The Terror Trap (Department Z Book 7)

by John Creasey

  “Wait, no,” I turn, stammering in my sudden surprise, “please, you didn’t have to . . . well, thank you.”

  We move to one side waiting for our orders to be filled.

  “Thank you,” I say again. “What’s your name?”

  “Steve.”

  “I’m Ward.”

  “When was your wife’s surgery?”

  “Friday.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Dixie.”

  “I’m going to pray for your wife,” he said. “Actually, I belong to a group of guys at my church. I’m headed there now. We’ll all pray for her. And for you, too.”

  “Thanks, Steve. What church do you attend?”

  “It’s called Overlake.” The way he spoke, I was certain he had no idea I was a believer.

  “I go to Westminster,” I reply, certain he will recognize this sister Eastside church. I tell him since he is praying for Dixie and me, he might like to follow her story on Facebook or CaringBridge and give him the information he will need.

  So, Steve I-didn’t-think-to-get-your-last-name, if you happen to read this someday, thank you again. Your random act of kindness lifted a guy who was feeling his way through a monster depressing morning start. I think it’s the kind of thing Jesus would do. Thanks for standing in for him!

  When I finally arrive at UWMC, the “woman in 4332” has been sitting up in a chair for about an hour. Together we take the elevator and walk along the 3rd floor hall for a change. Turns out everything looks pretty much the same. Only the numbers on the doors are different. So we go back onto the 4th floor to her room. Later the pain team comes to remove the epidural from Dixie’s back. The nurse finds a new arm vein for an IV port, so she is now a free woman for the first time since her arrival last Friday.

  Getting all the new equipment synced with the old is an important task that walking is supposed to help. Her pain level is a 6 out of 10 at the moment, manageable with some help from OxyContin and aspirin. That’s a good thing. She has suffered enough. As we walk, we pray for food digestion and no plumbing leaks.

  Dad was a story teller. His audiences were most often visitors. He kept our family history alive by his retelling of stories. I had not noticed my absence in those stories until his wife, Alma died. (Dixie’s father officially divorced her mother and remarried shortly before our wedding.) Thinking he would need someone to help him, I stayed ten days beyond her funeral. When his friends dropped by, he told them stories. He recounted to me stories about people and events and often I had been there as the story had happened. “I was there, Dad, I remember,” I would say to him. During my last dinner with him, he stopped mid-story and said to me, “You know, I don’t remember you.” The bitter truth of his confession ripped through me like a hot knife opening embedded scars put there by his physical neglect and emotional absence. He had a relationship with both my brothers and I often wondered . . . why not me.

  The most logical answer to the question, “Why not me?” was, I concluded, “I’m not loved.” A scene latently remembered, almost too painful to recount, reinforced the logic of this answer. I defied Dad’s command to sit on a bench between my two brothers for dinner. Sitting between them was unacceptable for this four-year-old. To endure their teasing that no one else could hear, or wasn’t paying attention to, was to be avoided at any cost. My typical reactions almost always got me into trouble. My answer to Dad’s command was an emphatic “NO!” Three times I defied him and three times he hit me repeatedly with a razor strap.

  A razor strap is a three-inch wide, three-foot long piece of leather used in those days by barbers to sharpen their razors. Razor straps made impressive instruments of punishment that left their victims with welts and bruises. I sat on the bench. The welts and bruises healed. My fear of him did not. For him, perhaps it was easier to withdraw physically and emotionally and lock me out of his memory than to face his shame for such abuse, or perhaps fear of a repeat performance. Don asked me a few years ago if I had any memory of that incident. Such traumatic events are not easily dulled by decades of time. ~ DLT diary, 2015

  These stories and others Dixie would share with me, but not until months, even years had come and gone in our relationship. Even then they did not surface all at once, but rather bit by painful bit. I accepted them as a part of her history, not understanding or respecting their devastating impact at first. I know what it is to have been grounded at home and school, timed out, isolated alone on school days at recess and the noon hour, spanked by my parents.

  Once my teacher spanked me in front of all the students. I was probably in the fifth grade. In preparation for the spanking, the older boys told me to laugh when she hit me and she would stop. I did. She didn’t.

  I broke a boy’s nose in a fight on the playground (not the same incident for which I was spanked). Unfortunately, it was the teacher’s son. I had my moments, deserved all I got, and was thankful I didn’t get all I deserved.

  I was spanked more than a few times, but never beaten. An adult never slapped me in the face. I was never whipped with a razor strap. I was never afraid of my parents. I knew I was loved. I deserved the occasional punishment I received. Breaking one’s willfulness and one’s spirit are two very different things. There was no question. Not in my mind or in the minds of those who punished. They meant it for all the right reasons. I realize spanking is no longer in vogue for disciplining a child. This is not intended as a defense of the practice. There are better ways. The takeaway here is that time passed before I recognized the significant difference between my experience and hers.

  My parents taught me right from wrong in the best way they knew. I never doubted their love for me in the process. I was never left with physical wounds. I was never wronged by parents who did not understand or care about the outcome of their actions on my own sacred journey. I never lived with parents whom I could not trust, yet from whom I desperately needed both trust and love. This is the difference between my experience and hers.

  It was a long time before Dixie was able to fully trust. Even though she believed in and accepted my love, her willingness to trust anyone close to her had been broken by her parents. If I was to gain her trust in our relationship, it would have to be earned.

  In the early 1900s, Mr. and Mrs. Martin developed a friendship with the Doolittles of Elmira, New York. Mrs. Doolittle had been bedridden for twenty years and her husband was crippled, propelling himself to and from his work in a wheelchair. When asked the secret of their being so positive and hopeful, Mrs. Doolittle replied, “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.”

  This single statement inspired two white people, Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel, to write the words and music that today is best known as an African American hymn, made famous by Ethel Waters, “Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come? Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home, When Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He: His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me; I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free, For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.”1 Words of a song lasting for generations.

  Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows. ~ Matthew 10:29–31

  Our home is located on the third floor of a low-rise condominium, surrounded by trees through which we look out onto the city. We feed hummingbirds that live in these nearby trees. A variety of other birds join the hummers with some regularity, not the least of which is the lowly and unpretentious song sparrow. Symbols that speak of safety, trust and human kindness. Reminders that God always loves, even when nests are cold. How appropriate that Jesus chose this bird to make his point, “Aren’t two sparrows sold for a penny?”

  Years ago, Neil Armstrong, on the moon’s surface made famous the phrase, “The eagle has landed,” an idiom indicating the completi
on of a mission or a purpose. While we do have eagles here in the Northwest, none live in our trees. Just humble little hummers. And the sparrow. When I am traveling and touch down safely somewhere, I text home the phrase, “Hummer landed.” This way Dixie knows I’ve reached my destination safely. We will talk later when there’s more time. If she is traveling without me, on her arrival it is, “Sparrow landed.”

  Why should discouragement rob us of our peace? Why should shadows of doubt be entertained? Why should we always be longing for something just beyond our reach? Jesus is our portion. We continue asking for a miracle of healing. He is our strength. Our constant and faithful Friend. We ask him in absolute faith and we trust him in his perfect will for us. There is no inconsistency in this. How could we not ask and trust in the same breath? His eye is on the sparrow. He sees us in the storm. He hears us as we call out to him.

  Today, after five days at University of Washington Medical Center, the last release papers are signed, final instructions for caregiving listened to attentively, prescriptions filled. We load several gifted floral arrangements and the “woman who used to be in 4332” into the car.

  “Will you be back today?” asks the Pavilion parking attendant as we pay the UWMC parking fee.

  “No,” I answer, “not today.”

  We drive out into an absolutely stunning day, make our way east across the SR 520 floating bridge, sunlight dancing on the water, snow-capped mountains glistening in every direction we can see. Familiar words singing in my heart.

  Dixie is home tonight. The sparrow has landed. She is safely back in her nest.

  6

  The Warmest Room

  3 Dixie’s childhood home in Claremore, OK

  A question was once asked in a small group setting, “What was the [emotionally] warmest room in your home when you were growing up?” My answer was, “My friend’s house.” The importance of that answer dawned on me much later after I had gained the fortitude to look at my parents as people; to strive to understand their struggles, not to hold them in judgment for their reactions to their painful life. ~ DLT diary, 2015

  We begin the eighth day of the rest of our lives as usual, with devotional readings and prayer. It is a quiet morning. It has not been a good night. I glance at the nightstand by her bed. The pain meds that had been laid out the night before, just in case, are gone. Dixie is not feeling well. She does not complain. I wish she would. It would be easier to gauge how things are going for her. But she is strong. Always has been. Doesn’t plan to stop anytime soon. She is also beautiful. Unique. And now, suddenly, very fragile.

  As I conclude the last reading, she voices discouragement that her body is not responding to (her) plan. Eating is something she finds difficult to do. A few sips of smoothie, some water, and not much else. The very idea of eating is upsetting.

  In the afternoon, we step out the 99th Avenue exit of our condominium complex for the first time since coming home from the hospital. Around to the front entrance on 100th. Not the 2.8-mile speed walk of a few weeks ago. A small exercise. A little fresh air. Two blocks. All good, but leaving her exhausted. One of our neighbors, a retired Naval officer, sees us from his window and sends word that if we are walking tomorrow he will hang out the flag. Can’t buy that kind of support!

  She is sleeping as I write these words. We are in a kind of holding pattern, where conflicting ideas and thought patterns and uncertainties await the next storm. We’re not sure from what direction, but it is certain we are about to leave the peaceful center where we have been, and touch the other side of what we’ve just passed through.

  Preserve me, O God, for in you I take refuge. I say to the LORD, “You are the Lord; I have no go od apart from you.” ~ Psalm 16:1,2

  Sunday is better. Our spirits are up. Nothing appreciable has changed. We wait. No difference yet in body function. Still losing weight. Michele drops by and today and we three walk the full circumference of about a square block around our condominium complex. A bit of yogurt. A scrambled egg. A half cup of coffee with milk and sugar. Linda drops off some chick flicks for Dixie and a slice of birthday cake for me. Wait. It’s my birthday? Lisa drops off flowers. Dixie rests in between our measuring meds and pain pills and the daily shot. Oh yes, about the shot.

  Every day for thirty days following surgery Dixie must have an evening shot in the belly. I have been informed by the nurse this will be my job. Our first night home I approach the belly in question, cleanse it with alcohol and proceed to stab her with the needle like I think I’ve seen it done on television. The surprised look on her face said my first attempt at a medical procedure needed serious improvement. It did evoke a great deal of laughter once she recovered, and its recounting was fodder for several good stories thereafter. And yes, I did refine my procedure.

  Lots of cards and flowers for Dixie these past few days. And the amazing prayers of close friends and complete strangers around the world. Do we have God’s ear? On the day of Dixie’s surgery, we leave our home at 4:30 in the morning, heading for the hospital. At that very hour (we learn later from cards received), my 90 something-year-old-aunt in eastern Washington and a dear woman in our former pastorate in California, two saints who’ve never met in this life, are awakened from their sleep with a holy urgency to go to prayer on Dixie’s behalf. They begin the day and are eventually joined by hundreds of others, covering her in prayer from that moment until now. It is this awareness of God at work that gives us hope.

  I began to learn about God when I was in the third grade. My family attended church with friends, and to my recollection it was my first time ever in church. We became regular attenders, but eventually Dad quit going, which meant we had to walk to church. Dad was the only driver at the time. I liked the preacher when he talked to me one-to-one, but not when he preached. His message seemed more threatening than loving and God was painted in my mind as a powerful being who was watching, waiting for me to do something bad. The “bad” was an amorphous something which lingered in the shadows of my mind as God took on the persona of my parents.

  Mom was always watching, always ready to punish with a slap in the face, a switch to the legs, the razor strap to the bottom or a look that said, “I’ll take care of you later.” Dad was absent or disengaged, at least with me. God was harsh, someone I needed to please, and if not, he would either punish me, ignore me, or leave me. It took many years to erase that opinion of God and to see him as someone who loves me, is pleased with me just as I am, who wants to be known for who he is. God is not like my parents.

  Looking through a rear view mirror often clarifies one’s vision on past life situations. Someone asked me once if I came to faith in God through a sense of His love or out of fear. God was not presented to me as a God of love, but as someone to be feared. He punished people for not living right. Fear and punishment were strong motivating factors. I was afraid of punishment. Punishment meant bodily pain. ~ DLT diary, 2015

  When this day dawns, it is winter. Before morning ends, it is spring. High clouds, with sun. Crisp and cool. No rain. A good first Northwest spring day. And a breakthrough day for Dixie.

  Tuesday, late afternoon we return to UWMC for our first post-op visit. We’ve been waiting to receive the pathology report. Dr. Park provides the news. Simply put, the operation was successful in removing the pancreatic mass and cancerous duodenum. The gallbladder removal and all margins (i.e., bile duct, distal pancreatic, etc.) in the area are negative. However, some peripancreatic lymph nodes tested positive for carcinoma, overall resulting in a kind of good news/bad news outcome. We do not yet fully understand the implications.

  We had hoped for a complete and total victory, but this is not to be. Not yet. Like Old Testament Israelites, we give thanks for a major battle has been won. Just not the war. Now life’s battle lines are shifting for us. Preparations must be made. But how? Has everything changed or is it all still the same as when we started at the beginning?

  How does one prepare in the

  beginning .
. . for childbirth?

  Birth: any coming into existence; any act or instance of being born; the beginning.

  When expecting your child, you learn about the birth process; choose a doctor for your baby; get both parents involved; talk to those who’ve been there and done that about birth and baby care; prepare older siblings—and pets; line up helpers for after the birth; know what to do when labor starts; decide who will attend the birth; pack your bag; plan what is needed for what comes after you go home and start the rest of your lives together.

  Most of all, you must be especially concerned for your little one’s body. Life is a miracle!

  But there’s more.

  How does one prepare at the end . . . to finish well?

  By first accepting all of one’s life as sacred; to be lived with a sense of awe and reverence, set apart as unique, not to be violated or trespassed upon.

  You decide about (re)dedicating your life to God; find a church where people are loved and the Bible is taught; single, married or single again, you get involved; connect with spiritual mentors (friends or relatives whose life journey and faith walk you admire); give your children good examples; nurture your own spiritual growth as a follower of Jesus and encourage others with whom you have influence to finish well.

  You choose how you will be remembered. Life is meant to be a sacred journey!

  And now, nearing the end of life, this is what we are doing. Creating a new chapter. Not simply an ending, but a fresh beginning. We must educate ourselves, choose doctors, get the immediate family involved, speak with others who’ve been through this themselves, decide what help will be needed, know what to do when treatments get underway, prepare for hospital stays and for what will be needed after you return home.