Recluse
03-24-2013, 09:56 PM
I'm sitting in my bed mid-morning on my final day in the hospital. The doc had come in an hour earlier and informed me that they were sending me home. I was ecstatic. Unfortunately, my blood pressure had begun skyrocketing for no apparent reason, and was approaching a dangerous level.
The docs told me it was a combination of all the liquids they'd been pumping in me via IV, plus the rather sudden withdrawl from the Dilaudid and Torodol and other pain killers they'd been administering every few hours, also via IV.
I was getting worried. I did not like the blood pressure numbers I was seeing.
A pet peeve of mine during the last two stays in the hospital was when the docs would leave the door to my room open. Between lingering military experiences and law enforcement experiences and the fact that I could not have a firearm in the room, I relied upon hearing a knock on the door or even the door opening to wake me up. There is a curtain that goes between the main portion of the room and the restroom, sink and doorway entrance area. I'd learned on day one of the first visit to look at the shoes and clothing of whoever came into my room.
Nurses wore royal blue and white sneakers, LVNs wore purple and darker shoes, docs wore light blue scrubs and high-dollar sneakers, so on and so on.
So on my last day, mid-morning, the doc had left with good news but failed to shut my door. I hear a light knocking and hear someone shuffling in. I look down below the curtain and instead of seeing medical apparel, I see a pair of well worn work boots and some wrinkled work khakis.
I tensed up, and from around the curtain, an older black man walked in. We looked at each other in surprise for a brief moment, and then I smiled and asked him if he was looking for someone.
He shook his head and looked around as he clutched the plastic shopping bag that had a few clothes in it. He looked tired, weary, a bit worried and confused. "Do I know you?" I asked gently. "Who are you looking for?"
"My wife," he said softly. "The ambulance brought her in last night while I was at work at the plant. They said she had a stroke."
I nodded. I remembered the commotion of the EMS guys bringing this woman in and putting her in the room directly across from me. The docs and nurses had told me that it was good for me to get up and exercise, and being the natural insomniac I am, I was up and walking all over the hospital floor every couple of hours all during the night and early morning. I remember stepping aside as the EMS guys were rolling her in the room. I heard the words "stroke" and "blood clot" from the doctors.
"She's across the hall, in room 115. I saw her when they brought her in last night," I said, adding, "this is room 117."
The man nodded. He looked tired, worried. "I couldn't get away from work," he said. "But they told me she was okay."
"I think she is," I told him. "When they brought her in, I prayed for her and during my walks, I stuck my head in to make sure she was okay or if I needed to call the nurse."
The man exhaled slowly, like a weight was off his shoulders. He came over to the bed. "I'm JD, JD Kinman" I said, holding out my hand, IV tubes and all to shake hands. "The nurses, they took good care of your wife all night long. I've been paying a bit of attention this morning too," I went on, explaining that I was getting discharged but that my blood pressure had unexplicably began rising to dangerous levels and that they were giving me more medicine in an effort to try and get it down to safe numbers.
"I'm Clint Joshua," the man said, returning the introduction and giving me a smile. "Thank you for praying for my wife. Can I pray with you, here in your room?"
I smiled back. "Absolutely, Clint." And with that, Mr. Joshua took my left hand--the one with no IVs or tubes hooked up in it--in his own hand. Here was an older black man, 60-ish, with calloused hands from a lifetime of manual labor taking the hand of a 50-something white man whose hands hadn't seen that type of labor since college. We bowed our heads, ostensibly to pray for his wife. And when Clint Joshua began praying, I felt the tears begin to run down my face.
Mr. Joshua wasn't praying for his wife. He was praying for me.
Here was a man I'd never seen before, lost and confused looking for his wife who'd suffered a stroke while he was away at work and unable to get away. He hadn't yet seen his wife or spoken to her and found my room entirely by mistake. We'd known each other maybe two minutes, and he had my hand in his and was beseeching the Lord and Jesus to complete my healing, to look out for me, to shepherd me during my recovery and to thank me for being a good man, an unselfish man who looked out for his wife and prayed for her in his absence.
When the prayer was over, we both had tears in our eyes and he reached over and gently hugged me. "God Bless you, JD," he said, taking his shopping bag of clothes and heading out to look for his wife.
I sat in my bed for a good five minutes trying to comprehend what had just happened. As I shared with a couple of other forum members here, I'd been literally besieged and inundated with well-wishes and prayers from my book readers, members here, some Facebook friends, church members, fellow veterans and people I'd worked with over the years.
But here was a man of a different age and generation, of a different skin color and way of life, who took my hand and prayed for ME when he didn't even know where his wife was or what her condition was.
As I came to terms with how blessed I've been, I gathered up my IV tubes and my Pole, and went out into the hallway to look for Mr. Joshua and his wife.
I couldn't find them.
I went up and down the hall and literally checked each room. No joy. I went to the nurse's station and asked. No joy. (It later turns out that she was discharged to go home where home hospice was waiting to take care of her as it was just a mild stroke and hadn't really caused any damage that concerned the docs.) I wanted to order some flowers and have them sent to her room.
I shared this story with my church small group later that night and we all agreed that it wasn't a coincidence. When I got home, for some unfathomable reason, I decided to share it on Facebook. I wrote the following:
I just had an older black man come into my room by mistake. His wife was admitted into a room across the hall from me for a minor stroke last night. The man's name is Clint Joshua and I told him I saw his wife admitted last night and that I was praying for her.
Mr. Joshua asked if he could pray with me and I said certainly. He removed his hat and took my non-IV hand and offered up a sincere and heartfelt prayer for MY recovery, even while his own wife is unconscious and struggling just a few feet away.
Folks, if you're not right with God. . . get that way.
I got a few comments of the expected sort, then I got one from a friend of mine who helps run the new shooting range where I live. His name is Mark Stone and he's a retired Dallas police officer and an awesome guy. Here is what he wrote:
Mark Stone You are never going to believe this...just goes to show what a small world. Clint Joshua, and his wife Wilma are my next door neighbors. They are very dear people to my wife and I, and until I read your post, I had no idea that Wilma had had a stroke. I just now ran next door to see how Wilma was. They are all home and Wilma is resting comfortably with a good prognosis, despite a blood clot they found. I excitedly told Clint about your post here (he's not on FB) . He took it all in stride and told me that he was honored to have had the opportunity to pray with you. God really does work for good in all things.
That was a day I'll never forget. Ever.
:coffee:
The docs told me it was a combination of all the liquids they'd been pumping in me via IV, plus the rather sudden withdrawl from the Dilaudid and Torodol and other pain killers they'd been administering every few hours, also via IV.
I was getting worried. I did not like the blood pressure numbers I was seeing.
A pet peeve of mine during the last two stays in the hospital was when the docs would leave the door to my room open. Between lingering military experiences and law enforcement experiences and the fact that I could not have a firearm in the room, I relied upon hearing a knock on the door or even the door opening to wake me up. There is a curtain that goes between the main portion of the room and the restroom, sink and doorway entrance area. I'd learned on day one of the first visit to look at the shoes and clothing of whoever came into my room.
Nurses wore royal blue and white sneakers, LVNs wore purple and darker shoes, docs wore light blue scrubs and high-dollar sneakers, so on and so on.
So on my last day, mid-morning, the doc had left with good news but failed to shut my door. I hear a light knocking and hear someone shuffling in. I look down below the curtain and instead of seeing medical apparel, I see a pair of well worn work boots and some wrinkled work khakis.
I tensed up, and from around the curtain, an older black man walked in. We looked at each other in surprise for a brief moment, and then I smiled and asked him if he was looking for someone.
He shook his head and looked around as he clutched the plastic shopping bag that had a few clothes in it. He looked tired, weary, a bit worried and confused. "Do I know you?" I asked gently. "Who are you looking for?"
"My wife," he said softly. "The ambulance brought her in last night while I was at work at the plant. They said she had a stroke."
I nodded. I remembered the commotion of the EMS guys bringing this woman in and putting her in the room directly across from me. The docs and nurses had told me that it was good for me to get up and exercise, and being the natural insomniac I am, I was up and walking all over the hospital floor every couple of hours all during the night and early morning. I remember stepping aside as the EMS guys were rolling her in the room. I heard the words "stroke" and "blood clot" from the doctors.
"She's across the hall, in room 115. I saw her when they brought her in last night," I said, adding, "this is room 117."
The man nodded. He looked tired, worried. "I couldn't get away from work," he said. "But they told me she was okay."
"I think she is," I told him. "When they brought her in, I prayed for her and during my walks, I stuck my head in to make sure she was okay or if I needed to call the nurse."
The man exhaled slowly, like a weight was off his shoulders. He came over to the bed. "I'm JD, JD Kinman" I said, holding out my hand, IV tubes and all to shake hands. "The nurses, they took good care of your wife all night long. I've been paying a bit of attention this morning too," I went on, explaining that I was getting discharged but that my blood pressure had unexplicably began rising to dangerous levels and that they were giving me more medicine in an effort to try and get it down to safe numbers.
"I'm Clint Joshua," the man said, returning the introduction and giving me a smile. "Thank you for praying for my wife. Can I pray with you, here in your room?"
I smiled back. "Absolutely, Clint." And with that, Mr. Joshua took my left hand--the one with no IVs or tubes hooked up in it--in his own hand. Here was an older black man, 60-ish, with calloused hands from a lifetime of manual labor taking the hand of a 50-something white man whose hands hadn't seen that type of labor since college. We bowed our heads, ostensibly to pray for his wife. And when Clint Joshua began praying, I felt the tears begin to run down my face.
Mr. Joshua wasn't praying for his wife. He was praying for me.
Here was a man I'd never seen before, lost and confused looking for his wife who'd suffered a stroke while he was away at work and unable to get away. He hadn't yet seen his wife or spoken to her and found my room entirely by mistake. We'd known each other maybe two minutes, and he had my hand in his and was beseeching the Lord and Jesus to complete my healing, to look out for me, to shepherd me during my recovery and to thank me for being a good man, an unselfish man who looked out for his wife and prayed for her in his absence.
When the prayer was over, we both had tears in our eyes and he reached over and gently hugged me. "God Bless you, JD," he said, taking his shopping bag of clothes and heading out to look for his wife.
I sat in my bed for a good five minutes trying to comprehend what had just happened. As I shared with a couple of other forum members here, I'd been literally besieged and inundated with well-wishes and prayers from my book readers, members here, some Facebook friends, church members, fellow veterans and people I'd worked with over the years.
But here was a man of a different age and generation, of a different skin color and way of life, who took my hand and prayed for ME when he didn't even know where his wife was or what her condition was.
As I came to terms with how blessed I've been, I gathered up my IV tubes and my Pole, and went out into the hallway to look for Mr. Joshua and his wife.
I couldn't find them.
I went up and down the hall and literally checked each room. No joy. I went to the nurse's station and asked. No joy. (It later turns out that she was discharged to go home where home hospice was waiting to take care of her as it was just a mild stroke and hadn't really caused any damage that concerned the docs.) I wanted to order some flowers and have them sent to her room.
I shared this story with my church small group later that night and we all agreed that it wasn't a coincidence. When I got home, for some unfathomable reason, I decided to share it on Facebook. I wrote the following:
I just had an older black man come into my room by mistake. His wife was admitted into a room across the hall from me for a minor stroke last night. The man's name is Clint Joshua and I told him I saw his wife admitted last night and that I was praying for her.
Mr. Joshua asked if he could pray with me and I said certainly. He removed his hat and took my non-IV hand and offered up a sincere and heartfelt prayer for MY recovery, even while his own wife is unconscious and struggling just a few feet away.
Folks, if you're not right with God. . . get that way.
I got a few comments of the expected sort, then I got one from a friend of mine who helps run the new shooting range where I live. His name is Mark Stone and he's a retired Dallas police officer and an awesome guy. Here is what he wrote:
Mark Stone You are never going to believe this...just goes to show what a small world. Clint Joshua, and his wife Wilma are my next door neighbors. They are very dear people to my wife and I, and until I read your post, I had no idea that Wilma had had a stroke. I just now ran next door to see how Wilma was. They are all home and Wilma is resting comfortably with a good prognosis, despite a blood clot they found. I excitedly told Clint about your post here (he's not on FB) . He took it all in stride and told me that he was honored to have had the opportunity to pray with you. God really does work for good in all things.
That was a day I'll never forget. Ever.
:coffee: