I’d like to tell you a story about myself:

In July of 1992 things looked pretty good for my family and me. On the first of the month I had received my long-awaited promotion to Lieutenant Commander in the Coast Guard. I had also received orders for a transfer, and we were now looking forward to a move to a new home and a new job up north. We had sold our home in Ft. Lauderdale, the movers had come to make their initial evaluation, and on the twenty-fifth we would be driving north. Or so we had planned before the Lord allowed our plans to be changed.

On July 11th, just two weeks before we were to start our drive to Annapolis, my son, Jonathan, and I went for our last pre-move scuba diving trip together. Jonathan was heading off to the Air Force in October, and we wanted to have some time together before we moved and he left. We decided to take a deep dive on the Duane, a former Coast Guard cutter that was now sunk in 130 feet of water as part of the artificial reef system off Key Largo, the northernmost of the Florida Keys. Jonathan and I were both experienced divers. He is a dive supervisor, and I had been a diving instructor for four years with more than two hundred dives to my credit. We were experienced, we were careful. It wasn’t enough.

The dive went well. It was a beautiful day, the water was warm and clear, there were many schools of barracuda and baitfish around and in the wreck. We enjoyed our brief bottom time. On the way to the surface, as we made our safety stop at fifteen feet, my right arm felt a little numb. I didn’t recognize the symptom. What was happening was the onset of decompression sickness . . . the "bends." My thinking was becoming muddled, and I remember thinking that my wetsuit sleeve must be too tight because it was cutting off my circulation. Once we got to the surface, I had trouble swimming to the dive boat. I felt unreasonably tired and weak, and couldn’t even climb up onto the dive platform at the stern of the boat. I had to be pulled aboard. Then things started to deteriorate quickly. As nitrogen bubbles started to form in my brain I lost my ability to speak. I lay in the bottom of the boat trying to make words come out to reassure my son that I was OK, but as Jonathan held my hand I lapsed into unconsciousness.

For reasons known only to him the dive boat captain did not call the nearby Coast Guard station for help. He called the Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park Patrol and reported that he had a "sick" diver on board -- he didn’t identify it as a diving accident -- and decided to run me in to an ambulance at the dock in the boat.

The EMS personnel worked on me in the ambulance, both at the dock and on the way to a local hospital, for about a half-hour, and by the time I got to the hospital I was conscious, lucid, and very embarrassed! Here I was a diving instructor causing all this trouble! All that I wanted was for them to release me, let me get in my van and drive home. I could move my legs and arms; I felt fine. "Let me go home!" But, no. The doctor insisted that I go to a hyperbaric chamber for decompression. Well, he was the doctor. The ER personnel assured me that an ambulance would be there momentarily to drive me to the chamber in Miami. So I lay there and waited.

Those who have had any diving instruction know that speed is of the essence in treating diving accidents. For reasons that I won’t go into here it was six hours between my accident and when I finally was delivered to the hyperbaric chamber at Mercy Hospital in Miami.

At Mercy Hospital they wheeled me into the Emergency Room and began to poke and prod. They explained that they were going to put me into the decompression chamber, and explained all that would happen. They gave me a clipboard with a release form on it, and asked me to sign. I couldn’t hold the pen, but managed to scratch something on the line. They asked me to shift over to a stretcher that would go into the chamber, but I was unable to do so. They pulled me onto the stretcher and then placed me in the decompression chamber. At that time the chamber at Mercy was a steel cylinder large enough for three people to get in. It was only about four feet in diameter, so if you could climb in, you had to do so in a crouch. In my case, they had to squeeze me in on that narrow stretcher. My back had been strained when they pulled me into the dive boat, and my lower back kept spasming painfully while I lay on the almost-unpadded stretcher. Once in the chamber they pressurized it down to an equivalent of being sixty feet under water, and I breathed pure oxygen through a rather uncomfortable mask. The people who ran the chamber kept telling me that this mask was the same thing as is used by fighter pilots. I wasn’t impressed. It was hard to breathe, and I had to suck air into my lungs. I was tired. I was sick. I was uncomfortable. And now I couldn’t breathe. Thank goodness I wasn’t claustrophobic, also! Throughout my time in the chamber the "tender" who was with me kept taking my vital signs, and tried to get me to move various extremities. He also used a sharp instrument to test where I had feeling and where I was numb. I was too disoriented to realize it, then, but I wasn’t moving much, and had no feeling below my upper chest. My first session in the hyperbaric chamber at Mercy Hospital lasted six hours.

In ninety-two percent of decompression sickness cases the patient comes out of the hyperbaric chamber almost healed. There might still be a little spotty numbness or some little muscular problem, but essentially it is a seemingly miraculous cure. When they pulled my stretcher out of the chamber they brought in a wheelchair and asked me to climb into it. That is when we found out that I couldn’t move. Anything.

After a quick trip back into the Emergency Room where they tried to determine the extent of my problem, it was back into the decompression chamber for another seven hours! Seven hours of fighting back spasms, sucking air into my lungs, and being constantly prodded and probed. In my torment I lifted my heart to the Lord. "Oh Jesus," I prayed, "please be with me through this. Help me, Lord, and get me through this trial."

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to say that after this prayer God sent an angel to sit with me in the chamber and take away my pain and paralysis? Well, God doesn’t often work that way. However in John 14 Jesus promises "and I will pray the Father, and He will give you another Comforter, that He may abide with you forever." A comforter. A paraclete. The Holy Spirit. I cried unto the Lord, and He did not take away my pain and paralysis, but sent the Holy Spirit to help me bear it. Praise God!

After the operators pulled me out of the chamber this time, it was back to the Emergency Room. There they poked and prodded, and we finally came to a rather chilling conclusion . . . the chamber hadn’t worked. I couldn’t move from the chest down. I had no feeling from the chest down. I was paralyzed! I was a quadriplegic!

It was now very early in the morning, and I was wheeled up to the Neurological Intensive Care Unit where I was admitted. But Jesus was still with me. Amazingly, I wasn’t worried about the fact that I couldn’t move anything! I wasn’t dismayed by the fact that I was facing a very uncertain future. But I was concerned about the worry that I was going to be to my wife, Chris.

When Chris came the next morning, expecting to pick me up and take me home, I was back in the chamber. She peeked in the porthole at me, and kept a happy face on . . . but she had to be aching inside. We had just had our twenty-fourth anniversary in June, and during all that time the only time either of us was in the hospital was for the delivery of our two kids. Now she wasn’t sure what to do. How long would I be in the hospital, and what was this going to do to our transfer to Maryland? How about the house? We were renting it back from the family who had purchased it, and they were scheduled to take possession in two weeks! Where could Chris and the kids live? What about the house we had bought in Maryland? What were we going to do?

When I got back to my room, and Chris came in, all I could do was cling to her and cry. I was so sorry for what I was putting her through. I really didn’t feel any worry for myself, but I had always been the "macho take care of the family" type of husband. Not that I didn’t think that Chris was capable. When I was in Viet Nam she had handled things well, and when I was a salesman in the furniture industry she was the one that handled all the bills and books. I knew she could do it. I just didn’t want her to have to. That was my job.

As I sobbed my apology to Chris she quietly and firmly reminded me that our marriage vows had said that she was marrying me "for better or for worse," and that we would weather this storm together. The dictionary defines "prudent" as wise, considerate, thoughtful. My Chris was definitely "from the Lord." She would show her resolve and strength over and over again as the weeks and months and, now years of this trial wore on.

Two days after my accident the doctors decided that they wanted to perform a series of MRIs on me to try to determine if there was any structural neurological damage done, and if they could find some reason why the accident happened. In an MRI you are loaded onto a narrow stretcher and slid into a tiny cylinder where you do not even have enough room to reach up and scratch your nose. Your arms are pinned at your sides, the top of the tube is two inches away from your nose, and you are totally immobile. My back was still strained at this time, and lying on this hard stretcher started it spasming. I was in discomfort. I was not really claustrophobic, but between the pain and the confinement I started to lose control. Then I remembered Jesus had promised that He would be with me always. Again I called to Him for help. I prayed and I recited scripture verses and I sang favorite hymns in my mind. I wasn’t entirely in my proper mind, I guess, and apparently some of my prayers weren’t just between the Lord and me. The attendant heard me and called down into the tube to make sure that I was all right. I wasn’t, but I assured him that there wasn’t anything that Jesus and I couldn’t get through together. I don’t know how long an MRI takes, but it seemed like forever . . . until I started turning it over to God. Then I lost myself in my prayers and praise, and soon it was over.

I don’t know whether you have spent any time in a hospital room. I certainly hope not. But if you have, you know what a drab and (you should forgive the pun) "lifeless" place it can be. Mercy Hospital being a Catholic hospital, at least I had the comfort of a crucifix on the wall, but otherwise it was rather bleak. When it was known that I was being admitted my family started bringing in little inspirational plaques and other things to keep me company. One favorite item was a little white stuffed toy bunny with a bandage on his ear that said "Get Well Soon." He still sits in an honored spot on top of my computer as a reminder of my daughter’s love for me. These little things started to brighten up my room. And then the get-well cards started coming.

Psalm 23:6 says "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life."

When I was being charged and blessed at a graduation ceremony from a spiritual warfare school this passage was given to a pastor’s wife for me. She interpreted it to mean that as many things as I liked to do for others, I often felt that my actions went unappreciated, but that those for whom I did them did recognize my actions, did appreciate them, and that I was loved. Well, I did feel that way, occasionally, that people didn’t appreciate the things that I tried to do for them, and it was a comfort to have Marion tell me this.

Then the get-well cards started coming. Not just a few. Actually, not just a lot. A ton! They came from co- workers and churches. They came from people who did not know me personally, but whom I had touched indirectly in some way. They came from family and friends. There were tiny ones, and two huge cards must have had over 100 signatures on each of them! My family taped these cards to the wall of my room, and soon it was colorful and joyful. And the love that they expressed! Even now it causes tears to come to my eyes as I think about it. And the prayers that they sent and promised! God must have gotten sick of hearing my name from so many places. Ultimately I had over 250 cards, banners and posters taped to the walls of my hospital room, and prayer chains from Key West to Connecticut to California praying for me. "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life." My Lord, I did not know that so many people even knew of me, much less thought so much of me. It was and is simply overwhelming!

Jesus stood with me in this trial. I never had any doubt about why this accident had happened . . . it was because the Lord has something planned for me. Rather than being depressed and lying in bed asking, "Why me," I was lying there saying, "OK, Lord. You’ve got my attention. What have you got planned for me?" Even in the times of pain I was actually able to pray my thanks to God for the lessons in humility that He was giving me. I didn’t know why this all was happening, but I put my trust in God. I thanked Him for everything that was taking place, and that helped buoy my spirits throughout my ordeal.

They kept me in the Neurological Intensive Care Unit at Mercy Hospital for two weeks. My paralysis was so complete that they were afraid that it would spread upwards and affect my diaphragm, causing me to stop breathing. They wanted me wired to all of the monitoring equipment so that they could react quickly should it be necessary to intubate me. During that time I was going into the hyperbaric chamber twice a day for three hours at a time. I was also receiving some occupational and physical therapy in my room. They kept trying to get me up into a standing position or into a wheelchair to take me to the physical therapy gym, but I had no control over my legs, and I kept ending up on the floor. I knew that my young therapists were trying to do the right thing, but they apparently did not understand the degree of my paralysis. Nor the fact of my size. At 6’3" and 230 pounds, it was going to take more than a 110-pound young woman to get me standing. On two occasions they managed to slide me from my bed in the NICU into a wheelchair, bruising me pretty well on the way, then, when they brought me back, they couldn’t figure out how to get me back into the bed. So they would transfer me into a recliner chair, and leave me there for the men from the hyperbaric chamber to figure out. It was not one of the better parts of my hospital stay. One positive aspect of this treatment, though, was the attention that it got me from my NICU nurses. Those angels took personal charge of, and interest in, their patients. And when the rehab folks would drop me, or someone else would bring me back just totally wiped out from testing and hyperbaric treatments, these nurses would be there immediately to try to get me cleaned up, comfortable, rested, and just cared for. They got real ticked off when they finally managed to get me feeling halfway human, only to have someone else come in and wear me down to a nub again.

The one thing that made my morning trips into the hyperbaric chamber easier was looking forward to getting out and seeing Chris. She would keep in contact with the chamber, knowing about when I was due to go in, and would time her departure from home for the hospital so that she would be there when I got out. Often she would call while I was in the chamber, and the people on the outside would relay messages in to me. Almost every day they would pass the message, "Chris said to tell you she’s leaving for the hospital, now." It gave me a time frame. Something on which to base the rest of my morning in the chamber.

Twenty-four years before this I had been married to Chris when I went off to basic training in the Army. I often told people, then, that the knowledge that she was there waiting for me made all the hassles of basic training easier to take. I knew that I had an anchor on the outside, and it gave me strength.

Again, when I went as a soldier to the Republic of Viet Nam, knowing that Chris was at home, thinking of me and loving me and missing me kept me going. She was my light at the end of the tunnel, and her love and constancy kept me going through the wartime separation.

Now, once again, Chris was my anchor back in the "real world." Every day she would drive the forty-five minutes from our home down to Mercy Hospital to be with me when I got out of the chamber. Much of the time once I got back to my room I was so worn out that I would drift in and out of sleep while she sat there and watched me, but the times when I was awake, and Chris would lean over my bed and let me hug her and smell her and feel her love . . . those were little bits of paradise there in my little hospital room. I really can’t begin to express the feelings of love and comfort that those times brought to me.

At the end of two weeks in the Mercy Hospital NICU, and twenty sessions in the hyperbaric chamber, they decided that it was time to get me into a more intensive rehab program, and I was transferred to South Miami Hospital. Poor Chris! Now she had ten miles further to drive to come and visit me! Until Hurricane Andrew hit, however, she still didn’t miss a day. Throughout all this, Chris has told me, she just relied on Philippians 4:19 as her motto, "My God will supply all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus." She trusted in God to keep her going. Praise the Lord! He did just that. Through it all, God never failed her, and she never failed me.

South Miami Hospital was a different story. For one thing, at South Miami I had two Christian nurses. One of them was a little tentative about broaching the Christianity topic with a patient. She was working on me, and said something about religion, but quickly added that she really wasn’t allowed to talk religion with the patients because she could get into trouble. I quickly informed her that if she was going to come into MY room, she would have to talk religion. That broke the ice, and we formed a close bond of Christian love. She loved her job, as a nurse, but not just because it made her feel good to help people. It was because . . . gosh. How do I say it? I guess the easiest thing to say is that you could and can see Jesus shining out from her eyes when she is helping her patients. It’s not just a job or a profession, it is a Christian calling. And even if she is not allowed to TALK about Jesus, she definitely lets people SEE Jesus in her.

But my main job at South Miami was downstairs in rehab. There, too, I was blessed with having a Christian physical therapist that occasionally worked with me, and a Christian occupational therapist full-time.

For those of you who don’t know, occupational therapy deals with restoring your upper body strength and your manual dexterity. By this time I had regained a fair amount of use of my arms and hands, though my fingers were still numb, and the least bit of exercise had me huffing and puffing and soaked with sweat. But OT wasn’t really too bad. Over in physical therapy . . . that is where the real work was. That was where I had to learn to walk again.

We started on July 26th. The physical therapist wanted to see how well I could stand. Here we go again! So she wheeled me over to the parallel bars, and between the therapist and me and the bars I stood, sort of, for a few seconds. But it was really something of a disappointment. It was so hard! Then the therapist decided to get me out of my chair and onto a "mat," which was really a large table a few feet off the floor, to evaluate me a little further. You guessed it. You remember I told you about my legs not working when people tried to move me? Well, it happened again. Actually, I learned something interesting about medical semantics. If you don’t actually hit the floor, they don’t call it dropping. All in all, I "wasn’t dropped" five times during my time in the hospital.

But they knew what they were doing at South Miami. They pushed me and I pushed them, and together we worked my numb and lifeless arms and legs trying to wake something up . . . trying to bypass the non-responding nerves and create new channels for the impulses to travel.

Philippians 4:13 reads "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."

On the 4th of August I stood in the parallel bars and the therapist pulled my legs forward, one at a time, as I "walked" the length of the bars. My first steps since my accident in July. I wasn’t satisfied with the therapist moving my legs for me, though, so the next day I went back to PT, and after my various exercises, I stood between the parallel bars, and I moved my own legs as I walked to the end of the bars, turned around, walked back and collapsed into my wheelchair soaked in sweat from the exertion. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." To God be the glory! I was walking! And I kept on pushing and working. They warned me that I would learn to hate my therapists as they pushed me to perform, but I ended up pushing them to push me further. On August 7th, just three days after my first therapist-assisted steps, I managed to get up from my wheelchair and shuffle a few hesitant steps with a walker.

James 5:15-16 reads, "And the prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise him up … pray for one another, that you may be healed. The effective fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much." I had prayer chains working on me from Key West to Connecticut to California, and on September 15th, I walked out South Miami Hospital, and rode home with Chris.

You ask if I stayed positive and happy through my entire ordeal in the hospital. No. God blesses me, but I’m still human. Things still get to me. In Mercy Hospital, after about a week and a half I was beginning to get some strength and use back in my right hand. It gave me a feeling of success and a major step back toward normalcy. Then the nurse changed my IV from my left and useless hand into my right hand. I could no longer use it. I asked her not to do it, but she didn’t listen. I suddenly had lost what little gain I had made and it threw me into about a day and a half of deep depression.

Then there was the time in South Miami. It was early September, I had been in the hospital almost two months, I had been thinking that I should take Chris away, somewhere, when I got out. Maybe we could go to the Gulf Coast to the beach. We could walk in the sand and . . . no, wait a minute. I can’t walk in the sand. Well, maybe we can go to a really nice motel that has pools and hot tubs, and we can . . . no, I can neither get down into nor up out of a hot tub. Come to think of it, I can’t even get into a bathtub. I need a shower stall with a chair in it and grab bars so that I don’t fall. And all of a sudden it hit me . . . I’M DISABLED! I don’t really think that I got as depressed about being disabled as sobered by the realization that things had changed. A lot. Now Chris and I would have to view things through a new reality.

But as long as that new reality is based around my belief in Jesus Christ and His power in my life, how can we possibly go wrong?

Why was God so good to me in my healing? Was it because someone had told Him about me? No, although there were enough prayer chains working on my behalf to give God a headache. Was it because I knew about Him? No. Even the demons know about Him. It was and is because I KNOW Him. Personally. I have a Friend whom I talk to on a daily basis. His name is Jesus Christ. He’s my friend, and when this happened to me, He was right there with me. I talked the problem over with Him, and He said, "Dave, don’t worry about it. I’ll talk with Dad about it, and We’ll get it taken care of." And beloved, that is why I am able to walk today . . . to be able to stand and tell people my story. I’ve had some people call me a "hero." No. I’m not a hero. Chuck Colson has said that a hero is someone who does something that he doesn’t have to. I did what the Lord told me to do. That’s not heroic. That’s only trying to be obedient to God’s will and direction. And He blesses it.

No, I’ve not been completely healed. Not physically. Paul had his "thorn in the side," and I have my continuing paralysis. But I am able to continue to cope with it because I know that the Lord allowed it to happen. No, I still don’t know what the Lord has planned for me. I thought that He had allowed this to happen so that I could retire early from the Coast Guard and move into a pulpit. I’ve not found a pulpit to accept me. I thought that with prayer He’d quickly let me know what He had in mind for me. God’s time is not our time. He’s not yet ready to tell me what He has planned for me. I’ve always been the extensive planner and organizer. In spiritual gifts surveys Administration is always one of my gifts, along with Exhortation, Teaching and Mercies. In the Coast Guard I was the one called on to unravel the messes and problems. I guess that He is teaching me more patience and letting me know that He is in charge. He’ll do the planning, and He will tell me when and what. He has something planned for me, and He has a time when He is going to want me to do it. I just have to wait, patient in the love and grace, which He showers down on me, basking in His warmth and appreciating the fruits of His work. "Someday Jesus will call my name," says the popular song. "Hear I am, Lord," say both scripture and the popular hymn. And until the call comes, I just continue to read and pray and luxuriate in His loving kindness. Praise Him!

If you don’t have that kind of personal relationship with my good friend Jesus, I’d like to introduce the two of you right now. He is a really nice guy, and, you know, He died just to be able to know you. So if you don’t know Him, and if you’d like to get a really close relationship set up with Him, how about bowing your head with me just now while we introduce ourselves. All you need to do is pray a simple little prayer, and mean it in your heart, and my good friend Jesus will become your good friend Jesus. Will you pray that prayer? Just bow your head and say: "Oh, Jesus, I’m a sinner. I know that I am, and I know that my sin has kept me apart from you and from God. But I am really sorry for my sin, and I want us to be friends. So please, Jesus, come into my heart right now. I want to go further than just to know about you, I want to know you . . . as my personal friend . . . as my personal savior. Thank You, Jesus. Praise You, Jesus. Amen." Now, if you prayed that prayer, we’re now family. You, me, a whole huge bunch of wonderful people, and Jesus Christ. Hi there, Brother! It’s certainly good to see you. Welcome to the family!

If this story has spoken to you, and you’d like to talk with me, contact me at:

David T. Wilson

6201 Falconsgate Avenue

Davie, FL 33331

david@davidtwilson.ws