90 Minutes in Heaven_ A True Story of Death & Life - Don Piper [52]
Even now, I’m not sure my mother has fully recovered from my accident. But here are two of many very beautiful memories of my parents’ devotion to me.
First, during the summer following the accident, as if Eva didn’t have enough to concern herself with, she decided to take the South Park youth to summer camp. That would have been my job had I been physically able. But she tackled it with gusto. That meant someone would have to stay with me while she was away.
My mother cheerfully agreed to do so. The week of the church youth camp came, and Eva left me with Mom. Each day Mother prepared meals for me, and I was so glad to have her there. But I did dread one daily occurrence—my mother would be required to empty my urinals and bedpans. Now, I know she had diapered me when I was a baby, but a lot of time had passed between infant powderings and the present.
I remember the first time I had to go when she was caring for me, and I asked for the bedpan. She acted as if it were the most natural thing ever. After I had finished, I agonized over having to tell her.
She saved me the embarrassment by asking if I was through. I just nodded. She took the bedpan into the bathroom, and then I heard one of the most remarkable sounds I have ever heard in my life. After she entered the bathroom and flushed the commode, I could hear my mother singing. In spite of the most lowly of tasks one human can perform for another, she sang as she washed out the bedpan. It was as if her whole motherhood was wrapped up in that moment. She was again doing something for her son that he could not do for himself, and she was happy and fulfilled. I will cherish that memory, for it defines the devotion that only a mother could have.
Second, I remember one private moment I had with my father, equally poignant and dramatic. One day, following yet another 250mile trip to see me for an afternoon at St. Luke’s, my parents were preparing for the return trip to their home near Bossier City.
For some reason I don’t recall, Mom had stepped out of the room. Alone now, my father came close to my bed and took my only unbroken limb, my right hand, in his gnarled hand. He leaned close to me and with great emotion and absolute honesty said, “I would give anything to trade places with you and take this on me.”
He’s my dad, and more than at any other time, I realized how much he loves me.
Repeatedly, my doctor has told me, “Everything we did for you is the best we can do. Don’t count on being able to live a long, productive life. Because of arthritis and a lot of other complications that will set in, you’re going to have an uphill battle to be even as mobile as you are now.”
He knew what he was talking about. It’s been fifteen years since my accident. I’ve already felt the beginning of arthritis. Weather changes affect me; I grow tired faster. Some of it may be age, but I think it’s a reflection of the fact that I have to use my legs and knees in ways God didn’t design them to be used.
Even today, my left knee hyperextends, so if someone comes from behind and inadvertently slaps me on the back, I have to catch myself or I’ll keep going forward. I can’t lock my knee into place to keep from losing my balance and pitching forward.
I’ve tried to make light of this, quipping, “I’ve fallen in some of the best places in Texas.” Or, “I’ve considered commissioning some little plaques that say, ‘Don Piper fell here.’”
One time I led an outdoor conference in the Texas hill country. The ground was uneven and I’d walk along and all of a sudden, I’d fall. I wasn’t hurt, but I fell three times the first day.
Despite everything they did for me, one of my legs is an inch and a half shorter than the other. That alone makes my backbone curve. The backbone is beginning to show wear and tear, as are my hip joints. My left