Stories: Unintended Witness: Flu on steroids
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| San Miguel de Santiago, Circa Junio 1974
This “resfriado” started like any other common cold. Certainly, after what I had gone through thus far on my mission, stopping for a simple cold was just short of insulting. So I got up every morning, spent a little too long in the shower, and went to work. After a few days, the shower was about the only place that seemed go give me much refuge from the cold Santiago overcast. Every breath seemed to be such a relief as it seemed as if the lobes in each lung were becoming coated with some alien film.
As the days progressed I became noticeably weaker. The good-natured ribbing by our host family for taking too long in the shower gave way to genuine concern. I was beginning to look sickly and sounded much worse. My already too thin frame was losing weight. I was periodically running a fever. I was finding it harder to keep up with Elder Alonzo’s quick gait. Finally, while visiting one of the member family’s homes, they noticed I was obviously feverish and staring off into space. They insisted that I needed a day to recover and they would send their teenage son to be Elder Alonzo’s companion for the day. After feeble protests, I reluctantly agreed. Somehow, I was able to walk unassisted to the house in spite of the considerable pain in my lungs.
The next morning, the fever had increased and I became progressively weaker. Alonzo commented that it was a good thing that I was getting some rest, but otherwise didn’t seem particularly concerned. The pain in my lungs seemed to intensify with every breath, but I still told myself that it was just a chest-cold, and I would soon overcome it. After forcing down some toast and hot chocolate, I return to bed.
As the morning progressed I could hear the family go about their daily duties. Mamita was sewing the heavy canvas used for the folding chairs they made in the small factory they owned. Abuelita busily cleaned and cooked as usual. Yet the sounds of the daily activities seemed to fade from existence as the pain from every breath intensified with an unforeseen vengeance.
Each breath became shallower as my body weakened with the intensified fever. The coughing that I had developed was excruciating. But mercifully, the coughing became less frequent as my lungs weakened. The muscles in my arms became so weak that I could no longer hold a book long enough to read. I remember thinking that if I could only rest my strength would come back.
As I lay in that sagging Chilean bed, I began to comprehend the precariousness of my situation. I was gravely sick and alone in a bedroom over two thousand miles away from home. My mission companion was off trying to get some work done. I was in a foreign country. I had good reason not to trust the local medical system. I was too feeble to get up and two weak to cry out sufficiently. My thoughts began to slowly comprehend that I was dying.
So there I was; thousands of miles away from home, by myself and helpless to stop life from leaving me. It slowly dawned on me that it was the time to make peace with myself and prepare to enter the next life. I then felt a new pain that was not derived from the disease that had infected my body. It was coming from the stark injustice of it all. I was but a mere twenty-year old. I had been through more near misses in the previous year than any mere living being should be allowed in a normal life span. I slowly started to come to peace with myself. I had lived a good life. I had not done anything that would purposely cause anyone serious harm. I was doing my best to make this world a better place. I had responded to the call and had done my duty; yet that was not enough.
I resigned myself to my fate. I heard myself praying, “If it is my time, then I am ready. My life is no longer in my hands. If it is my time, they I will go in peace.” I began to loose consciousness as a black fog crept in from the edges of my visual field. I closed my eyes; not expecting them to open again.
Then as I had drifted into a calm state of darkness, I remember a quick succession of events passing rapidly through my mind. They seemed strangely familiar, but those memories were forgotten almost as quickly as they were presented. Then an overwhelming feeling of dread enveloped me that morphed into a state of profound sadness.
As I pondered the meaning of this profound foreboding, the door to the bedroom slowly opened. President Glade quietly entered the room followed by his wife, Rebecca. His normally contemplative face showed a stoic sadness that I had never seen him display before. They walked slowly to my bed and stopped. Royden Glade hesitated for a moment then lifted a blanket draped over a motionless form. He stood stoically as the profound sadness intensified to new heights. Large tears formed in Sister Glades eyes as she gently embraced his shoulder.
I then saw an airport tarmac at night. The extreme pall of sadness inhabited this place as well. Four human forms stood somberly in a row. As I approached them, the forms came into focus. The first that I recognized was my father. He was standing stoically, bravely fighting back the tears. My always cool little brother was staring blankly into space. My sister was sobbing softly. My mother was grasping my father’s arm as if it were the only thing that could sustain her.
I then saw a large airplane slowly moving towards them, and then abruptly turn; exposing its left side before it stopped. The engines shut down and a portable ramp used for baggage drove up to the plane followed by a hearse. A long wooden box appeared at the top of the ramp and began to slowly descend toward the hearse.
Then as I felt myself descend into an emotional abyss, a feeling of absolute peace came over me as this scene faded into the blackness. I was then given to know that my sacrifice was accepted. My sins were forgiven, and I was to be spared from the scenarios that I had just experienced. I was puzzled and wanted to know why.
I then found myself looking down the head and back of a woman. I couldn’t see her face, but I could feel and smell her blond hair. We seemed to be dancing and moved effortlessly in perfect synchronization. I was experiencing the most fascinating portfolio of emotions. I was strangely excited and peaceful at the same time. The attraction was intense, yet gentle. I had never felt anything feel so right. I was given to know that in due time, I would know when I found her because I would feel the same feelings that I did at that moment.
I was then shown the image of a young babe perhaps eight or nine months old. He was very blond and almost bald. He was an obviously bright baby; curious and alert. I found myself feeling attached to this child using a mix of emotions that I had never experienced before. It was like he was part of me and I had given part of me to him. I was given to know that I was to have the privilege of raising this child and for this reason I would be spared.
Then the images faded into complete darkness as I fell into blessed slumber.
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Hours later, I awoke hearing the voices of Alonzo and the Mamita. They were discussing the sorry state I was in. I must have looked like death warmed over. I was ghostly pale and beginning to look emaciated. The pillow and sheets that I lied on were drenched in perspiration. The family said that I had slept all day and at times acted like I was delirious.
My fever had broken, but the illness had not left me. I would feel weak and my lungs would hurt for months to come. Somehow, I managed to get up and force myself to work the next day.
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Shortly thereafter, Alonzo would be transferred to Los Andes, and my new companion would arrive. Elder Lansbury was the polar opposite of Nelson Alonzo. He was tall, perhaps an inch or two taller than me. He was of Scandinavian decent with all of the characteristic blond curly hair and deep blue eyes. Unlike Alonzo who would talk to anyone for no apparent reason, the Elder from Fruit Heights, Utah gave me shyness competition. He must have thought his new companion was some sort of human scarecrow when saw me for the first time.
Weeks later, Sister Glade in her monthly newsletter wrote about the wave of bronchitis cases that had been going through the mission. She told the story of a missionary that had been in the mission home recovering from bronchitis. As part of her article, she wrote that the Embassy was recommending an American physician by the name of Harold Cochran. Lansbury looked me in the eye and said, “It’s time to see the doctor.”
The micro ride through Santiago seemed almost surreal to my senses dulled from illness. The sights and sounds seemed muffled as we rode down the Gran Aveneda from San Miguel. The poblaciones that seemed to extend forever, slowly morphed into a cityscape of small businesses then to tall buildings that loomed overhead. We disembarked from the micro and walked a few blocks to transfer to another bus. Of all the sights and sounds the one that stood out the most was a Carbinerra, the first female police officer I had seen in Chile. She was directing traffic.
At long last we arrived at the doctor’s office. The waiting room was a unique combination of Chile and America. All of the signs were in both English and Spanish. Shortly after we checked in, a middle-aged diplomat from the embassy came and sat next to us. He recognized that we were Mormon missionaries right away. After exchanging pleasantries for a few minutes, he said that he had recently been reassigned from Bolivia to Washington, D.C. He said that on his first day of work he drove around the Beltway and was taken aback by the newly built Washington, D.C. Temple. He then made one of the most profound compliments that I have ever heard about the church, “In a city of monuments, you Mormons have built the greatest monument of them all.”
Before we could respond, a nurse called our new-found friend back to see the doctor. I would soon be led to an adjoining room.
I remember being entranced with a most unusual print on the examination room wall. It was a stylized map of Baltimore around Johns Hopkins University. It not only had sketches of several landmarks, but also translations of the local dialect; useful I would think for Westerners to know when visiting for the first time.
I then heard the voice of a most delightful and sometimes colorful eighty-four-year-old gentleman. “I always liked that one,” he quipped. Some of my medical school colleagues gave that to me when I left the Hopkins faculty to become the head of research of the Columbia School of Medicine.
My inner nerd jumped for joy. I had found a soul mate.
The good doctor then proceeded to examine me with the usual clinical routine. He hesitated while listening through his stethoscope. I began to look a little worried. He then put the stethoscope down and said, “Nothing wrong with that heart. That is the best heart I have ever heard.”
“I’m relieved,” I said, “since most of my male ancestors have died of coronaries.”
“Oh really, how old were they?” he retorted.
“Most were in their eighties or nineties” I replied.
“Well anyone over the age of eighty as a perfect right to die of anything they damn well please.”
That statement resulted in a much needed, but equally painful laugh.
The good doctor gave me prescriptions for an antibiotic, which helped. But my lungs would not completely clear up before spring was in full bloom. My endurance would not completely return for months after I returned home a year later. |
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