It was 6:20 p.m. Six and a half hours had passed from the time of the accident.
By the time I reached the hospital in Houston, thousands of people were praying. They spread the word so that members in hundreds of churches also prayed for my recovery. For the next few days, word spread about my injuries, and more people prayed. Over the years, I’ve met many of those who asked God to spare my life. Perhaps some of you reading this book prayed for my survival and recovery. I can only add that the prayers were effective: I lived, and I’m still alive.
As the EMTs lifted my gurney out of the ambulance, I spotted Eva’s face. Next to her stood a deacon from our church. I felt as if they were looking at some lost puppy, given my pathetic appearance. They were amazed, gawking, but saying nothing.
Eva stared at me. Until that moment, I had been only vaguely aware of what was going on with my body. The pain had not abated, but I still had not reasoned out that I had been in an accident. It didn’t occur to me that I was dying.
As I stared into her face, I recognized the anguish in her eyes. She probably said something to try to comfort me, I don’t know. What stays with me is that I sensed her pain and that she feared I wouldn’t live.
That’s when I knew I must have been in really bad shape—and I was. My chest had already turned purple, and medics had bandaged almost every part of my body. Tiny pieces of glass were embedded in my face, chest, and head. I was aware that tiny shards had fallen out of my skin and rested on the gurney next to my head.
No one had to tell me that I looked hideous. Anyone who knew me wouldn’t have recognized me. I wondered how Eva had known who I was.
My pain was off the scale. Once inside the trauma center, a nurse gave me a shot of morphine—and then followed up with several more shots. Nothing helped. Nothing dulled the pain.
Shortly after my arrival at Hermann, they sent me to surgery, where I remained for eleven hours. Under anesthesia, I finally felt no pain.
Our dear friend Cliff McArdle valiantly stayed with Eva throughout the night. Cliff, my best friend David Gentiles, and I had been ministry friends since our graduation from seminary and remain close to this day.
By the time I was conscious again, it was Thursday morning. When I opened my eyes, somehow I knew that I had become the first patient in a newly opened ICU pod. One nurse was cleaning my wounds while another was putting me into traction. I could feel that she was putting rods between my ankle and my arm. I heard myself scream.
“We’ve done an MRI on you,” the doctor said. Until then I wasn’t aware that he was also in the room. “You’re very seriously injured, but the good news is that you have no head or thoracic injuries.”
At the time, I didn’t care where my injuries were. The throbbing pains were racing through my body. I hurt more than I thought was humanly possible.
I just wanted relief.
When Dick Onerecker came to see me two weeks after the accident, I had just been moved from the ICU to a hospital room. He told me about God telling him to pray for me and that he had done that for several minutes.
“The best news is that I don’t have any