Book Excerpt: 'God Said Yes'
Read a chapter of Heather Bland's remarkable survival story.
— -- Watch Heather Bland's amazing story Friday on "20/20" at 10 p.m. ET.
CHAPTER ONE:
When the Louisville Metro Police patrolman flipped on his blue lights and whipped his cruiser in a U turn from the west to the eastbound lane of Interstate 64 in the pre-dawn darkness of a crisp Sunday morning in September, 2005, he was certain he had a live one. He wouldn't have cut twin tire tracks across the wet grass in the median for just anything -- but he had just watched the driver of a silver Jeep pull to a stop in the emergency lane on the other side of the road, stagger out of the vehicle and begin violently throwing up. The officer called it in.
"Suspected DUI, eastbound I64 one mile west of the Cannon's Lane exit," he told the dispatcher as his patrol car bounced up out of the median onto the pavement. Pulling up behind the Jeep, which wasn't even completely off the road out of the lane of traffic, he flicked his headlights on high beam to better illuminate the license plate, and read off the numbers into his hand-held mike. Then he waited, watching the tall, dark-haired woman heave uncontrollably, holding onto the driver's side door for support.
The response came back in less than a minute.
The 1998 Jeep Cherokee Jefferson County, Kentucky license plate number 871 Adam Charlie Baker, was registered to a 36-year-old white female, the dispatcher told him. No priors, no warrants, no outstanding tickets. The owner's name was Heather Bland.
I had seen him coming. When I spotted the cruiser on the other side of the interstate, I knew he'd be all over me. They always were -- particularly on a Sunday morning.
Please, God, let this one be a nice guy, I pleaded silently.
I gathered as much strength as I could muster and stood up straight as he walked up to me. I think I even managed a smile. It was a shaky smile, but it was the best I could do.
"Closed down the bar at Coyote's, did ya, " the officer said. It was a statement not a question.
"No sir," I replied courteously. "I didn't go to a bar last night. I don't drink. I went …"
He didn't let me finish.
"I need to see your driver's license, registration and proof of insurance, please," he said.
I tried to comply. I was able to get the registration and insurance card out of the glove box, but I was still fumbling in my purse for my wallet when another round of nausea seized me. I had just enough time to sweep my hair back out of my face before the noxious, foul-smelling stream of stomach bile and old blood spewed out of my mouth onto the pavement, setting the ulcers in my throat and on my gums aflame in a dozen points of searing pain -- and splattering on the policeman's shoes.
"I am sooo sorry … !" I began breathlessly when the reflexive gagging finally let up. "I didn't mean to …"
"Ma'am, I need you to step away from the vehicle, please," he said tightly, all business. "And I want you to hold your arms straight out to the sides, shoulder high …"
Oh no, not a sobriety test. Not now!
"… tilt your head back, close your eyes and touch your right index finger to the tip of your nose … can you do that for me, please?"I gathered all the strength I could muster and looked the officer dead in the eye.
"No, I can't do that," I said firmly. "I can't lean my head back and close my eyes. It will just make me more nauseous. I'm not drunk; I'm sick."
I could tell the officer wasn't buying.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked, and the hint of sarcasm in his words hit my spirit like a drip of water in hot grease.
For one brief, wild moment, I ached to tell him exactly what was wrong with me, all of it, to spew the whole story out at him like I'd spewed vomit all over his shoes.
"You want to know what's wrong with me?" I shrieked at him in my head. "Ok, I'll tell you! I fell out of a car and my mother ran over me when I was 4 years old and I've been operated on 187 times in the past 32 years. Sixty-three of those surgeries lasted more than 12 hours, two of them took more than 20, and during one of them I woke up while they were cutting me open. I've died on the operating table … what? half a dozen times, maybe -- I've long since lost count of exactly how many. And of how many documented medical miracles I've racked up -- 12 or 13 at least. I owe more than $1.5 million in medical debt. And right now I'm being eaten alive!"
But I grabbed hold of the angry words before they lunged out my mouth, and let the rage blow through me like a squall across a lake. Then the phrase showed up, as it always did eventually, on the projector screen of my mind. The old phrase, as worn as a tattered house shoe, was comforting somehow just because it was familiar, because it had defined my response to reality every day that I could remember: Just suck it up and go on. I half-smiled at the phrase. My mother must have said those words to me a thousand times. Self pity simply was not an option. Mom never once allowed me to throw a poor-Heather party.
"I haven't been to a bar," I said politely, trying to sound calm, reasonable and rational as I struggled fiercely to keep the nausea at bay. "I've been at the hospital all night."
I considered pulling up my sleeve to show him the recent IV punctures, but thought better of it. One look at the needle tracks on my arms and I'd never be able to convince him I wasn't a junkie. Instead, I felt around in the pocket of my sweat pants.
"Here's the stub from the parking garage," I said, handing it to him. "I take treatments that make me very, very sick. You can call the garage and the parking attendant will tell you I just left there. You have to talk kind of loud. He's an old guy and he's a little hard of hearing. He'll remember me, though. I'm there every night. Just tell him you want to know about the sassy lady who always teases him about his Yankee accent."
The policeman looked at the ticket for a moment, then turned and strode back to his cruiser. As soon as he was out of splatter range, I let fly again, retching until tears from the violent heaving spilled down my cheeks. I was no longer just throwing up old blood. Most of what came streaming out my mouth was light, not dark, red. When I finished gagging, I leaned back against the Jeep weak and breathless.
The officer would check out my story and find out it was true. Maybe he'd offer to escort me home. Twice, other policemen had done that when they found me sick on the side of the road. In fact, a team of officers found me on the other side of the I64 tunnel and one of them actually got in my Jeep and drove me home while his partner followed. Nice guys. Those cops were really nice guys.I got sick once more -- vomiting nothing but fresh, bright red blood. At that rate, I knew I'd soon need another transfusion, and I'd already gone through 12 pints of blood and two of platelets -- just in the past two weeks. Then I raised my head to find the policeman standing beside me. He held out something to me and I took it, thinking it was the parking stub. It wasn't. It was a traffic ticket.
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