Donna Mae

WARNING : This post is a personal account of a tragic event. It is not humorous or lighthearted like most of my previous posts. It was written four years ago on December 1st and 2nd while I sat overnight in my dying sister's hospital room. I am still haunted by memories of that night. They are vividly recounted in this post. Don't read it if you feel you may be troubled by it. Also - if you are offended by Christian faith or the mention of Jesus' name in a reverent manner rather than just as a swear word, you might want to skip this. Otherwise read on. I post this to honor the memory of my beloved and dear sister, Donna. I love you, Donna and I still really miss you.

**********************************************************

December 1, 2005
9:41 PM
Room 39H - Wilcox Hall – Holston Valley Medical Center
Kingsport, Tennessee

As I begin to write this, I do not know how the story will end. I am alone with my oldest sister, Donna, here in her hospital room. She is in a battle for her life against cancer. At about 4:30 PM yesterday she was removed from a ventilator. Her doctors gave her anywhere from 2 to 12 hours to survive. It has now been about 29 hours and Donna is holding on.

One of Donna’s lungs has failed entirely. The other has been compromised by the disease. Still she fights. Somehow, she is managing to harvest enough oxygen with her remaining lung to live on. Now that the ventilator is removed, she can communicate a little in order to ask for water or nutrition drink.

I have always been impressed by Donna on many fronts. She was an extraordinarily beautiful and charming child. She grew up to be her high school Homecoming Queen and graduated with a perfect grade point average. She earned three college degrees spanning two fields – each with perfect results. Aside from these gifts and abilities, it became apparent early on that Donna was special in another, more important way. She was to become a great ambassador for the cause of Christ.

As a baby, Donna suffered from a high fever that would not respond to the best efforts of her parents or her doctor. Mom and Dad summoned members of their church to come and pray for Donna. During this prayer, the fever broke and Donna recovered fully. To this day, Donna has had no further problems with high fevers. This healing was a testament to God’s power and faithfulness.

As a toddler standing on a church pew between Mom and Dad during the altar call, Donna turned and faced a gentleman standing in the pew behind. “You need to go up there” she said. Without hesitation, Dewey Smith went forward and accepted Christ. To this day, he testifies about the little girl that God used to bring him into His family.

As a teenager, Donna became the church pianist at Hilltop Mission Church. This little church was home to our entire extended family at the time. Donna’s grandfather, Troy Wright, had helped to build it. Each Sunday, Donna would take her place on the piano bench and accompany the small congregation in the worship of God through familiar country hymns of praise.

In adulthood, Donna married Carlos Hammonds – the only boy she had ever kissed. They were clearly a perfect match. Several years into their marriage, Jared came along. He was followed by Audrey. Donna raised her children to love God and to understand the plan of salvation. Her spiritual strength is reflected in them.

In 1997, Donna was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was a rough time for her and the rest of the family. Audrey was little more than a baby. Donna underwent a mastectomy, chemotherapy and reconstructive surgery. During it all, she proclaimed that God would deliver her so that she could continue to be a mother for her children. Donna came through this episode seemingly clear of disease and even stronger for having endured it. Her faith and her desire to witness were also strengthened. Whenever various denominations would send emissaries into Donna’s neighborhood, she would welcome them to her home with Bible in hand. Her intent was not to condemn them, but rather to enlighten them to the truth of God’s Word. She would always begin her witness with “Who is Jesus to you?” Donna always understood that this was the central, essential question that would determine whether or not a person would receive salvation.

Seven years or so after winning her first confrontation with cancer, the enemy launched a second, more aggressive attack. The cancer resurfaced – this time metastasized to the lymph nodes. Donna was in serious trouble from a medical standpoint. Once again, she faced the disease head on – holding the Word of God high above and standing on a faith that would not waver.

Donna used every aspect of her condition to further the Kingdom of God. She would take her Bible with her to the oncology office and witness to fellow patients while waiting her turn for chemotherapy. During her exams she would witness to her doctors. In the face of an adversary whose very name strikes terror in the hearts of the bravest of men, little Donna armed herself with the sword of the Word and the breastplate of righteousness and charged fearlessly ahead.

The fight has been hard. Donna is weary. Still she fights on. Several weeks ago, I was in this same hospital visiting with her. Her left eye was so inflamed that she could not close it. She coughed constantly. Her lungs were seared with pain from pleurisy. She was curled up in a sort of fetal position on her left side – the only way that she could get any rest. A nurse whose shift had ended came into the room and went to Donna’s bedside. She said, “When I came in here this morning, I was in desperate need of a light. Thank you for being my light.” This woman was facing difficult times and Donna had shared the peace of Christ with her. Bruised, battered, beaten and prone, Donna still managed to strike a blow for God.

Donna went home for a while after that period of hospitalization. She had received a series of radiation treatments to the head to attack lesions found there on a scan. She was terribly weak, but it was decided that she would be more comfortable at home. Yesterday, she was sent back here – suddenly in worse shape than before. Donna was placed into the Intensive Care Unit and attached to the ventilator and a large array of monitoring hardware. Last night, after removing the ventilator tube, Donna was moved here into 39H where she could be more comfortable. (ICU is a hectic, noisy place with little privacy.)

It’s now almost 10:30 and I have circled around to where this story began. Donna is sleeping. Her breathing is labored and noisy. The oxygen bubbler is making a sound a little like gentle rain. I hope it is perceived that way by Donna. Maybe it is helping her to relax.

This morning, Donna was having a very difficult time with her breathing. Nurses summoned specialists who came into the room to administer a breathing treatment. Donna was fitted with a mask and the vapors began to flow. The mask filled with mist that trickled out of little circular vents on either side. With a mighty effort, Donna managed to whisper, “I shall live and not die.” Puffs of the vapor billowed out of the vents in the mask with these words. It was barely audible, but it sounded like a mighty battle cry to me. This affirmation of faith has sustained Donna during her battle with cancer. She has repeated it frequently to those she has witnessed to.

I have no medical training, but I have learned that people struggling to breathe are monitored closely for blood oxygen saturation. Numbers in the 90% range are good. Lower numbers indicate that not enough oxygen is getting into the bloodstream. A nurse came in today and placed a little device on Donna’s finger to measure her blood oxygen content. The machine read 98%. My other sister, Lisa – who deserves a story of her own, said “Hey Donna – 98%.” Donna’s eyes opened wide. Through the hissing of the oxygen mask and the rasping of her breathing, I heard her say, “Praise God! Praise God! Hallelujah!” Donna then asked Lisa to read her favorite Bible passage to her – Psalm 103:1-5.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name.
Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits:
Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases;
Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies;
Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle’s.”

Physically, this is the lowest I have seen Donna get. Spiritually, however, she has never been stronger. Her praise will not be forgotten by the nurse who was administering the treatment. Years from now, when she has forgotten Donna’s name and the details of Donna’s case, God will bring this instance to her memory. Perhaps she will share it with someone else. And so the Word spreads. I have told Donna many times that I would like to know just how many people she has touched with her testimony. There have no doubt been hundreds who have heard it first hand – probably thousands who have had it communicated to them from the hundreds. I am firmly convinced that there will be souls in Heaven that will point to Donna’s ministry as the primary influence in their decision to follow Christ.

God has used Donna’s life in a powerful way. Only he knows if her work on Earth is done. Medicine has done all it can. The type of cancer in Donna’s body is beyond the reach of mortal doctors. Only the Maker can fix her now. I find myself in a grey area between faith and fear, between grief and hope, between trust and worry. This troubles me a lot. I know that God can instantly restore Donna’s body with but a thought. My human brain which is programmed to help me to survive my trials on Earth cannot comprehend such a power and is reduced to worry and fear. Scripture tells me that worry is not productive and that I am failing to trust God when I worry, but still it creeps in. I pray for Donna – as do countless others. I have beseeched God to touch her and purge the disease from her body. I know in the end, however, that He alone is sovereign. He is always right and He is always good. I suffer from the same lack of perspective that all souls bound to human bodies have. We live in the finite. Our days begin and our days end. God rules the infinite. The puff of vapor that is our time here on Earth is lost in the vastness of infinity which only the architect of infinity understands. We struggle with this, but we have no hope of comprehending it. So – we have to go back to the trust issue. Here is where my aforementioned troubles arise. I know that Donna is OK. Donna is the soul that lives inside the body in the hospital bed next to me. The body is merely a vessel for the soul to inhabit while it is here on Earth. When Donna’s soul is freed from her body, she will be finally allowed to live where she was intended to live in the first place – in the presence of the Creator. God fully understands this. I think a lot of Christians do also. I know it is true. I just have a really hard time getting past what is happening to Donna’s vessel right now. That vessel has been what Donna is to me for the 40 years I have been in my vessel. I love Donna. Her physical appearance is how I identify her. I know that the “real” Donna is not a physical being, but rather a spiritual one. It’s just that the physical part of Donna is the one I have hugged, kissed, played with, laughed with and lived with for my entire life. It breaks my heart to see her so battered and broken.

It’s now past 11:00PM. I should be trying to sleep, but I am constantly looking up from my writing to watch Donna. She is still sleeping. She is propped up on an array of pillows and the head of her bed is raised up also. This is being done in an effort to help her breathe, but it does not look all that comfortable. It is very difficult to hold back the tears when I look at her. The beautiful child grew into a beautiful woman. I look at her now and she is still beautiful to me. (Maybe I can see some of the real Donna after all.) An outsider would see a woman ravaged by both a disease and man’s desperate attempts to defeat the disease. Chemotherapy and radiation have caused Donna to lose all of her hair. She wears a little cloth cap to keep her head warm. She has lost weight. Her hospital gown is draped loosely on her. I keep trying to pull it up to cover her chest and keep her warm. The elevation of her upper body is making this a frequent task. Her arms are at her sides and her lovely hands are on her lap. Donna always had the prettiest hands and fingernails. They are still beautiful. Lisa placed pillows on either side of Donna earlier tonight so that her arms would have a comfortable resting place. The oxygen mask and the tubes and straps accompanying it distort and obscure her face. She has an intravenous port in her chest that has been used over the past several months to administer chemotherapy. There is an IV pole at her bedside ready to be used for a continuous morphine drip should her discomfort increase.

Donna awakes with a start at 11:20. She asks for water. It is difficult for her because I have to pull the mask away with one hand and guide the straw with the other. She is patient with me though and I manage to give her a drink. She tries to say something else to me but I cannot make it out. I ask her if she needs anything or if she hurts anywhere, but she says “No.” I tell her I love her and she says, “I know”. I cry.

It’s after midnight now so it’s not really December 1st anymore. It’s December 2nd. This would have been Troy Wright’s 100th birthday. A nice nurse named Kym came in a while ago. She checked up on Donna and reset her IV pump. It was beeping. I think Donna is asleep again. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Kym asked if Donna was complaining of pain. I told her no. I asked how to tell if Donna does not say anything and Kym tells me that I will know because she will get more agitated. She’s not agitated, but it sure looks like it’s a lot of work to breathe. It’s apparent that only one lung is working. Only one side of her chest rises and falls with her breath.

At about 12:30AM Donna awoke again asking for water. I gave her some. She began to cough. Her coughing is more like a wheeze due to extreme weakness. She asks me to call the nurse. Nurse Debbie comes in with a dose of morphine which quiets Donna down. I tell her that I am here and not to worry. Debbie tells me that she will find out when Donna can have another breathing treatment to loosen some of the mucus in her lungs. Donna seems to be sleeping again at 12:45.

It’s 2:00 AM and Donna needs more to drink. She has a hard time getting the straw positioned in her mouth, but she manages to get a little water. I pray with her and give her a little hug and a kiss. She tells me that she loves me. I tell her I love her and ask Jesus to let Donna touch the hem of His garment so that the virtue may flow out of Him and enter Donna’s body. The tears return. I don’t know how many more I have. I try to hide them from Donna. I don’t want to strip the last bit of hope she has from her.

Donna appears to be sleeping again at 3:00. Her breathing is less noisy now. I hope she is having good dreams. Her waking hours have not been too pleasant lately.

At about 3:20 Donna asks for water. I give her some and offer her some chocolate nutrition drink. She takes a few good drinks of it. She struggles a lot to take it because she is having problems breathing with the mask lifted. I ask Donna if she wanted me to try to get her another breathing treatment and she said, “Yes”. The nurse comes in and gives her a treatment but advises that Donna’s oxygen concentration is now down to about 79%. Not knowing what to do, I go to the nurses’ station and ask for advice. The nurses advise that I call Carlos – Donna’s husband. At about 3:30 I call him and wake him. I ask the nurse if Donna can have some more morphine to relax the breathing. (I am learning a lot about morphine today.) The nurse comes in and gives her 3mg. (She’s allowed 5mg per hour right now, but we are trying to keep it to a minimum when we can.) I think that Donna seems weaker now than she did before. Maybe it’s because I am tired. I debate about calling Lisa and decide to wait a while.

I call Lisa at 3:55. She will be here around 6 or so. I promise to call if things get any worse. I decide to try to doze a little. The only way I can convince myself that this is OK is to push my chair up to Donna’s bedside and cup her hand in mine. That way, if I do fall asleep I will wake up if she makes the slightest move. This turns out to be a bad idea. I drift close to sleep several times over the next hour, but I am jolted awake each time by the thought that I cannot hear Donna’s rasping breaths. I hold her hand and stroke it gently.

Five o’clock comes and Donna is agitated. She is trying to tell me something that sounds like “bun” or “button”. I call the nurse. Donna finally says “ouch” and I know what she is telling me. She is in pain. While waiting for the nurse, Donna asks for a pen and a piece of paper. I get it for her. There is a lot of confusion in her eyes. She tries to write, but cannot. She produces something that looks like a lower case “b” and then draws the same shape over top of it multiple times. I tell her it’s OK and that I understand that she is hurting. The nurse comes in with morphine and gives Donna another 3 milligrams. By 5:25, she is sleeping again.

At 5:35 a nurse comes in to take vitals. Donna’s oxygen level has dipped to around 65%. Earlier, I learned from nurse in the hallway that the brain needs a minimum of 65% to function normally. I decide to call Lisa back. She tells me that she will be here about 6:30. I call Dad. He’s on his way.


After I called Dad I had to shut down my laptop and stop recording what was going on. Everything from this point on was written after the fact. It is all recorded faithfully; however, the timing and sequence of some of the events may not be as accurate.


Dad came in around six. Holding Donna’s left hand, I told her “Look Donna – your daddy is here.” Donna looked over to Dad as he took her right hand in his. Behind the oxygen mask a wide smile appeared on her face. She looked up at Dad and said, “Jesus is waiting.” After a pause she said, “Now.” It was one of the last things Donna said that we could understand and it was a real gift to us. It told us that Donna knew where she was going and she was at peace with it. Over the next 30-45 minutes other visitors trickled into Donna’s room. Lisa and Carlos arrived. Some old friends, a cousin, a couple of nurses that knew of Donna’s situation and some of the folks from the church staff where Donna attended all gathered around.

Lisa joined me in holding Donna’s left hand. Dad remained over on her right. Together, with Carlos and the rest of the visitors in the room, we prayed for Donna. At around 7:00 or so, Lisa convinced me to try to catch a nap in the recliner in Donna’s room. I sat back and closed my eyes. Five or ten minutes later, Lisa woke me to tell me that the nurse had just taken Donna’s vitals again. Her oxygen level was at about 45%. I jumped up and returned to Donna’s bedside.

By this time, Donna could barely respond. On the wall opposite her bed (from my perspective) there was a clock with a second hand on it. Counting breaths, I figured that she was breathing about 40 times per minute. Over the next hour or so, Donna’s breathing gradually became shallower and slower. We all continued to pray and comfort Donna. At around 8:15 or 8:25 Donna took her last breath. Moments later, the nurse checked Donna’s heartbeat and confirmed that she had left us.

II Corinthians 5:8 says “We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord.” Today I am confident of nothing more than the fact that Donna is present with her Jesus.

I love you Donna. To paraphrase the apostle Paul in his second letter to Timothy - You have fought a good fight, you have finished your course, and you have kept the faith.
Give Jesus a kiss for me and save me a seat at the table.

The Saga Saga

I’m going to share a story that falls into the “you had to be there” category to a certain degree. I will attempt to convey what happened with enough descriptive detail so that you have the feeling you were there – even if you were not. Some of the friends that I keep in touch with these days actually were there. I am certain you will remember this event. It was maybe the funniest thing I have ever seen personally. Again – you kind of had to be there.

Anyway – here goes.

It was the spring of 1984. I was a freshman at Florida State University in Tallahassee, Florida. I was living in a 10-story cesspool called Kellum Hall. Somewhere between five and six hundred kids lived there. The people were great. I made a lot of good friends there and we all kind of looked out for each other. The facilities were plain and utilitarian. Rooms were a little larger than a refrigerator box and there were two people in each one. The bathrooms were the community style and were located midway along each hallway. It was a typical college dormitory. It was a dump. I did have a great roommate at that time. He was neat, clean, respectful of my things, loved much of the same music I did, shared my sense of humor (most of the time) and was generally a really good guy. We became roommates our second semester of our freshman year because each of us had nightmarish original roommates. My original one was a giant kleptomaniac who removed warts from his bulbous thighs with fingernail clippers. (True.) My new roommate’s old roommate was just a mean person that generally made everyone around him miserable. I’m not sure of all of the details there, but I know it was a bad experience for my new roommate. Even though it’s getting very clumsy to write like this, I am going to let my “good” roommate remain anonymous. Those of you reading this who were there at the time know who he is and understand why I am going to avoid using his name. If he wants to post a reply to this blog entry and take credit for this story, then that’s his call.

My roommate and I were part of a group of dorm dwellers who called ourselves the Kellum Lounge Rats. There were about 10 or 12 of us and we could generally be found in variously sized subsets hanging out in the dorm lounge at any given time of day or night. We usually ate lunch together on the weekends at a place called Saga down in the Student Union. It was a cafeteria style eatery that had a little magnetic card reader box at the door. You came in, ran your card through the reader and - “PING” – a little chime would sound and you were granted access to the wonderful sustenance offered by Saga.

Now that you know what Saga was, I feel the need to share a little bit about the general opinion of the place. It was cheap. You could eat all you wanted. It was convenient for those of us without cars. It served exceptionally poor quality food. Many comments about this place could be found scrawled on the walls of bathroom stalls around campus. They were penned there, no doubt, by victims of explosive diarrhea courtesy of Saga. The best Saga joke I ever saw on a bathroom wall said this, ‘SAGA – Soviet Attempt to Gag Americans”. Very clever. This was during the Cold War days so any Russian joke was fitting. This one was especially clever in my opinion, given the fact that the author probably had to write the words one at a time in between searing abdominal cramps.

OK – back to the actual place on that particular sunny spring day in Tallahassee. When our little group got there, we found the main part of the dining room was pretty full. There were no open tables large enough to seat us all. Fortunately, there was a kind of overflow area on the far side of the cafeteria where no one was sitting. There was a large, long table there we could claim. This part of the cafeteria was separated from the main room by a wall running nearly the entire length of the room. There were large round openings in the wall about 3 feet wide. Hanging plants adorned each one.

We all sat down and began to eat. I don’t remember what all was on the menu that day, but I do know there was mashed potatoes and gravy. You will understand why I remember that once you read the rest of this story.

One of the best (and palatable) treats at Saga was the ice cream bar. You could go up there and get a scoop of ice cream and then top it off with hot fudge, caramel, peanuts, whipped cream, sprinkles and a variety of other things. Since it was actually pretty good stuff, most of us eschewed the microscopic ice cream bowls at the bar in favor of the larger salad bowls from the salad bar. You could really load one of these things up. We were all sitting around the big table finishing off our ice cream creations when I started to notice that my roommate was mixing up a huge mess in his bowl. He had not eaten all of his ice cream and had decided to mix in the mashed potatoes, gravy and any other assorted leftover foodstuffs on his plate. It was perfectly hideous. He was just kind of silently sculpting it into a goopy mound when he looked around the table at his friends and said something like, “How much will you guys give me to throw this bowl through one of those holes in the wall?” After about two seconds of stunned silence, we all started digging through our pockets for spare change to put in the pot. You have to understand that my roommate was not a violent or overly rebellious person. This was kind of out of character, yet he seemed sincere. We, his so-called friends, were more than happy to contribute to his delinquency by encouraging him into an act of vandalism.

When it was all said and done, we had scrounged up about twelve dollars or so. We had conditions, though. My roommate was to hold off on the goop toss until we were all the way over to the exit door by the cashier. That way we would have front seats to view the spectacle and a quick exit that would exonerate us from any guilt in the incident. My roommate would dart out the back door of the cafeteria after the deed was done and make his escape that way.

With breathless anticipation, we all got up from the table, dropped off our dirty dishes on the conveyor belt that led to the kitchen and walked over to the exit door. When I turned around, I realized that our view was perfect and we were in for a real show. I could see my roommate standing up at the table. He had his arm drawn back just like a medieval catapult preparing to launch a missile at a castle wall. His face was screwed into a sort of grimace one sees on the face of a pugilist about to deliver a mighty roundhouse punch to his foe. Then he did it. The catapult was released and the black melamine bowl with it’s payload of leftovers whizzed through the opening in the wall, narrowly missing the hanging plant.

Now. Before I conclude this story, let us ponder such things as fate, karma and luck. You may not believe in any of these things, but something almost supernatural was at work this day I tell you. I was there. I saw it. I have witnesses. Some of them might even comment on this post. This really happened. Continue pondering for a moment before you read the next paragraph.

OK. We’re back to the story now. As I said, the bowl just barely missed the macramé plant hanger, but that’s just the first miracle. The second miracle is that the contents of the bowl retained their shape and place in the bowl throughout the entire flight of the projectile as it arced its way to its target. Oh, yeah. That’s the other part. The target. Fate? Karma? Luck? Who knows? The bowl flew, goop first, smack into the center of my roommate’s old roommate’s chest where it exploded in a rain of various carbohydrate-laden organic material. It was gorgeous. A direct hit. The victim’s arms came up in kind of a reflex-driven response, but they provided no protection. He was covered.

I looked up from the aftermath to gaze at my roommate with new found honor and respect. He was already gone. The back door of the cafeteria was almost completely closed, slowed by the pneumatic door-closer attached to it. This delay was nearly very unfortunate. There were some really big, burly guys sitting fairly close to ground zero. They were not as amused by recent events as me and my friends were. I feared I would faint from loss of breath induced by laughter. The others in my party were in a similar condition. The burly guys were not so handicapped and leaped to their feet just in time to see the door closing. In a flash they were in pursuit of my roommate. Luck (or karma or fate or whatever) was on my roommate’s side, however. He ran like a jackrabbit all the way back to the dorm and eluded his pursuers. They gave up the chase when they realized he had gotten out of sight.

When I got back to my room, my roommate was there – a little nervous and worried that he had been identified, but with a virtual badge of honor from his friends, and 12 bucks.

By the way - if you are reading this, my old roomie buddy, the guy who kept calling the room and saying things like “I know who you are Ice Cream Man” for the next several days was not me, but I know who it was. Drop me a line sometime and I’ll spill the beans on him.