Heart Surgery
‘The reason why there are more widows than widowers in the Western world is because a male’s ego will not tolerate anything less than his own physical perfection. Males usually ignore nature’s warning pains and aches until it is too late; whereas females run to a doctor at first sign of trouble.’
Is this a gross exaggeration penned by a cynical libber or, does it contain a grain of truth? Whatever the case, as middle-age approached Rev Dr Gordon Keith MacKenzie Moyes showed no inclination to slow down, and refused to admit to any physical inadequacies.
Friends and colleagues advised, warned and reprimanded—particularly when they noticed that he sometimes sounded a little breathless—and the scales showed that he weighed too much.
“Gordon, you are working far too hard. Get away from your desk more.”
“Slow down, man. There’ll still be plenty of work to do when you’re gone.”
“Brother Moyes, a live dog is more useful than a dead lion. No one can continue working at your pace without paying the price.”
As far back as October 10, 1981, Gordon received a prophetic warning. It came in the form of a handwritten note. “Gordon,” it began without preamble, “as a brother in the Lord I feel bound to express my concern at the pace at which you are living and working. The extra pressure of the New Developments…your considerable media and mission commitments, plus your regular programs within Wesley Central Mission, all combine to make an impossible work-load—except in the very short term.
“In your own, your family’s and the Mission’s interest you must, I believe, re-appraise the situation and find ways of shedding some of your load. To delay may be perilous in the extreme. Neither of your predecessors lived at your pace. Sincerely in Christ, Peter D.”
Faced with similar advice in a similar situation, Moses, the great leader of Israel heeded the warning and divided the burden. (Exodus 18:17-24) But Gordon treated all of these well-meaning verbal and written warnings with equal disdain and rushed off to his next appointment. He’d been working at this pace for more than thirty years and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—didn’t stop now.
In August 1984 Gordon noted an occasional irregular heartbeat and sometimes felt a tingling sensation in his left leg. It didn’t get worse and after a time he just ignored the symptoms and kept merrily on.
Even though he carried more responsibilities and had as many worries as two ordinary men, Gordon usually managed to shed them all at bedtime and sleep soundly and dreamlessly until morning. However, one night he awoke with a thumping, irregular heartbeat that kept him sleepless and uneasy for hours.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he assured Beverly when she awoke and wanted to call a doctor. “It’s only a palpitation attack. Everyone our age gets them.”
“I don’t.” Beverley sounded indignant. She felt for his pulse. “Your pulse is too fast. You should see the doctor in the morning.”
Despite his protests Gordon felt worried enough to consult their family doctor. “Cut out all coffee—anything containing caffeine,” the doctor advised. “I’ll arrange for you to have a stress test next week and some pathology tests. I don’t think it’s too serious. You’re just working too hard.”The tests revealed nothing radically wrong. The doctor advised Gordon to change his diet and his lifestyle, which he did for a few months, but as soon as the initial fright wore off he slipped back into his old habits.
It wasn’t until August 1993 that Gordon again entertained niggling doubts about his immortality. His chest seemed to be full of fluid. He felt it gurgling in his lungs, making him breathless. His mouth dried out and he couldn’t preach his usual Sunday sermons without pausing in the discourse to drink a glass of water.
“Probably a virus,” his local GP said when Gordon stoutly denied any other symptoms. “Lots of infections around at this time of year. This course of antibiotics should fix it.”
Just as a toothache magically disappears as soon as a dental appointment is made, so the chest fluids seemed to ease somewhat after he visited the doctor. For three months he ignored his breathing difficulties and convinced himself that the fluid was disappearing and all was well. Then on two consecutive Saturday nights in early November he became so breathless that he feared he would not be able to fulfil his Sunday preaching appointments. Thoroughly worried now, Gordon went back to the GP who decided that the trouble might not be a virus, but a heart problem, and sent him to a cardiologist for tests.
The tests proved positive and the cardiologist told Gordon: “It’s your heart, no doubt about that. I’ve made an appointment for you to have an angiogram at the Sydney Adventist Hospital next week. In the meantime these tablets will keep you going.”
“Next week” was a long seven days.
On the appointed day Beverley’s own heart pounded with worry as she sat by Gordon’s bed and heard the results of the angiogram.
“You see, there is no blood flow here. These arteries are completely blocked.” The doctor’s finger pointed to several patches on the picture of Gordon’s heart. “On those two Saturday nights when you felt so ill you probably had silent heart attacks. No, of course you did not feel any pain, that side of your heart is dead meat.”
There was a lot more discussion and then the doctor gave Gordon a choice, he could have his surgery next day—provided they could find a surgeon at such short notice—or he could go home and be re- admitted later on.
“Let’s get it over now.” Gordon and Beverley spoke in unison. They had already thought of such a possibility and agreed on their course of action.
After the doctor departed Gordon began fretting. “This couldn’t have happened at a worse time, Bev. December is our busiest month at Wesley. What with Darling Harbour Christmas, and visiting all the institutions and making speeches and dozens of other functions going on. Beverley, will you telephone Martin and ask him to—”
He stopped as the anaesthetist walked into the room to explain his part in tomorrow’s proceedings. The anaesthetist had no sooner left and the Moyes resumed their conversation, than a male nurse entered to take Gordon’s pulse and temperature. After the nurse left one of the hospital chaplains came in, and so it went on.
For the remainder of the afternoon and evening Gordon sandwiched instructions to his wife in between consultations with doctors, hospital staff carrying out their duties, and visits or calls from distraught children who had belatedly become aware that Dad was not invincible.
By 9 p.m Beverley had two foolscap pages of instructions: things she must do and people she must telephone asking them to deputize for her husband. There were letters to write and visits to make, besides all the personal trauma associated with Gordon’s hospitalization.
The lights were already out in most rooms and the patients had settled down for the night when she folded the paper and stuffed it in her handbag. Wearily she kissed her husband goodnight, tip-toed down the silent hall and drove home.
She had scarcely entered the house when the telephone rang. She lifted the receiver and heard Gordon’s voice: “Beverley darling, I must tell you that I love you.”
Time stood still while the sweethearts-since-childhood plucked old memories and enjoyed their fragrance once more—their courtship, marriage, birth of their children. Faced with the uncertainty ahead they re-affirmed their love for each other and their gratitude to God for nearly thirty-four happy years together. Tears trickled down Beverley’s cheeks as she savoured each precious word. Up to this time she had been too busy to let her emotions take over, now she wept as Gordon whispered:
“If the worst should happen, my darling wife, someday we’ll meet again at Jesus’ feet in that glorious hereafter where there’ll be no sickness or sorrow. Take comfort from that. Thank you, Beverley my dear, thank you for everything. I love you more than ever.”
Gordon’s surgery was scheduled for 1 p.m on December 1. At 7:30 a.m Beverley awoke from a troubled sleep feeling unrested. Hospital staff had briefed her on what to expect.
“It won’t be much use coming to see him before the surgery, Mrs Moyes,” they said. “His medication begins in the morning. He’ll be too sedated to talk sensibly to you.”
With this in mind Beverley decided that she would take their advice and stay in bed awhile longer. She could arrange Gordon’s affairs later. An hour or so would not make much difference. At 10 a.m the manse telephone rang. It was Gordon again. “Are you coming over?” His voice sounded slurred as though his tongue had suddenly grown sizes too big for his mouth.
Beverley smiled into the phone. “Of course, dear. I thought you’d be asleep. I’ll come straight away.”
Tense with worry, she parked the car and walked into the hospital foyer. She must get a grip of herself. Perhaps if she bought some barley sugar it would settle her stomach. In the pharmacy her hand trembled as she pushed the money across the counter.
But as she waited for the elevator a deep calm settled over her. Enveloped by a comforting sense of Presence she felt ready to accept whatever was God’s will. Only later did she learn that as soon as news of Gordon’s imminent surgery reached them, the hundred or so staff in at Wesley headquarters had gone into the church to pray for his healing. Newspapers and Christian magazines reported his illness, radio picked it up, and all around the world friends and well-wishers prayed for the director of Wesley Mission.With a light step Beverly walked down the hall to Gordon’s private room. They had scarcely exchanged greetings when his medication took full effect. His heavy eyelids closed and she was left alone with her thoughts.
At 12:30 Beverley walked beside the trolley as porters wheeled her husband to the operating theatre. Shortly before one-o’clock the surgeon saw her waiting and paused on his way into the theatre.
“I’ve just been looking at his x-rays,” he said seriously. “This is going to be a real challenge.”
These were not the comforting words that Beverley had hoped to hear.
A few minutes later Jenny and the baby came to share her long vigil in the waiting room. Then son David arrived. The hands on the wall clock crept sluggishly across its face as the family struggled to talk about any subject other than heart operations.
At 4 p.m the surgeon emerged from the theatre pulling off his gloves and mask. He smiled at them: “Everything will be all right.”
A few minutes later the staff wheeled Gordon out on his way to the Intensive Care Unit. Despite their previous warnings Beverley’s heart sank at sight of her husband’s pallid face. She touched his forehead as the trolley rolled by. It was ice-cold.
A mere three days later Gordon sat in an armchair in his room holding court with family and friends. From then on it was rapid improvement all the way.
During the next two weeks hundreds of letters, cards and floral arrangements poured into his room. Overwhelmed Gordon looked at Beverley. “I didn’t know I had so many well-wishers,” he said. “It’s like a preview of my funeral.”
Apparently the surgeon’s thoughts ran along the same lines. “You made it all right this time,” he frowned slightly as he looked at Gordon. “But you might not be so fortunate again. Five by-passes are not a laughing matter.”
When Gordon was about to be discharged from hospital the surgeon gave him a final briefing. “You don’t have to regard yourself as an invalid. You can do everything that you did before, but,” he paused impressively, “there must be some changes in your lifestyle. “First, you must have more exercise—daily exercise—swimming, walking, cycling. Do you play tennis or golf?”
“I’ll opt for swimming. We have our own pool.”
“Good. Second, you must cut down on your workload. I’m serious about this, Reverend Moyes. It’s a matter of life or death, YOUR life or death. You simply cannot keep up the pace.”
Gordon grimaced. “I don’t know how that can be done. I serve on the board of so many different institutions and trusts. I preach or teach a dozen times a week and nearly every week-end I’m away on seminars. Usually I just get back to Sydney in time to race up to Wesley Centre for the evening service and then on to 2GB radio for “Sunday Night Live.”
“The world hasn’t stopped spinning while you’ve been in hospital,” the doctor observed drily.
Gordon got the point.
“Third, your diet. Watch your cholesterol. No saturated fats. Go easy on red meats, eggs, sugar.” He turned to Beverley. “Ask the SAH dietitians downstairs, Mrs Moyes. I’m sure they will give you a suitable diet chart.”
“We’ll both follow the diet,” Beverley assured him. “That will make it easier.”
By Christmas Day Gordon was back home and all seventeen of the Moyes’ family met at the Roseville Manse to exchange gifts and felicitations.
The gift that Gordon appreciated most was just being there, alive and well.
