Hands of Love

I wrote this story for Mom and Dad over 2 years ago, the last time we almost lost her. I want people to read it, to understand the beauty and miracle of what happened, so here it is. It's a beautiful day of hunkering down and getting stuff finished. I started out wearing a beautiful sleeveless sundress, but have now changed into a warmer long-sleever jersey dress - is it summer yet?

Hands of Love
By William and Marietta Ekberg


It wasn’t unusual that we were still playing cards at 11:30 at night. It also wasn’t unusual that I was getting beat, pretty soundly. What is unusual, however, is that my wife, her hand reaching for her chest, is mumbling a few words before she slowly and gently starts slumping forward. I have enough time to reach her head before it hits the table. I worry about that – I’ve heard it’s not so bad that people faint, but that they usually hit their heads on something on the way down, and that’s what causes real damage. I gently hold her head while I talk to her. I ask her what’s wrong, should I call 911, but she doesn’t answer. Her eyes are closed, and it looks like she’s sleeping. But I know she’s not.

I call 911. Luckily we keep our cordless phone within reach at all times. It’s hard for Marietta to get around anywhere fast these days; with two artificial hips, a pacemaker, and poor circulation due to her diabetes. The closer we keep the phone, the better the chances that we’ll get to it before the answering machine picks up.

With the ambulance and the police on the way, I look back at her. She’s so beautiful, with her wavy salt and pepper hair, her soft face and wrinkles that tell everything about her. All the laughing, the kissing, the worrying. Raising five daughters to adulthood wasn’t easy, but she’d always wanted a big family, and was thrilled when they kept coming, and coming. She’s been sick before, and we’d almost lost her a year ago when her heart medicines got messed up.

When her irregular heartbeat first started giving her trouble, the doctors said to watch it for two hours. If it didn’t even out, we were supposed to go to the ER because it can be dangerous if it goes on too long. It helped when I put my hands on her back and chest. If it didn’t get better, we would go to the ER. Usually she was low on potassium or there would be some kind of imbalance that called for medical attention. For those times, it didn’t seem like my hands could help.

We joke that sometimes I’m better than any doctor’s machines because when her heart starts beating irregularly my hand on her back will often even it out again. The nurses didn’t believe us at first, but when we were in the doctor’s office one day, with Marietta hooked up, the nurse walked in and said, “What happened?”

“I put my hands on her back; that sometimes helps her heart.” We look at the monitor. Regular as clockwork.

The nurse says, “Take your hands away, then put them back.” So I do. Regular slides into irregular then back to regular. Regular as clockwork. The nurse said “Wow.”

I think she’s dead. I don’t know what I’ll do if she dies right now, here with her head in my hands. I’m not ready. So as I hold her I whisper, “Please don’t die. Please don’t die.” On until I hear the ambulance siren and see their lights flashing through the front windows. I think she’s dead. And I don’t know what else to do but kneel here beside her, her head in my hands, and whisper to her.

I don’t remember exactly what happened. I remember feeling two little flutters in my chest, and I remember trying to say something, but I don’t remember anything after that. I only know that as I come to, I know I’m still alive, and I can feel his hands on my face, healing me. I smile. My first thought is, “So THIS is what healing feels like. This is what it looks like.” It is warm and soft and comforting and bright. Total, utter, complete peace. It is quiet, and I am alone, but I’m not alone. And familiar. So familiar. I know he is healing me, so I sit quietly and just let the warmth soak into me. There is only peace; I am surrounded in love.

I’ve felt tired lately. So tired. I can hardly walk. And dizzy. I always feel dizzy. My youngest daughter said something wasn’t right with me, the last time she visited. She knows about things like that, so I listen, but what am I supposed to do about it?

I’m 83, and all sorts of things are slowing down, or even quitting. But I love my life. I love my husband, and my daughters, and my grandchildren, all 18 of them. I don’t think I’m ready to go yet, but you just never know. I think when it’s your time, it’s your time, so I don’t worry too much about it. I wake up every morning, and look over at my husband and think, “Thank God for one more day.”

I hear the police come in, followed by the ambulance workers. I open my eyes and smile at Bill. I still can’t talk, can’t put into words what’s happened, but when I look into his damp eyes, I know that he knows, and we don’t need words for that.

It takes more than an hour for everyone to do what they need to do. They load me onto the stretcher and put me in the ambulance. Bill can’t ride with me, so he follows close behind in his own car. When they finally get me hooked up to the heart monitor, I lay back in bed and close my eyes. It’s almost 2AM and I’m tired, even if I usually stay up this late. This is different. I feel Bill sit down on the chair by the bed, and feel his big, warm hand take mine.

When morning comes a technician checks my pacemaker to see if it is still working, they also analyze its memory. They are amazed at what is revealed. The data shows that I went through 7 ½ minutes of v-tac, or ventrical tachycardia. For 7 ½ minutes my heart was beating at 400 beats per minute.

“The other doctors need to see this,” he says to the nurses. “They’ll never believe it.” I’ve had close to a ventricular fibrillation, and people don’t come back after one of those. They usually don’t. They usually die. They don’t come back. But I did. And I don’t know why. I only know that tonight a miracle happened, and I was there, and Bill was there, and it was real.

I wonder why me, what special reason is there, what’s left for me to do here on Earth? Maybe it’s just to tell this story. It’s a story about love, and about hope, and about faith, and believing in things unseen. And I believe. I really do.

I love my wife. I would do anything for her. I’m glad she’s alive, and I’m glad I could help. I don’t talk about this much, because some people don’t believe it. But I do, and she does, and some of the doctors do. But all that really matters is this: love is powerful, and healing, and when love is present, so are miracles.

So this is my story. And her story. This is our story.

Note: since Marietta’s heart incident, she has noticed many other interesting side effects of the healing. Her blood sugar levels have regulated, she sleeps much more soundly, and best of all, she reports, she’s almost never late anymore!



Susie's Note: Since then, we almost lost Mom again 1 1/2 months ago - she was hospitalized in a diabetic coma, followed by a mild heart attack, but miraculously survived to go home to her beautiful river townhome with a gentle breeze and a lot of sun. She moves slower, and gets out of breath pretty easily, but she's still alive, and we're all very grateful for the precious extra time with her.