I slowly began to open my eyes.
Sunlight flooded my vision.
I could hear faint voices.
But either they were talking too quietly
Or maybe in a language I couldn’t understand.
As I tried to sit up sharp pain erupted in my stomach.
When my vision cleared up five Guatemalan women in hospital beds stared back at me.
They continued to talk in what I gathered as Mayan, nodding in my direction.
I glanced down at my arm and followed the clear tube all the way up to the liquid bag hanging above me.
I carefully pushed back the covers and saw why I was having so much trouble moving.
White gauze and tape covered the area but memories of a stomachache, ambulances, blood, teary phone calls, screaming, and fear all crowded my mind at once as I started to remember what had happened the day before.
On Tuesday night I started having a horrible stomachache.
I blamed in on hunger because I had been fasting for 6 days.
I kept waiting for it to go away but it only worsened.
Strangely it felt as though it were moving lower and only felt the pain on my right side.
I self-diagnosed as being constipated and decided to go to bed and sleep it off until morning.
When I woke the pain was still there.
I always exaggerate my pain and figured this time I’d down play it.
I switched my diagnosis from constipation to menstrual cramping considering how low my pain was.
I stayed in bed most of the morning.
I didn’t have any other issues like a fever or vomiting.
So I continued to down play my pain.
I had a little trouble walking down the stairs but I also thought maybe I was just being a baby.
My teammates insisted that I go to the doctor.
I didn’t want to go to the doctor at all.
First of all, the last time someone from our squad went to the doctor they had to go all the way to Antigua, which ended up being a two-day trip.
I also didn’t want to miss out on anything happening where we were.
Thoughts of Honduras filled my mind where I had to go to the doctor three times before they knew I had scabies.
I found these doctors incapable.
Then my squad leader started badgering me.
She said we could go to a clinic in town and pointed out I would just be lying in bed anyway.
I tried to argue and promise that I would go the following morning if I still had pain because, “It’s already three, and by the time we get there it’ll be closed”
But she insisted.
So my squad leader, Liz, and our translator for the evening, Gabe (a member of AIM’s Guatemala team) set off to the doctor.
After a bouncy tuktuk ride we arrived at the clinic.
I quickly assessed its credibility based on appearance.
It was no North American doctor’s office but I’d seen worse.
We were quickly ushered into a room where my blood pressure, weight, etc was all taken until I was moved into another room to see the doctor.
It’s a good thing we had Gabe because the only English this guy knew was the word ‘perfect’.
As I explained to him my pain he had my lie down on an exam table.
Up until this point I had been smiling, laughing, and joking about how silly this visit was.
All the happiness ceased when he began putting pressure on my stomach.
Instantly tears filled my eyes and pain shot through my body as he poked and pulled at my stomach.
As if my tears weren’t indicator enough I repeatedly rated my pain as he positioned my legs in various places and continually applied pressure to which he consistently replied, ‘perfect’.
As he told Gabe what he thought my problem was I picked out the words appendix, ambulance, hospital, and operation.
That last word stopped my heart.
This is when I turned to Liz and said, “I am not having surgery in Guatemala.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
They wanted to start an IV at the clinic.
I hate needles. I’m terrified of them.
That statement doesn’t even justify my fear.
As they tried time after time to insert the port my breathing quickened.
Liz saw the panic on my face and tried to keep me distracted by asking me various questions.
The doctor finally got the baby-sized (3mm) needle into my arm.
My veins were small and hard to access due to the fasting and dehydration.
Soon after, the doctor started my IV and I was loaded into an ‘ambulance’.
Which was basically a metal truck with a gurney (that I was strapped onto with a sheet) and the only other object being a fire extinguisher in the corner.
Riding in that ambulance is comparable to being put inside a metal box and then having a giant human shake it for an hour and a half.
Gabe tried to keep me distracted by suggesting we worship.
The nurse had to hold my IV out of the way because it kept hitting me in the face.
And Liz continued to capture every moment of this adventure.
The only thing I kept thinking was, ‘This is such a waste of time. We’re going to get there and the doctor is going to tell me I have gas.’
When we finally arrived at the hospital my pain had increased and I was nauseous.
As I walked into the emergency room I noticed a pool of blood next to an empty bed.
Empty except for a bloody kleenex and an oxygen mask, which the nurse quickly removed and motioned for me to lay down.
The words, “Well this is sanitary” escaped my lips.
The doctor walked over and surprisingly spoke perfect English.
His credibility just went up.
He performed basically the same hands-on tests the doctor from the clinic did.
“It’s her appendix. We can do surgery right now.”
These are the thoughts that ran through my head:
How do you know?
I could just be seriously backed up or something.
I need to know for sure.
Shouldn’t you run some tests or scans or something?
I want to be in America.
How could I get home right now?
I could get lice from this bed.
This place doesn’t look too legit.
My parents are going to freak out.
Liz looked at me and told me everything was going to be okay.
Gabe went with the doctor to check out the rest of the hospital, including the operating room, to size up how credible this place was.
Then the long line of phone calls began.
Before we could agree to have surgery here Liz had to get ahold of our other squad leaders, our contact, and the AIM base to get clearance.
Talk of taking me to Antigua arose.
But it was nighttime, time wasn’t something we were sure I had, and the ride would be even bumpier than before.
The three of us quickly prayed and asked the Lord if we should stay or we should go.
Liz and Gabe both felt ‘stay’.
I think I was in too much shock to process anything.
When I was leaving for this trip people would ask, “What are you most nervous for?”
And I would always tell them, “Being in a hospital in a third world country. That would suck”
Here it was, my biggest nightmare occurring right before me.
In the midst of this disaster Gabe and Liz both stayed extremely calm.
Gabe talked with such confidence that peace began to wash over my body.
I was confident in this hospital because Gabe was so sure that it would be okay.
I think Liz and I would both agree that if Gabe hadn’t been there we wouldn’t have made it through the night.
He was a gift from God.
He was our calm in the middle of the storm.
At some point in between all these phone calls the nurse came to help me change into my hospital gown.
I even got some sweet footies and a hair net.
It came time to call my parents.
Even though I was freaking out and uncertain I knew I had to sound confident.
If I sounded scared it would only make things harder for them.
I relayed the previous events to my mom, starting with my stomachache and finishing with “And now I’m at the hospital and in thirty minutes I’m going into surgery.”
She didn’t believe me.
She kept saying things like, “No you’re kidding. If you had appendicitis you would sound like you were in more pain. I don’t believe you.”
I quickly handed the phone off to Liz so that she could verify my story.
I heard Liz explaining the medical procedure of appendicitis to my mom.
My mom was a nurse for twenty years. She knows how this works.
I’m not sure what else was said but when I got the phone back my mom was noticeably shaken up.
“This is not okay,” She kept repeating
I tried to comfort her the best I could, “Mom, I know you’re always the one who takes care of me when I get sick but this time you can’t take care of me so you just have to trust that I’m in good hands and I’m going to be okay.”
We prayed together, I promised to call her when I woke up, and then said goodbye.
All that was left to do was wait for the doctors to wheel me back.
As we waited, Liz, Gabe, and I began to pray.
Then in the middle of our prayer a blood-curdling scream erupted from the bed next to me.
My eyes shot wide open.
Although there was a curtain in-between us I could feel the fear radiating from that bed.
I sent up a quick prayer for them and right about then the nurse rolled the gurney over to my bed.
I was then rolled back through doors that I’m pretty sure were plywood.
And pushed into a hallway.
Liz yelled out to me and as I looked back the doors closed.
I sat in that hallway alone for five minutes.
On my left were the locker rooms, and on my right was a dark room with worn letters.
Straight in front of me were double doors.
This is going to sound very silly.
But the thing I held onto as I was wheeled into an operating room from the 1920s
Was the picture above those final doors.
The picture was a group of American doctors standing around an operating table,
With Jesus glowing, touching the surgeon’s shoulder.
I smiled to myself at the thought of this hanging in a Guatemalan hospital.
But I also smiled because it brought me a great deal of comfort.
That simple animation gave me peace.
And I said right then, “God, you better be in here.”
Quite possibly the best part of this hospital was the scrub station.
That’s a lie.
There were a couple of kitchen sinks with bars of soap next to them.
I don’t even know if the water was filtered.
Probably not.
When I finally saw the operating room I thought, ‘Well this isn’t like Grey’s Anatomy at all.’
I was asked to move myself over to the operating table.
The nurses worked around the room prepping for my surgery,
When one of them walked over and said to me, “Epidural?”
Panic set in.
No lady you best get away from me with that and bring back some anesthesia.
“Uh no, anesthesia por favor,” I replied frantically.
She almost looked annoyed with my request.
As the nurses attached boards to the table for my arms to stretch out on I continued to take all that was around me.
Everything was either made of wood or plastic.
I glanced down at my shoulder,
To see a small bug there.
Perfect.
Finally the doctor walked in.
“Are you ready?” He asked.
“I’m going to be completely asleep right?” I needed to double check.
“Yes we’re giving you anesthesia.” Thank you Jesus
“Okay then yes.”
The nurse slipped the mask over my face and I began to count back from one hundred.
The next thing I remember was being moved onto my hospital bed and that I was in an immense amount of pain.
I had horrible hunger pains and began throwing up.
Pain erupted from my incision.
When that finally stopped I just remember asking Liz for food over and over again.
That’s when Gabe started calming me down.
He told me that my flesh was freaking out but that in my spirit there was peace.
After that I drifted off and slept until those five Guatemala ladies peered back at me.
I still haven’t quite processed that this all happened in the matter of twentry-four hours.
But it’s all I can think about.
What if I had still been in Honduras?
What if I had waited until the next day to go to the clinic?
What if the doctor didn’t speak English?
What if Gabe hadn’t been there?
What if I didn’t believe in God at all?
I think about that last one the most.
Because to be honest with you all I don’t think I would have made it out of there in one piece if He hadn’t walked with me the whole way.
And I started thinking about how much of my life He’s actually had His hands on, and how often I have given credit to something or someone else.
How often I have sought out the logical answer when it was God all along.
How often do we discredit God?
How often do we take Him for granted.
