Behind the Veils of Yemen (4 page)

I continued to watch Kevin drift in and out of consciousness. His eyes would search for me when they opened, but I felt that at times Kevin did not recognize me. A surgeon inserted a Swan-Ganz catheter into his neck, and new readings emerged on his monitor. His body began to toss restlessly, jerking from one side to the other. Although he was opening his eyes more frequently, he seemed to be unaware of what he was doing. He did not seem to know that his body was tossing, nor did he seem able to control it. My attempts to soothe him failed.

“Mrs. Shelby, you have a phone call.” The intercom buzzed from the nurses’ station.

I pulled myself from Kevin’s bedside to take the call at the nurses’ desk. It was Dr. Valdadoss.

“Mrs. Shelby,” he began. “Your husband is very sick. Has he taken any medications over the last few days? Has he been exposed to any illnesses that you know of?”

These were questions the doctor had asked before. Again I explained that before we left home Kevin had been fighting the onset of a cold. He had taken a decongestant, but that was the only medication I could remember. Again I explained that as a pharmaceutical sales rep he was frequently in and out of doctors’ offices and could have been exposed to numerous illnesses. Again I said that Kevin had always been healthy.

Dr. Valdadoss struggled for words. He spoke disjointedly, pausing several times. He seemed to be searching for words, or not wanting to say the words he found.

“Mrs. Shelby, Kevin is very sick.” He cleared his throat. “A healthy, fit man stronger and younger than Kevin would not be able to survive this kind of illness. Kevin doesn’t have as much to fight with.”

The doctor paused for a long couple of seconds. “Mrs. Shelby, we are doing everything we can. I will talk to you again in the morning.” He clicked off the line.

I hung up the phone, puzzling over Dr. Valdadoss’s words, trying to understand what he meant. And then I did. He was telling me my husband was going to die. Kevin had continued to deteriorate, and no one could determine the cause. He had received the strongest doses of the best medicines science could provide, but it wasn’t enough. Kevin was not responding to treatment.

I sat down in the chair inside Kevin’s room, no longer able to hold his hand because of the jerking of his body. His eyes opened but they no longer saw me. I strengthened my heart’s grip on the Lord and cried out anew for Him to intervene and spare my husband’s life.

At 3:30 in the morning, Winnie came to the door. “Mrs. Shelby, I’m sorry, but it’s time for the shift change. You’ll have to leave the ICU while the new shift does patient evaluations.”

Winnie waited apologetically. “Get a soda from the machine and stretch your legs a bit. You haven’t been out for a while—it’ll do you good.”

She gently nudged me out. “We’ll call you if anything changes. It won’t be for long.” She walked with me to the ICU entrance and softly closed the door behind me.

I wandered through the quiet halls, praying as I walked. There was no activity in the ebbing of the night. A solitary man in a burgundy jumpsuit swabbed a mop back and forth across the floor of the silent corridor. Dim night-lights made dark waiting rooms appear gray and shrouded with shadows. They were still and quiet, silenced by departed visitors.

Remembering the peace God had given me earlier in the day, I looked for the bathroom where I had prayed. I wanted to return to it, but I had found it by wandering countless hallways. Now I could not find my way back. I searched two corridors and hesitated. I did not want to waste time or get farther from the ICU.

“Lord, where is it?” I stomped my foot in frustration. “It has to be here somewhere.” I started to pivot when I noticed a brown door directly in front of me. It was labeled “Chapel” in big gold letters.

I chuckled. “Thanks, Lord.”

The room was small and quiet, lined with yellow padded pews that faced a mahogany altar. A simple brass cross stood in the center of a linen altar cloth. Behind it was a stained-glass window illuminated with light. Feeling like I had been handed a gift, I walked quietly to the front and sat down.

I poured my heart out to God, pleading with Him to intervene. “Lord Jesus, all authority has been given to You. I ask in Your name that You spare Kevin’s life.”

With my face lifted upward, I prayed passionately and openly, free from human eyes, thinking of nothing except my husband and my need to have him spared. I could envision Kevin’s jerking body, and my tears began to flow. My eyes were focused on the white ceiling as I cried my prayer upward.

Suddenly the ceiling began to change. It became like a flowing white curtain. I felt like I was standing at the footstool of Christ, like I was at His feet and He was standing just above the curtain in a place I could not see.

His words came clearly. “I have heard your prayer.”

I stopped praying and blinked at the ceiling above me, not trusting my tear-filled eyes. In the fog of fatigue I was confused over what I had heard. Had I imagined the curtain that was no longer visible? Had I heard the voice of God, or was I imagining it? I sat still for a few moments, hesitant to believe and reluctant to leave, then I rose slowly from the pew.

“Lord, if You said You heard my prayer, I believe You. I know You can heal Kevin.”

I made my way back to Kevin’s room. I returned to my bedside vigil, praying as Kevin’s body continued to toss from side to side. But as I watched, a change began to come over him. The tossing of his body began to slow. Eventually it stopped, and the jerking eased into an occasional turn to one side. Kevin settled into an almost passive sleep. I noticed on the monitor that his blood pressure rose slightly.

Cyndy, Kevin’s morning nurse, noticed the change. She stood watching from the foot of his bed. A puzzled smile teased her mouth as she put her hand in the pocket of her paisley uniform.

“He is settling down,” she announced. “I think he is doing better.” She sounded surprised.

She walked to me and gently put her hand on my shoulder. “Mrs. Shelby, this would be a good time for you to get some rest. It will be okay if you leave him for a little while. He really is doing better.”

She massaged my shoulders. “You need some sleep, honey. We’ll get you if anything changes. I’ll send a pillow and blanket to the waiting room. Go on, honey,” she urged.

I watched Kevin, his body settling peacefully on the bed. I looked into Cyndy’s kind, hazel eyes. I had slept less than three of the past 48 hours, and the strain of the day had taken its toll. But instead of feeling fatigued, I felt exhilarated.

“Thank you, Cyndy. Thank you!” I threw my arms around her neck, ecstatic that she confirmed what I saw happening. Kevin was better. The Lord had healed him.

On the afternoon of our eighth day at the hospital, Kevin was moved from the ICU to a private room for discharge the following day. I returned that evening to the hotel room that the International Mission Board had provided. I entered my dark room and tossed the car keys onto the desk. I started to close the drapes but stopped myself, caught by the bright light pouring from a nearby street lamp. It spilled through the window over the bed to the floor, marking a path like a river of light cutting through the darkness to guide me. I thought of Jesus pouring His light through the darkness of the previous days to light my way through them, and I knelt in that stream of light, tears flooding my cheeks. “Thank You, Jesus, for shining down on me,” I wept. “Thank You for healing Kevin and letting us return home together to our children.”

My bent knees did not feel adequate. My words did not feel enough. I wanted every part of me to praise God. I remembered David dancing before the Lord when the Ark of the Covenant returned to Jerusalem. I wanted to dance as David had, to move my body in passionate praise. I was saturated with joy in my Lord, who had answered my prayer and provided all I had needed.

In my hotel room, alone with my Savior, I danced with all of my might.

An early morning flight took us home the next day, six days later than our intended schedule. Kevin was pale and shaky and had lost twenty of his two hundred pounds, but he was alive. His medical team had included disease specialists from across the nation, but inconclusive tests had left them mystified. His illness remained undiagnosed.

Our return to life at home was joyful, but in our happy sunshine a gray cloud hovered. A friend commented that she had never seen walking death until she saw Kevin, who had been ruddy-faced and padded like a teddy bear but now appeared gaunt and frail. His green eyes big against his pale face, Kevin had little strength or energy and spent most of his time in his recliner, sleeping through the day and night.

Noise bothered Kevin, and he could tolerate little. The sounds of our active children irritated him and he struggled not to show it. He reached eagerly for their hugs but was relieved when they hurried away.

“Why can’t Daddy read me a book, Mommy?” Madison asked, flipping the colorful pages in my lap. “Isn’t Daddy all better now?” I assured her that he was.

Jaden could not understand why his daddy would not wrestle and play with him anymore. After Kevin brushed him aside again, Jaden yelled, “You’re not my daddy!” and stomped his angry little feet down the hall to cry in his bedroom.

I seemed to constantly run interference between them all, wiping tears, handing out explanations, soothing hurt feelings. And I was tired. I tried not to complain; it made me feel ungrateful. I was elated that Kevin’s life had been spared, but I wondered if God had spared his life but not his health. Kevin was not the husband or father he had been. I prayed for understanding and love for the one he had become.

The International Mission Board asked us to wait before rescheduling our Candidate Conference. I understood their hesitation. How could they approve us for appointment? Kevin had almost died from an unexplained illness. The possibility of its return lingered. Kevin remained optimistic, but watching his slow recovery, I wondered if his health would allow us to serve.

I tried to dance in the sunshine God had showered, but I felt like I was skipping under menacing thunderclouds that threatened gathering rain.

Two weeks after we returned home, Kevin began to run a low-grade fever. He blamed fatigue from returning to work, but I watched him closely. One night as Kevin got into bed, he winced. He shifted, unable to lie comfortably on his back without pain, and complained about a lump on his hip. It was hard, painful to the touch, warm and noticeably large.

“Kevin, you need to have that checked!” I exclaimed, setting aside the book I had been reading.

Kevin was in no hurry to see another physician. “I’m just tired,” he answered. “I probably overdid it today. I’ll be okay, sweetheart. It’s nothing.”

I folded my arms across my chest and sat cross-legged so that I could face him squarely on the bed. “What about that lump? What’s that from?” I asked. “And your fever?”

“Probably from a shot in the hospital. I think I remember having a couple around there.” He turned off his bedside lamp.

“They weren’t that high on your hip, and they wouldn’t make it swell like that.” I got out of bed and switched on the overhead light. “Besides, you got most of your shots through your IV.”

“Honey,” Kevin sighed. “I’m fine. I’m just tired.” He ran his hand through his thinning brown hair.

I walked to his side of the bed. “You ran a fever before, remember? Please have this checked out tomorrow!” I pleaded.

The next morning I read to the children and vacuumed the house more than it needed to be vacuumed as I waited for Kevin to call after his visit to the doctor.

He finally called at eleven. “Hi, sweetheart. I saw the doctor, and he thinks it’s just fatigue after all that has happened.” He cleared his throat. “He asked me to see a surgeon to make sure the lump isn’t anything. I’m on my way there now.”

I let out the breath I had been holding. “Good, I’m glad you’re seeing the surgeon. How are you feeling?”

“Tired. A little cold, so my fever might have climbed, but I’ll be okay. I’ll be home in an hour or so.”

Forty-five minutes later, the telephone rang. It was the surgeon, Dr. Wagoner. He spoke quickly.

“Mrs. Shelby? Your husband just left my office. He mentioned an injection he received, but he wasn’t sure when. I have his hospital discharge summary, but he thought he received the shot a week before your trip to Virginia. Do you remember when he got it?”

“Yes,” I answered. I knew Kevin had memory lapses during his illness and sometimes confused details. “It was the day before we left.”

“Are you sure?” His urgency startled me.

“I’m positive,” I answered slowly. “The kids ran up and hugged him when he got home from work. He yelped when their arms went around his hip.”

I paused for a minute, remembering. “He said a doctor had given him a steroid shot to boost his immune system. The doctor was trying to help him ward off a cold since we were traveling the next day.”

Dr. Wagoner’s voice sprang from the phone. “I think that’s it!” he exclaimed. “That shot is what did it! Listen,” he added brusquely, “If his fever starts to spike, get him to the emergency room and I’ll meet you there. It doesn’t matter what time it is. Just get him to the hospital. Do you understand?”

I told him in a faltering voice that I understood and then tried to get the phone back into its cradle with my shaking hands.
We are going to go through this all over again
, I thought.