by Rex Byers
We pulled into the emergency ramp and parked directly outside the main doors. The hospital staff was expecting us, waiting with a wheel chair. Unlike the expedited treatment I received in Haiti, however, I was quickly reminded that I had returned to the United States. The numerous forms I filled out and many questions I had to answer seemed ridiculous. In Haiti, the doctors simply made the fix, and the treatment was over. Here the red tape was cumbersome. I understand the system, but after hanging on with so little sleep I was completely exhausted. The last thing I needed was to spend the night filling out medical questionnaires.
Fortunately, the attending nurse happened to be Jaime Verlee, a member of our church. I’ve performed several times with her husband Sean, so I was comfortable working with her. As much as I didn’t want to be in another hospital, it was good to see familiar faces. When the desk nurse asked about a tetanus shot and other surgeries I may have had, I replied in my usual way and said, “You mean other than the sex change?” I laughed and Jaime said I was her new favorite patient. But the desk nurse wasn’t amused, and I doubt that Sharon was either.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but my daughters say that once we were in the examination room, I talked and talked and talked. Amber, who graduated from Indiana University with a degree in psychology, had told Mandy and Sharon not to ask too many questions, and that it was best to let me open up on my own terms. So after I released my emotions at the airport, I guess I felt free to talk. It was the first time Sharon and the girls heard any significant details about the event.
While in the examination room, I answered more questions about the shooting and the medical procedures in Haiti. To everyone’s relief, the Haitian doctors had done a fine job. The only thing the doctor said I could’ve done differently was to not walk on my bad leg. The doctor gave me a prescription for the pain and said that I should use crutches for at least two weeks.
The other doctor present, Dr. Martha Hoshaw MD, a general practitioner who attends our church, affirmed that being shot doesn’t define who I am. She was correct, except it did define who I was for the next six months. Although my injuries could’ve been much worse, I had a long road of healing ahead of me.
On our way home, we picked up gauze, tape, my prescription, and antiseptic cream. Over the next couple of months I changed my dressings almost two hundred times. It took eight months for my wound to heal, and to this day my leg has a quarter size scar. When I rub the top of my thigh, I feel the missing muscle tissue below the skin. It’s a very strange sensation.
Unfortunately, when my wound had finally scabbed over, I went on a service call that required me to go into a crawlspace. Once my upper body had cleared the opening, I pulled my legs in, scraping off the precious scab that had grown. That was such a disappointment. I had to start all over again.
My leg has since recovered, but I’ll always have the scar, and I’ll always have my story.
Chapter 15
Telling the Story
The next morning I started receiving phone calls, from family and friends. We found a pair of crutches and I began the task of learning how to walk without falling on my face. The main chore during the weeks that followed was changing the dressings. Yet as much as I pampered my wounds, I continued to feel the pinching pliers on the back of my leg.
One day I asked Sharon for a mirror so I could see what was causing so much pain. And there it was—The Brad Downing Bruise. This was no ordinary contusion; Brad had gripped me so fiercely that the mark practically covered the back of my leg. The discoloration was approximately the shape of an oversized eggplant.
As the weeks progressed, more and more folks came to visit, call or pray, and I started getting calls from the media. One of our local radio stations contacted me. This particular radio station, WWKI 100.5 FM, has a call-in program every morning around 9:00 am aptly titled, Male Call, because the founders of the program, Dick Bronson and Charlie Cropper now diseased, were both males. The station representative asked if some of the other survivors and I would come and share our account of what happened. They promised to give us the full hour to share the miracles that we’d experienced, so naturally we agreed.
I showed up for the live broadcast staggering in with my crutches. Monty also made an appearance. And Morgan, looking quite dapper, limped along with his spiffy cane. This was the first of many opportunities I’ve had to share our story. Everyone on the team has a different realm of influence, so we’d go wherever an opportunity presented itself.
Talking about the experience is one of many ways I have learned to cope with the trauma. We met as a group with Dr. Scott Edwards, a professional psychologist and friend. Our team had a lot of healing ahead of us, some more than others, but I had no idea how this event would impact my life. I was in for a shock.
~•••~
Although I experienced an occasional celebrity moment, there was a dark side to all of this. I frequently had nightmares and flashbacks. Within days after we returned, I realized I didn’t like to go to sleep at night. For the next three weeks I’d wake up in cold sweats, sometimes screaming from my nightmares. I didn’t always dream about the shooting, but rather parts and pieces managed to find their way into my head.
While we were in Haiti, a group of children were chasing something along a small wastewater trench. They giggled and carried on like normal kids, just having a blast. But then they suddenly flipped a snake out of the water and peppered it with stones. They rejoiced, cheering in victory over their kill.
One of my nightmares incorporated that story, waking me in a cold sweat. In the dream, a gunman chased me through the Double Harvest courtyard and I came across a large moat like the wastewater trenches the children played in. The mote was filled with snakes, crawling on top of each other, freaking me out. Soon hundreds of snakes were slithering all over me and I woke up screaming.
I remember Sharon yelling, “They’re gone. They’re all gone.” She didn’t know what I had envisioned; she just figured I was dreaming about the gunmen, or something related to the Haiti trip. The shooters were incorporated in my dreams early on, but the worst part was the snakes. I detest them. And I imagine the trauma resulting from the shooting, punctuated by my fear of serpents, was my brain’s way of helping me sort it all out.
On another occasion, I dreamed that I was running from the gunmen, bullets flying past me with the pop, pop, pop still echoing in my ears. They chased me into a large ditch filled with water and snakes like the ones in my previous dream. When I woke up I was exhausted as if it had really happened.
Dreams like these were very normal in the weeks to come. There are 17 symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, and I experienced at least 4 of those: frequent upsetting thoughts or memories, recurring nightmares, physical responses to reminders of the shooting (increase in heart rate/sweating), difficulty remembering details. Like some of the other survivors, my mind wasn’t only dealing with the trauma at night. I found myself reliving every moment of the shooting throughout the day as well. Each time I’d think about what happened, I’d reconfigure the outcome and imagine what I should have done.
During the day, I’d ask plenty of questions. I’d ask myself, Why we didn’t all go out on the veranda and escape? Why didn’t the gunmen come through the other door? Why hadn’t I done this or that? And the questions went on and on.
Although I was fully cognizant that I had survived, I’d picture myself dying in Haiti and taking in all the ramifications that’d come with my death. I wondered if Chad would give my grandsons some of my music equipment if I had died. I wondered what Sharon would do with the business? Would she sell it, or would Amber and Chad take it over? I pondered how long it would take before someone is totally forgotten about after they die. Six months? A year? Five years? Are they only remembered during holidays or birthdays? Sometimes I think of my dad, but I only think of him when I accomplish something special, hoping that he’d be proud of me. I figure my kids would laugh about the things I’d say. Fortuna
tely, those were only thoughts, and I’m glad I don’t have to deal with those issues yet.
~•••~
Exactly a week after the shooting, we celebrated Thanksgiving at Amber and Jeff’s house. I was still sore and needed crutches to move around. I decided to rest on their couch in the living room and hold my newest grandson, Cash. The other adults were in the kitchen and dining room getting the food ready. As I sat there resting my leg and enjoying the baby, my grandsons, Levi and Asher, popped in the video game Call of Duty, a very life-like war game. The game started so quickly, I didn’t have time to even consider how my mind and body would respond. The boys were having a good old time clueless of the anxiety that had come over me. I had no way of moving myself off of the couch. Luckily, in that moment, Amber walked in the room and saw what was happening.
“Amber, take Cash, I need to get out of here.” I tried to keep it calm and not make a big deal out of how I was feeling. She realized what was happening to me and yelled for the boys to shut off the game.
“No, they don’t have to shut it off,” I told her. “Just help me get out of the room.”
She took Cash and I was able to get on my crutches and move into the dining room. I took a few deep breaths and made a couple of jokes to my kids and Sharon. It took me a little while, but eventually my insides calmed down.
Thanksgiving was a little emotional at the mealtime prayer. We had so much to be thankful for that year. Not only had I survived an attack in Haiti, but also my grandson Cash had come three weeks early in September. Had it not been for today’s medicine, we would’ve lost him. He spent twenty-one days in the neonatal unit. After we wiped our eyes, we dug in to our feast.
After dinner, Chad asked about my wound. I answered him in Byers fashion.
“Well, come over here and I’ll show you guys my wound if you want to see it!”
I sat in Amber’s large hallway, and dropped my pants. Sporting only my boxers, I showed them the entry wound, exit wound, and the bruise from Brad. We noticed that my daughter-in-law, Missy stayed in the kitchen.
“Where’s Missy? Why isn’t she coming?” I asked.
Before I knew it, Chad, Amber, and Mandy called for her to get in here, man up, and look at Dad’s leg. The grandkids began filing in as well when they heard all of the commotion.
“I guess this really gives a double meaning to my joke about my bullet wound,” I told everyone.
You see, when I have my shirt off at the pool and I catch a grandkid checking out my belly button, I say,
“That’s where the bullet went in, do you want to see where it came out?”
The kids would get the joke and laugh hysterically, because I had just landed a butt joke, the best kind.
That Thanksgiving was a great time of connecting to my family and appreciating what I still have here on this earth. I think they felt the same way. For those first couple of weeks after I returned I think our whole family was in a kind of surreal mindset.
~•••~
Since that time, I’ve realized that the shooting simply happened the way it happened, and I couldn’t have done anything more. It was a moment that had spiraled out of my control and I managed the best I could—we all did. Yet more importantly, I’ve concluded that God spared every one of us, that He allowed it to happen, and that He deserves all the glory for saving us. He used willing servants like Jason to jump out of the window, Brad to stop me from bleeding out, Arthur to chase the bandits away, the prayer warriors to enlist God’s protection, and Morgan and CB to brace the door. Everybody was right where they were supposed to be. God heard our prayers and I’m convinced He graciously answered our plea for help. I also believe that He cares deeply for each one of us, including the gunmen.
In spite of all I’ve been through, there is one thing I’d never change about that day...
The bullet.
Thanks to a friend of mine who happens to be an excellent goldsmith, I wear the bullet around my neck everyday. It hangs from a gold chain and is enshrined in a custom gold casing displaying a white-gold cross in the forefront, with a diamond embedded in the center. Today that bullet serves a purpose much different than its initial function—it reminds me that God can turn situations meant for evil into something good, if you let Him. You see, the bullet that could have killed me is a reminder that God saved me and the bullet meant for harm, prompts me to recall the miracles I experienced on that black night.
My co-missionaries and I met a year after the incident at an anniversary lunch. While we were there, Linda Herr said something I’ll never forget. Her words were profound and describe how I feel about the shooting. What she said might be hard to understand, if you weren’t there, but they mean so much to me. She asked, “Why was I so privileged to experience all that God did that night?”
She presents a good point, and I look forward to hearing the answer one day. Yet sometimes I wonder, when I come into Heaven, is it at all possible that an unknown face will approach me and say, “We’ve never met, and I’m sorry, but I’m the one who shot you.”
God shows mercy to gunshot victims, and He is merciful to shooters as well.
The End
A Note from the Author
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for taking this journey with me. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you chose to invest your time and resources into my story. I hope you enjoyed this book and that you received as much pleasure reading it as I did writing it. Be sure to follow Mission Under Fire on Facebook, and let me know if my story has touched your life, or simply to share your own experience.
Please enjoy the pictures that follow.
With Much Gratitude,
Rex Byers
Other Thoughts
Thoughts from Maggie: "The year following the attack was very difficult for me. Fear would grip me whenever I encountered a situation where I felt out of control. But I never wavered in my faith. I knew it was a process for me to work through, and that through it all God has remained faithful. This I know: that never in all my life have I felt such peace as I did on the night I was convinced that I was about to die. I felt so loved by God, so forgiven, so close to Him, and while I never want to go through that experience again, I'm so blessed to have known what it is to be loved by God so completely. Today, I know it has drawn me so much closer to the Lord. I want everyone to know what it is to share such feelings of peace and love."
Thoughts from Julie: “The months to follow November 18, 2011, were painful. Now I find JOY as I recall my Haiti experience. For me, the experience was not just filled with terror, but also peace. At the most unexpected of times—my hiding place divulging only bits and pieces of what I could hear—I found peace. I was sure that all of our men were dead, and the shooters were in the apartment, but there was peace: that peace that comes without understanding—without explanation—with such a blanket of comfort. It was then that I stopped pleading with God. It was then that I accepted my fate in God’s Big Story. I was ready to go. I said my goodbyes. I “gave” God permission to take me. I have learned so much since that night, but mostly I try to live each day with my bags packed, ready to go!”
About the Authors
Rex Byers
Rex Byers is a family man and businessman living in Central Indiana. He has 3 children and 11 grandchildren at the time of this publication. He plays guitar, among other instruments, and currently plays for The Beatles Remix, a Beatles tribute band. Rex and Sharon Byers are still in love after more than 40 years of marriage.
~•••~
Jeff Bennington
Jeff is the Amazon bestselling author of The Secret in Defiance, Reunion, and Twisted Vengeance. He lives in Central Indiana and is busy writing and raising his four children with his wife Amber (Rex’s Daughter). Subscribe to Jeff’s “No Spam New Release Newsletter” and get new release updates.
Works by Jeff Bennington
Contact and Speaking Requests
Please send all speaking requests f
or your church or organization to Rex via email at [email protected] - or - visit the official Mission Under Fire Facebook page.
Special Thanks
Special thanks to Amber Bennington for her diligent work in coordinating the effort to complete this book. Her input, editorial work, encouragement, and mediation between Rex and Jeff helped to blend what Rex wanted to say with Jeff’s writing style without creating another supernatural thriller. This book would not have become what it is without her. Thank you, Amber!
Copyright
All rights reserved. This work is the property of Rex Byers, Jeff Bennington, and Nexgate Press. Any reproduction, sale, or transfer of the contents in any format such as print, ebook, audio, video, or any other means is strictly forbidden without the written consent of the publisher and authors. This is a true story told strictly from the perspective of Rex Byers, and may not reflect the perspective of the other survivors. Copyright Nexgate Press 2013 ©. First Edition.
Written by Rex Byers with Jeff Bennington
Cover design by Jeff Bennington
Print Cover by Joleene Naylor
Edited by Jeff Bennington and Amber Bennington
ISBN-13: 978-1492844396
ISBN-10: 149284439X
