Mike's Medical Emergency

This is the story of a very scary time in our ministry and marraige. We emailed this story to our prayer-team just after it was written. If you'd like a printable, easier-to-read copy sent to you please contact us. When we originally emailed this story it came with some "yucky photos". You can see them if you'd like, but be forewarned that they are pretty yucky.

—Back to Mike and Jean's Missionary Journal—

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Today starts like any normal Sunday. Mike preaches in church, using a basketball and his wallet as illustrations. He’s taken to using props when he preaches; it helps people remember his points. The most memorable was probably a cordless hammer-drill, but those are stories for another time. The point is it was a mostly normal day.

About bed-time, Mike feels a little bloated. Assuming it is gas, he tries to sleep it off.

Monday, August 15

We awake at the crack of dawn. Every morning at 6:00 the Bible college students have a devotion, then from 7-9 there are farming chores for them. Mike actually stays in bed today, feeling more bloated. After a few unsuccessful trips to the facilities downstairs he decides on fresh coconut water (which has laxative properties) to wash down a few breakfast-laxatives. Time passes and nothing happens. Except that the gas gets worse. So Mike decides today he’ll stay in bed and steal some long coveted reading time.

5:00 PM

After skipping lunch and dinner Mike calls Jeanette. “I endure a lot of pain, but this actually concerns me. Let’s go ask a doctor what they think.”

5:30 PM

We have a cousin drive us on our motor bike (which actually turns out to be a very good decision) to the nearest (actually, *ONLY*) hospital. We’re told that there are no more outpatient doctors available and a doctor would only see us if we checked into the hospital, which meant an overnight stay. We ask if we could be admitted, see the doctor, then sneak out. The answer is no. The nurse recommends a few private doctors in the town who might still be available. We drive to four of their offices; they’re all closed. We head back to the hospital.

6:00 PM

We go back to the emergency room. Mike’s feeling a little bit worse. We decide to have Mike admitted. We actually get to talk to the doctor and explain to him that if the diagnosis is nothing serious we’ll be going home later, despite hospital policy. And, if it is something serious then we’d probably have to drive to Tagbilaran (Tagbilaran is a semi-modern city on the other end of Bohol, about three hours away). He explains that the hospital in Talibon (where we are) now has a sterile operating room, and if it is something serious, minor surgery can be performed there. That’s good news.

6:15 PM

Mike’s vitals are taken. The early prognosis is either kidney stones or appendicitis. Mike, being ever pedantic and having been made stubborn by pain, complains, “How could it be kidney stones in the front middle of my stomach?” When the attendant asks what it feels like Mike asks him if he’s ever been hit below the belt. The pain is growing. Fluids are taken for the lab.

6:30 PM

Still in the ER (which doubles as the admitting section) the nurse tries to fit Mike with an IV. Everyone admitted to the hospital gets an IV. The nurse complains that Mike’s veins are hard to find. Mike complains that the tunicate is a rubber glove split long-ways and not surgical tubing. When he points to tracks in his elbow from repeatedly donating blood the nurse is still at a loss. After the eighth needle stick (the veins were hard to find) Mike feels a new pain in his stomach and begins to vomit. Fortunately, this causes his veins to throb. The IV goes in. (Odd luck, to say the least). Mike’s put in a wheel chair and is wheeled to an observation room.

7:00 PM

Mike makes it to the observation room. It takes a while to get there since it’s on the second floor and he’s bigger than most patients the orderlies push up the ramps. Mike is still mostly okay and offered to walk up the ramps but the orderlies (it takes two to push him) decline. At this point it’s worth pointing out that the hospital building was designed to be air-conditioned; there are few opening windows, no natural breeze, and no ventilation to speak of. But the hospital was never air-conditioned, except for a few rooms that were given window-box air conditioners. This creates heat and a sense of staleness and creates a great incubator for smell. The observation room is not air conditioned.

Mike is given one of four beds in the observation room. He shares the room with an elderly man and a younger woman. They are both happy Mike is in their room—white skin brings special treatment; a floor fan is brought into the room. Added to the trio of patients are several concerned friends who came to watch Mike and comfort Jeanette.

7:30 PM

Mike meets the doctor. The doctor explains there’s no MRI like in a US hospital (the staff would make many comparisons to US hospitals) so he must do a clinical diagnosis which includes no pain medication and observing to see if the pain grows.

Mike: “Believe me; there’s pain. I want drugs.”

Doctor: “I need to see if the pain grows.”

Mike: “It’s growing. I want drugs.”

Doctor: “I can’t give you drugs. It would affect the lab results.”

Mike: “How? The specimens are already in the lab.”

Doctor: “Believe me. It would. I just need to watch you and see what the pain does.”

Mike: “I’m not saying we add drugs to the blood in the lab. I’m saying you give them to me now. I can tell you what the pain does. It hurts.”

Doctor: “I’ll be back to check on you.”

Understand, Mike’s not normally that disagreeable. Circumstances weren’t normal.

After the doctor leaves Mike tells a friend to go to a pharmacy and ask for a strong pain killer. This is a good point to describe the medical system in the Philippines. There are millions of people who can’t afford medicine, so normally nothing happens without payment up front. This means hospitals stock next-to-nothing, but on the street outside the hospital several small pharmacies open. When a patient needs something the doctor makes a list and the patient’s companions go outside, buy it, and bring it back. Fortunately for us a land purchase for Village of Hope was delayed earlier in the week and Jeanette had about 70,000 pesos with her. Being evening there would have been no bank access until nine the next morning, which would have meant any pharmacy purchases would have had to wait more than twelve hours. As you continue to read the story you’ll see how tragic that would have been and how unfortunate the whole system really is.

Mike’s friend runs off for a strong pain killer. Mike pleads with Jeanette to convince the doctor that drugs were appropriate. She tries valiantly. Mike sends another friend to buy a bag of ice, as the pain is spreading to his back and sensitive areas below his abdomen. At one point the doctor comes and asks if there’s pain. Mike growls at him. The doctor leaves. Mike tells Jeanette to tell the doctor to quit the clinical diagnosis. “Tell him to cut me open and pull something out and if it turns out not to matter I don’t care!” Tears begin to fall and a fetal position is assumed. The first friend returns with a vial of liquid codeine. The second friend returns with ice. Mike hugs the ice.

Don’t mistake Mike for the main character in the story. He’s supposed to be hurting at this point. Jeanette, however, with no sickness in her, has to watch her husband sweating on a plastic mattress, curled in a ball, screaming in pain through clenched teeth and tears. Her hurt at this point is probably deeper than that of her husband, who has unsympathetically been barking orders at her. We’ve both said I love you a million times through tears throughout the night, but the weight on her is more than a person should have to bear. Terrible pain and uncertainty begins to go through her mind. But friends are praying in the hallway.

8:45 PM

The ice helps the pain a little. Mike asks Dennis, who has been sitting at the head of Mike’s bed the whole time, for a pen and paper. Dennis has them. After several deep breaths Mike starts spouting numbers at his friend: “God’s Kids 951-681-….; Robin and Cynthia 951-683-….; Monte and Nancy 909-510-…., Mike’s Mom; Mike’s Sister; Crossroads.” Mike always had a knack for numbers. It wouldn’t have been kind to ask Jeanette to go home and get the laptop and look for phone numbers. But Mike does have a new string of commands for Jeanette: “Call God’s Kids and ask them to wire money. We’ll deal with paying them back later. Get people praying. Call family and let them know what’s going on. If I die call _this friend_ and tell him to get you a success coach and make sure your dreams come true.” That last one didn’t make a lot of sense and led to a lot of laughter later on. The effects of the ice stop.

9:00 PM

Something changes. The pain changes. Mike feels like he’s snapped in two and begins vomiting uncontrollably. The doctor is called and he decides to cave on the pain medication. He sends one of our friends to the pharmacy to buy a syringe (remember, the hospitals stock next-to-nothing). Mike finally gets his codeine. The doctor makes a comment on how we shouldn’t have been able to buy it—he doesn’t even have a license to buy codeine. But after ten minutes of pure pain, it seems shock has started. It was starting for both of us. It’s most likely that Mike’s appendix burst and caused the new pain. It’s also likely Jean’s heart was on the verge of bursting from watching her husband go through this. The doctor decides on surgery and calls anesthesiologist at her home. It turns out, serendipitously, that the doctor who is in that night (who normally isn’t in at all on Mondays, let alone the swing shift) is the only licensed surgeon in that half of Bohol. Mike starts to feel pretty good as the drugs set in. He tells Jeanette, “I love you. Thanks for arguing with the doctor. This is good stuff, man.” It’s nicer than some of the things he said in the minutes after his appendix burst. While Mike has the benefits of narcotics Jeanette only has heartache. The next few hours float by in a drug-induced bliss for Mike. Jeanette lives with her pain. We do get to talk a little, though. We’ve always been more in love than our friends think is fair. These are moments when we both understand what really is important in life.

10:00 PM

Sometime in the last hour the operating room has been disinfected. The anesthesiologist still has not arrived, but surgery prep starts. Someone has taken a list to the pharmacy. Mike’s given some more “Good Stuff” and doesn’t even mind when the two nurses come in, strip him down (in a room with two other patients, their visitors and his) and shave him (with a search-and-destroy accuracy) from his chest to his thighs. When they’ve finished they lay a surgical cloth over him (the kind that are like a thick bed sheet with hemmed holes in the middle). The holes are in all the wrong places. Undignified and drugged, Mike doesn’t care. Sometime in the next thirty minutes a gurney’s brought in and the nurses (with the help of several of our friends) move Mike to the other bed and he’s pushed through the hospital to the pre-op area. He and Jeanette have more meaningful, yet drug-glazed-over, talk. At some point Mike gets painted with bactine.

11:00 PM

The anesthesiologist arrives and makes her self busy somewhere. Mike and Jean start to talk about what might happen. Jean musters a new strength from somewhere deep inside her and doesn’t let Mike know she’s scared. In her mind she recounts the hospital’s history—a history Mike doesn’t know. Ten years and a few government administrations ago there were lawsuits against surgeons who operated while intoxicated, people whose operations were successful but later died from infections caused by surgical implements that were forgotten and stitched inside them, people well enough to walk into the operating room never to walk out again, and a notorious 50-50 rate of survival when the hospital was in a different building and under different management. Mike doesn’t know the turmoil Jean is going through. Instead, we talk about love and dreams and the baby we lost and the ones we plan to have in the future.

11:30 PM

Someone comes to wheel Mike into the operating room. Jean can’t go with him, of course. She walks next to his card as far as she’s allowed to go. At the door Mike tells her what he’s told her every night for the last five years, two months, and nineteen days: “Good night, My Love. Rest well and dream happy dreams and know that I love you. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.” The doors close and Jeanette begins to weep.

In the operating room Mike finds a new clarity and levity and begins drilling people with questions. “I just noticed I’m wearing a catheter, but I don’t remember it going in. When did that happen?” (They were some good drugs!). “Does this hospital have a blood bank? No? Note to self—don’t bleed too much.” “Can I see or keep whatever gets taken out?” “I don’t see a defribulator in here. Is there one?” By consensus the room decides to give Mike more drugs. He gets a little less inquisitive and a little giddier. Mike’s moved to the actual operating table. It’s narrow and has no padding.

Tuesday, August 16th

Midnight

Mike meets the anesthesiologist for the first time. She’s in her forties, he guesses. He’s strapped cruciform to the operating table so she looks down at him from above his head. “Hi. I’m going to give you an epidural. I need to know if you have any heart problems.” We don’t know if it was the drugs; Mike tells her, “If I’m more than forty feet away from my wife my heart begins to hurt.” Mike’s gets his first epidural. To his displeasure a curtain is stretched across his chest. He won’t get to watch himself getting gutted.

In the mean time Jeanette sits alone in the middle of another room. Two friends, Tibor and Dennis, both employees of Kingdom Adventures, sit in the room with her but keep a respectable distance. Their work day should have ended hours ago, but they faithfully have stayed with us into the night, and ultimately into the morning. It’s good they were there. Repeatedly a nurse would leave the sterile operating room, come to this non-sterile room, and give a list of needs to Jeanette. She’d give the list and non-sterile cash to one of our friends. They’d run to the non-sterile street to find a non-sterile pharmacy with things like sterile surgical gloves, scalpel blades, IV bags, dextrose, all kinds of vials of antibiotics, suture thread and needles, gauze pads, etc. to be given to the nurse to take to the sterile operating room. The hospital stocks next-to-nothing. The pharmacies don’t give credit. Mid operation in the middle of the night (no bank) would have been a bad time to run out of money. And to run out of friends. Dennis and Tibor will cover miles of ground this morning. Without them Jeanette would have had to find a way to ignore her grief and run errands all morning long.

12:30 AM

The epidural is doing its job, but with no feeling below the ribs Mike’s body decides it’s cold. His shoulders and everything attached to them begin shaking violently. He tells the anesthesiologist, “I’m shaking too much. It’s getting hard to breathe.” She replies, “I’ll give you oxygen, then once you’re used to it I’ll put you to sleep.” Naked, shaved, and gutted Mike knows no shame: “All the shaking has made my neck hurt. Can you massage it for me?” Her look implies no patient has ever asked that before. She shrugs and with one rubber gloved hand starts to rub his neck. With the other she turns a knob. Mike drifts into oblivion.

Jeanette doesn’t have the benefit of anesthesia. She sits outside the operating room alone in her own world of fear, doubt, confusion, and prayer, only to be interrupted occasionally by a new shopping list from the surgeon. At one point in the ordeal she begins sobbing violently. She’s found herself in the hospital scared, exhausted, and mostly alone with an image of her husband’s body being wheeled through a door that at this point seems miles thick. Her mind recalls a conversation she’s had with God in the past few weeks: “Would you give up anything I asked of you?” “Yes, but please don’t ask Mike from me.” “Again would you give up anything I asked of you?” “Yes.” She also recalls a recent conversation with Mike: “I love what we are doing in Bohol, but I don’t think it’s the last thing God has for us.” “I feel the same. There’s nothing else that we should be doing right now, but I also feel God has something even greater for us when we are finished here.” “I really think He’ll let us know when we’re done here. The ministry will be developed enough that Filipinos will be taking care of it all, and He’ll let us know it’s time to move onto something else.” “I think you’re right. I don’t know how long we’ll get to be here doing this, but God will let us know when it’s time for something new.” Could what Jean is going through now be God’s way of saying something? Was Jean’s something new to be willing to give up her husband to God?

SOMETIME LATER

Mike has been under for a while. He wakes, makes eye contact with the anesthesiologist, and asks her, “Do you know where I could buy denatured alcohol for cleaning my electric razor?” Not waiting for her reply he closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

3:00 AM

Mike’s wheeled from the operating room to the delivery room (doesn’t it make sense to you?). He and Jeanette greet with love, kisses, and tears. Something Jeanette’s heard every morning for the last five-years, two months, and fifteen days: “Good morning, My Love!” Mike’s rather chipper; Jean’s rather beat. She tries to express what she’s been through. He tries to describe the body part the doctor showed him. Then there’s a bit of commotion.

In the other half of the operating room a woman is in labor. The normal niceties of labor are happening. The husband and mother-in-law are left in the waiting room and not allowed in the delivery room. Jean can see the mother-to-be’s face but it is the wrong color. The doctors drag the husband and mother-in-law into the delivery room. A scolding begins: “Why didn’t you tell us she had an enlarged heart? We could have done things differently. Now you stand here and watch your wife turn purple and black and die because you never told us she had a problem!” The woman turns purple, then black, and then is dead. Expected grief from the relatives follows. Another needless, Christless death in Bohol.

Jeanette tells Mike about the botched delivery and says she is so happy to be with him but the family needs consoling. “Go give them Jesus,” Mike says. Jean leaves.

THE NEXT SEVERAL HOURS

Mike’s moved from one gurney to another a few times before he makes it to post op. Repeatedly our friends are recruited to do the body lifting. There’s a sheet over Mike, but unfortunately, not under Mike. The friend lifting in the middle feels things he’s never felt before. We ultimately wind up in an air-conditioned room for four. There’s only one other patient, a young boy, in the room. His name is Darwin. A few days ago he had a fight with his twenty-year old sister. She wanted to play cards with her friends so she asked him to watch her kid. He wanted to keep playing with his friends so they had a little fight. She took a sharp bamboo stick and jabbed it into the back of his neck. He needed to see a doctor.

We make friends with Darwin and his mother. You’re only allowed 24 hours in the air conditioned post-op so our meeting is somewhat brief. The mother is appropriately dazed, scared, and confused. Tibor and Jeanette take the opportunity to talk with her, explain the hope that Jesus brings, and pray with her. Soon the nurses come and tell them their time is up. Tonight Jean, Dennis, and Tibor all have a real bed. There’s no sleep for Jeanette, though. She watches Mike while he sleeps. The next several days will be a blur of sleep for Mike, and a lack of sleep for Jeanette.

Jeanette has to leave the post-op room several times (it has no working toilette). Each time she does she passes a mother in the hallway holding a child. The child was having difficulty breathing so oxygen was given. And the mother sits in the hallway holding her baby, all day and all night. Jean notices the mother crying so she tries to talk to her. The child is soaked in sweat (no air conditioning) and the mother is at wit’s-end. Apparently the grandmother had gone to an island to look for money and the mother has no way of contacting her. Jean gives her some of the towels that our friends gave us for Village of Hope and tries to console. The mother is another soul that only Jesus can heal. Finally Jeanette goes to the nurses’ station and asks, “Why don’t you just give these two a bed? They’ve been sitting in the hall for hours.” The nurse shrugs. A while later Jeanette is walking through the hall and sees the mother and her baby in a room with a bed.

Wednesday, August 17

EARLY MORNING

We’re told that we shouldn’t have so many visitors because this is a sterile room. Mike decides that ‘sterile’ looses something in translation. We’re also told our 24 hours is almost up and we’d have to move soon, but all three of the air conditioned ward rooms are full. The doctor comes in to check on Mike. He explains that he stitched all the lower layers shut (there are four of them), but the fat and skin layer are still open (although they were covered by inches of gauze and tape). He did this incase there are complications, and when the appendix burst it spewed stuff all throughout the abdominal cavity. He had to thoroughly wash Mike’s innards and in the process the infection spread to the fatty layer, which is a safer place to have an infection, but it is still an infection, so with the cut still mostly open he can monitor the infection better. This is all interesting information, but Mike realizes he has an open, infected incision and the hospital wants to move him to a non air-conditioned room shared with three other sick patients. Mike’s mind begins to protest. The doctor understands the concern and says he’ll see what he can do. Our stay in post-op is extended and he moves us to the top of the waiting list for the air-conditioned (and actually private!) room.

LATER THAT DAY

We’re moved to a private, air conditioned room! Mike’s still pretty doped up so he’s not fully aware how monumental this is, but everyone is happy! The room had two beds (we assume it wasn’t originally meant to be private). Mike gets one. Jean gets one. Tibor and Dennis decide to sleep under the beds, and they do for the next eight days. There are still plenty of pharmacy trips to be made and errands to run so having friends is vital. What do sick people without friends do? We’re still not sure. Mike has an idea, and Dennis goes to our house and gets our laptop, a few DVD’s, and a stack of books. The drugs have affected Mike’s eyesight, though, and reading is difficult (his eyes eventually return to normal). Before coming to the Philippines Mike ripped every CD we own into the laptop, so we had music to listen to and movies to watch. Dennis also grabbed our scrabble and chess boards, so we are doing okay. At least we are amused. Over the next several days Mike saw only the inside of this small room. Jean is able to coach substitute teachers on her Bible College course material, yet she will still suffer from a bad case of nerves for the next several weeks. The doctor has begun giving her Valium but it doesn’t do much. We’re safe, as far as we can tell. Tibor shows Mike a water-bottle with his appendix floating in it. All is well. At the end of the day Mike tells Jeanette good night. Tibor and Dennis crawl under the hospital bed. And this will be life for the next several days.

The Blur of the Next Week

There are several drugs, several visitors, lots of scrabble, and a mounting medical expense. Towards the end of it all one visitor says, “Mike, I hope they let you go home soon. I want my husband back.” For the past week her husband has been sleeping under the hospital bed, ready incase of anything. As soon as word of Mike’ ordeal reaches the US friends and family jump in to help. The land purchase has progressed at this point so we don’t have the resource we did before, but God takes care of things. There are new drugs, old drugs dropped, arguments between Mike and the doctor over what is an appropriate amount of pain medication. We’re amused at the nurses’ questions: How much water have you consumed? How many cc’s of urine have you passed? How should we know!?! We get laughs where we can. Every other day there’s a break in the monotony as the doctor comes to change Mike’s dressing. There’s a circle of friends looking over the bed as the doctor removes the tape and gauze and exposes a four inch cut through Mike’s skin and fat layer. We get some great pictures.

During this time we see some old faces. Darwin is ready to be released and he and his mother stop by to say thank you. Jean buys ice cream for Darwin, and he’s happy as a lark. We also see the mother and baby that Jeanette was able to get a bed for. They looked stretched and thin but very thankful.

We get several calls from friends around the world. It’s great to get to talk to people, but Mike is strapped to an IV and cellphone signal is nil where his bed is. Eventually he is able to talk to a few people. Mike’s dad offers to buy an air conditioner for our room at home to aid in Mike’s recovery. Weeks later it will still prove to be one of our most cherished possessions. For our first several months in the Philippines we’ve been living out of our suitcases and sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Some other great friends buy us a bed frame so a freshly-stitched Mike won’t have to crawl up from the floor every time he stands. God’s put great people in our lives.

SEVERAL HOURS LATER

Jeanette walks out of the hospital room, and sees the mother and baby sitting in the hallway. “Why are you still here? Aren’t you checking out?” “We can’t check out. My mother’s trying to raise the money for us to check out.” The hospital will let you stay in a room without cash up front. The non-air conditioned rooms are 150 pesos a day for a really miserable one or 350 for an almost-tolerable one. The mother needed 300 pesos before she could leave. If the money wasn’t raised by the end of the day another day would be added to their bill. Kicking people when they’re down is a common problem with any service here: “I can’t pay my phone bill, so cancel my service and I’ll pay what I owe when I can.” “No, we’ll turn off your service but the monthly minimums will be added to your bill until you can pay in full.” Jean tells the mother to find us at the end of the day if enough money isn’t raised and we’ll pay what’s lacking—at this point less than $6.00.

As a patient in the hospital, Mike realizes how many people we’ve been able to help. It’s not the monetary help that’s really made a difference. We’d been able to be there for a man who lost his wife and baby at the same time, a mother whose son was stabbed by his own sister, and a mother alone and scared with a baby. At this hospital everyday there are people who are scared, confused, alone, hurting. We begin praying about the possibility of hiring a handful of full-time Christian workers to serve as hospital chaplains. We don’t know if the hospital would allow it, or where the $400 it would cost each month might come from, but it seems like a great opportunity to minister. We’re still in prayer about it.

SOMETIME SOMEDAY

Mike’s lying in his hospital bed. Jeanette is sitting on the edge of the bed holding his hand. The laptop is playing Maranatha! Praise Band’s album Praise 18—Grace Alone. The words come out, “Knowing You, Jesus, Knowing You. There is no greater thing. You’re my all, You’re the best. You’re my joy, my righteousness, and I love You, Lord.” Mike asks to start the song over. He weakly lips the words, “All I once held dear, built my life upon. All this world reveres and wars to own. All I once thought gain I have counted loss. Spent and worthless now, compared to this: Knowing You, Jesus, Knowing You. There is no greater thing. You’re my all, You’re the best. You’re my joy, my righteousness, and I love You, Lord. Now my heart’s desire is to know You more. To be bound in You and all that’s yours. To posses by faith what I could not earn. All surpassing gift of righteousness. Knowing You, Jesus, Knowing You. There is no greater thing. You’re my all, You’re the best. You’re my joy, my righteousness, and I love You, Lord. I love You, Lord.” Holding Jeanette’s hand and mouthing the song in prayer Mike begins to weep. He suddenly realizes all he’s been through, how close to death he really was, how he really shouldn’t be alive statistically, and how the things most important in his life were there with him right now—a loving God and a loving bride. The tears are welcome. “Oh, to know the power of Your risen life and to know You in Your suffering. To become like You in Your death, my Lord, so in You to live and never die. Knowing You, Jesus, Knowing You. There is no greater thing. You’re my all, You’re the best. You’re my joy, my righteousness, and I love You, Lord. You’re my all, you’re the best. You’re my joy, my righteousness, and I love You, Lord. I love You, Lord.” The tears don’t hurt. They actually take pain away. This is a very special, hallowed time.

Wednesday, August 24

MORNING

The doctor comes in and announces that today he’ll close Mike up. It’ll be another trip to the OR—having been open for several days a thick layer has grown on the wound so he’ll have to shave away a layer of stuff. Mike will be fully awake for this one. Jean comes along as far as she can. As Mike’s wheeled through the hospital in the most sober state he’s been in for some time he realizes how bad the heat and sweat and smell really is. You’ve got sick bodies on plastic mattresses in a building with no ventilation. It’s pretty bad, but we ultimately make it to the waiting area outside of the operating room. Jean stops in the familiar sitting area, a place of pain for her. Ten days ago she sat in these same chairs having to deal with a pain, fear, and uncertainty no person should have to deal with alone. In the operating room Mike is awake and alert and chatty, much the opposite of his love outside. Reintroduced to his old friend Codeine Mike watches the surgeon remove layers of him and quips, “While you’re down there can you do some liposuction?” There’s a bit of blood and Mike remembers there’s no blood reserve at the hospital. But things go well. The doctor adds another layer of stitches somewhere within Mike’s sub-dermal layer, and tops it off with a row of sixteen staples. Mike realizes that will scar worse than, say, hundreds of fine sutures, but chicks dig scars so maybe Jean will like it. She doesn’t. It reminds her of fear, uncertainty and pain.

We’re reunited outside the operating room. Mike is happy. Jean is exhausted from the memories this place brings her. But soon we’ll be home. The doctor said he wants us here one more night for observation sake. There’s no IV so Jean and Mike squeeze into one hospital bed tonight. It’s good to be together.

Thursday, August 25

We get to go home today! We’re given a list of antibiotics to take and a schedule for returning to have the dressing changed, but all should be well. It will actually be more than a week before the staples come out, and to date (September 6) we still are returning to the hospital every three days to have the closing monitored (Mike wondered why the staples came out after hearing, “That’s odd, the middle still hasn’t closed completely.”). But it has been a long ordeal that has taught us a lot. We’ve always been in love. We love each other more now, and yet there is a change to that love. It’s stronger, and stretched to a new shape that we are still discovering. Jean still suffers from nerves, and when Mike is asleep she still wants a light on so she can watch him. We still also pray passionately about putting full time ministers at that hospital. The Gospel and God’s love can do so much in a place with such hurt. Darwin’s mom said she would bring him by our place when he’s better healed. It will be good to meet friends again.

Today

We again want to thank all of the friends and family whose prayer and love brought us through a very difficult time in our lives. We’re still working out some of the accounting of the ordeal, and need to repeat our gratitude to everyone who generously helped us through an unexpected expense. We’re still in prayer about putting chaplains at the hospital—the first time we went back to the hospital to have Mike’s dressing changed we learned that six people had already died their that day and it was only ten in the morning. There’s a need there the gospel could fill. The hospital isn’t a favorite place for us—it’s got scary memories and holds no pleasantries of its own. We wish we never had to visit the place and could easily lament its shortcomings. But the point of this paragraph is to thank you, the heroes who help us on the front line of life’s greatest battle. Had Mike died (as most people do when the appendix bursts) he knows what eternity would have in store for him. Seventy million Filipinos do not. That’s why we keep doing what we are doing. Thank you for the prayers and friendships that keep us able to do what we do. We value you, and we live or die for Christ’s Gospel.