We had only been married for three months when my husband suffered a mild heart attack. At first, everything seemed to go well, but after several weeks of tests and rehab, his doctor recommended a quadruple by-pass.

True, the surgery is not uncommon any longer, but the idea of having his heart stilled during the surgery was more than a little frightening to both of us. For Jack, it was doubly fearful because his father had died from heart disease at an early age. Only a few years older than Jack.

The night before Jack’s surgery, his surgeon spoke to both of us; answering our questions and telling us what to expect. It was intended to be calming and reassuring, but Jack was so apprehensive, I slept in a chair by his bed that night.

Shortly after dawn, Jack was wheeled away to be prepared for surgery. I was told that I could remain in the room and reminded that I should expect the surgery to be at least four hours. I remember bringing along a small latch hook rug to work on, though I found my hands shaking so badly that I had difficulty with the smallest task.
“Good morning, Mrs. Phillips. I see you’re keeping busy. Mind if I join you?” Standing in the doorway was a priest, a rather small, balding man with a smile that covered his kind face.
“Good morning, Father. You should know that I’m not Catholic, but you’re welcome to come in.”
He laughed. “I promise not to preach. I just saw you alone and thought you might enjoy some company.”
We introduced ourselves and he sat across from me, engaging and distracting me from the fear that knotted my own heart. The hours passed quickly.

A nurse rushed in and announced, “Quick. Dr. Grady wants you in the surgical wing right away!” She gave directions and could add no further information. My legs felt like jelly and I began to tremble all over.
“Come. I’ll take you. Have faith that all will be fine.” I can remember his gentle but firm grip on my arm as he guided me into an elevator. When we stepped off, I spotted Dr. Grady a few feet away.
“Is he… is Jack…?” I could not bring myself to say the dreaded words.
“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry you were frightened. I wanted you to go with Jack to recovery. He’s been so fearful; I think you’ll be his best medicine when he opens his eyes.” Dr. Grady took my trembling hands in his and led me to Jack.
I wanted to thank the priest – Father Adams – and invite him to meet Jack. I looked around and he was nowhere to be seen. I assumed he had gone on to comfort another anxious wife or husband. I’d find him later.

For the next three days, all my attention was given to Jack and letting family and friends know of his progress. In the back of my mind, I expected to see Father Adams stopping in at any time. Finally, I was free enough to try to find him.
“Try the Chaplain’s Office. I don’t recognize the name,” said the floor nurse. I went to the Chaplain’s Office and asked again.
“You must have gotten the name wrong. We have no one with either that name or fitting the description. Our priest is Father John and he’s quite tall with a full head of hair. He was probably from one of the local parishes here to visit a patient.”

Once Jack was home and on the road to a full recovery, I made a few phone calls. I even called the Diocesan offices to no avail.
I believe I know where Father Adams came from, and I believe he is, indeed, comforting someone somewhere. To me, he was an angel sent to give me hope and to calm my fears, and I will always remember him.
I hope one day, there will be a male Eden’s Angel. Whatever its message and title, I will call it ‘Father Adams.’

Submitted by:

Ann Phillips
Baltimore, MD

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