Courtesy: Medical Miracles, from Readers Digest 1981.
November.
From the frontiers of science and the far horizons of
personal courage, these stories of medical triumphs and miracles will reaffirm
your faith in the awesome powers of the human spirit. Dramatic victories and
human triumphs.
Selected and edited by the editors of Readers Digest
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.”
