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  PHYSICIANS’ UNTOLD STORIES

  PHYSICIANS’ UNTOLD

  STORIES

  MIRACULOUS EXPERIENCES

  DOCTORS ARE HESITANT

  TO SHARE WITH THEIR

  PATIENTS, OR ANYONE!

  Scott J. Kolbaba, MD

  Copyright © 2016 Scott J. Kolbaba, MD

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 9781530841578

  ISBN-10: 1530841577

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016905472

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  This book is dedicated to the loves of my life:

  my wife, Joan;

  my children, Bethany, Dane, Nathan, Ian, Jordan, Florin,

  and Luciana;

  their respective spouses, Todd, Leilani, Mandy, and Jessica;

  and my grandchildren, Danika, Zoey, Cameron, Elyssa, Quinn,

  Wyatt, Grayden, Avery, and Olivia.

  They are what it’s all about.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Part One: Divine Intervention

  Chapter 1 If I Had Been Buckled

  Chapter 2 God’s Emissaries

  Chapter 3 Music in the Emergency Department

  Chapter 4 The Burning Bus

  Part Two: Death and the Afterlife

  Chapter 5 Grandma O’Hanlon

  Chapter 6 Mary’s Christmas Carol

  Chapter 7 A Call from Mom

  Chapter 8 Gus’s Last Salute

  Chapter 9 Freezing Cold

  Chapter 10 The Ultimate Missionary

  Chapter 11 The Dime

  Chapter 12 “Get the Paddles!”

  Part Three: Healing

  Chapter 13 Gone Fishin’

  Chapter 14 A Series of Miracles

  Chapter 15 The Dream

  Chapter 16 Operating in the Philippines

  Chapter 17 Trouble on the Mountain

  Chapter 18 Shopping for a Miracle

  Chapter 19 The Lunch Meeting

  Chapter 20 A Friend in Trouble

  Chapter 21 Family Connections

  Part Four: Prayer

  Chapter 22 Praying for a Miracle

  Chapter 23 Three-Way Phone Call to Heaven

  Chapter 24 Jason the Jet

  Chapter 25 The Morning Miracle

  Chapter 26 Fasting for a Family

  Conclusion: What Doctors Taught Me

  Afterword: Divine Coincidences

  About the Doctors

  How This Book Was Written

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve Had an Experience Like That Too!

  INTRODUCTION

  “MR. KOLBABA, I’M SORRY TO tell you that you just don’t have what it takes to become a doctor. You should give up your ideas and get a regular job.”

  This was the concluding comment from one of the most powerful physicians in Chicago medicine, the dean of a prestigious Chicago medical school, during my medical school interview in 1971.

  I was devastated. I simply could not imagine being anything but a doctor, and it took me several weeks to get over his “advice.” True, I was not the most studious college student, but his statement, instead of demoralizing me, motivated me. I was now a student on fire. Nothing would keep me from my goal of getting into medical school and becoming the absolute best doctor I could be.

  As a recent graduate of Cornell College, I was working full-time, but I enrolled at Roosevelt University in the only evening organic chemistry course in the Chicago area, because I had missed this course as an undergraduate. The commute from my home in DeKalb was nearly seventy miles each way, so I would prop my book up on the steering wheel and memorize the formulas (I would not advise that today). In my “leisure” time, I studied all the basic subjects that comprised the Medical College Admission Test (MCAT).

  The next year when I took the MCAT, my scores improved from the twentieth percentile to over the ninetieth percentile, and two medical schools offered me places in their entering classes. My motivation continued, and I graduated with honors from the University of Illinois College of Medicine. For my residency, I chose the nearby school that had advised me to give up my medical aspirations. In a rare stroke of poetic justice, the faculty there voted me Intern of the Year, an award presented by the same dean’s office that had initially advised me to give up!

  I transferred again to complete my residency in internal medicine at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. I subsequently entered private practice in Wheaton, Illinois, and have loved every minute of my thirty-five year career. I went into medicine with the hope of helping those in need, and I am eternally grateful for the opportunity to do just that, at least in a modest way.

  Medicine has changed a great deal since I first started. We now have CT scans, endoscopy (fortunately or unfortunately that does include colonoscopy), MRI scanning, and minimally invasive surgery. But showing love for those we serve will never change. Holding the hand of a distressed patient in the examination room, telling a bad joke to lighten up the often somber mood in the hospital, or saying a prayer with a spiritual family are the intangibles in medicine that help heal the human spirit.

  About ten years ago, I had an experience that I couldn’t explain logically. I woke up in the morning knowing that one of my patients, Taylor Johnson, needed a lung scan. I don’t know why I thought that. It really did not make any sense. Taylor was suffering with undiagnosed abdominal pain, not chest or lung pain.

  On a trip to Louisiana, Taylor had developed severe right upper abdominal pain, classic for gallbladder. He paged me from Louisiana, and I advised him to go to an emergency department, where he had some blood tests and a gallbladder ultrasound. All were normal. Then I saw him in the office when he returned home, and I ordered some additional blood tests and a special liver and gallbladder scan to help further diagnose what appeared to be gallbladder disease. All those tests were normal, yet his pain continued.

  That I had such a strong feeling about the need for a lung scan simply was not reasonable. This was clearly not a lung problem, but I could not get the thought out of my mind. So I took the unusual step of calling Taylor on the phone at seven in the morning, before hospital rounds.

  “You need a lung scan today,” I told him. After the words left my mouth, I blushed at the boldness of my statement. I am usually not that direct, but I felt a sense of urgency that I really could not explain.

  After a stunned silence, Taylor replied, “I’m sorry, but I’m leaving for Denver this afternoon, and I need to pack and be at the airport by two.”

  I paused for a minute, searching for what to say next. Some time in my medical career, I had learned the value of negotiation, so I asked, “If I can get the scan in before noon, would you go?”

  Another silence at the end of the phone line. Then came a reluctant, “Okay.”

  I felt relieved, but I wasn’t sure why. Next I called the radiology department, something my nurse would normally do. “Could I get a CT contrast study of the chest before noon?” I asked.

  A suppressed laugh greeted my request. “Our studies are booked out through the end of the week!” was the reply.

  Then silence on my part.

  This must have been enough for the technician in the radiology department to cave in, because he said, “Okay, send him right over.”

  I called Taylor back and gave him the news. He could have the test and then be back by midmorning to pack. I still felt a little strange placing so much emphasis on a study I had difficulty believing was indicated! That was until I heard back from the radiologist two hours later.

  “Taylor Johnson has a massive pulmonary embolus in his right lung near the diaphragm,” he said.
“That’s probably why he had such bad abdominal pain and not chest pain. Good call to order a lung scan. You probably saved his life!”

  I had to sit down because my knees were suddenly weak. Had Taylor flown out that day and had another blood clot, it may have been fatal. I immediately admitted him from the radiology department to the intensive care step-down unit of the hospital. We discovered a hereditary clotting disorder which predisposed him to pulmonary emboli. He is now on lifelong blood thinners and doing well.

  I was so moved by this act of what I could only consider divine intervention that I started to ask my physician friends if they had ever had similar experiences. What I discovered was both surprising and inspiring. Many, particularly those with more gray hair, had personal stories to tell about experiences with no scientific explanation. And they were happy to share them with a colleague who would not criticize them.

  I became a good listener. Some of the stories were so amazing that when I retold them to my wife or a friend, I literally had to stop to compose myself. Many gave me chills and goose bumps. After hearing five or six of these incredible experiences, I felt compelled to write them down. This was the birth of my book, Physicians’ Untold Stories, featuring ordinary doctors in private practice who experienced or witnessed events that could not be explained by anything we learned in medical school.

  It is my hope that anyone reading this collection of stories will know with as much certainty as I do that there is something more than what we can see with our eyes, and that prayers are important and may be answered immediately and sometimes in spectacular ways. And most of all, I want everyone to realize that there is hope for those who suffer, because I have witnessed an unconditional love that acts in our day-to-day lives. I want patients to know that many doctors have spiritual as well as scientific sides. It is acceptable to speak with medical professionals about intimate spiritual feelings, because healing sometimes takes place without medicine, through a faith that is important and real. I have experienced this and so have many other doctors.

  I hope you are touched by these true physician stories as much as I have been and that they bring you inspiration, an inner peace, and hope in this troubled world.

  Scott J. Kolbaba, MD

  Wheaton, Illinois

  2016

  PART ONE

  DIVINE INTERVENTION

  CHAPTER 1

  IF I HAD BEEN BUCKLED

  LUIS MANRIQUE, MD

  THE LIGHT WAS IMPERCEPTIBLE AT first, and I am not sure I recognized that it was a light at all, until it grew brighter and brighter and filled the entire room. It was the middle of the night, and I was lying in my bed sleeping. At least I thought I was sleeping. I was afraid that if I opened my eyes, it would cease being a dream and become real, so I kept my eyes closed. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the rational thing to do, but it seemed logical at the time.

  The head of my bed was against the back wall, so when I heard a man’s voice from behind me, I couldn’t understand where it was coming from. It made me anxious at first, but the voice was so gentle that it reminded me of a loving father comforting a frightened child, and his speech was accompanied by a wisp of air, like a soft touch on my forehead.

  “Everything is going to be all right,” he said.

  The room was so quiet that I slowed my breathing to prevent the sound from interrupting the rest of the message, but there were no other words. And just as quickly as the light appeared, it faded into the blackness of the night, and I drifted off into a deep sleep.

  When I awoke in the morning, I was surprised that the dream remained in my consciousness as distinctly as when it happened. Most of my dreams fade away when I open my eyes and start the day. I paused to search my mind for some deep spiritual meaning, but the significance was not forthcoming, and my mental rambling was soon replaced by the reality of preparing a quick breakfast before hurrying off to class.

  I was a sixth-year medical student living in Lima, Peru. In my homeland, medical school is actually eight years, combining undergraduate college with medical school. The sixth year is primarily lectures during the day and homework all evening. I had become an expert student, but there was more to learn than I ever thought possible. This had been a very tiring week with many late nights. Now it was Friday, and I looked forward to taking one night off to spend some leisure time with my classmates.

  After the final lecture of the day, I headed home to change, and then four of us met at a local nightclub. We must have been a sorry sight, each with dark circles from lack of sleep, but we all were determined to keep up with the usual nightclub crowd. Just after midnight, we could not stay awake and agreed to leave. My friend, Manuel, was our designated driver, although I’m not sure why since he had as many beers as the rest of us. When we walked out of the smoky room into the cool night air, we all gained a second wind.

  On our trip back, we rolled down our car windows, and our boisterous laughter echoed off the nearby buildings. As we approached a bridge over a highway crossing, Manuel got into our festive mood and began to swerve back and forth. At first it was fun, but I became nervous sitting in the passenger’s seat in the front, and I reached over to fasten my seat belt. Manuel looked directly at me and said, “You don’t need to buckle.” It was so uncharacteristic for him to say anything like that and with such authority that I immediately released the belt.

  Those were the last words that Manuel ever spoke.

  At the end of the bridge was a sharp turn, and by the time I realized we were going too fast, Manuel was already into the turn. The tires screeched as we slid into the curb, and then rolled over and over. The driver’s door flew open, and Manual, who was already unconscious, was thrown out of the car. He remained in a coma until his death five days later in the hospital. We all screamed as the car careened to a precarious stop upside down on the highway. I had been thrown into the driver’s seat behind the mangled steering wheel. When I looked over to where I had been sitting, I felt a sudden chill. The roof of the car had collapsed, crushing the passenger’s seat. If I had been buckled, I would have been killed.

  I crawled out the window and ran to a nearby fire station for help. Between gasps, I related our tragic story to the fire fighters, who rushed me into the ambulance to direct them to the scene of the accident.

  When we arrived, all I could do was to sit down on the curb with my arms outstretched to prop up my body, which was quivering from adrenalin. The severity of the accident finally registered in my brain. One of the paramedics came over to treat me for any wounds I had sustained. I was covered with broken glass from the shattered windshield, but I had no lacerations or broken bones or anything serious. In fact, I was completely unharmed!

  Suddenly the prior evening’s words came rushing back into my consciousness: “Everything is going to be all right.”

  Now I knew. A spiritual being had uttered that prophetic statement and inspired Manuel to save my life with his powerful last words.

  I went home, still trembling in the quiet of my bedroom, and offered this humble prayer, “Dear Father, thank you for giving me a second chance and for protecting me from harm. Amen.”

  CHAPTER 2

  GOD’S EMISSARIES

  HAROLD P. ADOLPH, MD

  OUT MY WINDOW I WATCHED as a hesitant orange globe rose above the eastern horizon, shimmered off the lake, and cast a long shadow from our mountain to the north. The birds were coming alive and starting to feed on the corn and sorghum crops in the farm fields that checkered the landscape. Along the lot lines separating the fields grew wild eucalyptus trees, giving off a pungent perfume. Here I was, part of the ecology of Africa, living my dream to help relieve the suffering of the poorest of the poor in southern Ethiopia. But I was exhausted.

  Before starting in the morning, I always prayed for God’s help in carrying out His work. But today, for the first time, I had to deviate from my traditional humble supplication.

  “Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “I have been a faithful serva
nt for these past seven months, and I hope I have done Thy will, but, Father, I cannot go on. I need an experienced, well-qualified surgeon to take over my position and give me a break. If You cannot send someone to help me today, I cannot go on. Please, please send help. Amen.”

  Across the street stood my hospital, built from mud and straw blocks whitewashed to give a sanitary appearance. The hospital held 115 beds, but I was the only doctor for thousands of people from all over the country who came to see me with the end stages of some of the most deforming diseases imaginable. Many were at the brink of death and would not survive without emergency treatment or surgery. I had two operating rooms but only one equipped with electricity and a light bulb, with the other relying on the sunlight from outside to illuminate the surgical field. Both rooms had been bustling six days a week with emergencies on Sunday for the last seven months without a break. Not surprisingly, I suffered mental and physical exhaustion. I was ready to give up.

  I always felt that my calling was to become a missionary doctor; it was my way of giving back for the abundant blessings I had been given. I was now thirty-two and had completed medical school at the University of Pennsylvania, served my residency in an American hospital in the Panama Canal Zone, and then completed a two-year surgical preceptorship at the Cannon Junior Memorial Hospital in North Carolina. My training was not the typical general surgical track but included rotations in orthopedics, obstetrics, thoracic surgery, and neurosurgery to help prepare for every imaginable problem in a third world country where I would be the only surgeon in the hospital. Our two children, ages six and eight, enjoyed their adventures traveling the world and were home schooled by my patient wife. My contract with the faith-based sponsor of our hospital and four other hospitals in Ethiopia required that I raise a large portion of the funds from personal savings, from friends, and from philanthropic organizations. Before I left for Ethiopia, I had completed my rounds with family members and others who had generously donated enough to cover my first five years.