By THOMAS
DEFOREST BULL
The day I “died” began badly. I
had returned to my doctor for the results of exhaustive tests the previous
weekend—the findings on which my life would depend. He looked troubled, embraced.
“We can find absolutely nothing wrong with you,” he said.
“Nothing wrong with me? Doctor, what about the pains in my legs and chest, the weakness,
shortness of breathe, blackouts?
Something’s very wrong. I think
I’ll be dead within 48 hours.”
He reiterated: “You have no adverse symptoms. I suggest that you get a through mental
examination.”
So, he thinks it’s all psychosomatic. Thanks a bunch.
I said good-bye as gracefully as possible and hailed
a cab back to my hotel. At the steps to
the lobby I had a premonition. The
steps looked like Mount Everest. I
climbed them slowly. Made it! Now pull the door open. Good.
Now to the elevator. Oh, oh….
I lunged for a lobby sofa, missed it and wound up on
the floor staring at the elegant chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The lights turned brown, then reddish-brown,
then dark-red. Then they went out.
I’m blind!
And I can’t hear anything. Take
stock. What’s left? You can think. Good. Wiggle your
toes? Good. Move your legs? Nope. Arms?
Good. Now slide your left
fingers along your right wrist. Good.
Now….Not so good. There was
discernible pulse. I cursed my heart,
furious at it for letting me down.
Pump, damn you, pump! After five
minutes or so I could hear voices.
Things turned from black to brown to light again.
The emergency room was stark and unimpressive. But more disturbing was the youthfulness of
the resident and two interns on call.
All three combined could not have had the total medical experience of
the middle-aged Ivy League-trained man I’d seen earlier. Would these men too be persuaded that the
problem was mental? They exchanged
significant glances and the slightest of nods as I answered their questions,
but I saw to sign of derision.
The resident, Dr. Ted Kinney, moved the stethoscope
gently, sensitively in continuous, ever-expanding circles. He stopped at the spot where the pain had
been so many times. The abrupt return
to the original starting point, the same continuous outwardly spiraling
movement, and the exact same stopping place.
He invited the two interns to listen.
“We’re pretty certain you have a pulmonary
embolism,” Dr. Kinney said. “That’s a
clot that gets loose in the blood stream.
They are about five inches long and….”
“Thanks, I know.
My father was killed by one.”
They took me to the hospital’s Cardiac Care
Unit. Periodically, the public-address
system would advise of an emergency involving, a “43-year-old male with acute
pulmonary embolism.” “The poor guy.” I
thought absently. Then, with an
undeniable feeling of self-importance, it dawned that they were talking about
me.
While I was being wired, probed and thumped, phone
calls were being made all over greater Boston to bring back the essential
people, who had left for the day. In a
surprisingly short time, they were introduced to me: Dr. Roberts, chief of cardio thoracic surgery; Dr. Herbert, the
general surgeon; Dr. Emerson, the cardiologist; Dr. Thee, a Korean female
anesthesiologist, and Dr. Farrell, whose spatiality is the angiogram.
My angiogram involved tuning a flexible probe
through a vein in the forearm into the heart.
A radio-opaque dye was injected through the probe, and the heart and
lungs were X-rayed. It showed two
emboli [clots], one in the heart and one entering, plus many emboli clogging
the lungs. Then doctors unanimously
recommended an immediate operation.
There was no time to lose; more emboli might well be en route and even
one could spell finis.
No sooner had agreed than a young woman arrived to
urge me to have the chaplain with me during the operation [the national average
for survival in pulmonary embolectomies is 43 percent]. Infirmly declined. I hope she understood. I
planned to do my own praying.
Dr. Rhee quietly told me that I was going to get
very light anesthesia. No need to ask
why. I knew my nose was barely above
the water as it was. She gave me a few
deep whiffs of gas. Minutes later the
skin on my stomach went ice cold. They
were scrubbing it with antiseptic, preparatory to tying off the inferior vena
cava. The vein—the body’s largest—routes
emboli from the legs [where they are formed] to the heart’s right atrium, where
they become deadly serious problems. If
all went well and the emboli already past the vena cava behaved themselves, open
heart-lung surgery would not be necessary.
If things went wrong, the heart-lung machine was standing by, primed
with blood.
Things went wrong.
When the antiseptic scrubbing stopped, nothing happened. A voice I recognized as Dr. Emerson’s was
reading, matter-of-factly, various figures.
Like a laundry list. None of the
items interested me especially, except the last “Blood pressure: zero.”
Zero blood pressure! He’s got to be kidding.
That’s impossible. You’re
hearing things. There’ll be a repeat
performance. Pay closer attention next
time. And within the minute, he was
reading the same laundry list, again with the same last item: “Blood pressure:
zero.”
Well, that’s that.
What a shame. They tried so
hard. I felt somehow as if I had let
them down. No panic, not even
anxiety. Just a sense of sadness, of
loss, of resignation.
The next voice was Dr. Robert’s. Same calm, laundry-list tone: “We’d better hurry; we could lose this one.
Everyone moved in a different direction atones. The heart-lung machine was wheeled toward
me. At the same time, my upper-feet
inner thigh was scrubbed with cold antiseptic.
Are they going to cut me there?
What the hell for? In my ignorance, I had assumed that the heart pump would
be hitched up somewhere near the heart, and not, as is the case, to the leg’s
femoral artery and vein. The scrubbing
stopped and, all too soon, I saw Dr. Herbert bend over his target.
When the fiery cut came, it was mercifully
swift. I bit my tongue. The pain was nearly as much as I could bear
in silence but no more. From then on,
it was pause, cut, and pause, cut. As
the knife went deeper into the muscle, the pain diminished. I eased up on my tongue. Then the surgeon decided to widen the
incision a little. Searing pain all
over again. Damn it, Herbert, if you
wanted to cut it that wide shy didn’t you do it in the first place?
Then a lightning bolt exploded in my leg, raced up
my feet side and smashed into my brain.
A minor nerve had been cut. An
involuntary moan escaped from deep inside me.
This had two immediate results.
First, tubing from the lung-machine was forced down my throat,
effectively preventing any further outbursts.
Second, there were more anesthesias—and suddenly the table seemed to be
on wheels, whirling around in a circus ring, counterclockwise. To add to the carnival atmosphere, the
doctors and nurses were cracking jokes, having a good laugh for
themselves. This is [pardon the
expression] standard operating procedure for maintaining alertness and morale. But in my paranoia, it seemed they were
laughing at me in my anguish. What the
hell’s so funny? I hope this happiness
to you, every damn one of you. Each
time the table completed its circle; Dr. Herbert would lean over and make
another slash. More pain, more
laughter. Herbert, you son of a bitch,
if you’re going to kill me, you’d better make a good job of it, cause if you
don’t I’ll sure as hell kill you.
Now the anesthesia was wearing off, the circling
table slowed, then stopped, and the pain was getting worse. I began to pray in earnest: Spare me,
Father, if it is your will. I want to
serve you. There were more slashes,
more obscene observations on Dr. Herbert’s parentage, then more prayers.
Then there must have been more anesthesia. Paranoia, pain and disorientation were
pushing my mind near the point of no return.
It was as if there was a slender silver cord from the brain to the
neck. It was stretched to the breaking
point and it is snapped, there could be no rejoining of it, I felt sure,
Father, if I lose my sanity, don’t let me live. Then I passed out.
Dr. Roberts splitting my chest down the middle with
what looked like a giant old-fashioned can opener revived me. This was too much. That silver cord was being stretched to a fine, fragile filament,
Dear God, help me!
Help came immediately. Someone I couldn’t see was putting a finger into my mouth,
adjusting the tract tubes. I was sure
it was Dr. Herbert, and I was filled with joy.
Okay, you bastard. You’ve had a
ball hurting me. Now you’re ready to
get some of your own medicine. I waited
until the finger moved back to the molars.
Now! I bit with all May
strength, yearning for the agonized scream.
To my humiliation, I was rewarded only with a peal of female
laughter. A masked face appeared over
mine and, even upside down, there was no mistaking those compassionate oriental
eyes. I had bitten Dr. Rhee. She seemed to be reading all my fears. “Are you in much pain?” I nodded.
“Are you scared?” Very vigorous
nods. “Okay, hold on. We’ll take care of you.”
Instantly, reality snapped into place. Dr. Roberts, Dr> Herbert and the others
weren’t carving me up for the fun of it.
People in that OR were making a superhuman effort to save my life, and with
a full heart I loved them for it.
The giant can opener ceased it prying, and the first
wave from the anesthesia washed over me.
Then came pure terror. Not
imagined now, but real and valid. In
altering Dr. Rhee, I had committed a colossal blunder. I was going to lose consciousness. That meant no more praying, no more fighting
and no more life. Because, tight or
wrong, I was absolutely convinced then [as I am today] that that double-edged
sword was, up to this point, all that stood between me and the crematorium. In silence, I cried out, Lord, they’re going
to put me out. Lord, I can’t
fight. I can’t pray. Dear Lord, will you pray for me?
The miracle, that followed is difficult to
describe. Skeptics will term it a
hallucination induced by fear and anesthesia.
I do not blame you. I was once
one of you. But was there, totally
alert. More significant, I am here,
against all odds.
A warm, gossamer-light, love-filled blanket of
Divine Grace descended upon me and protectively covered me. Two strong arms enfolded me. At my left ear, I seemed to hear two words
filled with a love beyond all understanding,
“I will.”
No words express what I felt so well as a beautiful
line by Carl Sandberg, for in that moment I “held in my heart and mind the
paradox of terrible storm and peace unspeakable and perfect.” Those two words
carried a promise: I would live. I whispered, “Abba, Lord.”
From time to time throughout that long night of the
long knives, I would resurface, seemingly at will, to check on the progress of
things. Or sometimes the pain of a new
incision—there were nine in all—would shock me into wakefulness. Finally, I heard Dr. Robert say, “Well, I
guess we can wrap this one up.” The
wall clock said 5:30 in the morning.
Almost everyone had been on his feet nearly 24 hours, some 36. Silently I gave thanks.
I spend 11 days in Intensive Care, battling for
life. After 90 minutes on a heart lung
machine, brain damage can begin: I was on it for four and half hours, and the
price was descent into temporary madness.
Like the day soon after the operation when a stranger walked into my room,
carrying a coil of rope with a noose around his neck. Without so much as a “Do you mind?” he pushed a stool center
stage, mounted it, tied the rope to a hook in the ceiling, kicked away the
stool and hanged himself. Or the
lovely, lithe—and totally nude—young nurse who dropped in for a delightful
visit.
But most of the time I was lucid. And 22 days after
I “died,” I walked out of the hospital.
I climbed the steps to the lobby of my hotel and crossed to the
elevator. David, the operator who had
seen me carried out, and said, “You
sure look a lot better than when you left, Mr. Bull.”
“Thank God, David,” I said. “Thank God.”
