Three Days in Heaven

It’s a couple of hours from my third full day in Heaven. Though it seemed my time had been brief, to the hospital staff it was an eternity. The time has come to make a decision on the final disposition of my body. Though I am somewhere between Heaven and a body lying in state, I am completely aware of all the sights, smells, and sounds in the hospital. Even under the current set of circumstances, I still don’t like hospitals.

The hospital board schedules an emergency meeting. I am the singular topic of conversation. As the hospital administrator and one of the co-conspirators, Kent has to begrudgingly go. As medical chief of staff, Paul is present too, mainly as a witness to answer any questions. Also in attendance, Stephen Maxwell, the hospital’s interim attorney, and all sixteen board members. This meeting will determine my fate one way or another. The chairman, Dr. Richard Kelley, begins with an opening statement.

“I think we know why we are here; the Tony Stanford issue—”

Kent interrupts and sternly asks.

“Dr. Kelley, since when did we start referring to our patients as ‘issues’?”

Dr. Kelly is quick to snap back.

“Since your friend became one.”

“Yes, you are right, Tony is my friend, but today he is a patient!”

Dr. Kelly then says with a smug, “Have it your way, Kent. And what do you mean patient? Up to now, he’s just a notch above a cadaver! Can we please continue with this fiasco?”

The attorney is the next to speak.

“Kent, I’ll begin with you, and ask a simple question: Is Tony dead or alive?”

“I can’t answer that. We don’t know without further testing.” In a patronizing manner, the attorney says, “My apologies Kent, I forgot, you’re just an administrator. I’ll address Dr. Kline with any further medical questions.”

Kent, under normal circumstances, is very professional— today was not that day.

“Let me explain something you little worm, I know the difference between dead and alive, and right now he’s neither. You want someone to say he’s gone so the hospital can cut its losses. Even if I had the medical authority, you got the wrong guy!”

He slams his folder on the table, and its contents fly everywhere.

“I’m out of here.”

Kent storms out of the conference room.

Light chatter erupts from the other members and Dr. Kelley orders for silence.

“Counselor, please continue.” After everyone calms down, the lawyer asks Paul the same question.

“Well, counselor, I do have the medical authority. All I can say with any amount of certainty, is that I am not prepared to give the order to have him gutted.”

Gutted is hospital slang for an autopsy.

Dr. Kelley rejoins the conversation.

“Paul, we’ve been friends for years, and yes, I’m just an old retired country doctor,”—he holds up a clipboard for all to see— “but I can still read a chart, and this one says he’s dead. Friends or not, I’ll find someone around here to sign off on this thing so we can all get back to work.”

“Richard, you do what you need to do, and I will too.”

Then the snake-in-the-barrel lawyer is the next to slither into action.

“We were prepared for this. Here is your letter of resignation. Just sign it.”

He uses the fullest length of the boardroom table like shuffleboard, then slides the paperwork over to Paul.

Paul snatches the letter off the table and glances over it in an exaggerated fashion, not reading a thing. He rises from his chair, then makes a point of crumpling it in front of Richard before tossing it in the lawyer’s face.

“I have to go lance a boil.”

Paul storms out of the room in the same fashion as Kent.

The board does find someone to sign off on the paperwork to perform an autopsy. It’s that suck-up, Dr. Bengla, the tea drinker.

Final preparations are being made for me to be handed off to the morgue staff—again. They’ve been hiding and moving me around so much, I qualify for a travel discount! The decision is made to send me straight to the autopsy lab and bypass the morgue. While this activity is going on, I quickly recite a prayer, perhaps a strong suggestion.

“God, we need to get this thing moving along—soon!”

Right then, I hear Him start laughing, then quotes, If we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it— “Gotcha!”

“Hilarious, Frank.”

Even after God’s little snippet of fun at my expense, I still feel His presence by my side.

As I am being wheeled around, Paul is in his office clearing out his desk when his phone beeps with a message. It reads:

Paul, do another scan; you’re gonna love this!

Paul is about to wear a hole through his scalp and scratches his head again, then he reads the message for a second time. That was his first and last message from me. He calls Kent and reads it to him. In an instant, Kent stops working on some last-minute paperwork and slams his briefcase shut. He gives an order to Paul, and yells, “Stop whatever you are doing and move Tony to the cath lab— stat!”

Now Paul is screaming.

“You’re not a doctor! You can’t say stat!”

“Then I’ll say it differently. Go get Tony and haul your ass over to the cath lab! I believe this is going to be one for the history books!”

Paul, still yelling, says, “About damn time!”

His yelling comes to a screeching halt and asks, “What do you think is going on?”

Kent, also more at ease replies, “We’ll have to wait and see, but I believe we are about to witness a miracle.”

“I see a slight problem with your plan.”

“What is it, Paul? We’re in sort of a hurry.”

“I think we’re unemployed.”

“Paul, did you hear me quit?”

“Well, now you mention it, no, I didn’t. And I didn’t sign the resignation letter either! We’re back in business!”

Paul takes it on his own to roll me back to the cath lab; this will be my final trip there. Thankfully no one is in the autopsy lab except me, at least not yet. I’m still on a gurney, and Paul sneaks in and wastes no time saving me from my scheduled butchering. Crawling around on the floor, he nervously begins to hum something unrecognizable as he unlocks the gurney’s wheels.

He jumps up and spins me around; knocking over a tray and its occupants. It hits the ground with a loud clattering bang, and instruments are strewn all over the floor. Peeking around a corner, Paul quickly exits the room before anyone notices. He is hurrying down hallways, weaving through and around traffic every inch of the way. It looks like a dirt track race, or maybe even roller derby! He’s hitting other gurneys and ramming into every wheelchair in his path— occupied or not. When we arrive, the stretcher comes to a sudden stop— except me; I almost flew off the thing! Luckily, Paul grabs my foot and saves me, and a nurse helps him reposition me back on the gurney. The entire staff is hurrying to plug me up to what seems every machine in the room. Kent is standing guard and coordinating additional personnel but takes the time to call Bev.

“Bev, I don’t have much time, but you need to get to the hospital; there’s been a development. I think this is it.”

Startled, Bev drops the phone, and it lands beneath the couch. She is on her hands and knees and retrieves it and doesn’t bother to get up.

Bev maneuvers herself around and plops on the floor and asks, “Kent, which it? A good ‘it’ or a bad ‘it’?”

“Just get down here as soon as you can.”

Kent pauses for a second.

“Paul got a message from Tony.”

Kent hurries to the hospital’s main entrance to wait for Bev. Thankfully, there weren’t many cars on the road as she races to the hospital. She zips through every traffic signal, green or not and ignores every stop sign. When she gets there, the only parking spot is five blocks away; Dr. Kelley’s flower bed. Bev removes her high heels and flings her purse around her neck, then runs all the way and barges through the hospital’s main door. She meets up with Kent. Huffing and puffing and asks if there is any news.

“Not yet. They’re prepping Tony for another EEG.”

Paul is chomping at the bit. He’s a nervous wreck and can’t hold the instruments and one fell to the floor with a loud clank. One of the techs has to assist him because he’s shaking so badly. For this occasion, they brought in the chief of neurology, Dr. Charles Gandy. He rushes in and takes over the procedure, grabbing the fallen instrument away from Paul.

“Give me that thing and move out of my way!”

Paul scoots himself aside next to Dr. Gandy. He begins to scour the equipment and is searching for supplies to do the EEG.

“I need some collodion.”

Collodion is a special glue that holds the electrodes in place.

A nervous tech rummages through all the drawers and closes each one with a loud bang, then moves to the next. This opening and banging of drawers goes on for a few seconds and finds nothing.

Mike, Dr. Gandy’s tech, gets up enough nerve to say, “Doctor, we seem to out of collodion.”

“You have got to be kidding!”

Dr. Gandy shouts, “Super Glue… stat!”

A nearby nurse asks, “Are you serious, Doctor?”

“Of course not! Find me some damn collodion or anything else that will stick!”

Dr. Gandy glares at one of the younger nurses smacking on something and says, “And I don’t care if it’s chewing gum.”

The shy and embarrassed nurse goes over to a waste can and spits it out.

In a laid-back fashion, Dr. Gandy pulls the tech to the side and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Mike, how long have you worked here?”

The nervous tech answers, “About two years, Dr. Gandy.”

“Splendid.”

Still calm, he asks the tech how old he is.

“Eighteen and a half, Doctor.”

In a whisper, the doctor says, “If you’d like to make it to the other half, I suggest you find something that will work.”

The tech scurries out of the lab and returns with a caulk gun.

“This is the best I can do, Dr. Gandy. We’re out.”

“You mean to tell me, there isn’t a single drop in this whole hospital? Well, at least you get an A for effort.”

A somewhat grateful and amused, Dr. Gandy slaps the tech on the back.

“I damn sure can’t hold them in place. This will have to do.”

He continues with his work, looks up, and adds, “Mike, you should have been a doctor.”

Mike grins as he snips off the end of the caulk tube.

Soon after, Bev and Kent arrive in the lab as Dr. Gandy makes his final preparations. Bev stays in the back of the room, and Kent continues with guard duty. I’m hooked up to the heart monitor, but not a respirator this time. The room commences filling up with most of the same crowd as before. The two chaplains were also there; Father Lucci and Brother Bob, only this time, Brother Bob remembers to bring his offering plate, smuggling it in his dress coat. It is complete havoc, and I am the star of the show.

Kent tries to stop him, but Dr. Bengla breaks through and yells, “What the blazes is going on! This is my patient! Get him back to the autopsy lab! Now!”

Bev sneaks up from behind with a bedpan and whacks him on the back of the head. Because it’s made of stainless steel, you would have thought it would be a loud ping; instead, it is more of a dull thud.

“You’re the patient now.”

He falls to the floor, and someone clears him out of the way.

“Settle down everyone.”

A poised Dr. Gandy cracks his knuckles, takes a deep breath and announces, “Well, this is it. Everyone hold on to your ass.”

He turns on the equipment, and all eyes are fixed on the monitor as the neurologist begins the EEG. At first it shows no activity like before. Everyone silently watches and waits.

Moments later, Paul jumps to his feet.

“Oh my God!”

Someone in the crowd asks, “What is it?”

Paul taps the screen, “We have something!”

Another one asks, “How do you know?”

Paul, still tapping, says, “You don’t have to be a brain surgeon to see this one is alive!”

Dr. Gandy stops what he is doing long enough and glares at Paul.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, Chuck, but am I right?”

With all the excitement, Paul uses medical terminology less than appropriate.

“Look at those flashy thingies! They’re everywhere!”

There is loud chatter throughout the room.

Dr. Gandy raises his voice above the noise.

“People, keep it down.”

Things are beginning to pick up speed, and Dr. Gandy calls out for the time.

“6:25 p.m., Doctor!”

Hands and instruments are flying everywhere and a nurse yells, “We’ve got a pulse!”

Doctor Gandy shouts above the crowd noise, “Time!”

A nurse yells back, “6:26, Doctor Gandy!”

Dr. Gandy is busy studying more equipment readings and asks for my blood pressure.

“One-ten over sixty and climbing!”

Everyone in the room are going bananas as witnesses to this miracle— I hope. Someone near the back quietly says, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Brother Bob is as giddy as a schoolgirl and tries to pass around the offering plate.

Paul silently yells, “Not now, Bob!”

Brother Bob tucks it back in his dress coat and asks, “Maybe later?”

Paul shakes his head and ignores the question.

Dr. Gandy continues to examine the equipment and reviews the printout.

He shouts again, “Time?”

Another voice from across the room cries out, “6:27!”

Paul looks around the room and exclaims, “Is someone recording this?”

The heart monitor begins to come to life. The familiar long, steady tone now signals a heartbeat. Dr. Gandy again asks for the time.

“6:29, Dr. Gandy!”

“Temp?”

“Ninety-five point six and rising!”

“Time?”

“Still 6:29, Doctor.”

Dr. Gandy whispers to himself, “I’m not believing this.”

He needs to check with his own set of ears. Still sitting in his old, vintage lab chair, he pushes himself away from his work station toward me. It rattles and creaks— its castors, squeaky and wobbly like a misaligned grocery cart.

He arrives at my bedside and says, “I need some quiet.”

Dr. Gandy uses his stethoscope already hanging around his neck to confirm what he has been seeing on the monitor. He listens to my heart, and for those nearest, he’s overheard saying, “This is nuts.”

He quickly rolls back and views more results streaming from the printer.

Dr. Gandy rips off a page, turns to Paul and says in a low tone, “I’m framing this.”

Unlike her colleague, another nurse, more low-key, announces my blood pressure is normal, and my heart is pounding on its own. But we’re not there yet.

This time, Dr. Gandy gets off his chair and walks over to me.

He checks my respiration and says, “Folks we’re not out of the woods yet.”

Then yells, “He’s not breathing! Prepare to intubate!”

As he was about to shove a hose down my throat, Bev rushes over.

“No! Wait!”

The doctor stops, and everyone is silent. All the commotion echoing in the room fades. Except for the sound of a beeping heart monitor, the room is still; you really could hear a pin drop.

Bev lightly, almost floating, makes her way to me. As if in slow motion, she gently moves people aside. She reaches me and delicately takes my hand.

“It’s time Tony. Come home.”

Amazingly, I hear her words, but a while ago—I was home.

After that peaceful thought, there is an explosion of sight and sound running through my brain. Pictures, memories and all the experiences of my life are flashing through my mind like a high-speed movie projector. The images start to slow down, then suddenly stop, — and I start to wake up. Everyone in the room gathers around me, and some are saying quiet prayers. I lay there and completely aware I’m back, but have the uneasy feeling of suffocation. It’s like holding your breath too long underwater then come up for air; that’s what it feels like. I struggle for a moment, then take the longest, labored breath of fresh air I’ve ever taken.

Bev is still at my side, Kent and Paul on the other. Everyone else is still waiting and praying. I remain on the heart monitor, but they remove me from the confines of other equipment and instruments. My eyes open a little, then Kent glances at the clock in amazement.

“Paul, look at the time.”

It is 6:33 p.m., exactly three days since this began.

Through the window, Bev also notices the setting sun and softly says to herself, “Tony, you were right.”

Now I’m breathing and everything else seems to be back in working order.

Bev still at my side, and in a hushed voice asks, “Tony, can you hear me? It’s Bev.”

I blink my eyes a few times adjusting to the light then mumble, “Bev who?”

Still holding my hand, and in a soft, loving voice, she replies, “Bev who, my ass.”

I motion for Bev to come close to me and whisper, “Wanna fool around?”

She falls on my chest and wraps her arms around my neck.

“Lighten up, Bev, I just got here; you want to send me back?”

She continues her stranglehold, but I don’t mind. Still weak, I wrap my arms around her. Again she weeps, only this time— tears of joy.

A groan is heard coming from a corner in the shadows of the room.

Dr. Bengla makes an effort to stand up, but instead slumps back down and asks, “What happened?”

In unison, everyone says aloud, “You fell!”

Dr. Gandy tells the staff to leave the room. The ones who stay behind are Bev, Kent, Paul, and a semi-conscious Dr. Bengla. Dr. Bengla finally manages to rise to his feet and staggers over to my bedside.

He takes one look at me and says, “Oh, Hi, Tony.”

Then he faints.

Kent is next to say something.

“Tony, I don’t know if I should send you a hospital bill or charge you for storage.”

Dr. Gandy’s tech, Mike wanders off for a while, then re-enters the room.

“Mr. Stanford, word of your return got around, so me and the fellows down in the morgue made you a gift.”

He gives me a hand-lettered T-shirt. I unfold it and place it over my chest, exposing its slogan: I Spent Three Days in Heaven and All I Got Was This Lousy Shirt!

I was grateful for the gift... but how did he know?

Proudly Mike says, “It’s a one of a kind.”

“I hope so; I’ll wear it with pride. Tell the boys I said thanks.”

Mike scrunches in between me and Bev and whispers, “Will do—Sport.”

He heads for the door, and my eyes follow him the whole way. Then he turns and winks at me.

He left the room, and I think, “It couldn’t be.”

Bev saw something near my pillow.

“What have we here?”

She reaches for it and hands it to me. It was a broken Timex.

Paul had been on the phone for some time. All you hear are his responses.

“Yes... No... Yes... Yes... No... I’m not sure; I’ll ask. Goodbye.”

He hangs up the phone and approaches me.

“Tony, those research guys are going to quiz you with a boatload of questions. You’ll be stuck and probed until they find out how, or think they know, how all of this happened.”

I let out a slight laugh and say, “Can you blame them?”

Paul continues, “But not if you don’t want to. By the way, the PR bunch is going bonkers. Richard is already setting up a press conference, and they want a statement. Do you have anything you wish to say?”

I toss a few ideas around in my head about what to say. What should I say? What can I say? Then, I recall what God told me to do. Part of my new mission is to share the story of faith.

“I’ll jot something down for them later.”

I had been lying flat on my back for a while, and I ask Kent to help me sit up. When he lifts me, Paul taps me on my foot.

“Tony, you need to rest. I’ll check back in later. Dr. Chopra stopped by and wants your autograph. He thinks it will be worth a fortune! I’ll get someone over here to haul out Dr. Dirtbag. Do you need anything?”

“Not yet, but thanks. Wait a minute. Could you scrounge up a Twinkie?”

He chuckles.

“No problem, Tony.”

Paul begins to head for the door.

“Hey, Paul.”

He turns to me.

“What is it, Tony?”

“And a Shasta.”

“Black cherry? I’ll see what I can do.”

Paul leaves the room, and Kent is not far behind.

“I’ll leave you two alone. Bev, I’m calling the kids and let them know the news about their dad.”

“Thanks, Kent.”

And now it’s only me, Bev, and Dr. Bengla still slumped on the floor, then she asks, “Do you remember anything?”

I reach for her hand and stare into those beautiful eyes.

“I remember everything.”

Then, Bev says with a smile, “Me too. Maybe I should take a few golf lessons,”

“When you get there, you won’t need any.”

Paul is standing outside the door, leaning against the wall. This time, he forgoes any head scratching.

He is still astonished at everything that just happened, then mutters to himself, “Too bad there isn’t a form to pronounce someone alive.”

He figures there isn’t a huge demand for one. As Paul is about to leave, he feels something in his coat pocket and reaches for it. It is my original death certificate.

“I guess we won’t be needing this.”

Paul takes a peek at it and then tears it in half. Before he did, he notices it was never signed. Paul steps back in my room long enough to toss it in a nearby trashcan.

With her back turned to Paul, Bev does rapid little pointing things at him out of his eyesight.

“I’ll bet you five bucks he’s at church on Sunday.”

“Not a promising bet— he’ll be there. He’s probably on his phone trying to patch things up with his ex-wife.”

“What do we do now, Tony?”

I explain to her I’m to spread the news of faith to as many who will listen, and also mention I need a plane ticket to San Antonio.

“What for?”

“Doing a favor for a friend.”

Bev informs me my “ongoing event” lasted for three days, but my visit to Heaven seemed like a flash. Time has no meaning there. I tell her that Heaven is a fluid motion of peace, tranquility, love, and friendship. And like my friend, Larry, I can’t wait to get back. But until then, I have work to do.