Tuesday, January 2nd, 2013

It was alarming to me to read the recap of my stay at Fairview Southdale. For four days, I recall only moments - some of which I am not too proud of - of my recovery from the procedures. There were 19 physicians and 11 nurses who signed off on notes and procedures during my stay. I remember 3 physicians and 2 nurses, and an incredibly special employee who was sent from God to save my life.

From the admission notes:

Mr. Jeffrey Carter is a pleasant 55-year-old-gentleman with a history of smoking and insulin dependent diabetes who was admitted with an anterior STEMI. He underwent emergent coronary angiography and intervention for an occluded left anterior descending artery . . . Given his cardiogenic shock, an intra-aortic balloon pump was placed in the angiographic suite.

It’s a lot of medical terminology that means I was in dire shape and needed some extraordinary measures. “Cardiogenic shock is a largely irreversible condition and as such is more often fatal than not.” My heart was severely damaged, my node irreversibly so, and my paid was listed as 9/10 for the three days after the surgery.

I recall a few events - not all of them accurately - from Sunday and Monday. I don’t remember anything from Saturday post ambulance trip. The Vikings played Green Bay and won 37-34. I swore I watched the movie with my son Adam, but he was on an airplane so that wasn’t possible. My daughter tells me I talked to her, excited about my upcoming trip to Portland to see her and my new grandchild. I don’t recall the conversation, but apparently I was in good form. My brother, Steve, arrived from Chicago on Monday to a tirade I was having about the bathrooms being filthy (of course, I’d never left my bed so I wouldn’t actually know) and I began to believe that people were trying to kill me. I demanded a hospital administrator, an attorney and a judge and begged my wife to move me to another facility.

Michelle: “Jeff, you are in good care here. Don’t you trust me?”

Me: “No, I don’t trust you.”

Michelle: “Your brothers here, he agrees with me, do you trust him?”

Me: “Barely.”

Ativan and morphine are a powerful combination. My wife assured the staff that I was a really easy going guy, and this wasn’t me talking. The only time I would calm down would be when Michelle or Steve came into the room and read The Bible to me. Otherwise, I tended to get very agitated and difficult to control. I was tied to the bed, since I had so many catheter lines and the intra-aortic balloon pump still helping my heart recover.

Tuesday night after Michelle and Steve went home, Dr. Chris Sullivan and I finally had it out. Dr. Sullivan was the ICU chief who oversaw most of my recovery. He’s a Boston Southy, looks like a plumber and talks like a roughneck. My brother Steve loved him - he was plain speaking and very honest about what was happening to me. My stay was complicated by severe pericarditis resulting in acute reparatory failure and pulmonary edema. I was in constant pain. I would get down to a 4/5 on the pain scale and be able to have some cognizance for 10-15 minutes. During this time I would try and make sense of what was around - and how I was doing. Between all the drugs I was on I had no bladder control. Whenever I awakened I would often try and fight the restraints. I recall being restrained by the nurse and the “babysitter” in ICU. I frequently soiled myself and during these moments of consciousness I’d feel remorse and sorrow - I would apologize profusely to the staff and I felt a deep depression overcoming me.

On Tuesday evening, I awoke around 9:00 to find Dr. Sullivan in the room doing a review with the nurse. He asked how I felt and I recall telling him I wanted this all to end. He asked me why and I responded that the pain was so intense I believed that they were trying to kill me.

Dr. Sullivan: “Why do you think we’re trying to kill you?”
Me: “Because I am in incredible pain.”
Dr. Sullivan: “We aren’t trying to kill you, we’re trying to help you.”
Me: “But I’m in agony here.”
Dr. Sullivan: “Because we need to keep your heart beating - we can’t put you out much more, because you need a chance to heal.”
Me: “Then why does it hurt so fucking much!”
Dr. Sullivan: “Why? Because you’re not supposed to be here, fella. You’re supposed to be dead. Nobody makes it through this. So buck up and deal with it.”

Epiphany 1, Jeff 0.

I wasn’t awake much longer - the nurse administered more sedatives and I fell off the edge again. But I remember those words so clearly, because it was the first time I actually realized how sick I was, and how close I had been or seemingly was to death. I was ready to quit and as I passed out, I prayed for final relief from all the pain.