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Dan Hiebert
It was really messy out there that day. Blood was spurting out as if I’d hit an oil gusher – except the oil was crimson, not black. Torn flesh hung like a ragged cloth below my knee. My blackened shin bone was just a dead stick with no foot. September 13, 1975. I was 18, and life was just opening before me. The moment is burned into my memory forever. I see everything in slow motion. Tumbling through the air as my leg is wrenched from my surprised body, my pant leg having been caught in the power take-off shaft of the tractor. Landing on my rump. Staring unbelievingly at my leg that is no longer whole. Terror and panic gripping my chest. Trying to run, stumbling, rolling in the grass and cow manure. Hopping madly toward the house. Yelling for help. Falling again as I try to run, forgetting that I am now an amputee – in a split second, my life has changed forever. I can see Larry and Mom coming toward me. I can see the old Chevy pick-up truck barrelling through the gate. Then Larry is beside me, using his belt as a tourniquet to stop the blood flow. The thirsty ground greedily drinking it in, so willing to receive the life I’m not willing to yield up.
Now I’m in the truck, but still bleeding. My mom’s kerchief has been added to Larry’s belt to stem the flow. A kitchen pan is collecting the precious drops of my life – I think Mom somehow hopes that catching them will save me. We’re roaring out the gate and onto the road. The main road is a quarter of a mile away. Dad is combining beside that road, and Larry drives the truck through the ditch to come up beside the combine. Dad stops and gets out with a puzzled look, which quickly changes to terror as Larry fills him in. Mom is encouraging me to hold on. The hospital is 20 miles away. In an instant, Dad is behind the wheel of the truck, and we’re bouncing back onto the road headed for the highway, the hospital and life . . . if we make it on time.
The pain hasn’t started yet, so I begin talking about what’s happening. I talk about God and how I know He is behind this. I tell my parents how I’ve been praying for my unsaved friends that they would somehow be reached. I tell them how I told God He could do anything as long as it reached those guys. I prattle on about how it was actually me that God was zeroing in on. I say I’ll never be afraid to share my faith and live for Christ again. I say it will be too bad that I can never ski again – I love skiing. The miles roll by slowly. My leg starts to throb. My head is light because my blood pressure is low. I want to pass out. Mom urges me to stay conscious – she’s worried that I will never wake up again. I resolve to stay conscious for her.
The hospital is now only five miles away. Somehow the old half-ton is getting us there. It can’t do much more than 80 without shaking. Dad is on the horn and flashing his lights trying to get traffic to move aside for us. I’m insanely embarrassed – all this because of me? The RCMP are behind us, escorting us to the emergency room.
Finally we make it. A stretcher is wheeled out, and a cop helps me onto its stark white sheet. I’m wheeled into the corridor, and now I must wait. All I can see is the ceiling and the faces that periodically check on me. Soothing words are spoken. My parents are understandably anxious. Maybe they’re losing their son. If only they hadn’t moved to the farm, they must be thinking. If only they hadn’t asked him to help out after he came home from work today. If only . . . but here we are, and it is too late to change anything.
Finally I’m wheeled into the emergency room. The doctor is looking at what’s left of my leg. I remember that Larry chucked the torn-off foot into the truck at my request. I’m still thinking that maybe they can save it. I ask the doctor. He answers honestly – No. I guess they’re thinking they’ll be lucky if they can save my life. Now the anesthetist is there and mercifully gives me a shot of morphine. My body begins to relax.
Then they’re wheeling me up to the operating room. I hear someone say they’ll have to pump my stomach because I just ate supper an hour ago. Was that only an hour? It seems like a lifetime. I plead with the orderly not to pump my stomach when I’m conscious. I hate throwing up. He smiles and reassures me that of course I’ll be out when they remove my stomach contents. How insane. I’m dying, but I’m still worried about throwing up.
Now things get hazy because the blood loss and morphine have taken their toll. I don’t remember the operating room. I only remember waking up four hours later with my parents and our pastor around my bed. I guess I almost didn’t make it. Pastor Ron is reading something from 1 Peter about trials, and then he’s praying. He retreats sombrely and leaves my parents by my side. I try to reassure them. They finally tear themselves way. Now I’m alone . . . except for the nurses.
I’m so thirsty. A nurse appears and gives me a straw, and water irrigates my parched mouth. I remember that first night. The pain, the constant feeling of discomfort. Not being able to find any comfortable position. Having the nurses roll me onto one side, then the other. I remember their soothing words, their professional calm. Their care and the surgeon’s skill saved my life – and the prayers of God’s people.
That was nearly 26 years ago, and I can still remember it like it happened yesterday. Since then, I’ve lived with the challenge and frustration of disability. Hours of physiotherapy. Endless hours spent in prostheticists’ waiting rooms and fitting rooms. Days and sometimes weeks when my prosthesis could not be worn because my stump was too sore. Crutches, canes and phantom pains. But I also remember strapping on skis again. Playing intramural hockey at college. Finding out that girls would still go out with me even though I was a “gimp”. I remember graduation and moving as a single man to my first pastorate. I remember tromping through the bush hunting for grouse and ducks. I remember the “leg parties” that my friends would throw on the anniversary of my misfortune. I remember standing at the front of the church sweating as I awaited my bride. I remember the pride and relief of holding our firstborn child. I remember leaving the professional ministry, going into business and being successful. I remember new breakthroughs in technology that have made wearing an artificial leg easier. I also remember those things I told my parents in the ’67 Chevy on the way to the hospital. They still haunt me.
Was God in this thing? Sure He was. He allowed it, and He used it to shape me. Even though it happened when I was 18, I can’t remember being any other way than the way I am. But I still long for wholeness. Is it still hard for me to share Christ with unbelieving friends and co-workers? Sure it is. Maybe it got a bit easier, but it’s always been hard and probably always will be. But God has used the disability in my life to change me. Even though I don’t always look at it positively, every morning as I put on my prosthesis, I have an opportunity to thank God for saving me, for giving me this good life and for giving me many opportunities to display His goodness to others. Hopefully my attitude has had a positive impact on others who face their own set of challenges. I realize that I’m not as severely disabled as others. Sometimes I even argue with my wife that I’m really not disabled at all. God has been faithful in giving me grace to live with a stump and an artificial leg.
What is your disability? We’ve all got them. Disabilities come in many forms. They may be physical, emotional, mental or even spiritual. Living in an imperfect, sinful world lays a burden of disability on us all. Some of us have physical disabilities which are hard to miss. Others are emotional cripples and don’t even know it. Whatever your disability, God can turn it around and make it an opportunity for you to bring glory to Him – if you allow Him to.
Dan Hiebert lives in Abbotsford, B.C., with his wife Dorothea and daughters Rachel and Rebekah. They attend Northview Community Church.
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Last modified May 23, 2001.
© 2001 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
Published by the Canadian Conference of MB Churches.
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