A Glimpse of Heaven

There are angels among us

A Glimpse of Heaven

The Christmas promise

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

             Our ranch investment was new and chaotic.

            We neighbored a rancher who was very incensed one of our bulls was on him. I didn’t get the call, but he called Kathy and read her the right act. When she finally got me, she was distraught. I told her I would take care of it.

            I hadn’t taken a horse to the ranch that day, so I had to resort to riding a horse that had been on the ranch in the transition. I had ridden him at least twice and I knew he was not to be taken lightly.

I was very aware of the situation.

The wreck

Our full time cowboy was with me that day and he had to check a pump so, after we unloaded the horse, he left. I knew he might not be back until sundown.

I took my time pulling the cinch. We went through the normal bronc routine including ‘tres jueltes de la muerta’. I was wary of the horse. I mounted him and sat there talking to him and putting my hands on him before we left.

I don’t remember much after that.

I do remember trying to pull his head around to me as he ran bucking. There was a flurry of color, and, then, it was all gone … dark.

I awoke heaving for air. I held one broken rein in my left hand. The horse was grazing 50 yards away.

I couldn’t get up. I finally crawled back to the water trough where it all began. I remember leaning back against the cool trough feeling dizzy. I either passed out or went to sleep.

When I awoke I knew I had to get to my truck four miles away at the headquarters. I got to my feet, but I felt all loose in my upper torso.

I staggered to the horse and caught him. Thinking there was no way I could walk I had to try to mount him. I knew I couldn’t jump to catch a stirrup so I led him into a cut where I mounted him.

He immediately tried to buck again … but I was able to step off onto the edge of the cut. I held him up with the left rein I had retied when I remounted him.

The walk

My granddad’s silver horned Seitzler saddle was on the horse and I wasn’t about to turn him loose with it, couldn’t pack it, so I would lead him packing the saddle. I wasn’t going to mount him again.

I had a dilemma. There were two choices. The first was to go over the hill on the county road. It was the only opportunity to hail a ride, but I was hesitant because I wasn’t sure I could make the climb. The second choice was to go down the valley and follow the Butterfield Trail to the house. The latter was the easier walk, but it meant I was on my own if things got bad.

I chose the latter.

By the time I got to New Joy Tank, my vision had become two points of light way out there. I worked hard at getting a full breath of air. I forced myself to concentrate.

The last mile to the house was a stumbling exercise of endurance.

The drive to the highway.

The walk into yard was both a relief and a dreaded event. I had to unsaddle the horse and I was not sure I could hold the saddle when I pulled it off. I knew I couldn’t bend over to pick it up. I had one chance.

I uncinched the horse, pulled and caught the saddle with my right hand, and lifted it into the truck in one fell motion. I lead the horse to the corral and turned him loose. I never saw him again.

I then had to climb into my pickup. That was accomplished with my chest cavity sloshing. I sat there. I wasn’t sure I could drive.

My cell phone rang. Our cattle partner called. He asked how things were going and I told him briefly in the whisper I could muster I was hurt. He told me he would meet me at the highway.

It is seven miles to the highway. I didn’t drive fast, but I didn’t drive slowly either. I struggled mightily just keeping my eyes focused.

When I drove up to the corrals at our entrance, he drove off the freeway. He drove the 26 miles from town in the same time I had driven seven from the headquarters. We transferred my saddle, and I climbed into his truck on its stepped side.

I asked him for his ever present painkiller and took all nine pills in the bottle. We had called Kathy, but I called her again to tell her we were on the way. By the time the pills was kicking in and I suggested maybe I ought to just go on home and get in bed.

My suggestion was refused.

The Emergency Room

We arrived at the emergency room entrance and attendants were waiting. I declined the gurney ride and walked into the hospital. I met the attending physician, Dr. Marcy Gillespie. She would become my angel.

She first asked me what I thought was wrong and I told her I had broken ribs. She asked me why I thought that and I said something about ‘because I have broken ribs’. People were around me trying to cut my clothes off, but, when they started trying to cut my leggins’ off, I scattered them!

They helped me ‘take’ them off.

When they insisted, I told them I couldn’t raise my arms for an X-ray. To prove the point, I passed out when I tried. They took them without raising my arms.

I can remember my wife and Dr. Gillespie studying at the X-rays on the wall display. Later, Kathy would tell me that all ribs on my left side above a shadow were broken. Dr. Gillespie suspected those within the shadow, blood accumulation above my diaphragm, were broken as well.

As I watched them … I died.

Toward heaven

I experienced it, but others may find solace in it.

Normally, when it has been described, I preface those few minutes with the fact that I was there the whole time. It started with a funny sensation … almost like a tingling and reactionary response much like biting into a lemon.

Kathy remembers my response as if I was shaking my head. I found a degree of relief from it by pushing harder back into the pillow.

Then I was released from all feel sensations …for a while.

There was ongoing sound around me. There was clatter and a degree of chaos. I distinctly heard the doctor call what I remember as, “Give me a number 20 cutter!”

What I remember most was not the confusion around me, but the absolute peacefulness within me. I was not above the scene but I wasn’t necessarily within the scene either. I witnessed people scrambling without seeing people scrambling.

All the while, I can only describe what must be interpreted as narration of the event to myself.

“Why are they all upset,” I said and acknowledged repeatedly. “Everything is fine.”

“Everything is going to be okay.”

I was warm … amazingly, comfortably warm.

I saw no clear, distinct light, but everything was bright with clarity.

I saw no one or any other scene other than my immediate surroundings, but there was never any fear. I don’t think I saw distinct faces of anyone. There was just overpowering calm and peace. It was a good place … it was a very good place.

Then, far away I felt something.

“You must concentrate on that,” I told myself. “You must concentrate.”

“Damn, that hurts,” or something with more emphasis I was purportedly to have said. I recognized immediately it was Dr. Gillespie by me. All feeling had returned and the immense calmness vanished.

 “Welcome back,” she said in a near whisper, “Let me do something about that (pain).”

She had been cutting me and inserting tubes into my chest. She saved my life.

Epilogue

Years later we were in the emergency room as the result of another horse wreck. It wasn’t me, but it was someone very precious to me, a granddaughter. As luck would have it, my angel was an attending physician.

When confirmation was made that nothing serious was at hand, I found her at the nurses’ station. I hugged her and announced to the gathered crew how lucky I was, and, it was because of her, that I stood there that day.

Neither of us … could say another thing.

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “It was a good place. It was a glimpse of what we have been promised … Merry Christmas.”