By C. Wayne Lammers

In Walt Disney’s classic tale of “Peter Pan,” when Windy questioned Peter about the location of ‘Never-Land’ (a place where all dreams are possible), he replied: “Second star to the right, and straight on till morning!”

To me, the absolute worst thing I can imagine is when a dream dies. I have learned it is not important to accomplish all of your dreams, but oh, you better have one. Otherwise, how can you get up in the morning and place one foot in front of the other?

‘Never-Land’ was a place of dreams for children, but I recently discovered a ‘Never-Land’ (a place where dreams come true) for adults.

Such is the nature of this true story; a story of dreams (both old and new), and a magical place, young Gods, and a special people who defy all reason in the economic world of today’s fast-paced society, some solutions to problems caused primarily by that age old disease ‘The Forrest for the Trees Syndrome’ -- and maybe, just maybe, a glimpse of the Spiritual side of life most of us don’t want to think about even at night; especially at night.

In June 1998 my company, ‘Tidewater Marine,’ diverted me from my usual flight to the Alaska Division where we are engaged in the business of escorting the giant oil tankers in and out of Valdez for SERVS, (Ship Escort and Response Vessel System). We simply can not - WE WILL NOT - have another major oil spill in Alaskan waters. My diversion was to the ship yard in Tacoma, Washington where I was to cook for a crew of nine on the way back to Alaska and then resume my regular duties on another boat.

All went well for the first few days in the yards; after that, even though I was suddenly unable to eat a bite of food and couldn’t muster enough energy to raise my head, I continued to do my job every day, but finally, on the eleventh day of not eating (then the fifth day at sea), I realized something was terribly wrong with me. Even then I suspected I'd had a heart attack, not realizing I had already had two major ones and the ‘big one’ was on the way.

When I made the report of my condition to Captain Harlond Turner, one look told him I was in serious trouble and he literally ran to the wheelhouse to plot a course for the nearest land, which turned out to be Sitka, Alaska.

Captain Turner called our company on the radio and the Operations Manager, Paul Gasser, and our Safety Director, David Brown, immediately gave full authorization for the rescue attempt and started calling ahead to pave the way and make sure no possible expense stood in the way of my best chance to live.

Captain Turner was also concerned about the rising sea tossing and turning our small one hundred eighty foot vessel in a maelstrom of luminescent violence that kept the decks awash in a constant battle to reclaim our ever-weakening stronghold on one of the world’s wildest seas, the Gulf of Alaska. We were still over three hundred nautical miles from Sitka.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, this is the Motor Vessel Liberty Service calling United States Coast Guard at Sitka, Alaska,” the call went out.

The Coast Guard came back on the radio requesting our latitude and longitude, along with the nature of the emergency. Almost immediately they launched a fast rescue helicopter with a crew of five Warrior-Knights to do battle with the triple dragons of Earth, Wind, and Fire (Speed X Time and Distance {divided by} Life and Death) that were becoming more ferocious with every snap of their ugly jowls, the smell of death driving them to a frenzy.

Although it was very early in the day (dawn, naturally), it was very late in the fourth quarter of the final game for me, and time was rapidly running out.

I remember being shrouded in a ‘mustang suit’ for protection against the bitter cold and to provide flotation as my crewmates brought me forward (as if for sacrifice to some menevolent God) under the big, orange Coast Guard Helicopter that breathed down on me with a frosty breath of well over one hundred miles per hour while keeping pace with our speeding vessel.

Perhaps it was fate, or even the wisdom of a higher power, but something had placed First Mate Rick Hudson aboard with twenty two years of USCG experience in directing helicopter rescue operations in adverse conditions. It was a good thing for me he was there.

A thin spiderweb of steel extended from this giant insect, dangling a fragile cocoon in the hurricane-force winds, and plopping it anonymously onto the icy deck as I was plunged in along with what meager belongings I was allowed to take.

Suddenly all slack was jerked from the line holding the tiny stainless steel basket that was my only touch with reality, and that reality became a turmoil of flight and fright, encapsulating my world into slow-motion with a feeling of standing far, far away and looking down on the happenings from a detached distance.

With a total feeling of insecurity my mind echoed with the far-off murmur of someone whispering, (to no one in particular):

“To Zanvoort, in the land of Holland, and Tyree, and places far, far away.”

“Where?”

“There! Can’t you see it? Just over the horizon . . . .”

“Second star to the right, and straight on till morning!”

Perhaps it was only the sighing of the wind . . .

I looked up over my head as my frail conveyance began to twist and turn violently in the wind (the boat was already left far behind) and beheld the most beautiful sight I have ever seen, a huge, black, grim looking face. This gargantuan Warrior-Knight wore (I swear) at least a size twenty four combat boot and he simply extended one mighty hand from the ‘chopper’ and made a grab for my twisting, turning basket. Of course he grabbed it instantly, why should you ask?

As PO3 Witherspoon pulled me into the safety and warmth of the big helicopter I’m sure he was wondering about the rather large grin on my face. All I could think of at the time was, “Black is truly beautiful!”

PO1 Smylie assisted me from the basket. Smylie was the swimmer and would have gone in after me if necessary. He turned me over to PO3 Martinez, who was the corpsman. These men were solid professionals. They didn’t rush and they didn’t leave anything out. First an IV was started and then an EKG. When Martinez saw the results he transmitted it to Sitka Community Hospital, which was our destination. Meanwhile, LCDR Merrill, the pilot and LCDR Gebele, the co-pilot maintained a perfect course. They had too. I owe my life to all these men of the USCG.

By the time I arrived the determination had already been made (based on the EKG) that there was nothing that could be done for me there. Doctor Brushafer (don’t you just love that name?), ably assisted by Jackie, Peggy, and Liz, escorted me into the hospital where the diagnosis was confirmed and I was informed I had two chances:

“Slim, and NONE!”

In fact, Dr. Brushafer said: “The only chance you have is to go before the very best surgeon in the world, and he happens to be in Seattle.”

“Seattle!” I had just arrived from Seattle. And now the only man that could possibly save my life was back there. “How do you propose I get there?” I humbly asked.

“All taken care of,” he replied. “Airlift Northwest has a Lear Jet Ambulance warming up on the end of the runway now. Your company seems to think an awful lot of you. You better go. You don’t want to be late for this one.”

Two RNs an E.M.T, Pilot, Co-Pilot, and little old me!

I was rushed to the airport where the plane was ready to roll. When I was put on board the door was immediately closed and we were cleared for take off. I remember the sound of the engines going to full throttle and they never backed off until we arrived in Seattle in what I am sure was record-breaking time.

The number of people responsible for the thin thread that held my shallow life was growing by leaps and bounds.

An Ambulance was waiting to take me to Providence Medical Center in Seattle and the trip was without incident. Naturally my RN flight attendants went right along with me. They would not release me to strange EMT’s. God Bless them.

The very first Doctor I saw in the emergency room of Providence Medical Center was the Cardiologist assigned to my case, Doctor C. Gordon Hale, MD. Dr. Hale is a smooth, good looking, middle-aged man who exudes confidence and skill. I immediately felt at ease and that I was in good hands. Dr. Hale asked me how I was feeling and I replied: “I am one sick puppy.” He later told me that was the best description of a medical condition he had ever heard from a patient. I was, indeed, one sick puppy.

After signing a Cart Blanch ‘Permission’ form (I told him their reputations preceded them and they were authorized to do anything and everything they thought was right) Dr. Hale told me he was going to put a tube down my throat to help me breath easier and make me feel better.

Deep inside I started to laugh. Funny how the smallest things pop into your mind at a time like that. I remembered when I had broken a tooth in a restaurant one evening years ago and called a good friend of mine, who was also my Dentist. He met me at his office. He administered Nitrous Oxide (laughing gas) and stood before me with a large pair of what looked like pliers and said: “Let me see if I can put a little bit of medicine on that tooth.” With my head yawing from side to side while he pulled on the tooth I thought that was the funniest thing in the world. Here I was, a grown man, who had come to him for treatment, and I knew fully well he had to pull the tooth, (that’s what I was there for) and he was ever the gentle soul by telling me some ridiculous story about putting some medicine on my tooth!

Well, that’s what went through my mind with Doctor Hale. I knew full well what I was there for, what the odds were, and it was as if Doctor Hale was telling me he was going to put a little bit of medicine on my tooth.

I cracked up!

That’s really the last thing I remember until it was all over. The rest of the story I had to glean from the people there, and my family.

Doctor G. Kimble Jett, assisted by Doctor Madeline Fraley, and only God knows how many others, had just finished open heart surgery that had lasted the entire day. These people were tired! It was time to go home and relax for a short while until another day began. Doctor Hale approached Doctor Jett in surgery and told him he had an emergency waiting if he felt like another procedure after what he had been through all day long. He told Doctor Jett what was wrong and later told me, he (Dr. Jett) took a deep breath, striped off his surgeon’s gloves and said: “We can do that!” Good thing for me. My time was being counted in a handful of minutes by then.

I simply must digress a moment and give you a snap-shot of these people, these surgeons. Forty-six-year-old Dr. Jett has a C.V. that reads like who’s who in the world of cardio-vascular surgery, research, innovations within his field, and no telling what else. It is simply not possible to do what this man has done in that short period of time, and that is why his reputation among other surgeons places him the ‘Best in the World.’ Nothing less would have done me any good at that time. His hobby of Marathon Running served him (and me) well that day. The man just doesn’t know when to quit, or the meaning of the word ‘failure.’

So there he stands, not much more than five feet five in his cowboy boots (he was borne and raised in Dallas, Texas), some say arrogant beyond belief (because of his years of training and skill, not because he thinks he is better than any one else), a marathon runner of notoriety, and at his side stands Doctor Madeline Fraley, capable beyond belief, who, in another life, could have been a High-fashion Model, and these people are going to use all their skill and perseverance to help me. What a deal!

Over Six hours later they had replaced my Mitral Valve with a new mechanical one (I had completely blown my old one) and had completed two coronary artery bypass grafts. Sweet Success? Not quite!

Doctor Madeline (Dr. Soft Eyes to me) Fraley was watching me closely and discovered very early that the indwelling intra-aortic balloon pump that was installed temporarily to keep my heart beating after the surgery was restricting the blood flow to my left leg where it interred my groin and went to my heart.

She made two calls. One was to Doctor Michael Zammit, MD to do a noninvasive lower extremity arterial evaluation. The other was to my home. She reached my youngest son, Mark, and told him about the ‘catch 22.’ If the pump was removed to save my leg my heart stood a good chance of stopping at that point and the game would be lost. If, on the other hand, the pump was left in, they would have to amputate my leg. What to do?

Mark asked if the good Doctor had a father. She replied: “Yes, I have a father.” And Mark asked her if she had rather have an old one-legged father home so she could hug his neck or a good-looking two-legged corpse for burial. She told him to ‘hang in there and don’t worry.’ They would do what they could and get back to him. She already had another plan if necessary.

The team went back to work and somehow managed to remove the pump, keep my heart beating and save the leg. Score - Surgeons three - Angel of Death Zero!

When I woke up in CICU I knew I had died and gone to Heaven because there before me was an Angel. She turned out to be Penny Steele, RN and I have never been made to feel so secure and safe in my life. I responded by immediately falling in love with her. What a Lady! I shall never forget her.

But my stay with her was short because the next day they checked me out of CICU and placed me on three west, a coronary surgery ward complete with all private rooms and constant care around the clock. This was Saturday morning and the result of their efforts was that I was released from the ward, indeed, released from the hospital Tuesday morning, barely five days since my surgery. Everyone in the hospital referred to me as ‘The Miracle Man.’

But the real Miracles at Providence Hospital are not performed by the patients, they are performed by the workers. From a person sweeping the floor to the top doctors there is a spirit of team-work and caring for other people that can’t be explained.

In a real sense my story started in 1823 with the birth of Mother Joseph. A phenomenal woman for her time, for any time, she, with the help of four other Nuns, founded the Sisters of Providence Hospital in Seattle, the third such hospital she had founded in the western wilderness at that time. It is a sobering thought to owe your life to a lady who died in 1902.

But in another sense Mother Joseph never died. She lives on in the spirit of The Sisters Of Providence who still provide the very best of care to all people regardless of their race, religion, creed or financial standing. May God bless them all.

One of the best new friends I met at the hospital is Alan Calkins. Alan is a Social Worker who, evidently, has no job description. He just goes about every day helping people. What a job.

I had been discharged from the hospital to the Providence Inn, which is a hotel in the old part of the hospital for the family of patients and ex-patients like me who were well enough to leave the facility, but not well enough for the long flight home to the hills of northern Arkansas.

The thing about ‘Catch 22’ is that it will always show up at the most inopportune time (also known as ‘Murphey’s Law’) and without even looking it blind-sided me! Thank God for Alan. He was able to have the hotel room billed to my room because I had no money with me, but that still left the problem of what to do about food until I could get money sent in.

To me, God has developed a tremendous sense of humor. There are times when I don’t know what to do or which way to turn and the solution is just handed to me and I see him having a great laugh, as though asking, “Haven’t I always taken care of you? Where is your faith?”

Alan took me to Steve Schultz, who runs the hotel, and told Steve of my problem. Steve replied; “That’s no problem.”

I wasn’t in my room fifteen minutes when there was a knock on the door. When I opened it there stood a young lady with two huge grocery sacks containing every kind of snack and prepared meal you can imagine. She didn’t seem to want thanks, said she was just doing her job.

RIGHT!

Two days later, after I had already received two other shipments of food, my money came in and I didn’t need the service any more. Or did I?

Tidewater Marine, immediately upon hearing of my plight, sent a check by fast courier and when it arrived I thought all my problems were over. But when I went to cash the check in the hospital bank I was informed they had a fifteen dollar limit. I was out of luck.

One of the lady security guards drove me to a local bank, but alas, the same problem followed me. I didn’t have an account at that bank and so they wouldn’t cash a check for me even though they were very familiar with my impeccable company.

What to do?

The security guard drove me back to the hospital and introduced me to Ron, the Chief of Security, who took me to the head of the bank, told him I was a patient of Dr. Jett and needed to cash a check. The man didn’t even look at the amount or who the check was drawn on. He just signed it!

The teller didn’t look too happy as I presented it to her again, but she immediately cashed it. So much for Catch 22 and now you know just one of the reasons why I see God as having a great sense of humor.

Two days later I told Ron I would like to meet a real Nun. He said he would introduce me to Sister Judy, “She’s about as real as they get.”

I was taken on a tour of the back part of the hospital, definitely the dingy side of Providence, and was somewhat surprised to finally be introduced to Sister Judy. She wasn’t much taller than my mother had been (four foot something) and she wore an old pair of trousers and sweat shirt. Ron was right about one thing: Sister Judy is about as real as they come. She is Beautiful!

She’s the one who collects and distributes food to the needy and, do I have to tell you, when she showed me her favorite place in the hospital it was a narrow corridor between the back of the old building and a newer one where she works. “This is where all the hungry men used to line up to be fed in the old days,” she said. “That doorway there was the old kitchen. I don’t know how they did it, but no one was ever turned away.”

Thus continues the legacy of The Sisters of Providence, still very much in evidence today. I told her that sometimes at night, when it was very quiet and I was all alone, I had seen two shadowy figures from the corner of my eye and I almost had the feeling some of the old Nuns were still around to watch over those who had no one there. Sister Judy replied so seriously and so matter-of-factly that I have no doubt as to the authenticity of those two figures. She said, “Oh yes, there are still two of them here to watch over people who need it.”

Maybe it was then that I made my pledge to Sister Judy that anything I could get from an article I wanted to write about what had happened to me would go directly to the Cardiac Surgery Department at Providence Hospital in Seattle.

If I were Catholic I would surely go into confession for lying to Sister Judy. I told her there had been two figures. I still am not sure why I said two. Sometimes there had been three. While talking to a very dear friend of mine she told me she had asked my mother to come and watch over me. I will always believe the third figure was my own departed mother with the two old Sisters.

While saying goodbye to Alan before I left for the airport I mentioned how very fortunate I was to work for a company like Tidewater Marine, Alaska or I would have never been able to get into the hospital and have the fine doctors and nurses I had. Alan smiled and asked me: “Do you know the difference in the treatment you would have received if you had stumbled in here with a pack on your back, dirty, and not a penny to your name?”

Naturally I said I imagine it would have been tremendous.

Allan just smiled and said: “NONE.” This is Providence Medical Center.

The one thing I have not completely understood yet, perhaps I never will, is the range of emotions I have undergone since my attack. While talking to my sister one night on the phone she suggested that is was because I was so close to death. I knew it wasn’t that. I have been a pilot, skydiver, scuba diver, mountain climber, desert treker, world traveler, sailor, screenwriter, songwriter, novelist, poet and no telling what else. At least a hundred times in my life I could have batted my eyes and died, actually should have died, and somehow that didn’t really effect me.

Maybe the only difference was all of those experiences were on my nickel. The rest of my life is now on someone else’s nickel. I shall never be able to pay it back, but I have decided to try by spreading the word about the facility in Seattle and others across the United States, ran by The Sisters Of Providence, that do so much for so many, with so little. They should be a model for every Church and community in America.

At last someone finally got it right!

And now, after hearing about Providence Medical Center, you say you know someone who needs to go there, or someone who would like to help, but you don’t know the location? That’s easy! Just follow your dreams.

“SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT, AND STRAIGHT ON TILL MORNING!”

Thanks to everyone,
C. Wayne Lammers

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