Deep in the jungles of Oaxaca, Mexico near the Guatemalan border, the mule I was riding lost his footing, plummeting with me over a twenty-five-foot cliff. Lying on the jungle floor, bleeding profusely and in obvious critical condition, outside communication was non-existent. The medical mission team lacked any ability to summon help.
The previous day, our team of three, Bob the missionary, and our seven-year-old son, Billy, began our journey from the city of Tuxtepec. A general dentist, this was my husband Jim’s second trip to provide much needed dental care to villagers in remote locations. Traveling by flat-bottom boat on the Usila River, we reached land hours later and mounted mules. Guides led us to a remote village where we spent the night. Early the following morning, just as the sun peeked over the mountains, we began the next leg of our expedition.
Following a four-hour hike, with temperatures rising into triple digits, it was my turn to ride one of two mules. As I saddled up, Jim and Billy picked up their pace, walking ahead of me. My mule began to stumble his way up the steep incline, so my guide grabbed the reins from my hands. He stepped in front of me and began walking backwards, attempting to muscle the mule by pulling the reins as he ascended up the slippery, uneven grade. The mule protested with a snort, and rocks started to give way under his hooves. My saddle slid back toward his hindquarters.
Surely, he would regain his footing, I thought. But with no reins, a slipping saddle, and the trail collapsing beneath us, I had no control. Neither did my guide. His dark brown eyes bulged in horror as his own boots began to slide. My steed’s front legs buckled, and the reins snapped from the guide’s grip. We were going down!
After hearing a strange rustling through the thick jungle foliage, Jim looked back. I was gone and so was the mule. Half the group retreated down the steep, rocky incline while remaining team members peered over a cliff yelling, “She’s down! Karen’s down!”
Joining the remaining travelers to see what all the commotion was about, he peered far over the bluff in disbelief. There I lay face up, bloody, and eerily still as a sacrificial offering upon a boulder. Horrified, Jim took off in a sprint to reach me with Billy on his heels.
Reaching the jungle floor, Jim steamrolled his way through several onlookers gathering around my body. Kneeling, he gently lifted my head on his lap as sticky liquid poured into his hands, saturating his T-shirt. My head bled profusely. At that moment, my body shifted. Only then did he realize I was alive. With a blank stare, I began whispering, “Is the mule ok? What did I do wrong? I think my back is broken. Can we go home now?”
Speculations as to what happened murmured in local dialect and English. Bob pointed high up the precipice and announced, “Karen likely separated from the mule mid-air, striking her head on that jagged rock before landing on this boulder. She must have fallen at least twenty-five feet.
In and out of consciousness, not only was I in shock, momentarily Jim was, too. Glancing up at our little boy, he focused on Billy’s distraught, blue, watery eyes under the brim of his baseball cap. Putting a hand to his own cheek, my husband became aware of his own tears. Our family’s grave plight flooded Jim’s mind as his fear morphed into determination to get me the medical help I so desperately needed.
Bob sent our Indian guide back to his village to seek additional help. Sprinting out of sight, everyone knelt, laying their hands on Jim, Billy, and me. The missionary boldly cried, “Father God, be with our sister, Karen. We know this situation grieves you as it does us. We beg you for added protection, aid, and healing. Give Jim and Billy comfort. Help us rely on your life-sustaining, saving grace. Enable us all to do your bidding. Guide us, we pray. Amen.”
Acutely aware of my dire situation, Jim had to insist our reluctant little guy go with members of our group who were heading back to the village. Billy’s hands were tucked deep in his pockets and his only protest was repeatedly shaking his head no. “Buddy, you have to go now. I’ll take care of your mom, but when the Indians get here, they’ll move so fast and we’ll have trouble keeping up. You have to go. I’m so sorry, Billy.”
Jim couldn’t tell him that our predicament could actually worsen. Jaguars roamed the mountains at nightfall. Guilt flooded Jim’s soul as he grieved our decision to not leave our little boy in the safe arms of his grandparents. Looking up from my blank stare, he watched Billy march off.
There was nothing left to say. Holding me, helplessness increased with every passing hour. Jim did the only thing he knew to do. He fed me narcotics intended for his patients following difficult tooth extractions. Then, out of total desperation to prevent infection, he finely crushed antibiotic tablets into water from his canteen. Exposing the gaping gash through my thick brown hair, he poured the concoction into the deep wound.
Hours later, Indians returned with several villagers and proceeded to build a balsa wood and vine stretcher to transport me back over the mountains. The obstacles were many. Traversing white water in the Usila River, they held me high above the rapids. My rescuers took the shortest route, but not necessarily the easiest path. With skillful deliberation, a path was created by two men swinging their machetes. A woman continually shaded me with an umbrella. Throughout the day, the vines would bow on my stretcher, causing me to sink, which increased the pressure on my back, and thus increased my pain. Whenever they set me on the ground to tighten the vines, they would pause before continuing the journey as prayerful foreign pleas filled the air.
It was in those moments that agony subsided. Though in shock, I recall the sensation of hands covering me head to toe. Utterances of unfamiliar words pierced through my pain and the sweetest calm and an internal assurance that all would be okay washed over me. Jim’s eyes flashed toward Bob’s, stating the obvious, “Look at her face.” Following hours of groaning, my brow ceased to furrow in pain and an expression of contentment appeared.
Bob explained to Jim that small aircraft never flew into that remote area on the Sabbath. It was Sunday. Jim wondered how they could get me back to civilization for medical care. Everyone in the village heard the whine of the Cessna engine. Our team members and villagers frantically waved for the pilot to land. It was truly a miracle for that plane to be there.
Entering the village hours later, Jim tightly hugged Billy for joint reassurance. By nightfall, I was loaded into the airplane with my family. Still in shock, we arrived at a clinic in Tuxtepec by midnight.
A doctor sutured the deep gash in my skull. Yet there was no diagnostic equipment. A neurosurgeon from Veracruz arrived the following day to administer steroids by IV to arrest suspected swelling in my brain.
The following week, we flew home to Maryland. During my seven-day stay in our local trauma hospital, I learned the extent of my injuries along with my bleak prognosis. “Your concussion will likely cause memory problems for an undetermined time period, requiring occupational therapy. You have a bilateral fractured pelvis, crushed sacrum, and no doubt, severe nerve damage. Your right hip has dropped three-quarters of an inch. Once the physical therapist teaches you how to walk again, you will have a pronounced limp.”
“Surgery to repair your pelvic fractures is out of the question. Your spinal cord is grossly inflamed. Actually, do not let anyone touch you with a scalpel. Any repair could cause permanent spinal injury. In fact, it’s unbelievable that you are not paralyzed or dead. More people bleed to death from a pelvic fracture than any other bone fracture in the body. This is because the pelvic cavity fills with blood and the injured person bleeds to death. Your husband likely saved your life by giving you so many narcotics, slowing down the blood flow.”
I was bedridden for six months. In severe pain, depression began to warp all hope for my future. I dwelled on the disabilities I would now live with. More troubling, I questioned the enormity of the mistake I had made in going on the mission trip with Jim. Not only was my family traumatized, but we went to help others—yet our family became the ones in need.
A letter from the missionary arrived. I would learn that villagers felt humiliated by the outside help they required. When I plummeted into a perilous situation, the indigenous Christians believed they were being used by Jesus to be His hands and feet when they rescued me. I thought I was going to help provide dental care. Instead, God used me to restore dignity to the poor in that region. Now I had an adjusted perspective which helped lift my heartache.
It’s been decades since my fall off the cliff. Despite a bit of nagging nerve damage in my back that flares up now and then and autoimmune issues that presented in time, I’m grateful to say I live an active, full life.
Oh, and everyone asks—yes the mule lived. And so did I. To God be the glory.
