… that cowboy by her side was only five foot three
So I moved in, I never thought he’d dare to stand his ground
Only to discover that he was sitting down.
© Tim Bays and David Kent.
As I was singing those words in the back of an ambulance in 2002, a sinister inner voice whispered, “You fool! You could be dying and you’re singing a silly song?!”
Another voice countered: “Not singing won’t change the outcome. Better to sing and laugh than curse and cry.”
“How’s your pain now, sir?” the EMT asked, clearly not interested in “Hindsight.”
“About the same as before, thanks.”
“Well, we’ve given you enough morphine to knock out a cow.”
“Cool.”
The morphine had kicked in. I know because from that point forward, my memory is sketchy. Until about 14 hours later. From reliable witnesses, though, the following narrative seems to have happened:
As I was checked into the E.R., still bent on generating endorphins, I told a few courtroom stories.
“What’s your birthday?”
“January the eleventh.”
“What year?”
“Every year!” …
“George told me that he wanted me to have the company.”
“Did he tell you this before or after his death?”
I had dreamed days earlier of being with a woman in uniform on a shuttle train to “late court” at a building in which I saw dead people. The cardiologist on call was Dr. Teena Murphy, clad in scrubs and a white jacket. She said, “Blah blah heart attack ... Blockages ... Three stents … Twenty minutes out from surgery.”
I said, “Where do we have to go that takes 20 minutes to get there?”
She laughed.
I laughed at her laughing.
She said, “Dr. Eric Bowen is the surgeon. He will be here in 20 minutes.” Some papers were put in front of me. “Blah blah bypass a possibility.” I signed the papers. Then she shuttled me from the E.R. to the O.R.
This was about 5:00. The procedure wasn’t supposed to take long. In the waiting area, my wife and son, and a few faithful friends who had heard the news, sat and waited … for hours!
What they didn’t know was that when the second stent was installed, restoring blood to a chunk of heart that had been without, I fibrillated. Coded. Died. Everyone hates when that happens.
Luckily, they have equipment to employ to try and reverse the effects.
“Clear!” ZAP! “He’s back!”
Around 10:00, I came to. In CCU. I saw my wife, my son, two women preachers, and Dr. Murphy.
Well, I’m not dead. And I’m not bandaged up. So, they didn’t crack my chest. But I really need some sleep.
Dr. Murphy explained what I’d been through. One blockage fixed, the other to be fixed later. My wife Susan spoke: “Blah blah long hard day. Two great preachers. Blah blah. Help us close out this day with prayer.”
Each of my two favorite women of the cloth politely deferred to the other for a pregnant moment. Then I spoke up: “Dear Lord, we thank you …” I was interrupted, first by the laughter of everyone but me. And then by my son Ted, who said firmly, “You’re not being asked to say a prayer! Reverend Akin and Reverend Smith are!”
I was grateful to be prayed over. But I think I slept through it.
The next morning, someone came early to visit and told me, in great detail, the prayer story from a few hours earlier. I laughed so hard that tears were streaming down my face!
For that laughter I was truly grateful. And I felt the healing kick in.
Vic Fleming is a district court judge in Little Rock, Ark., where he also teaches at the William H. Bowen School of Law. Contact him at vicfleming@att.net.