by Alton Gansky
By My Hands
Alton Gansky
Copyright 2014
Smashwords Edition
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ISBN: 9781311068910
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations in books and critical reviews.
Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation Used by permission." (www.Lockman.org)
Acknowledgments
MANY WRITERS UNASHAMEDLY admit that their work is the direct result of not only the author’s efforts but also the contributions of many others. I number myself among those who willingly offer thanks to the many people who made the task of writing enjoyable and considerably easier.
To my wife, Becky, my children, Crystal, Chaundel, and Aaron for their patience, encouragement, and willingness to let me leave this world and enter the domain of my characters.
To Pat Henson for her excellent proofreading and her profound ability to point out my literary errors without exploding into laughter.
To Dave Horton and the staff of Victor Books for seeing something of value in my work.
To Jack Cavanaugh, fellow writer, adviser, mentor, and most of all friend, for his timely and firm push. Thanks, Jack, I needed that.
And to the various technical advisers from the Coast Guard, FBI, surgeons, nurses, and news staff who struggled to keep me close to the realm of accuracy.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
It is 1992
One
Sunday, March 1, 1992; 1:30 A.M.
LOIS LANGFORD SHIFTED her body in the hospital chair and fixed her gaze again on the small red light indicating each drop of fluid that passed from the suspended plastic IV bag through the electronic IVAC unit. Its rhythmic pulsating had helped her drift off to sleep when reading or watching television had failed. Sleep was a rare commodity in a hospital; even after midnight the Kingston Memorial Hospital could be a busy and noisy place.
Lois allowed her eyes to trace the frail form on the bed before her. Even under the bed sheet she could tell that her husband’s body was too thin. Bill had always been so robust and active. Preferring outdoor activities to staying around the house, he had given up his civil service job to take employment with Cal-Trans, maintaining the landscape along San Diego County’s freeways.
Now he hardly seemed the same man. His deep tan had faded to a vague yellow hue. The once muscular body was now atrophied; his bright eyes lacked their former luster. Now they were merely mirrors of the slow death that pirated a little more life away from Bill with every passing hour.
The family had tried to get her to go home and rest, but how could she? Not after the doctors had told her that he could die at any time. There was great doubt that he would live through the night. She had spent thirty-seven years with Bill: sharing his food, his home, and his bed. She would not leave him now.
Four months ago they had been planning a vacation. Bill had wanted to drive to Custer, South Dakota for some camping and fishing with his brother. A few days before they were to leave, he had begun to experience lower abdominal pain and had difficulty keeping food down.
Lois had insisted that he see Dr. Lewis, their family physician. At first, Bill was reluctant, but she put her foot down, “No doctor—no trip.”
He had studied her for a few moments then weakly nodded and said, “Okay, Sarge, whatever you say.” He called her that when he thought she was being too bossy. She hated the name, but now she would give anything if he would open his eyes and say, “Hi, Sarge.”
After examining Bill and running some tests, Dr. Lewis informed them that gallbladder surgery was needed. “Probably nothing to worry about,” Dr. Lewis had said optimistically. “Pretty routine surgery, but you’ll have to postpone that vacation. Don’t worry, I’m sure Mt. Rushmore will wait for you.”
Bill resisted at first, but sensing the doctor’s concern he reluctantly consented. Surgery was scheduled for the following afternoon.
That was four months ago, before the verdict of cancer that had spread to the kidneys and liver. For four months Lois had sat by Bill’s bedside waiting . . . watching.
The dim light made it difficult to focus on the wall clock opposite her chair. Three o’clock in the morning? Lois realized she had fallen asleep. She looked toward Bill’s bed. Was he still alive? Everything seemed in place: the IV unit . . . and the doctor? She hadn’t heard him come in. He didn’t usually visit this early.
“Is everything all right?” Lois asked apprehensively and started to rise from her chair.
Without looking up, the man in the white lab coat raised a finger to his lips. He stood at the side of the bed gazing at the form before him. Then he raised his hand and brought it to rest on Bill’s chest. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his hand began to glow a pale blue in the dark room. Lois stared unbelieving. She started to say something, but thought better of it. She sat motionless and watched the unbelievable, and then inexplicably dozed off again.
When she awoke, she saw Bill, sitting up in bed, and looking healthy and full of life. The yellow pallor and gaunt appearance had been replaced by the rugged complexion of the man she had known for nearly four decades.
“Looks like it’s going to be a fine, sunny day,” he said. A wry smile stretched across his face. “Do you suppose they’ll let me out of here for a little walk?”
Tears filled Lois’ eyes.
DR. RACHEL TREMAINE HAD opted to take breakfast in the hospital cafeteria. Taking her food to a table near a window, she opened the latest edition of the American Medical Journal. The need for constant education was just one of the many stresses associated with her profession. Frivolous malpractice lawsuits, the need to face death and disease daily, and the ever-present fear of making a life-altering decision took its toll. Many doctors simply gave up trying and moved into general practice in the suburban areas of the city. Some even left the profession. She had vowed never to do that.
She was only a few paragraphs into an article on anesthesia-induced comas when two nurses sat at a nearby table. One nurse had shoulder-length blond hair, the other dark olive skin. Rachel had little fondness for nurses. They were, admittedl
y, a necessary part of medicine, but they were also a chronic annoyance. She found them resentful of her position and authority.
She glanced at the nurses over her magazine but they were oblivious to her. Their conversation began with complaints about the first shift supervisor on the third floor, west, and the pregnancy of a mutual friend. But then it took a different turn. Something unusual had happened on the fourth floor medical wing last night. Rachel intensified her eavesdropping.
“Have you heard all the chatter from the fourth floor?” the dark one asked.
“No. What happened?” the blonde replied.
“You know Beth Greensberg, don’t you?”
The blonde shook her head.
“Well, she works the graveyard shift in the medical wing. We rode down the elevator together this morning, and she said the weirdest thing happened last night. It seems the patient in room 402 has terminal cancer, stomach and liver, I think, and the doctors expected him to kick off last night. Instead, this morning they find this guy sitting straight up in bed chatting with his wife like he was sitting on his front porch. His skin color was normal, and so were his vitals. He had even gained weight. Sure has the doctors puzzled.”
“That’s not too difficult to do,” the blonde said giggling. “So what happened?”
“I don’t know and Beth didn’t either. They called in several doctors and kept everyone else out. But Beth saw the man and he looked different this morning than he did last night.”
“What are the doctors saying?”
“They won’t talk about it, but her shift supervisor was pretty shook up.”
“It is kinda’ shocking when someone gets well around here, isn’t it?” Both women laughed.
Rachel studied them for a moment and considered saying something but decided against it. Gossip and rumor were part of hospital life and making a scene would achieve nothing. She would just consider this overheard conversation for what it truly was: a flight of fancy by bored nurses. If anything of such magnitude had happened, then she would hear of it through proper channels.
Sunday, March 1, 1992; 7:00 A.M.
MUSIC SLOWLY WORKED ITS way into the sleep shrouded mind of Adam Bridger, gently urging him awake. Adam begrudgingly opened one eye and peered over his pillow at the red numbers on his alarm clock. Seven o’clock and his stomach hurt. His anxiety was always punctual. He turned off the alarm and rolled onto his back, trying to rationalize away his nagging insecurity.
How often had he done this? Three times every week for fifteen years. Twice on Sundays, once on Wednesday nights for fifty weeks each year came to 150 times each year. Multiplying by fifteen years equaled a grand total of 2,250. “Two thousand two hundred and fifty times, and each time I fight this battle. It should all be cut and dried by now.”
He began the morning’s routine that had been polished over the last fifteen years. Each Sunday morning after he showered and shaved, he would review his sermon notes over breakfast: a bowl of cereal, a cup of coffee, and orange juice. Then he dressed and drove to the Maple Street Community Church where he had served as pastor for the past nine years. In his office he would review his notes again. By the time he stood in the pulpit at eleven that morning, the anxiety would be gone and he would find himself enjoying the exhilarating act of preaching.
This morning, however, Adam noticed that his stomach hurt more than usual.
Sunday, March 1, 1992; 11:00 A.M.
HE WOULD HAVE CONSIDERED it an exceptional morning if it hadn’t been for the persistent pain in his abdomen. Earlier he had attributed the pain to his usual Sunday anxiety, but his anxiety was always gone by the time the worship service started. Even Melba Watson, president of the Woman’s Missionary Fellowship and the church’s “official” busybody, had commented that he appeared a little pale. Perhaps he was coming down with the flu. That had happened to him once before and to keep from becoming ill in the pub pit he had to cut his sermon short and exit through a side door that led to a courtyard between the sanctuary and the Sunday School building, He dreaded the thought of having to do that again.
The worship service was unusually full. The church had nearly 500 members of which about 300 attended each Sunday. This Sunday, however, there were at least 400 people sitting in the church’s aging pews. Adam looked over the sea of faces, noticing the regular attendees and several people he had not seen before. New faces always pleased ministers and Adam was no different. He would make sure that he shook hands with them before they left.
The service opened as it always did with Adam giving the announcements first, followed by the congregation standing and shaking hands with those around them. As the service progressed, Adam knew that it was going well. He also knew that he felt far from well. No doubt about it, he thought, I’ve got the flu. Maybe I shouldn't do any handshaking today.
As the soloist sang, “Cast Your Bread upon the Waters,” Adam reviewed his opening illustration and rehearsed the sermon’s three points. He also debated whether to start with a joke or move directly into the message. When Adam first came to Maple Street Community Church, he had used a lot of humor, which quickly endeared him to the congregation. It wasn’t long, however, before people began to expect their Sunday morning jokes, commenting if Adam preached a message without them. Fearing that his sermons would soon degenerate into a stand-up routine, Adam became judicious in his use of jokes, saving them for sermons that were weighty or might otherwise be uncomfortable.
Deciding to dispense with the joke, Adam stood and made his way to the white oak pulpit centered on the rostrum. As he did, he was seized with a sudden stab of abdominal pain. He clutched at his stomach and grimaced. He paused for a moment behind the pulpit, aware of 400 pairs of anxious eyes fixed on him. He needed to say something.
“Perhaps it’s time I stopped eating my own cooking.” His voice was shaky, not the usual “pulpit” voice he had cultivated over the years. The pain subsided and he began his message by announcing the text: “This morning we will begin by looking at one of the most exciting passages in the New Testament.” Adam was attempting to sound confident and relaxed, but he doubted his success. He felt feverish, weak, and nauseated, but reminded himself that the message would last only thirty minutes; surely he could endure that long. “The passage is at the very heart of the Christian faith. Turn with me now to 1 Corinthians, chapter 15.” He paused for a moment and listened to the rustling of pages as people turned to the passage.
“First Corinthians, chapter 15,” he repeated. “Our morning’s message is entitled, ‘Resurrected to Reign.’ ” Adam was pleased that his pulpit voice was returning. “Now that you’ve found the passage, we’ll begin by reading verses—”
Suddenly the pain returned with a vengeful force. Adam let out a little moan despite himself. He clutched at his stomach with both hands. His whole insides felt as if they were on fire. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees behind the pulpit. Wave upon wave of nausea passed over him.
“Please, God,” he prayed, “don’t let me be sick here. At least let me get outside.”
Adam was aware that he was surrounded by several people. They had come to help, but he wished they would go away. His pain was compounded by embarrassment.
“Pastor, are you all right?” It was Dick Slay, the chairman of the deacons. “Do you want us to call an ambulance?”
Adam vomited on the floor.
TWO
Sunday, March 1, 1992; 8:15 P.M.
ADAM’S MOUTH WAS DRY and his throat raw. His unfamiliar surroundings confused him. He was in a room with lights that seemed entirely too bright. There was something he was trying to remember—but what was it? As his eyes adjusted to the bright light, he noticed Dick Slay sitting next to his bed.
“I always thought that when I died, I would wake up in heaven.” Adam was surprised by the raspy sound of his voice. “But it looks like I was wrong.”
“Cute.” Dick loved to engage in witty repartee with his pastor. “How you feelin’?”
>
“Lousy. I assume it’s all over?”
“Yep. You’re now minus one inflamed appendix. It was a close call. The nurse told me that your appendix came very close to bustin’, and that would have caused all kinds of trouble.”
Adam thought about that for a moment and then took inventory of his room. To his left was a large window through which he could see a steady stream of headlights moving along Interstate 805. Across the room was a shelf filled with flowers sent from church members. Suspended over the shelf was a color television. An empty hospital bed was to his right. A small table with a green plastic pitcher of water and a telephone was next to his bed. Adam had seen all this before. During his ministry he had made hundreds of visits to hospitalized church members.
“How long have you been here?” he asked, turning his attention to Dick again.
“Awhile.”
That meant Dick had been in his room for some time. “We need to get a speaker for tonight’s service.”
Dick smiled. “I’m afraid your timing is a little off. Tonight’s service was over an hour ago. And I don’t want you to worry about the church. We have the next four weeks covered. You won’t have to do anythin’.”
“I think I’ll be able to be back to work before the end of four weeks.” Adam tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He reached for the pitcher of water.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Dick stood, took the pitcher, and poured the water into a paper cup. “When you come back we want you at your best. You’re going to be taking the next four weeks off, whether you like it or not. Besides, we need to hear some decent preachin’ for a change.”
Dick Slay was a balding, solidly built man whom many considered intimidating and overbearing. Adam attributed this to his upbringing. Dick spent his early years on a central California farm with three older brothers. After a four-year hitch in the Navy, he started a small trucking company. Dealing with rough and no-nonsense truckers over the years had caused him to develop an uninhibited, forceful manner. There was never any doubt about where Dick stood on an issue. His abrupt manner alienated a few of the more sensitive church members, but there wasn’t a more loving or giving man in the congregation. There had been several occasions when Adam had been called to help a family in crisis only to find Dick had arrived before him. He was a man who could be counted on for help at any hour of the day or night.
