At the age of 19, I was working as a teller in a bank in California. It was Friday, and an absolutely beautiful day. I was a happy camper wearing a brand new suit, and looking forward to the weekend plans with my boyfriend. At 4:10 PM, the bank was robbed and I was accidentally shot in the back with a .38 caliber at approximately three feet. I was told that, besides the man who shot me, there was a man with a machine gun at the front door and another man with a sawed off shotgun at the back door. Later I was told that the authorities had them surrounded in an apartment, and all were captured. The man that shot me said that he was fiddling with the money bag with the gun cocked and it accidentally went off. All they got away with was $3,132.00. To this day I have no idea what happened to any of them or even their names, and didn‘t want to know. I sincerely felt that not knowing would make it easier for me to forgive them. It worked. At the time of the robbery, I was actually suppose to be upstairs on my afternoon break, but the lobby began filling up and it was necessary to open my window. I have no clue how long it had been when someone walked up and opened my cash drawer, which no one is allowed to do. As I turned to see who it was and find out why, I was looking in the barrel of the .38, pointed right between my eyes. The man holding the gun told me to get down on the floor. Well, any other time that would be an easy thing to do, but since he opened my cash drawer, there was only this tiny little space to accomplish his demand since our teller cages where in the shape of a horseshoe. It’s a good thing I was skinny back then, and managed to suck it all in and squeeze my way through, arms held up high, careful not to touch anything, especially the drawer. The last thing I needed at that moment was this man thinking I’m reaching for a security button to push. As I squeezed myself out and turned, he didn’t back up to give me any room to hit the floor, he just stood there, looking down at my 5 feet 4 inches from his 6 foot something inches, close enough to my face to kiss me on the forehead. I do believe it was a good thing he was wearing sunglasses because I was scared enough as it was looking through them, without having to see the whites of his eyes. I have no idea how long it was before he finally backed away so I was able to get on the floor. Then poof, the gun went off, I saw a white light, and the next thing I remember I was on the floor, bleeding, in pain, with screams and crying coming from every direction. My body spun around 3 to 6 times according to witnesses, but as to exactly how many times, no one knows for sure. It wasn’t long after I became conscious on the floor that a doctor showed up. Now here I am, shot, bleeding, scared to death, in pain, and what upsets me the most? It was the doctor cutting up the sleeve of my brand new, mint green suit, all the way to the center of my back. Now that hurt. I even had brand new shoes to match. Typical woman you say? Yep, pitiful wasn‘t it? Naturally, I never even once considered the fact that there was already a bullet hole in the jacket, and that it had been recently dyed red. I have never owned another mint green suit since. The doctor said it was a shoulder wound and I would be fine, and I was somewhat disappointed that on the way to the hospital they didn’t even turn the siren on. However, they did speed things up after I told them I couldn’t breathe and they had to quickly give me some oxygen. The bullet had entered my shoulder blade and was on a direct route to my heart. It fractured a rib in the back, which changed the direction of the bullet, that proceeded to follow my ribcage around under my left arm to the front, where it then headed for my heart a second time. Again, another rib tackled it, changed it’s direction, and finally stopped right under the skin in the center of my chest. From what I was told, a .38 caliber would have left a very big hole if it had exited my body. As my lungs expanded, the fractured ribs clawed at them, causing internal bleeding and naturally loss of air. I was suffocating. Eventually, the left lung completely collapsed. A chest specialist was called in who had served in a MASH unit in Korea. Dr. Breckler told me that he had seen it many times where the bullet headed for the heart and the direction was changed after hitting a rib. He also said that in all the time he was in Korea, he had not seen it happen twice with the same bullet, and called me his “Miracle Girl.” Naturally, I have a weakness for the TV series MASH, and the 4077th chest specialist, Hawkeye Pierce, portrayed by Alan Alda. To this day, every time I see an episode, I am reminded of Dr. Breckler, as I see him as Hawkeye. There was even an episode where a young girl around my age, who was passing through with a group to entertain the troops, had been shot and the wound required Hawkeye’s expertise. After surgery the young girl became infatuated with her doctor that saved her life, and yes, I too fell madly in love with Dr. Breckler. After all, they were our heroes. One evening in the hospital, Hawkeye is sitting by her bed trying to explain the crush on him and said, “All you see is a miracle man in a white suit.” The true heroes in this story are my parents. After 4 ½ hours of surgery, Dr. Breckler told them that my breathing would be labored due to the inability of the left lung to expand to its natural full capacity. He said holding my breath for any length of time would be difficult, and almost impossible, with only one lung working to full capacity, and that me singing again would be out of the picture. Trust me, that didn’t phase my parents. My mother played the piano by ear and sang in a Sweet Adeline chorus. My father, who had perfect pitch, sang in a barbershop quartet, directed the Sweet Adeline chorus, chartered and founded a barbershop chorus, and wrote songs in 4-part harmony. They originally met in a Chicago ballroom where my father had his own dance band, sang and played the trumpet. Dr. Breckler telling my parents that their daughter, their only child, would never be able to sing again, didn’t devastate them, on the contrary, they stood strong in their faith in God, and trusted that God was going to heal their little “Peanut.” As musicians, they knew that it’s not the lungs that control our breathing when we sing, it’s the diaphragm. The lungs are storage. For a year they worked with me every day with breathing exercises to strengthen and expand my lung, and even though there is still scar tissue, I am so very proud to say that they received their miracle. During this same time period at least 100 people died from an earthquake in Columbia. In Vietnam, 30 people were killed with two grenades by a sore loser in a card game. The government archives states there were over 58,000 American casualties in Vietnam for the year. A fire in a restaurant in Alabama kills 25 people. And locally, an employee was killed during a hold up in a liquor store, and a 15-yr old boy was shot in the face and neck. At least once a year, sometimes twice, the small scar on my chest will become inflamed. I truly believe that when this happens, God is reminding me of His divine love and grace. Only God truly knows why my life was spared and so many other people died. I thank and praise my Lord every day for saving my life. As a young girl I would ask for, and seek out miracles everywhere. After this experience, I knew the Lord was revealing to me that, I AM a miracle. And for this reason, I desire with my whole heart that miracles will always follow me. I was born at 2:20 in the afternoon, and one of my favorite verses is Galatians 2:20. “I am crucified with Christ; nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.” ~ ~ ~
Love Eternal in Christ, Darlene Luke PO Box 1883 Bethany, OK 73008-1883
|