A Little Taste of Death

            Just as we cannot choose the moment of our birth, so we cannot choose the moment of our death. I am speaking of natural death, not suicide. For some people death is a crash of glass and a crush of metal. For others it is a slow wasting away with time to ponder the uncertain course of a life. For me, it was a quiet surprise. Here is my story.

            I was working in a hospital records department. Newly toiling on the midnight shift and not doing well with the change in schedule after three weeks. I couldn’t sleep for more than four hours at a time and I was living on Red Bull, Mountain Dew and my determination to make it through the night. Not to mention strong coffee with espresso shots. In other words, I was a train wreck in the making. My train left the tracks five minutes before the shift ended.

            I had always imagined that I would know when I was dying and that I would have some time to prepare myself for the ending. Maybe think of some profound last words. Something like “Oh no, not again!” or “ I have a $150,000.00 in gold hidden in the…(ack, gasp, thud).” Or even make my peace with God. But that was not to be. I looked up from my computer monitor and said to myself, “That’s funny, I feel like I am going to faint.”  I didn’t faint or stagger out of my chair; instead I died.

            Five minutes before my shift ended, I was filling out my time sheet for the day. I was weary from the shift change and anxious for the workday to end. It was my 37^th wedding anniversary and I wanted to get home to rest before going out to celebrate our marriage with my wife. As previously mentioned, I felt faint. Two hours later I woke up as someone was inserting a tube into my neck and I saw my wife looking at me with tear-filled eyes. My first thought was; why am I dreaming this? My second thought was; am I awake? An assortment of tubes, hanging bottles and beeping medical machinery soon convinced me that something had gone horribly wrong. A great deal had happened in those two hours. Here is the timeline that was told to me by co-workers and medical people.

            I fainted as my heart went into ventricular fibrillation (V-Fib) and I ceased to breath. The 400 beats per minute left my heart quivering spasmodically and not pumping. This is where the chain of survival began. I collapsed against the back of my chair with my face tilted up. There was a snoring sound as the last breath left my lungs. (death rattle?) A co-worker was concerned and came over. She said my eyes were open and fearful. Her quick thinking and response was the first step in my survival. Employees at the hospital carry a card along with their identity badge that lists the phone number to call for a Code Event. She made the call.

            Thirty feet from the door of the Records Department is the office of Nursing Administration for the hospital. The time clock where nurses swipe in their badge is in that hallway. Around 7:00 o’clock there is an assortment of nurses coming and going. There is also a crash cart in that hallway that is stocked with an automatic defibrillator device (AED). Within moments of the Code Blue there were medical professionals assessing the situation and performing CPR upon my heart that had ceased to pump. Others were bringing out the defibrillator to shock the heart from its arrhythmia. At one point there were a dozen doctors and nurses working on me. I was told that CPR was performed on me for ten minutes. I was flat lining and unresponsive. At some time after resuscitation, I tried to leave. In the classic pattern of guys everywhere, I insisted that I was fine and wanted to go home. Needless to say, I was sedated for my own safety. I have no memory of this, but it rings true. I hate being the center of attention when I didn’t instigate it.

            I have long thought of the timing that was central to my survival. At 6:30 there probably wouldn’t have been nurses in the hallway. I might not have been noticed if it wasn’t close to a shift change in the office with extra staff around. Remember, seconds count. At 7:10 I would have been in the parking structure or in the elevator far from help. At 7:20 I would have been in my car heading for the expressway. I might have killed others. Every other time frame leads to death or brain damage from lack of oxygen. There were quick thinking people around. There was a defibrillator nearby. There were trained people that responded. In so many ways, things could have followed a very different path. As I lay there with my life flowing away, my co-workers were gathered together praying for me. I believe that their prayers were part of my survival. Because of the trauma and sedation that I experienced that time is blank to my direct memory. But some things demand to be remembered. After I survived, I had a very detailed, very vivid recurring dream. I think my brain had memories that somehow needed to be processed. I believe this dream that I experienced, at least five times in full detail, is a memory of an event that occurred as I lay dying. My heart tells me so.

            I was walking down a great hallway with many side branches. The ceiling was very high and vaulted. The walls were wainscoted with wood paneling above waist height. The floors were carpeted, predominately a dark green with a vine and flower pattern. Not brightly ornate, but rather familiar and comfortable. I felt at home. It reminded me of an old German restaurant in Michigan that I have been to a number of times. There were sconces giving off a soft light. The air was filled with music of all sorts. I remembered that there were places to sit for a bit, but there was a sense that the main hall was the way to the destination. Down each cross hallway that I passed, I could hear music. Each hallway had distinctive music coming from it. I remembered stopping a number of times to listen. I liked the Baroque and the Zydeco. When I looked down the hallways, I could see shadows in motion. It was like shadow puppets projected on the walls. There were bright lights reflecting the movements like dancing or there were undefined shapes playing along the walls. It seemed that there was a party in a big room that each of the various hallways led to. I could not see people directly, only their shadows. There were others in the corridor, but strangely we didn’t speak to each other. I nodded and smiled to a lady listening to Bach as I sat next to her. Her name was Margaret (?). I could hear voices behind me that seemed familiar, but they were somehow annoying or distracting. The voices were vexing me, continually calling my name. They were telling me to come back. I did not want to go back. I wanted to get to the end of the hallway. It was full of movement and shadow like the other hallways, but I knew that this was the main one. I knew that I could go back to the other rooms after I got to the main room. I just knew it. The journey seemed to be going slowly, but my sense of time wasn’t urgent, only purposeful. The voices nagged at me. And then things started to slip away. I no longer walked, but I felt pulled back the way I had come. I remember being upset that I couldn’t move forward. The voices became more persistent. Then they were gone. I was no longer in the corridor. I was very sad and frustrated. Then the dream ended.

            Does this dream mean anything? I don’t know. It was very important to me in the days after I was revived. It is still vivid in my memory. Was it only a dream? Is it the memory of a near death experience? Is it a memory from a dying brain trying to process the loss of oxygen and input? If I was an atheist or a Hindu, would the imagery be different? I do know that I like experiences that create more questions than answers. I also know that if I have to make a choice between random luck or God’s Grace, I will take the power of God. He has carried me through some difficult times, and I feel His presence in my life. The Lord has purpose and plans that I might never know. Why was I saved, when so many others die from cardiac arrest? The diagnosis was sudden cardiac death (SDC). That sounds pretty final. It certainly wasn’t a reward for anything that I had done. My wife Miriam thinks it is quite possible that it happened to encourage or give hope to someone else. Perhaps it was for a nurse that had seen too much death and needed to save a life. Maybe my story was for someone who feared dying and might be comforted by my story. I know I feel different about death after this experience. I value the small moments more than I ever had before. Enjoy the beauty around you. Life is a gift. Make sure you that you take time to unwrap the gift. I did not know that my world was ending when it did. There wasn’t time for a deathbed prayer or a last grasp towards the hand of God. I didn’t even know that I had died. Do I believe that there is something on the other side of life besides oblivion? Yes, I do. Do I know what it is? No, I don’t. I do believe that I caught a glimpse of something that I keep trying to understand. 

My Buddy Bill

I want to tell you a story. It is a story about love. It is a story about sacrifice. It is a tale of courage and devotion. It is about a life. This is the story of my buddy Bill. He is not in any history book. He doesn’t have a statue in the park. There is no heroic act attached to his name. But there should be.

We met early in the new century when I volunteered to visit with an elderly shut-in from my church. He was lonely and needed some company. Sometimes guys need to talk with guys.

So for the next two years, every Thursday evening, I would knock on his door. He would open it with a big smile, make me welcome, tell me a joke from an apparently endless supply, and we would sit down and talk. And talk we did. Work, war, politics, current issues on the news, those idiots in Washington, his kids, where to get the best corned beef, and also about his wife, Dorothy.

They had been married almost fifty years. As he spoke of her, his eyes would shine and a look of endless love would adorn his face. It was beautiful to see.

 He would speak about the good times and the hard times of their life together. The tides and the storms of living. Lately it had become mostly about the sad times.

Alzheimer’s disease was taking her away from him a bit at a time. She couldn’t drive anymore. Someone who had once filled the family table with a sumptuous feast on Thanksgiving Day, now couldn't be trusted to operate the stove.

And so Bill took over things. He had health problems of his own. Emphysema and an oxygen tank were his constant companions, but he coped. That’s the thing about Bill. He coped. It would took him an hour to move his portable oxygen to the car. He couldn’t walk 20 feet without a rest.

The years of Lucky Strikes and workplace fumes had taken their toll. Although he had never cooked very much, he took over cooking duties with a little help from meals on wheels. They still sat down to a dinner together every evening.

And so the story continued. The disease would take something away from Dorothy, and Bill would step up. He wanted to keep her in the home that she had known for almost 50 years.

In a quiet little corner of my town, a battle was being fought. As he struggled with the disease that was taking his life away with each labored breath, he was fighting to shelter the love of his life from her enemy; a disease that was both relentless and remorseless. And so it went.

When we were children, stories always had a happy ending. The princess was rescued, the Beast was transformed, and ever-after went happily on its way. But this is a true story and the ending isn’t so simple. He had to keep the doors secured because she had started to wander. I could see her decline in the changes of grooming and expression. His own disease was progressing, too. Emergency room visits and ambulances in the night became the norm.

As this tale nears its end, I would like to leave you with a thought. When the measure of a person is in looks, the mirror mirror on the wall will eventually disappoint. When the measure of a person’s life is in wealth, the big bad wolf can blow it all away.

When a life is measured in love, can we even fathom the end.

When I think of my Buddy Bill and his beloved Dorothy, I know their life didn’t end happily ever after, but their love did.

The Bell

The tires were screaming (or was it me) as they dug into the downhill curve.  My bike computer was displaying numbers previously unseen.  (I’m a cruiser, not a racer!)

It had all started innocently enough.  My sister had generously offered the use of her vacation home in the beautiful North of Michigan.  My wife and I were getting away for a long weekend.   We brought our bikes to get in some leisurely cruising.  The weather was perfect.  Northern Michigan was at its best.  We had been riding for a couple of years after having my knees replaced.  Still can’t jump over my garage.  The next set of knees will do the trick. 

I need to put this in context.  I live in a suburb of Detroit.  A very flat suburb of Detroit.  Almost exactly unlike the rolling hills of Gladwin.  That is where the trouble began. 

My bike is a joy to ride. It has 21 speed gearing and a design well suited to the balance unsure.  I fall down a lot.  My bike has fenders, a back rack, front basket, trip computer, puncture resistant tires, and bright lighting fore and aft.  It is a thing of Beauty.  But it had a flaw.  It didn’t have a bell.  I purchased a shiny bell that matched the paint on my bike.  I always wear a helmet.  I always observe traffic laws and usually ride with common sense.  I am careful.  If you fall down regularly you try to minimize the impact, so to speak.  Gravity is another law that I always obey. 

There is a thing about hills and bikes.  Lung straining, blood eagle sacrifice uphill followed by gravity powered, free in the wind exhilaration downhill.  Being a creature of comfort I chose the series of small rises followed by a short level section rather than the long climb to the right of an oval around a golf course.  We reached the top, gazed upon the scene and headed down the long curvy hill.  My wife being a person of common sense (ever notice how opposites attract?) applied her brakes and kept her speed down.  I leaned into the handlebars and set gravity loose.  I was free in the wind!  I was the wind!  A note of uncertainty crept into my thoughts.  This is pretty fast.  As the brakes were applied to little avail my wobbling red juggernaut approached a sharp curve.  A truck coming up the hill felt more like a target than a part of the passing scene.  Time slowed down.  I didn’t think I could make the curve.  I looked for options that didn’t involve painful intimacy with the front of a gold GMC 2500 series with eight bolt hubs and Calvin making a statement about Fords in the window.  I could just make it across the road onto the landscaped yard across the street narrowly missing my rendezvous with Detroit Iron.  Then I saw her.  Facing away, bent over tending her roses with diligent care.  Directly in my trajectory.  I had to warn her!   I could not speak.  My teeth were clenched in terror. A bell! I could ring my bell.  My uninstalled bell...  My bell sitting in the box.

There are moments that stay in your brain with a clarity that time cannot dim.  For some damn fool reason I could not run into her.  Slaughter of the Innocent, perhaps.  I wrenched the bars over, leaned into the curve and narrowly missed eternity by a fraction of a distance too small for me to relate.  The driver’s eyes met mine for an instant.  And then she swept past.  We will always have Gladwin.

         The moral of this cautionary tale is to take each moment as it comes but to make sure you are equipped for that moment.  The bell almost tolled with a price sticker on the packaging.