Bishop TD Jakes Has Medical Emergency In The Pulpit
- Thread starter ArsenalCannon357
- Start date
I was at North Park Mall years ago and I saw him and he walked by me, and I said "oh hi Bishop Jakes, it's so nice to see you" now I was a bit star stuck, but I never walked up on him. It was more like a shy hand wave and his son (the one that was later was caught in the park for solicitation of men) pushed me like I was walking up on him, and I said excuse me, and he said don't get too close.
I was really confused and because I did grow up in church, I said "does he not have the whole armor of God on him at all times" and then Bishop was like "come my child", I said nah I'm good. And he went on to say he would like to pray for me, I said sir, if you feel my lil self was a threat to you, then I'll pass on even coming in your space. Other people continue to acknowledge him and his son continued but Bishop continued looking at me as I was walking off and I never saw him the same any more.
Years later, we had a guest pastor come to our church and it was him, I got my purse and left.
I think I was like that because at the time I was really heavy in church and I listened to him a lot, but later I also learned that he will only officiate certain members weddings, funeral, etc and I understand being a pastor of such a large congregation you can't be there for everyone and everything, but again I just look at him different.
How are you doing brotha jimmiewine?
Hope you're comfortable bro
I'm thankful you're here too, bro.
Wishing you the very best and please let us know if there's anything you need.
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Stroke
The days leading up to that near-fatal moment were a tangled knot of stress and anger, emotions that wrapped themselves tightly around my chest and squeezed. Each day felt like a storm brewing on the horizon, distant thunder rumbling but never quite reaching me. I ignored the signs—the pounding in my head, the dull ache behind my eyes that whispered warnings I was too stubborn to hear. I told myself it was dehydration, exhaustion, anything but what it really was: my body’s quiet rebellion, breaking down one cell at a time, like an old machine groaning under the weight of too much pressure.
Mama said she dreaded the call, and deep down, I think I did too. But denial was easier than facing the truth, and so I kept going, one foot in front of the other, until the day my body decided it had had enough. That day came like a thief in the night, stealing my strength, my breath, my control. I remember the moment the world tilted, as if gravity had suddenly shifted, dragging me toward an unseen abyss.
The hospital lights were harsh, glaring down at me like interrogators demanding answers I didn’t have. The voices of the doctors swirled around me, urgent and sharp, but they felt distant, like echoes in a cavern I couldn’t quite escape. My body was a battlefield, and I was losing the war. I felt myself fading, slipping through the cracks of consciousness as though my soul was being gently pried from its shell.
When I came to, I was hooked up to a maze of machines, their steady beeping the only rhythm grounding me in reality. Wires and tubes snaked from my body like the roots of some unnatural tree, keeping me tethered to life. The morphine drip was a cruel savior, dulling the sharp edges of pain but leaving behind a haze that blurred the lines between dream and nightmare. My body was heavy, a vessel weighed down by the weight of survival, and every breath felt like an effort.
And then there was the light. The white light I’d heard so many stories about—always described as warm, as welcoming. But to me, it was terrifying in its finality, a curtain slowly lowering on the stage of my life. As I drifted closer, I saw her: my grandmother. She stood there, radiant and calm, like a lighthouse cutting through the fog of my fear.
“Turn around,” she said, her voice steady and certain. “It’s not your time. I’m not ready for you yet.”
Her words were an anchor, pulling me back from the edge of eternity. The warmth of her presence wrapped around me, and for a moment, I felt safe. But the safety came with a price: the knowledge that I had to fight my way back. And so I did.
The return was brutal. Pain clawed at me, and the weight of paralysis was a cruel chain, binding me to a reality I didn’t recognize. My body felt foreign, unresponsive, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. The machines around me hummed and clicked like cold, lifeless sentinels, and the morphine dulled my mind just enough to make me question if I was truly alive or simply existing.
Life had become a fragile thread, one that could snap at any moment, and I was acutely aware of how close I had come to losing it all. Death had whispered in my ear, and though I had turned away, its voice still lingered, a reminder of the razor-thin line between here and the beyond.
Each day since then has been a reckoning. A slow, painful climb out of the darkness, every step forward marked by frustration and doubt. But also by gratitude—because no matter how hard it is, I’m still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. My grandmother’s words echo in my mind, a constant refrain: It’s not your time.
Life, I’ve learned, is both fragile and fierce, a flame that can be snuffed out in an instant but also one that can burn brightly again, even after it’s been nearly extinguished. The machines and the morphine may have saved me, but it was the will to fight—the will to live—that truly brought me back. Death may have brushed against me that day, but I refused to let it claim me. Not yet. Not now. There’s still more of this story to tell.
The days leading up to that near-fatal moment were a tangled knot of stress and anger, emotions that wrapped themselves tightly around my chest and squeezed. Each day felt like a storm brewing on the horizon, distant thunder rumbling but never quite reaching me. I ignored the signs—the pounding in my head, the dull ache behind my eyes that whispered warnings I was too stubborn to hear. I told myself it was dehydration, exhaustion, anything but what it really was: my body’s quiet rebellion, breaking down one cell at a time, like an old machine groaning under the weight of too much pressure.
Mama said she dreaded the call, and deep down, I think I did too. But denial was easier than facing the truth, and so I kept going, one foot in front of the other, until the day my body decided it had had enough. That day came like a thief in the night, stealing my strength, my breath, my control. I remember the moment the world tilted, as if gravity had suddenly shifted, dragging me toward an unseen abyss.
The hospital lights were harsh, glaring down at me like interrogators demanding answers I didn’t have. The voices of the doctors swirled around me, urgent and sharp, but they felt distant, like echoes in a cavern I couldn’t quite escape. My body was a battlefield, and I was losing the war. I felt myself fading, slipping through the cracks of consciousness as though my soul was being gently pried from its shell.
When I came to, I was hooked up to a maze of machines, their steady beeping the only rhythm grounding me in reality. Wires and tubes snaked from my body like the roots of some unnatural tree, keeping me tethered to life. The morphine drip was a cruel savior, dulling the sharp edges of pain but leaving behind a haze that blurred the lines between dream and nightmare. My body was heavy, a vessel weighed down by the weight of survival, and every breath felt like an effort.
And then there was the light. The white light I’d heard so many stories about—always described as warm, as welcoming. But to me, it was terrifying in its finality, a curtain slowly lowering on the stage of my life. As I drifted closer, I saw her: my grandmother. She stood there, radiant and calm, like a lighthouse cutting through the fog of my fear.
“Turn around,” she said, her voice steady and certain. “It’s not your time. I’m not ready for you yet.”
Her words were an anchor, pulling me back from the edge of eternity. The warmth of her presence wrapped around me, and for a moment, I felt safe. But the safety came with a price: the knowledge that I had to fight my way back. And so I did.
The return was brutal. Pain clawed at me, and the weight of paralysis was a cruel chain, binding me to a reality I didn’t recognize. My body felt foreign, unresponsive, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. The machines around me hummed and clicked like cold, lifeless sentinels, and the morphine dulled my mind just enough to make me question if I was truly alive or simply existing.
Life had become a fragile thread, one that could snap at any moment, and I was acutely aware of how close I had come to losing it all. Death had whispered in my ear, and though I had turned away, its voice still lingered, a reminder of the razor-thin line between here and the beyond.
Each day since then has been a reckoning. A slow, painful climb out of the darkness, every step forward marked by frustration and doubt. But also by gratitude—because no matter how hard it is, I’m still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. My grandmother’s words echo in my mind, a constant refrain: It’s not your time.
Life, I’ve learned, is both fragile and fierce, a flame that can be snuffed out in an instant but also one that can burn brightly again, even after it’s been nearly extinguished. The machines and the morphine may have saved me, but it was the will to fight—the will to live—that truly brought me back. Death may have brushed against me that day, but I refused to let it claim me. Not yet. Not now. There’s still more of this story to tell.
Damn glad you are in recovering. Those symptoms you described echo some of the things I’ve been going through; mostly thinking I’m just getting old and what not. I will certainly bring this up at my yearly with my doc.
Please do and take care of you, my friend.
