Through all my years of physicals I have always been blessed
to hear that I’m in great health.
When it comes to my heart, the report was always that everything was
solid…no rare ailments like Marfans Syndrome, which took my brother in his
early thirties. No bad
cholesterol, or high blood sugar counts, or strange heartbeats. In fact, my various doctors over the
decades have always marveled at how low my blood pressure is (not sure how that
correlates with my temper, which has been known to boil at times).
Additionally, I’ve been fairly blessed with only a couple
visits to the emergency room, and one outpatient surgery for a hernia last
year. In fact, I’ve never stayed
at a hospital overnight in my lifetime.
So, imagine my surprise when I was cold-cocked by a major cardiac
discombobulation that featured ten days in Nashville’s Baptist Hospital (half
in the Intensive Care Unit) and subsequent heart surgery just a month ago. Many have asked for a recap, so here it
is:
I believe it all started a few days before I left for the
Middle East. A strange, bright red
rash began forming in my armpits.
An odd occurrence, because I have used the same Mennen Speed Stick
deodorant for at since the 80s. I
tried another brand for a day but that only seemed to make it worse, and by
then there was no time to set up an appointment. I just figured I would deal with it as best I could on the
two-week excursion by just washing my underarms several times a day. But the discoloration and sensitivity
didn’t diminish. In fact, it even
spread to my chest. Additionally,
I somehow picked up an inner ear infection of some sort the final few days.
Once I got back to the States, I had less than a day at home
before having to turn right around and fly to San Diego for Kurt and Anne
Andress’ wedding. This was none
too helpful for the earache and adjoining fever. To say I was feeling lousy would be putting it mildly.
I got in to see my doctor pretty quickly once I got home
from the Left Coast. He flushed my
ear canal with some antibiotic fluid, and surmised that I had some sort of
yeast infection on my skin. He
prescribed a medication that would help clear that up along with some
eardrops. I noticed on the
instructions for the pills that they might “cause discoloration, pain, and odor
during urination.” Little did I
know, but this was the really going to be the root of my later issues, because,
alongside the ear infection, I picked up a urinary tract infection somewhere in
the previous week. And unbeknownst to me, three of the primary symptoms of a
U.T.I. are discoloration, pain, and odor during urination.
But because the rash under my arms was disappearing with
each passing day, I was willing to take those symptoms from what I thought was just the medicine in
exchange for the annihilation of armpit aberration. I also credited the low-grade fever I had to road
weariness and the pills. I had no idea that a U.T.I. was growing worse with
each passing day.
A week later, just as that skin prescription was running
out, I was awakened at one in the morning by horrific lower back pain. I rolled
out off my mattress and hobbled around my bedroom complaining to no one in
particular, “how the hell did I pull a muscle in my sleep?!” You see, I have a history of lumbar
issues tied-in to muscle spasms. We tall guys tend to have these, as we grow
older. It can be quite painful and somewhat debilitating for three to five
days, and then, usually, it fades along with some thorough stretching and appropriate
rest. Of course, some painkillers
don’t hurt either. So the next
morning, I called my doc and asked if he could prescribe some Hydrocordone to
help me deal with the knifing throb.
He’s quite familiar with my plight in that realm, and went ahead and
sent the word to my pharmacy to get me set up. This was strike number two in my unfortunate at bat with
destiny, because Hydrocordone simply masks pain…covers it up completely, as
well as deadening the side effects of a fever. Most likely I hadn’t pulled a muscle in my lower back. Rather, my kidneys and bladder were
barking because of the undetected U.T.I., and it just felt very similar to a
twisted back.
So, several more days passed with the U.T.I worsening, but I
was oblivious to it other than a general sense that I just wasn’t feeling
right. But, as they say, the
chickens finally came home to roost the evening of March 31st. I went to watch an exciting Predators
game vs. the hated Chicago Blackholes.
Somehow, the Preds managed to dig themselves into a 4-0 hole halfway
into the game. But they stormed
back to tie the game midway into the third period. I, along with the rest of the sellout crowd was in full
throat urging the guys onward. We
“emptied our buckets” screaming and yelling our support (as well as disdain for
the Chitown fans in attendance). Unfortunately, Nashville ended up losing on a
goal late in the game, and as I was sulking along my normal six-block walk back
to my car, I was feeling physically drained…even ill. It was a tough loss, but I normally don’t get that vaklempt after a negative result.
Several times I stopped and truly felt like I was going to keel over. I noticed my heart was racing, and I
was covered in clammy perspiration.
When I arrived at home, I went directly to my room and
collapsed into my bed, where within minutes I started shaking
uncontrollably. The chills
overtook me, and my teeth were chattering like one of those wind-up false chopper
toys, and my entire body was vibrating beyond my will to stop. I somehow got my clothes off and
crawled under the covers, but the quaking continued unabated for nearly an
hour. Eventually it faded, but within minutes a sever fever swept over me. I was burning up. I had a baking headache, and started
making the first of many runs to the bathroom as the heaves started. Hardly anything chucked-upward, which
is never helpful…I find the dry heaves to be much more difficult that full
release of a Technicolor rainbow.
This oven-like existence persisted for another hour, and then segued
into voluminous sweats…perspiration flowing out of my pores as if I were
running a marathon in thru the Okeechobee Swamp in July. My hair was soaking
wet, my t-shirt was sopped, and the sheets of the bed were moist. It was unlike anything I could ever
recall. This element was about a
few hours in length, and then it began to fade. I started feeling remarkably
better, even normal about four in the morning, and actually slept for a few
hours.
I awoke fairly refreshed at daybreak, and thought I had just
suffered through some intense food poisoning of some sort. I thought it might
be good to get cleaned up and go to church and give thanks for that being over
with. But just as I began shaving,
the shakes started again. I tried
to work through it, but was afraid I was going to cut myself. I went to the kitchen to try and take
my temperature, but my jaw was flapping so wildly that I feared I would bite
the thermometer in half. I lay down, and the entire sequence of chills for an
hour, fever for an hour, and profuse sweats for an hour began again.
In fact, this vicious cycle happened four more times that
day. During the fourth one, I was
doing some research online, because I had ruled out food poisoning by this
time. It also wasn’t the same cycle that I would get with severe migraine
headaches. This was a different
animal. After scrolling through
several possible ailments, I came to the conclusion that I had contracted
malaria. Now this isn’t
far-fetched in that I have traveled to fifty-four countries, and malaria can
take up to twelve months sometimes to manifest itself. I had, in fact, been to several regions
where malaria can be passed on by mosquitoes, so, there was a decent chance I
could be right in my self- analysis.
Even though I take anti-malarial drugs, something might’ve gotten lodged
into my liver and was finally hatching. I had nine of the ten symptoms listed
on the malaria sites going for me…so it seemed as plausible as anything.
By this time it was evening, and I thought, I’ll just try to slog through the night and
see my doctor tomorrow, and we’ll get this figured out. I know, I know…I should’ve gone to an
emergency room. But by this time,
the cycles were so predictable, and, even though I felt lousy, it didn’t seem
to be getting any worse.
I did not sleep very well, and what down time I did find was
influenced by some rather hallucinatory dreams. 9 AM came much too slowly, but that is when I was able to
get through to my physician’s office and set up an appointment for early afternoon. I was greeted with yet another dreaded
cycle of chills, fever, dry heaves, and sweats. In the midst of that, I got a
call from good friend, Carla.
She’s a very sunny sort, and was bubbling away in her invitation for me
to join her for the annual Easter feast she was hosting at her home the
upcoming Sunday. I was sort
of grunting responses to her when she stopped and asked, “Are you feeling
alright?”
“Honestly,” I groaned, “I feel pretty bad.” I then proceeded to give her the litany
of what had gone on in the previous twelve hours. She asked if I would like her to drive me to the
doctor? At that moment, it dawned
on me that I probably wasn’t in very good shape to be steering a 3,000-pound
vehicle, so I gladly accepted her offer.
A few hours later she picked me up and took me in for the
predetermined time to meet. Within
minutes, my doctor knew I was quite sick.
I told him I thought it might be malaria, and he certainly didn’t
discount that. But after an hour, several
blood and urine tests came back with the results of an U.T.I. “The good news is that it isn’t malaria,”
he explained, “but you are one very sick dude, Mark. We are going to put you in a wheel chair right now and get
you across the street to Baptist Hospital where they are going to try and get
this infection and fever under control.”
To Carla’s credit, she stuck right by my side through this
whole ordeal. As matter of fact,
she spent over ten hours making sure I was properly taken care of. I was borderline delirious at this
point, my fever spiking at 104, and was severely dehydrated. It was a bit of a comedy of errors and
C.Y.A. (Cover Your Ass) finger pointing with some of the admitting nurses once
I arrived at the hospital. I was
in severe need of hydrating saline, and even though I was prepped to receive
it, none was actually being administered.
Carla got in several peoples’ faces about it, and finally the head nurse
on the floor came in along with the attending physician and they quickly
surmised that I needed to be taken to the Intensive Care Unit.
Within minutes of arriving at I.C.U. there was a flurry of attendants
and docs buzzing around me trying to figure out why my heart rate was at 170
beats per minute. From what I
could figure, it had been that way since the hockey game nearly two days
before. But before that could be fully addressed, they needed to work on
getting the infection and fever out.
They had two saline machines running into each arm at the highest flow
rate possible within minutes. I joked that I was “a two fisted drinker” at that
point (and would be for the next four days). In fact, they pumped over four gallons of various saline
blends into me during that stretch, which I’m told, is a lot of fluid. I
could’ve floated a battleship with the amount of peeing I did the next several
days to compensate for the intake.
As I mentioned earlier, I had never spent an overnight in a
hospital before, and wasn’t even sure if this would just be a day or two
stay. I certainly hadn’t planned
on anything…I was just going in to see my doctor initially. So, once it looked like the I.C.U. was
fully on top of my needs, Carla raced home to get some supplies for me. I was exhausted, but there was no way
of getting sleep as I was continually poked, prodded, and examined in one way
or another through the night.
The word started to get out that I was in this state, and so
calls started coming in from family and friends, which I felt I needed to take
care of. I think it was finally
around 3:00 AM that I got a bit of restful sleep, and then again around 10:00
AM on Tuesday. Later that
afternoon, the visitors started coming by, which was terrific. And I was also able to hook-up my
laptop and begin communicating online.
Despite being all wired up in both arms and my chest (I believe there were normally about
seven devices pumping me with something-or-other or monitoring me at any given
moment), and looking rather disheveled from lack of a shower for a few days, I
was feeling increasingly better as the fever was dropping, the headache
dissipating, and the nausea fading. My hydration was improving. Indeed, the infection was beginning to
fade.
But my heart rate was of continued concern. Honestly, it was a mystery to the
doctors and other staff as to what was happening. It stayed frenetic at 170 b.p.m. (Which is just about max
capacity for human survival) for a third straight day under their surveillance
(and probably at least five straight including the days before my
arrival). It was also erratic in
that it was fluttering wildly instead of keeping a steady 4/4 beat. I cracked that my love of progressive
rock and all the odd time signatures had made my heart “go all Gentle Giant” with
the 6/8, 9/8, 11/8, 7/8, and 5/8 beats per measure.
But I could tell it was not a laughing matter for the
cardiologists who were observing me.
My room had two large sliding glass doors and curtains that separated it
from the primary nurses’ station out in the hallway. Usually after staff would tend to me, they would close the
curtains and then the doors to give me some respite from the outside noise and
activity. However, after one visit
with three of the doctors, they closed the doors but forgot to pull the
curtains. I could see them looking at my graphs and charts outside pointing at me
and making gestures with their hands, shrugging their shoulders, and pointing
to the sides of their heads. I couldn‘t read lips, but it sure looked like they
were expressing the sentiments of “I have no idea what’s going on with him, I’m
seriously befuddled.”
Strangely, though, this didn’t panic me. The physical improvements were helping
me sleep, and even though I had this galloping heart rate, my appetite, thirst,
and bodily functions were good.
It’s just that my blood pressure was quite high, and the heart speed was
out of control. Once the fever and
infection were relatively stable, they began pumping various things into me to
see if they could harness the heart.
At one point on the third day in I.C.U. it nose-dived suddenly from 170
down to 38 (which, as you might imagine, is not good in the other
direction). The head nurse came
sprinting into the room when her outside monitor picked up on the
nosedive. “Are you alright?!” she
gasped.
I looked up at my heart monitor and started to laugh. “You know, I feel exactly the same as I did when it was at 170.” She did not find it funny, but it was
true. I believe God was helping me
keep a sense of humor and an even keel about everything throughout my
stay. And, truly, I did feel the same. It was not lost on me
that thousands of people were praying for me at my church, and amongst
listeners from radio stations where I had a relationship through my work with
Compassion. I was receiving
hundreds of encouraging messages via Facebook, e-mail, and phone calls. Flowers and cards were coming, and
dozens of friends were visiting…all boosting my spirits and keeping me smiling.
I was kidding with one of the cardiologists that they might
need to name a new disease after me since they were so stumped. He was only partially amused as he
responded, “Well, we have to find a cure first.”
Stay tuned for Part Two of this saga coming soon…
