Never Quite Immortal Again

Stories of Faith

Life continues—moment by moment, day by day, with often our giving no thought about tomorrow. We live like we are immortal. It’s how I live daily as well, doing what’s expected of me at home and at work, trying to make the world a better place and sharing the love of Jesus.

We try to live without fearing tomorrow, which is a good thing. However, sometimes, unexpected tragedy and illness lifts its ugly head when we least expect it. From out of nowhere, you are made to stop and think that there might not be tomorrow. You hear the dreaded word “cancer” spoken from your doctor’s lips. A fire breaks out, consuming your house and all your belongings. A beloved child is killed in a tragic car accident.

No. None of us can be assured of tomorrow.

You’re never as confident about your health; you’re never quite immortal again. . . . But I’m more aware that I’m here for a purpose. —Ron Hamilton, the Greenville News, September 10, 2003

The year was 1978. My husband Ron Hamilton stood, squinting over his student’s shoulder, trying to make out the tiny notes on the score during a week­ly voice lesson. Ron and I had been married for three years. He was in his second year as a Bob Jones University graduate assistant voice teacher. The need for an eye examination was becoming apparent.

The university had just announced that the following school year an optometrist would be offering free glasses to any faculty or staff member who needed them. Since Ron was having trouble reading the music over his voice students’ shoulders, he thought he needed glass­es. However, since we were going to be leaving the university the next year to come on fulltime with my dad’s sacred music company, Majesty Music, Ron wasn’t certain if he would be eligible for the free glasses.

Ron wrote a note to the Dean of Men at the university to ask if he could be a part of the benefit. He did not hear back immediately. As his concerned wife, I made an appointment to a friend of my parents, Frank and Flora Jean Garlock. He was a local, qualified ophthalmologist, Dr. George Cousar, a WWII veteran and son of medical missionaries in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

When the time came for this appointment, Ron still had not received any word from the Dean of Men. We decided for Ron to go ahead and see Dr. Cousar. At the end of the exam, Dr. Cousar performed a final step of dilating the pupils which at the time, only ophthalmologists, not optometrists, would do. During this procedure, a growth was discovered in the back of Ron’s left eye. Dr. Cousar excitedly called me from the waiting area into his examining room. This was surprising, since Dr. Cousar was usually so calm.

He showed me the growth in Ron’s eye through his ophthalmoscope. He explained to us the possibility of it being a malignant tumor because of the irregular shape and greenish color of the growth. At the same time, he softened the news by explaining that there was a chance it could be just a popped blood vessel.

Dr. Cousar immediately ushered Ron and me into his office. There he called his friend Dr. Bell, head of ophthalmology at Emory University Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia, to set up the next step for Ron.

The day following the Cousar appointment, Ron heard back from the Dean of Men. He was indeed eligible for the free eyeglasses. Amazingly, if Ron had gone for the free glasses that the university was offering, the growth in the back of Ron’s eye may not have been discovered. This exam probably saved Ron’s life.

I love it when God works on our behalf, even when we are not aware of His divine intervention.

We soon heard from Emory University in Atlanta. Our first appointment was made with Dr. Bell, resulting in four months of three-hour trips back and forth from Greenville to Atlanta for further testing. The waiting period had begun. These months of testing were more than just medical.

Our spiritual testing of faith was tried to its limits. Ron always put on a brave face in front of me when confronted with the possibility of losing his eye. I never saw him waver through the entire ordeal. He was calm and trusting in God. Me? The months of waiting were traumatic. As I was in my second year of grad school, I vividly remember walking back and forth on the campus sidewalks to classes, praying God would spare my husband’s life.

Ron and I started the trek back and forth from Greenville to Emory University in Atlanta for testing. Dr. Bell, Ron’s doctor and surgeon, was 95 percent certain that Ron’s eye tumor was melanoma cancer. But he wouldn’t be 100 percent sure until surgery. Surgery would tell two things: the nature and extent of his tumor. We would find out if the growth was benign or malignant. If it was malignant, we hoped it was self-contained. Ron’s brain was the next place where the cancer would metastasize. It it was cancer and had traveled to Ron’s brain, there would be nothing doctors could do for him.

One morning at Bob Jones, Ron, Bible in hand, went to the school bleachers out by the track. He needed to wrestle through what was happening. As he sat there, dejected, a friend and fellow jogger, Mike Fowler noticed him sitting alone. As he got closer, he recognized Ron, so he jogged over to say hello.

“What’s going on, Ron?” Mike asked.

Ron responded, “I’m going to lose my left eye.”

His mater-of-fact answer stunned Mike, but Mike assured him of his prayers and jogged on.

The surgery day was set for May 18, 1978, at Emory University Hospital with surgeon Dr. Bell. As it was fast approaching, Ron and his brother Terry had a conversation in Ron’s Fine Arts Building studio. Terry thought Ron had been unusually quiet since learning that he could be losing his eye.

So, he gently asked, “Ron, are you doing ok?” Ron said, “Terry, I’ve spent hours in prayer regarding losing my eye to cancer. For some reason I don’t have peace about asking for healing. I believe that somehow, losing my eye is God’s best for me.”

I don’t remember hearing about this conversation at the time. I am amazed at Ron’s foresight, given to him by God, as he later wrote, “I bowed to the will of the Master that day.”

Was Ron going to lose his left eye? If the growth in it was cancer, was it contained or had it migrated to his brain? Would I still have a husband after only three years of marriage?

On May 17, 1978, Ron and I took off for Atlanta. Before leaving, we stopped by to see our sweet friend, Mrs. Muriel Murr, as she had packed us a goody basket of freshly baked bread and strawberries picked from her garden. We arrived at Emory University Hospital for the last step in the testing process—opening the eyeball. If the spot was found to be benign, Ron would wake up with just a sore, bloodshot left eye. If can­cerous, he would wake up without his left eye.

The day before surgery, Ron was given a shot to put dye in his blood­stream. When the surgeon would open his eyeball the next morning to get access to the tumor, the equivalent of a Geiger counter would be placed directly on the troublesome area. The Geiger counter would de­tect the dye and discern if the tumor was malignant or benign.

After Ron received the dye injection, Dr. Bell told us, “Go out to a nice dining place and live it up.” We felt like we were being sent for what might be a last fling. At the restaurant, I really wasn’t hungry. I barely got down one of my favorites—fried shrimp. I assumed it was due to the stress of Ron’s upcoming surgery. Following dinner, Ron and I went back to the hospital to check Ron in.

When Ron got settled in his room, the nurse asked him if he minded taking a trial medicine they were developing for diabetics. If his eye was removed, they could dissect it to see if any of the medicine was absorbed into the eyeball. Ron agreed.

We kissed “goodnight,” and I left for the hotel room on Emory campus, provided me by the hospital. So I didn’t have to be alone, my mom drove down from Greenville, South Carolina, to spend the night with me.

The next day, May 18, 1978, was operation day. Mom and I woke up, only to discover that there was a power outage in the Emory University area of Atlanta. However, due to an emergency generator system at the hospital, the operation would go on as scheduled.

Mom and I made our way to the main hospital complex and got to see Ron in his room before they rolled him into surgery. I gave him a kiss and looked into both of his eyes for what I thought might be the last time.

Ron’s brother Terry and his girlfriend Nancy had left early in the morning to drive to Atlanta where the surgery was taking place. Terry really wanted to see Ron beforehand. Due to the power outage, stoplights were out surrounding Emory University. Terry was unfortunately unable to make it in time to see Ron. I felt so bad for him.

Terry and Nancy did arrive in time to sit with mom and me in the waiting room during the surgery. We sat. We prayed. We gave the results to God. Four hours later, when the surgery was complete, Dr. Bell came in to give us the results. “I have both good news and bad news. The good news is that there is no sign of cancer in Ron’s brain. The bad news is that it was melanoma, and his left eye was removed.”

I was so sad that Ron had to lose his left eye, but at the same time so glad I would have my husband longer.

After surgery, back in his hospital room, Ron was slowly recovering from the anesthetic. The trial diabetic medicine he had agreed to take the night before wasn’t supposed to make Ron sick. But sick he was. Ron whispered to me, “Shelly, is my eye gone?” and I answered, “Yes.” He unexpectedly began throwing up violently. I dodged backward and shouted, “Terry!” Terry jumped into action to help.

I was allowed to stay in Ron’s hospital room for the week following his surgery. I slept on a cot and crocheted an entire blanket during that time. Several days into recovery, Dr. Bell came in to check on Ron’s progress. Ron’s right eye was extremely bruised and swollen. Dr. Bell told me it was the result of being sympathetic to the loss of his left eye. He also wanted to show me how to clean the empty left eye socket. The bandage he removed from the left side of Ron’s face was at least four inches thick. A temporary clear silicone ball had been placed in the empty socket.

Dr. Bell was so proud of his work. As he took out the silicone ball to show me all the clean incisions behind the former eyeball, I started to faint. I can’t begin to describe the awfulness of what I saw. Fortunately, the nurse standing behind me caught me before I hit the ground. Ron said it would not be a problem—he would do the necessary cleaning. And he did. I never once had to clean it.

Ron asked, “Dr. Bell, will I be able to play tennis?” Dr. Bell said, “Surely.” Ron replied, “Good. I never could before.”

The eye floor was full following Ron’s surgery, so he was placed on the leukemia floor. Ron had brought his guitar with him to the hospital. We were able to go around and sing to other patients, including children, who had no hope of ever leaving the hospital. This put into perspective what we were going through. Ron said, “We never had the first opportunity to feel sorry for ourselves.”

After the final bandages were removed, Dr. Bell told us to go to a drugstore and get a plastic pirate patch until a permanent prosthetic eye could be made for him. Ron did just that. Our first Sunday back at church, kids gathered around him at the end of the service. For some, it was just another Sunday. For us, our lives would never be the same.

Our little friend, Adela Pagan’s son, pointed to the plastic drugstore pirate patch Ron was stylin’ and asked, “What’s that?” Rom responded, “It’s called a pirate patch. I guess I’m a pirate now. In fact, you can call me Patch the Pirate.”

The little kid loved this and ran back to tell all his friends. Soon there was a whole shipload of kids running towards the front of the church shouting, “Ahoy, Patch the Pirate.” The name stuck. His real-life adventure had begun and his persona from professor to pirate had been forever set. From that day forward, Ron told everyone he met, “Just call me Patch.” And as Ron soon wrote, “God never moves without purpose or plan.”

When we returned home from our week’s stay at Emory Hospital, I went for a pregnancy test. The reason I had felt so sick the last few weeks was to the fact that I was pregnant. God, as He always does, gave blessing out of trial. Eight months later we named our blessing Jonathan “gift from God.”

Mid-summer, Ron and I made a trip to Michigan for him to receive his new prosthetic eye. After receiving it, we discovered the fake eye didn’t move as much as we had hoped. We returned home with Ron still preferring to wear the eye patch. While taking a walk together, I distinctly remember the discussion Ron and I had about his patch. I said, “But I didn’t marry a pirate.” He responded, “You will have to accept that the little kid in me prefers the patch.” Looking back, I cannot imagine him any other way.

It was not long before Ron ditched the plastic version. Ron’s friend, Kevin Gladd, cut out Ron’s first leather patch from a pair of old boots. It was then strung with elastic string. About a year later, his friend, Bob Cook, offered to make him another patch. Bob traced a pattern for the patch and beautifully crafted it out of soft leather, adding etching around the edges. Ron continued to wear this same patch throughout his career. Although weathered and complete with patina—it became a true symbol of Patch the Pirate.

After Ron lost his eye, many individuals sent him notes and cards of prayer, love, and encouragement. He took all the cards people had sent him and crafted together what was to become his most well-known and loved testimony in song, “Rejoice in the Lord.” The central Scripture Ron used for this song of testimony was Philippians 4:4. “Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, Rejoice.” Another important verse he incorporated was Job 23:10, “ But he knoweth the way that I take: when he hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold.”

Ron began writing Patch the Pirate story ‘n’ song adventure recordings teaching Bible character qualities and giving the gospel to children all over the world. God gave Ron a forty-year window to write these adventures as well as cantatas, publishing over 600 sacred and fun songs.

Ron said, “When Jesus is your Savior and you love Him with all your heart, He can make even the worst circumstances work together for good. That’s why I wrote “Rejoice in the Lord,” to tell how something that looked like it was going to be a tragedy, turned into one of the greatest blessings in my life.”

“God never moves without purpose or plan
When trying His servant and molding a man,
Give thanks to the Lord though your testing seems long;
In darkness He giveth a song.

O rejoice in the Lord. He makes no mistake,
He knoweth the end of each path that I take.
For when I am tried and purified,
I shall come forth as gold.”

—Ron Hamilton, Copyrighted © 1978 by Majesty Music, Inc.