Chapter 22

God Speaking to Me

    I had no concept of time, although it seemed like my nightmares had gone on for an eternity. I felt so vulnerable and helpless. I had no control over my situation; I couldn’t move, I couldn’t stop what was happening to me, I couldn’t even control my thoughts nor my dreams. I felt like I was adrift in hell.

    I remember, seemingly, to float out of unconsciousness and became aware of my surroundings. I realized that I was in a hospital, in an intensive care environment and it felt like it was nighttime. I remembered the accident but I had no concept of how long it had been since the accident had taken place. Everything was quiet. It felt like I was alone and I had to go to the bathroom. I reached down and found, to my surprise, that I had had a catheter inserted into me. I had an overwhelming urge to urinate but when I started there was this intense burning sensation. I looked down and I was horrified to see my urine was bright red. I was bleeding,  I thought uncontrollably, and that was all I could take. I was helpless, I was in intense pain and I thought that I was all busted up inside because of the bleeding; I thought I was dying!

    Immediately, I felt a sudden peace come over me and everything seemed to be warm and friendly. I heard a voice in my mind, a deep melodious voice. I had never heard that voice before, yet I knew it was my Lord.

    "Do you want to come home?", he asked and I knew he didn’t mean Phoenix, Arizona.

    Thoughts of my family flashed rapidly through my mind. My wife struggling to finish raising the kids, the boys without a dad to guide them and my daughter without my strength and counsel. I distinctly remember feeling the loneliness and sadness of my wife and I couldn’t leave them.

    I answered, "No, Lord, I can’t come home now." And it was over.

    From that moment everything changed. I no longer felt so frantic and I believe that was the moment when I started to come out of the coma. I had been in the coma for 29 days.  (see Isaiah 38:1-5)

    My first recollection when I started to regain consciousness was of swearing. I was in a room that was very bright and in the bed next to me was another white man who was really cursing one of the black nurses. I was very offended by this and I found out later that the man was from South Africa. At this point I still had the tube in my throat to help me breath so I couldn’t say anything. My moments, initially, of being lucid were very short and drifting off to sleep put me back into the hijacking nightmare.

    Shortly thereafter,  they removed the tube from my throat but I couldn’t speak. Apparently, the tube had been in my throat so long (about 29 days) that it had slightly damaged my vocal cords so for awhile I couldn’t speak.

Other Voices - Ron Peterson     

   The  communication with the doctors was extremely hard for us as it is not easy to make good connections with that part of the world.  Even when you do, it is almost just as difficult to get to speak to someone who can give you any information as to what is going on.  This was extremely frustrating to me and especially Sis. Linda.  The church had made this a special matter of prayer and everyone was burdened for the Low family.

    The next report that I can remember getting was that his leg had miraculously set itself and Bro. John was on the mend.  Shouts of praise went up by the saints in the church as they were given this report by Sis. Linda via a telephone hookup to the church.  Relieved yet perplexed at the report, I was still unsettled by all of the conflicting reports that we had been been getting, but not wanting to question healing if it had indeed taken place.

Other Voices - Simplicio Shamba    

   Linda came to Zimbabwe and Bro. Chirikure and I met Sis. Linda at the airport.  We took her straight to the hospital to see John.  When he started to wake up and saw Sis. Linda this made the condition of my friend better.  Though he could not talk but seeing his sweetheart, he tried all he could to converse and at times used sign language to gain understanding.  Linda is truly a brave, born-again woman.

    One incident I remember very well was with my wife and someone else being at my bedside when I awoke. I tried to tell them we needed to get the SWAT team to arrest the hijackers (remember my nightmares?). They couldn’t understand,   so I made them understand I needed a pencil and paper so I could write it down. They brought it to me and I wrote what I wanted them to do. To me the writing was very clear - to them it was completely illegible. (My handwriting is terrible in the best of circumstances and this was hardly the best of circumstances.) I was very upset and when I finally conveyed to them that I wanted them to get the SWAT team they started laughing. I was livid!  Here I am, helpless, yet trying to save the hospital and they are laughing at me. I was so mad that I closed my eyes and refused to communicate to them further.  Unfortunately,  this was their first indication of the type of patient I had become.

Other Voices - Linda Low    

    When John finally began coming out of the coma he could be pretty incoherent.  It was obvious he had difficulty determining reality and nightmare.  The dreams were so real to him he became aggressive and irritable if we didn't buy into them.  And if we laughed it really made him pouty and impossible.

Other Voices - Simplicio Shamba    

   Day went by and John's condition improved, but the leg was still undone.   A date was set and a pin was put through John's leg [to put it into traction].  It was very painful as John always explained.

   Fortunately,  that time passed very quickly and they moved me into this very tiny room with a view of . . . nothing. All I had to look at was another wall of the hospital outside my window. Linda could only be with me during visiting hours and I felt like I was going stir crazy. Linda finally persuaded them to change rooms and I got a nice room on the third floor,  which overlooked the main entrance of the hospital. I could have the sliding door opened so I could hear birds and bugs, I could smell the air and three times a day I could hear people as they congregated outside awaiting visiting hours.

    One thing I also saw, three times a week, was the evening Air Zimbabwe flight going to London. I wanted to go home so badly. I had come to Zimbabwe to do the Lord’s work and here I was in the hospital. I hurt so badly and I couldn’t do anything for myself and no one could tell me when I was going home. One of the reasons was because of my physical condition.

    My physical condition at this time was much worse than it was when I was brought into the hospital. I had a pin through my leg just below my knee which kept my leg in traction. Because of this I was pretty much confined to laying flat on my back. I had developed two massive bed sores on my bottom while I was in ICU. Surprisingly, they were incredibly painful, much more painful than my broken leg. My left arm was virtually useless. I had this bandage around my left wrist that was dirty and, according to Linda, she had never seen it changed. My left hand was curled up almost into a ball and I could do nothing with it. I was also pretty dirty, although I didn’t realize it at the time; apparently I hadn’t been bathed since I had come into the hospital.

    The nurses I had were superb. I had two matrons that took special care of me. To me, those two ladies did more to help me keep my sanity than anyone else except, of course, my wife. Matron Consolata Zvirikuzhe and Matron Anna Kambarami will always have a special place in my heart. The staff nurses were, for the most part, also very good and caring but the hospital was woefully understaffed and had very little in the way of supplies. After I had gotten out of the ICU they started making an attempt to get me clean. The problem was all they had were student nurses to utilize. It was very embarrassing for me to have 17 & 18 year old girls bathing me.

    Apparently they had a hard time finding a physician to take care of me when I arrived at the hospital. The doctors they tried to get either didn’t want to take care of a white man or they were afraid to take care of me because I was an American and they were afraid of lawsuits. The doctor I did get, Dr. Bhagat, was not very communicative and we found out later that my physical condition was far beyond his expertise. He popped into my room for about 2 minutes each day and usually didn’t say more than 2 or 3 sentences to me. One episode I remember very well concerned Linda and the doctor.

    Changing my dressings involved turning me on my side to get to the bedsores and the open wound on my left leg. This was a trick since my left leg was immobilized with the traction apparatus. Because of my almost total lack of strength someone would then have to hold me in that position. Then one of the nurses would remove the bandages. The bandages would always stick to the open wounds and the hair on my body, so taking off the bandages meant tearing open the bedsores. The pain is still very vivid in my memory as I’m sure are my cries of agony will always remain with Linda.

    In Zimbabwe, women have a lower status than men. My impression is that they are subservient and,  especially in the hospital environment, they do not question the doctor, period! One morning Linda asked the doctor what could be done about my bedsores. He replied that he had seen them and they weren’t anything significant.

    Linda, contrary to Zimbabwean tradition, got right in his face and said, "Look, those bedsores are terrible and they are huge. Something needs to be done about them, NOW! "

    The nurses standing there were horrified! You weren’t supposed to talk to a doctor like that. Now,  Linda has been in the medical profession for many years and she cannot abide poor treatment or unprofessional attitudes. Linda also stood about a foot taller than the doctor and,  although normally she is a pretty mild person, you don’t ever want to get her mad - you really wouldn’t like to see her mad.

    Anyway, the doctor gulped and turned to the nurses and said, "The next time you change this patient’s dressings I want to see them."

    The next day when my dressings were changed the doctor was horrified by the sight of these sores. He paled and then gave instructions as to how they were to be cared for. The problem was the hospital didn’t have the right type of bandages or antiseptics. Since this was a government hospital there apparently was very little money for hospital supplies. They didn’t have paraffin-coated bandages (non-stick) or antiseptics other than betadyne. Usually, there was only one bottle of betadyne for two whole wards of people. So Linda had to go out to private drug stores to get the necessary supplies. In fact, of the 5 or 6 medicines that I required, most of them she had to supply because the hospital didn’t have the money to buy them.

   If my physical condition was bad,  my mental condition was far worse. Inside, I was blaming God for not watching out for me. I had come over here to do a good service for God and here I was in the hospital in more pain than I have ever experienced. I felt like He had abandoned me. I realized that my condition was severe and it didn’t seem to be getting better. Fortunately,  there were people who tried very hard to keep my spirits up.

    Foremost,  there was my wife,   Linda,  and Matrons Connie Zvirikuzhe and Anna Kambarami, who did so much to make my hospital stay as comfortable as possible. There also was an incredible couple, John and Maryanne Pierson, that had opened their home to Linda when she had arrived in Zimbabwe. Even though they only had a small flat (apartment) they moved their three children in with Sis. Maryanne’s mother, Esther Bower, so that John and Maryanne could concentrate on helping take care of Linda. I didn’t know it until later but Bro. John’s employer had told him that he could take whatever time off he needed to chauffeur Linda to and from the hospital, pharmacy and help her, and I, anyway he could.

    Many of the other people, literally thousands, I did not know. There are three of our churches in the capital city of Harare. They have a combined total of about 3000 members. At one time or another virtually all of them came through my hospital room. I shook lots of hands but I really didn’t know them. Yet, they cared enough for me to come to my room to say, God Bless You, chatted with me for a few minutes, and prayed for me. Many of them had to walk miles to get to the hospital because they couldn’t afford bus or taxi fare, yet they came because they cared.

    One very special person I cannot fail to mention was my precious Bro. Shamba. Apparently, everyday that I was in the coma he never failed to come to my bedside. After I woke up his face was often one of the first I would see. In fact, he only missed being at the hospital one day of my total stay. His kindness and generosity helped keep me alive in the hospital, and he was my smuggler.

    When I awoke from the coma I had lost over 1/3 of my weight. I am a big guy, but when I awoke I weighed less that 190lbs -  for me,  literally skin and bones. After I awoke I had the dubious honor of being fed hospital food. Breakfasts consisted of watery scrambled eggs or cold cereal with some sort of a fruit and dry,  unbuttered toast. Juice or a small glass of milk completed the meal. I really shouldn’t complain because that was better than the majority of what the people had to eat in Zimbabwe, but it was not what I was used to and that added further stress to my incredibly stressful ordeal. Lunch and Dinner were terrible! I was usually fed (on all except 3 or 4 occasions) a piece of baked chicken, a nauseating soup, rice and usually a soft drink. The routine never varied and the food tasted terrible. Without exaggeration, the chicken was literally baked to the plate and I was incapable of pulling it off!  Linda usually had to break it apart for me and she had a hard time.

    Brother Shamba usually came to my rescue. Many of the evenings he would smuggle in to me a hamburger and fries from Wimpy’s Burgers or incredibly tasteful Nando’s Chicken. He paid for these himself and wouldn’t take any money from us. You need to keep in mind that most people in Zimbabwe don’t go out to eat more than once or twice a year because they couldn’t afford it, and here was a guy, really his entire family, sacrificing themselves to get me good quality, edible food. I will never forget he and his family.

Other Voices - Simplicio Shamba    

   John started eating solid food and talking.  However, he could not eat the hospital food because of the taste and how it was prepared.  He made us laugh by saying that the hospital food could cause even the toilets to block! 

    As a friend, I visited him every day after work and brought him his favorite chicken, Nandos, and fruits.   John enjoyed the food.  Various brothers and sisters visited and made prayer with John every day.

    There were many other unselfish acts, far too many to mention. When I reflect now on the sacrifices those people made on my behalf, I can only shake my head in wonder. Who was I that so many people would pray for me? Who was I that so many people would inconvenience themselves to let me know that they cared? When I think, even today, of what all those thousands of people did on my behalf, I get choked up inside.

    Each day seemed to last forever for me. They generally started about 6:00AM with one of the student nurses coming in to take my vital signs. Between 6:30 and 7:00 I would get my breakfast and for the first couple of weeks one of the nurses had to feed me. Sometime around 8:00 the matrons would make their rounds and I always looked forward to seeing Matron Connie or Matron Anna. They both seemed to always spend a little extra time with me and by doing that, impressed the nurses and student nurses enough that I got special attention. Oftentimes throughout the day they would stop by and we would get a chance to talk, sometimes about my condition and sometimes about our families and such. Due to the severity of my injuries and my bedsores, the nursing staff tried to change my dressings and my bed linen at the same time, always a chore that I dreaded.

    About noon lunch (dinner) would be served, as I said usually the inedible chicken and rice. About half of the time, Bro. Shamba would take his lunch hour and bring me a little care package from Nandos or Wimpy’s and I would be set at least until dinner. Bro. John Pierson would generally bring Linda around 7:30AM on his way to work we would spend the day talking and  trying to figure out how to get me home, without success I might add.

    The evening meal was about 5:00PM and either Bro. John or Bro. Shamba would again bring me something. I can’t begin to explain how much that meant to me. In the evening, Bro. John and Sis. Maryanne would arrive, usually Bro. Shamba and his wife Beatrice would be there. Also,  one of the most remarkable things, usually 5-10 other people would also come to visit with me.  Normally I wouldn’t recognize them but they came all the same. They came to pray for me, tell how much they appreciated the fact that I came over to Zimbabwe, and chat with everyone else who happened to be in the room. Many times we had to open up the sliding door to let the crowd overflow onto the deck outside my room. With only one or two exceptions the nurses never hassled us about the number of people with me. I’m sure Matrons Connie and Anna had much to do with that winking at the rules. With certainty I can say I never had fewer than 5 and usually I had more than 10 in my room at one time. Many times, especially during the weekends,  I would have 30-50 people cycle through my room during the day. I really looked forward to these visits, at least, until my condition took a change for the worse.

    About the middle of October I started having trouble with my right leg, the uninjured one. Starting about 4:00PM, every afternoon, I would have severe shooting pains travel, like a bolt of lightning, down my leg to my foot. They were so severe that I would cry out with the pain and my whole body would spasm. Because two of the three large bedsores on my bottom were still open and raw, the combination lightning pain and movement on the raw bedsores, kept me in tears and shaking. Needless to say,  I didn’t want to be with anyone except Linda, the Shambas,   the Piersons and oh,  yes, one other, Sis. Esther Bower, Sis. Maryanne’s mother.

    Sis. Esther would visit and we would get out my little hymnal and we would all try to sing hymns together. Many times this alone would greatly decrease the pain, or at least take my mind off of it, but it would never go away until about 11 or 12 o’clock at night.

    My toes and feet on both legs became extraordinarily sensitive. It was physically painful to even have a sheet on them. Dr. Bhagat, my doctor, determined that I had gout (I really didn’t) and decided to apply some witch doctor treatment to my right foot. They took cloths, soaked in a noxious mixture of eachimol and glycerin and wrapped my foot with them. The mixture was black in color and had this unbelievably rancid order. The first time Linda entered the room after this treatment was started, she got physically sick. The mixture soaked through the outer wrappings and stained the sheets around my foot black and as far as I could tell had no positive effect on my condition. (My right foot is still discolored!)

    Since I had awakened some weeks before, Linda and I had been trying to figure out a way for me to get home. We had contacted an organization called MARS, Medical Air Rescue Service, to explore the various options available to us. The first, chartering an airplane to take us home would have cost an unthinkable $98,000. Obviously,  that was discarded immediately. The next option was to purchase 9 airline seats and fold six of them down for them to make a bed for me. The other three would be for Linda, an ICU-trained nurse and her equipment to accompany me home. That would have only cost us about $35,000 and for some time we actively pursued this option. Every time it started to look promising something would happen and our plans fell through. That, along with my deteriorating physical condition, combined to further excaberate my mental condition - and then, the final straw.

    Right after I had awakened from the coma the doctor had scheduled a surgery to finally fix my broken leg. Before the surgery the doctor came out and showed Linda an x-ray which apparently showed my leg miraculously growing back together. Needless to say,  everyone was ecstatic because of what God was doing for me. All they had to do, the doctor said, was to clean up the wound and let it heal. Well, after weeks of healing my leg didn’t seem to be getting any better. It was still extremely painful to touch and the incision where they went into the leg didn’t seem to be getting any better as well. My upper thigh was still huge and when I was laying flat on my back we noticed that my left foot pointed straight off to the side, not pointing up as it should (see the picture above). This caused a great deal of concern to myself and Linda,  and then someone left my x-rays in the room after an examination.

    Linda, being in the medical profession, took the opportunity to examine them and she was horrified. No only was my leg not healing miraculously, the broken ends of the bones had now overlapped each other and it appeared that they were growing together, side by side! When Linda showed me those x-rays I could handle no more. I started crying and I was convinced that God had indeed abandoned me.

Other Voices - Linda Low     

    John had gradually gotten more depressed and despondent the longer he was in pain.  But when I discovered the true nature of his x-rays it put him over the edge.  He was convinced God had turned his face away and he was going to die in Africa.  This was a very difficult time for me.  I had no answers to his constant pleas, although the Lord was very faithful in my pleas for Scripture to help.  It was the lowest point of this whole experience.

    My physical condition was far worse than when I came into the hospital. Mentally,  I had given up and was convinced that I was going to die in that hospital. I had made Linda miserable by often crying with her and asking, "Why is this happening to me, why doesn’t God deliver me from this torture? "This scenario was repeated day after day, for weeks, until she could take no more.  Then the Lord again came to me.