Science and Miracles

Awakening Slowly I awakened from a dream of me in large room with water flooding the floor. The dreamy state faded into reality. I recognized my surroundings as the ICU. I could feel a peripherally inserted central catheter (PICC) line in my neck, a catheter in my right forearm, three hoses draining fluid from organs and a trach tube inserted to my throat externally. I could not tell if I was unconscious one day or one year as I had no temporal reference frame. Time just stood still. However, I was alive. That is what mattered. How many more of these chances do I get, God? As the saying goes, a cat possesses nine live. My dad often remarked that I moved like a feline in the house, being cautious not to disturb my sleeping parents when returning late from work at night. I attributed that talent to the karate practice: move silently like a tiger! My brother John's footfalls were loud. (The BNB proprietor in North Carolina, where I stayed on my last Q-1 training gig, made a similar comment on how quiet I was during my comings and goings. He mentioned catlike abilities!). Awake, my eyes darted around the ICU for about three hours, taking in everything. Desperate to find out what happened to me, I attempted to reach for the bedside call signaler. It was then that I realized I was immobilized, a semi-quadriplegic! I could do nothing but wait for someone to enter the room. Nurses soon came to my bedside and noticed I was now conscious. They called for the doctors and, after a few words with me, they left. Miss Sue arrived shortly after, and the joy in her eyes was unmistakable even through her COVID mask. She leaned close to my face, ready to answer any questions I had. I began to speak but was unable to. “How long?” I inaudibly rasped, realizing that the intubation tube had defeated my ability to speak. She shook her head. “I can’t hear you, Michael,” she said. “Can you mouth the words? I will try to lip read them.” I did just that, but to no avail. “I don’t understand you, sweetheart,” she said. I stared into her eyes. The attending nurse was more adept. “Michael wants to know how long he has been asleep,” she said. Sue acknowledged her and leaned over. “Over three weeks,” she said and looked to the room calendar, which said September 6th. Three weeks! Not only could I not speak but scribbling was out as well due to my inability to move my arm and articulate my digits! A combination of frustration and anxiety gripped me. I had to adapt to the situation until things got better. Word spread on the fifth floor that I was conscious, and I became a minor celebrity, resulting in visits from nurses, aides, physicians of all specialties, physician assistants, therapists, and administrators, all wanting to see the man who came back from the dead. They all wanted to see the “miracle” man. Not that there was much to behold. As mentioned, I was completely immobilized; I could neither speak nor write due to the medication-induced tremors and lack of manual dexterity. All I could do for weeks was eat, observe the people around me, think, and sleep. I couldn't even imagine being able to return home and reunite with my beloved aging cocker spaniel, Kelsey. Would things ever get better? Miss Sue and the doctors told me that I had the mother of all complications with third stage kidney failure leading the procession. The nephrologist admitted that what kidney damage I had was inadvertently done by the surgery. Dialysis was required every other day for two weeks until urine could be produced in sufficient quantity to indicate restored function. While unconscious I had swelled up to 300 pounds of which 130 of it was edema but much of this drained away prior to awakening. My left arm stayed swollen the whole time at HFH and the rehab clinic due to a clot. My right lung cavity also was water-filled, which would later need draining via procedure. Feeding, shaving, and brushing my teeth were out of the question until I regained a semblance of psychomotor skill and kinesthetic memory. Sue had been daily texting key friends and family throughout the process. Other than LinkedIn, for possible career contacts, I am on no other social media platform as I regard them the devil’s work. How much time and invested emotional energy does it take to inform hundreds of so-called friends, of the most irrelevant facts and events in one’s life? Too much. I laugh whenever someone informs me in all seriousness how many Facebook or Instagram “followers” they have. As my good friend Allan Darish once told me, “Real friends know your middle name.” The entire Brain Trust was activated in praying and supporting my recovery. God Bless them all! I didn’t deserve their friendship, but they think otherwise. I thought about how they are all different and unique in their personality makeup but can be grouped with certain idiosyncrasies. For instance, Sue, along with Messrs. Darish and Stortz exhibit a graceful and soft-handed touch, Tai Chi-like, when dealing with difficult people, whether face-to-face or on social media. Chuck Clayton and I tend to respond to such individuals with rhetorical fists of fury, not a good look for men pushing seventy! It expends needless energy in trying to win conflicts decisively. My brother John always keeps his powder dry until it is time to fight, which is not often.