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That didn’t stop the psychiatrists from coming into my room and trying to help me. After a few times, they didn’t tell me they were psychiatrists. It’s humorous now, but the hospital psychiatrists were determined to help me. After I refused to talk to them, they would sneak into my room and observe me. Sometimes they came in while a nurse was working on me. Other times they came in and studied my chart and said nothing, and I assumed they expected me to start a conversation.

Often they’d walk in and say something like, “I’m Dr. Jones,” but nothing else. The doctor might check my pulse and ask, “How’s your stomach?” He’d examine my chart and ask pertinent questions. Eventually, he’d give himself away with a simple question such as “How do you feel today?”

“About the same.”

“How do you really feel about all of this?” No matter how they varied the routine, they always asked how I really felt.

“You’re a psychiatrist, aren’t you?” I’d ask.

“Well, uh, actually, yes.”

“Okay, what do you want to know? You want to know if I’m depressed? The answer is I’m very depressed. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

The conversations went on, but I’ve blotted most of them from my mind. Even though I knew Dr. Jones and the others were trying to help me, I didn’t believe there was any hope. I hated being depressed, but I didn’t know what to do about it.

The longer I lay in bed, the more convinced I became that I had nothing to look forward to. Heaven had been perfect—so beautiful and joyful. I wanted to be released from pain and go back.

“Why would anyone want to stay here after experiencing heaven?” I asked God. “Please, please take me back.”

I didn’t die, and I didn’t get over my depression.

I didn’t just refuse to talk to psychiatrists; I didn’t want to talk to anyone about anything. I didn’t want to see anyone. I would have been fine if no one visited me—or so I told myself.

In my depression, I just wanted to be left alone so I could die alone, without anyone trying to resuscitate me.

I also had enough pride as a professional and as a pastor that I didn’t want anyone to see how bad off I was. I don’t mean just the physical problems; I didn’t want them to know about my low emotional state either.

When people did get into the room to see me, of course, their words and gazes made me feel as if they were saying, “You’re the most pitiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

I guess I was.

And so the depression continued. It would be a long time before God would give me another miracle.

I was the father of three children, the husband of a wonderful wife, and until the accident, a man with a great future. I was thirty-eight years old when the accident happened and until then, the picture of health and in great physical shape. Within days after my accident, I knew I would never be that virile, healthy man again. Now I was utterly helpless. I couldn’t do anything for myself, not even lift my hand. Deep inside, I feared I would be helpless for the rest of my life.

As an example of my helplessness, I had not had a bowel movement for the first twelve days in the hospital. Knowing my system would turn septic, they gave me an enema, but that didn’t do much good.

I say “not much good” because I would pass a tiny amount and the nurse or nursing assistant would smile with delight.

One day I managed to squeeze out a tiny bit. “Oh, that’s so good. We’re so happy for you. Let’s wait. Maybe there’ll be more.”

In my depression, I’d think, This is the most pitiful experience in my life. I’m like a baby and everybody gets excited over a tiny bowel movement.

I don’t remember what I said to the nursing assistant, but I’m sure I wasn’t pleasant.

She left the room. That was one of those rare times when no one was visiting. I was totally alone and glad for the peace and quiet.

Within minutes after the nurse left, the enema took effect.

I exploded. I had the biggest bowel movement I’ve ever had in my life. The odor overwhelmed me.

In my panic, I clawed through the sheet and my fingers finally