It give me pause, but I am anxious to live and serve and love

Wednesday. Light rain darkened the pavement as we stepped through the occupied parking lot toward the Emergency Room. We didn’t hurry. The security officer nodded as we passed. Through the narrow window in the waiting-room door, faces turned, then watch as we pushed inside. Smelling faintly of disinfectant, the stale, damp air wrapped around us. Nearly every seat was taken. Masks covered half the faces; tired and concerned eyes covered the rest. A cough broke the silence.

One man hunched forward, pressing an ice pack against his jaw. Another stretched out a bandaged foot. A construction worker checked-in with the administrator, a spotted towel wrapped tightly around his hand held high. Another woman leaned back, her chin red and stiff. Entering, we passed a fully armed police officer standing watch beside a man in a hoodie. Across the room, another officer spoke in teen-age terms to another man whose voice and vocabulary spoke of contempt and impatience and mental illness.

We checked in then side-stepped between the tight rows finding two chairs. I lowered myself and thought, “Maybe it will pass.” It usually did. Most of my Afib episodes had resolved at home—rest, medication, deep breathing and patience. I took a deep breath; 4 seconds in, 8 seconds out. I checked my Apple Watch. My heart rate still high, my rhythm still irregular, the diagnosis displayed, “Atrial Fibrillation.” The time was 9:00 pm. Nine hours of Afib. My fourth ER visit in two years.

That last few days felt distant already. On Monday we visited low-income homes of five youth to help them fill out their permission slips for this summer’s youth handcart trek. Some lacking phones, technology, or even English skills, they needed help. That evening we conducted a compassionate adult addiction recovery support meeting. On Tuesday we helped our bishop gather youth including those we visited the day before, for productive time during spring break. “They always come if we play volleyball,” he said. On Wednesday, we had walked at Wailea Point, the ocean bright and finally calm compared with the Kona storm last week. People filled the boardwalk, the beach, the roads, the stores. Movement everywhere. Energy. Maybe too much. By afternoon in our apartment, I lay still, waiting for my heart to settle. It didn’t. So here we were.

A nurse called my name. Questions came in short bursts—history, symptoms, timing. Electrode patches were stuck all over my chest. An EKG acquired. An IV in my arm. A syringe filled with dark red. Then more waiting. Beside us, my wife leaned toward a woman clutching her abdomen. She spoke softly but with conviction pointing to the image on her smartphone—“This will help your husbands Afib,” she insisted. We nodded. Listened.

Across the aisle, a ‘local’ caught our attention as he pointed at my jacket. “BYU?” I nodded. He pulled down his mask. His face lit up. “I went to BYU-Hawaii.” “When were you there,” I asked. “In the Eighties.” A nurse came and asked me a few more questions then stepped away. I forgot my Afib for a moment and stood and moved in front of the couple. “What did you study and do at BYU?” From his curly long-haired Polynesian face he emitted a pleasing and confident smile. “Worked at the PCC on Oahu–Dancing, performing, whatever they needed.” He gestured to his wife beside him. “We married, raised four kids. Maui’s our home.” Before I could ask more, a voice called out their name, and they were gone. We never got their contact information. Finally we heard, “Hardman.” We left the waiting room and took the available bed in ER. 

Amidst the busy evening, all the medical professionals were kind and effective. We were impressed and grateful. Thirty minutes later Joan was excused from the room and several doctors and nurses gathered around my bed, and readied for cardio-version. I stared at the ceiling. “Do you feel anything?” The doctor asked as he pressed the fluid into my arm. “A little pressure.” A moment later I said, “There it is…” The ceiling got fussy. “There’s the dizziness…” And I was asleep. I dreamed. Ten minutes later I woke up very relaxed and calm. The doctor informed me that they performed cardio-version twice, but each time my heart reverted to Afib. They took their time, provided necessary medications and made me stable. After painfully removing the patches from my harry chest, they released me to rest at home. The next morning I awoke and immediately checked my Apple Watch. “Sinus Rhythm.” No Afib. Relief.

Online, and in distant communication with my cardiologist, I continue to study the cause and how to reduce Atrial Fibrillation. I always have hope. But there are times when I feel not in control of the present. This is likely true with many that we meet, whether poor economically, sick physically, or addicted. I remembered the pool of Bethesda and it’s porches. “In these lay a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the moving of the water…” One of the men there, “had an infirmity thirty and eight years. When Jesus saw him lie, and knew that he had been now a long time in that case, he saith unto him, Wilt thou be made whole?… Jesus saith unto him, Rise, take up thy bed, and walk. And immediately the man was made whole, and took up his bed, and walked.” (John 5:2-9)

The paradise of Maui holds more than beauty. On the streets makeshift tents are ever present, real lives pressed within. There are many cultures and economic levels. In ARP meetings, hands tremble slightly as they reach for help, for hope, for God. And as we learned on a rainy night in an emergency room, there are the sick and afflicted who wait for help. My condition reminds me of my mortality. But I do not fear it. It gives me pause, but I am anxious to live and serve and love. Whatever my lot, I will wait upon the Lord. By his ever-present invitation, I “rise and walk” and serve in whatever way I can.