“I think God might be calling me to serve overseas.” Kevin’s words had resonated with the cicadas we had been listening to on the back patio.
“Are you sure?” I had sputtered, spilling my entire cup of hot tea on my pants.
Kevin had been sure, but I had not. I had wrestled with insecurity, wondering why the Lord would want to use me. Hardly missionary material, I was impulsive and opinionated and had left a wake of mistakes in my turbulent teens and twenties. It had been difficult to grasp that God wanted to use someone like me. Why He did was beyond me. But I had learned that was the point. It was beyond me. He had chosen me not because of who I was, but because of who He is.
I adjusted my loose denim dress to keep from flashing my calves to the white-robed men in the row next to me. I was determined to present myself as modest as their women, dressing as they defined modesty. I glanced back at the veiled woman’s coverings and sighed. It would not be easy. I liked clothes that flattered what I worked hard to keep in shape.
I gritted my teeth. I’ll do it, Lord. I won’t profane Your name by flaunting my freedoms, even if it’s just showing my brown hair and my freckled arms.
Madison stirred and I gently shifted her, worried about her legs in their cramped, curled position. Again my thoughts accused me. How could I take my children from their home and jet them to a third-world country half a globe away?
I bit my lip, remembering my apprehension when we knew God was calling us to Yemen. I had envisioned an easier place, such as a village near a beach in the Caribbean. But God was leading us to a place plagued with poverty and sickness and strict adherence to Islamic law, a place where evangelism was forbidden. I had dug in my heels.
“Kevin, I’m not sure we should raise our children in a place like Yemen. Look how many children die before they are six! It could be dangerous for them as well as us.”
“Lord,” I had argued. “You could not want to take our children away from all the U.S. can provide!”
I had refused to accept that not only did God love my children more than I did, He also had created them for His purposes, not for mine. I had wrestled until I could make no other choice but to obey or disobey God’s call to Yemen. And then I had submitted, reluctantly. I had unclenched my fists and my teeth and acknowledged that God was not only calling my husband to serve, He was also calling me.
“Okay, Lord,” I had muttered. “I will go wherever You lead. Even to Yemen, the uttermost part of the earth.”
After I had crossed that line of obedience, God answered my apprehensions. They became like bread crumbs I had tried to hold on to, until one day at a hospital in Virginia God let me glimpse the banquet table He wanted to give me instead.
I felt around my lap for my missing tissue as tears threatened to well again in my tired eyes. I wiped what was left of my two-day-old mascara and tucked the tissue into my bulging seat pocket.
“Thank You, Father, for those days in Virginia,” I prayed. “I could not have done this without them.”
I clutched Madison and Jack closer to me. I closed my eyes and in my mind went back to that hospital, where Kevin’s dying body lay tossing in his ICU bed, his IV lines inadequate to save him.
“I need to remember,” I whispered. “When I get anxious, Lord, help me remember.”
We had flown into Richmond at the onset of a crisp fall night full of mist from a recent rainfall. The International Mission Board had invited us to the Candidate’s Conference, and we had left the children with special friends from church. I had been hesitant to leave Jack, who was still nursing, but he was fifteen months old and the conference would last only four days. We were excited as we anticipated completing the application process and being selected for appointment.
“We will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord to display His splendor,” I had told Kevin when we received the letter inviting us to our conference.
Kevin had raised his eyebrows.
“My verse for today,” I explained. “Isaiah 61:3.”
My excitement grew as we navigated the Richmond roads that were wet and black in the headlights of the van shuttling us from the airport. Spiky arms of stripped-down trees pointed the entrance to the hotel. We drove in and unloaded, crunching dead leaves underfoot as we rolled our luggage toward the lobby. The autumn night felt chilly, but I do not remember whether I shivered more from the cold or from my anticipation of the events that lay ahead.
We met other missionary candidates at the check-in counter. We all seemed to be talking more than we would in different circumstances and laughing at things that at another place and time would not have been funny. Those standing next to us began to share information about the places they would serve and the positions they would fill. We did the same, swapping photos of our children as we waited for room keys.
Inside our room, Kevin and I tore into the information packet we had received at check-in.
“What is on the schedule for tomorrow?” I scoured the packet over Kevin’s shoulder.
The conference schedule was full, with little time between appointments and seminars. The day we faced the next morning would be no exception. We were scheduled for psychiatric interviews at eight, followed by complete physical exams and meetings that extended into the evening.
Kevin studied the Richmond map. “Looks like Old Marle Road is the quickest way to the psychiatrist’s office.”
I nodded as I pressed my khaki trousers with a steam iron. I left navigation responsibilities to Kevin. I could get lost in my own neighborhood. I finished ironing, and we readied ourselves for bed, turning off the light by eleven. We were determined to be rested, with our mental capacities at their best.
Two hours later I awoke to hear Kevin vomiting in the bathroom. “The potato soup,” I groaned. Kevin had eaten it at an airport buffet. The soup had been only lukewarm, but selections had been slim and we had been hungry, so Kevin had eaten it anyway.
My second thought was aggravation. “How are we going to have good exams with no sleep?” I grudgingly shuffled to the bathroom to offer Kevin a wet washcloth and cold water.
Again and again through the night Kevin dashed for the bathroom, his vomiting accompanied by diarrhea. With increasing irritation, I offered him wet washcloths and sips of cool water. Dawn seemed a long time coming, but it finally arrived, brimming with sunshine.
I blinked at the light and blinked at Kevin, groaning as I threw back the covers. Both of us looked as if we had been up most of the night. Kevin had begun running a fever, but his vomiting and diarrhea had subsided, so I breathed prayers of relief as I showered and dressed.
I struggled to get contact lenses into my stinging blue eyes and shook Kevin gently to wake him again. “Honey, do you think you’ll be able to make the meeting this morning?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, trying to sit himself up in the bed. “I’ll be okay. I’m just tired from all that time in the bathroom.”
I laid out the clothes he wanted to wear. Assured that he could shower and dress himself, I left to grab breakfast in the hotel coffee shop. Kevin was all too glad to stay behind and avoid restaurant smells. He was weak and moving slowly, but he was moving.
Twenty minutes later I opened the door to find that not only was Kevin not dressed, he was stretched out on the bed sleeping. I was stunned. Kevin was a man who defined punctuality as fifteen minutes early. He was never late; he left that function to me.
“Kevin, we have to leave in five minutes and you’re not even dressed!” I yelled, grabbing his shirt and trousers. I hesitated. “Are you okay, honey? Are you feeling sick again? Do we need to call someone and postpone our appointments?”
Kevin shook his head and mumbled an apology as he slowly pulled himself from the bed. “I’m okay. I didn’t think I would fall back asleep,” he admitted sheepishly.
I quickly helped him dress, glancing at the bedside clock. I could feel the heat from his feverish body as I buttoned his shirt. I stashed our schedu
le packet into my purse and helped Kevin put on his tie and sports jacket. We shuffled slowly down the corridor, Kevin’s six-foot body leaning heavily on my five-foot-three frame.
We inched our way through dead leaves in the parking lot and found the rental car that Kevin was supposed to drive. I settled him into the passenger seat and sighed as I got behind the steering wheel.
I waved the map at Kevin. “Can you help me find the road where we are supposed to turn?” I asked in a growing panic. “I don’t mind driving, but you know how I am with directions. Do I go straight on this street and then turn left, or do I turn first and go straight at the light?” I screeched out of the hotel parking lot in what I hoped was the right direction.
Kevin took the map slowly from my waving hand and tried to focus on it. He steadied his head against the headrest and turned the map crosswise, but he could not seem to read it. He mumbled something I could not understand. I was growing more frustrated.
“Honey, I need to know where to turn!” I pleaded.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He spoke slowly and with effort, then handed the map back to me. “I can’t make it out. My head is all foggy.”
He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry you’re having to handle all of this.” His words were drawn out and labored. “I’m no help, am I?”
In spite of my inclination to agree, I patted his arm. “That’s okay, honey. You just rest and take it easy. I’ll get us there.”
I’ll get us there, I repeated to myself. I can do this. I took a deep breath, willing myself to focus.
Kevin dozed in and out as I made one wrong turn after another. I finally delivered us to the psychiatrist’s home, twenty minutes late for our appointment.
As we got out of the car, I whispered to Kevin, “I hope being late isn’t rooted in some deep psychiatric problem.” He smiled weakly in response.
Entering the psychiatrist’s home office, I tried to appear calmer and more collected than I was. I apologized sheepishly for getting lost.
The psychiatrist looked closely at Kevin. “It’s a good thing your next exam is at the hospital clinic,” he said.
Kevin was coherent throughout the interview, and we completed it smoothly together, answering a barrage of questions about our childhood and adolescence. We apparently passed the evaluation in spite of ourselves.
Outside we were joined by another candidate. I was only too glad to relinquish the car keys. I climbed into the backseat as Kevin slept in the front. We passed oak trees denuded of once abundant leaves. They stood resolute between the quiet old brownstones of Richmond and lifted pitiful limbs to the sky, as if they knew their nakedness was necessary before thick foliage could grow.
We arrived at the hospital clinic on time for our appointments. I sighed with relief as I seated Kevin and myself in the reception area and began filling out registration forms. I completed mine and worked on Kevin’s while he slept, slumped in the chair beside me. I was trying to remember his family information when Kevin uttered a guttural moan, interrupting my concentration. I glanced from my clipboard to Kevin. He was leaning forward, his pupils like tiny black dots in his opened green eyes.
I sent the clipboards flying as I lunged for the registration desk. “Something’s wrong with my husband!” I shouted at the receptionist.
The startled clerk jumped in irritated surprise. But when she saw Kevin slumped in his seat with his eyes open and unseeing, she hit the intercom immediately.
“Code Blue, Admissions. Code Blue, Admissions.”
Everything whirred together in a blur of white and green as hospital staff appeared instantly beside us. A doctor in scrubs stretched Kevin out on the floor, loosening his belt, unbuttoning his shirt, and listening to his heart all at the same time. A nurse in white took his blood pressure while firing a volley of questions at me. I stared in disbelief, stumbling through a description of the previous night and explaining that we were there to see Dr. Valdadoss in the clinic.
Kevin awoke and attempted to sit up, protesting weakly at the attention. “I’m okay. I’m okay,” he said, trying to brush the nurse aside. His sixty-over-thirty blood pressure reading disagreed.
“Lie down, sir.” The emergency room doctor motioned for an orderly with a gurney. They helped Kevin onto it and wheeled him away from the reception area with me following closely behind. I tried to ask questions, but the words would not come. My legs were moving in pace with the hospital staff, but I could not feel them.
As the doors pushed open to the clinic, the nursing staff gasped in surprise. “Oh, my!” exclaimed Libby, Dr. Valdadoss’s nurse.
“What happened?” Dr. Valdadoss hurried to us in answer to his page.
I gave a hasty explanation of the night before. Dr. Valdadoss wheeled Kevin into a room and examined him as he nodded at my answers to his questions.
“Kevin is dehydrated, probably from a touch of food poisoning.” Dr. Valdadoss hung his stethoscope back around his neck. “No more cold potato soup.” He smiled at Kevin.
Libby walked in with an IV bag. Dr. Valdadoss turned to me. “We need to admit him to the hospital for 24 hours and get him rehydrated,” he said. “He is running a high fever and we need to bring that down and get him stabilized. Then he’ll be as good as new.”
Seeing the shock on my face, Dr. Valdadoss patted my arm. “Tomorrow he’ll be a different man,” he said. “He’ll be fine.”
Libby inserted an IV into Kevin’s arm and helped the attendant prepare to wheel him from the clinic to the hospital wing. I moved to follow them.
“Mrs. Shelby, you need to stay here until we get him settled into a room,” Libby stopped me. “Since you are here, you might as well finish your physical and get your part done.” She held out my medical forms.
I clutched the end of the gurney with one hand and slowly reached for the forms with the other. I tightened my grip, wanting to stay with my husband, but feeling compelled to comply. I reluctantly stepped back as they wheeled my husband away.
“Take care of him, Lord,” I whispered.
When I was done, blue arrows painted on the shiny floor of the corridor directed me from the clinic to the hospital. I paused at a small pharmacy in between them. I glanced at my watch and went in to purchase a breast pump, something I had forgotten at home. It had been more than 24 hours since I had nursed Jack, and I was beginning to feel our separation.
The redheaded cashier wore a lab coat splashed with orange and fuchsia flowers. She handed me my change as she put the pump in a paper sack. My absentminded answers to her pleasant questions sparked apparently hungry conversation.
“You’re not from around here, are you, honey?” she asked, handing me my sack. “I can tell by your accent. Have you been out on the town yet? Don’t you leave Richmond without having a good time, you hear?”
The tears exploded out of me before I could stop them. I could not answer the astonished woman as her mouth dropped open and her eyes blinked wide and repeatedly. She grabbed a tissue box behind the counter and handed me a handful.
“Are you all right, honey? Can I get you a drink of water or something? Do you need a chair to sit down?”
I shook my head no. I choked out my thanks for the tissues and mumbled a few words about Kevin. Blaming my fatigue, I apologized and backed out of the pharmacy. I gulped deep breaths, struggling to get my tears under control. I leaned against the corridor wall. I willed myself to breathe, squeezing my eyes shut to stop the tears. I gripped my hands together until my trembling subsided. I dabbed my face with tissues and smoothed a hand over my clothes and hair.
The worst is over, I told myself. Kevin is where he needs to be. Tomorrow things will be better. I took another deep breath. I am strong enough to do this, right, Lord? I threw a glance upward. I fumbled around in my purse for lipstick and steadied my hand to smear it in place. I slowly resumed my pace down the hall.
Kevin smiled weakly as I walked into his private room. Relief washed over his face l
ike a wave smoothing trampled sand. I kissed his hot forehead and squeezed his hand. His body felt hotter.
“Some day this was,” he said with effort.
“Yeah, it’s preparing us for all the stomach troubles we’re going to have overseas.” I tried to grin, glancing at his overhead monitor. His temperature was hovering at 105 and his blood pressure was staying around 60 over 40.
The door opened, and a nurse came in with a large, gel-filled rectangle. “Mrs. Shelby? I’m Sarah, your husband’s afternoon nurse. I’m going to put him on a cooling blanket to bring his fever down. Can you help me get it under him?”
I helped Kevin roll sideways, and together Sarah and I slid the pad underneath him. I tried to keep my eyes off Sarah’s worried brown ones as she checked the readings on his monitor. She was in her late thirties, with bobbed brown hair and a blue uniform. She wrote notes on her chart then left the room.
Kevin continued to drift in and out of sleep. His eyes fluttered open to find me and closed when they had. I sat on his bed, letting him squeeze the hand he would not release.
The afternoon poured sun through the window and I was grateful for it, eager for a glimpse of something natural and familiar. I left Kevin’s bedside to let the sunlight wash over me through the tinted glass. I could not see the sun; the wall from the next wing was blocking it. But I knew it was there. I could feel its warmth and see the light streaming from it.
Sarah began to return every fifteen minutes. Kevin’s temperature was not going down. Sarah’s worried eyes were joined by tightening lips and an occasional shaking head. Kevin’s body seemed to be swelling. His face looked puffy and bloated. He had received several liters of IV fluid, but I noticed that his catheter bag was empty. He was not passing the fluids he received.
I began to leave my chair more frequently to pace around the room. My pace was beginning to match Sarah’s as she came in and out to check Kevin’s monitor. I was growing impatient. I was ready for Kevin to respond to the IV fluids and bounce quickly back like the doctor had said he would, but it was not happening. Kevin was not getting better. He was getting worse, and Sarah knew it.
Behind the Veils of Yemen Page 2