Maria's brave fight for life
Maria lay face down on the canvas
stretcher. A knife handle protruded from her back. Blood
covered her upper torso. A crimson trickle from her wound
expanded into a dark stain on the clothes beneath her. Her
eyes were open. She was silent, yet her face conveyed agony
with every breath.
A large crowd filled the emergency
room, hindering the movements of the ER staff. Many spoke in
muted voices while one man shouted commands in an attempt to
control the others.
A frightened relative provided details of the event. Maria
was the first of her husband's wives. The second wife had
hidden in dense foliage, waiting near the path, suddenly
attacking from behind, anger and jealousy fueling the thrust
of the knife. Maria had staggered for a brief moment then
collapsed into a shrinking world of pain and breathlessness.
We threaded a large cannula into the veins of Maria's
forearm for the rapid infusion of fluids and blood. I spoke
briefly to Maria, my face inches from hers. She understood
the gravity of her injury and the possibility that she would
not survive. She assured me of her confidence in God¹s
faithfulness to her no matter the outcome.
Maria's chest x-ray only increased our concern. The long
blade skewered the entire left lung, crossed the midline,
the point buried in an area of critical blood vessels and
major airways. Was the knife in her aorta? Would Maria bleed
to death as soon as we removed it?
We cut a new hole into Maria's left chest and inserted a
tube to evacuate the blood and air that had accumulated
between her lung and chest wall.
We had to remove the knife, knowing
she might bleed to death. In a separate room, surgeon Mark
Potter and I told Maria's husband of the critical moment we
faced. There was no certainty Maria would ever awaken from
the anesthetic. Her husband listened without comment, then
consented, but declined to see or speak with Maria.
I returned to Maria, telling her "Mi mas slipim yu na rausim
dispela naip. Wanem samting bai kamap bihain i no klia.
Sapos bikpela rot bilong blut em i bagarap, yu bai dai.
Sapos nogat, yu bai lukim pes bilong mipela gen long taim yu
kirap." (I must put you to sleep and remove this knife. What
will happen next isn't clear. If a major blood vessel is
broken, you will die. If not, you will see our faces again
when you awaken.)
Maria listened to my words without any sign of fear. She
asked me to proceed. While I prepared her anesthetic, Maria
prayed with Margaret Mugang and Chaplain Taime. I was
staggered as I heard Maria pray for her husband and her
assailant, "Mi lusim rong bilong man bilong mi. Mi lusim
rong bilong dispela meri husat i bagarapim mi."
If Maria died, forgiveness would be
her final theme in this life.
I injected a combination of Ketamine and Valium into Maria's
veins. Almost immediately, her eyes began to twitch side to
side, evidence of Ketamine's effectiveness. Praying
silently, and surrounded by the prayers of many, I grasped
the knife handle and pulled, at first gently, then harder to
overcome some resistance, until the knife began to move.
Fourteen inches of broad bladed steel emerged smoothly and I
laid the bloody weapon aside.
Our attention remained fixed on Maria for the next few
crucial minutes. Her breathing stuttered briefly then
resumed a regular cadence. Her pulse remained strong, her
blood pressure steady. I was hesitant in that moment to
fully embrace the hope that now appeared justified. We moved
her to surgery ward where Maria did amazingly well.
I have been present during the final minutes of hundreds of
lives. Often I have wondered how my faith and courage will
fare when I face my own death. Maria, however, speaks to me
a greater challenge than the question of how I might die. My
desire is to live today in the grace I saw in Maria.
Dr. Bill McCoy, Papua New Guinea
