A MEDICAL
ODYSSEY
This
journey began before the actual event.
by
F. Sanford Mahr
The doctors all told me that
one of the reasons I survived the medical odyssey described here and one of the
main things that helped to save my life was that I was in such good physical
condition from exercise and good nutrition for years before this happened.[1]
Our
scars have the power to remind us that our past was real.
—Hannibal Lecter[2]
February 18, 2000, began as a typical day in my life. It
started with a breakfast meeting at the Tampa Club with the then acting Dean of
the University of Tampa College of Business and various other appointed
committee members.[3] We
were interviewing one of the candidates for the position of Dean of the College
of Business.
One of my fellow committee members was a well-known, highly
successful woman whom I enjoyed meeting.[4] The
breakfast meeting lasted approximately an hour and a half, after which I went
back to my office to act on a full calendar of calls, appointments, and various
other business activities. My plans were to end the day with my regular workout[5] at
The Harbor Island Athletic Club, followed by an evening with a woman I had been
dating for a few weeks.
During an appointment around noon for a project I was
marketing,[6] I
wasn’t feeling exactly myself, although I wasn’t sure what was wrong. By early
afternoon, it was becoming clearer and clearer to me that something serious was
not right, so I cancelled an appointment with a good friend of mine, Norman
Linton, and an environmental engineer to look at a property that Norman was
considering acquiring. I remained in my office and completed business calls and
other activities, although at a somewhat slower pace than usual.
During the last call that I intended to make before going to
the athletic club, I got into an argument with a long-standing client over a
discrepancy of $4,000 that he owed me in fees. I was infuriated because this
was a pattern with this client, and the last time it had happened, he had promised
me that it would never happen again. While I was talking to him, I was feeling
sicker and sicker, and just knew that I had to get off the phone.
A little later, while I was still at my desk, I suddenly
felt a sharp intense pain in my neck. The best way I can describe it is that it
felt like wooden pencils were stabbing my throat, which took my breath away. When
my heart started beating faster and palpitating, I lay my head down on my desk,
hoping for some relief. However, when that didn’t help, I went to the bathroom,
splashed cold water on my face, and lay down in one of the nearby bedrooms. But
that still brought no relief.
At that point, I knew that whatever was happening had to be
serious, so I decided to drive myself to an emergency room. First, though, I
checked my health insurance file to make sure to go to a hospital where my
insurance policy offered maximum coverage. Thankfully, as it turned out, that hospital,
St. Joseph’s, also had the best heart surgery
department in the area, although it was by no means the closest hospital. Along
the way, I called my friend, Dr. Steve Kreitzer, and left a message with
his answering service.
The hospital admitted me immediately, and fortunately the emergency
room doctor there had the good sense to administer something to me for the pain
and something to lower my blood pressure. Steve Kreitzer was not on call, but his
new associate, Adam Katz, was covering for him. Adam didn’t
know me at all, and at first didn’t know what was wrong with me. He may have
been somewhat put off by me, since I was being a bit belligerent, thanks to my
pain and fears. I am sure I was very demanding and difficult. However, Adam was
instrumental in assisting with the eventual diagnosis. It was because of him
that an echocardiogram was ordered.
After ruling out various possibilities following the echocardiogram,
the doctors performed a CT scan of my chest. Then they consulted a prominent
cardiovascular surgeon, Dr. Enrique Lopez, who knew of me from the days when I had
been chairman of the Board of Directors of the American Heart Association in
Tampa Bay. Dr. Lopez informed me that I had a very serious condition, known as
a dissection of the ascending thoracic aorta. After advising me of the high
risks involved, he told me I had no choice but immediate emergency surgery. The
alternative, he said, was that I would most likely die. Later, I learned that
92 percent of the people who have that surgery in an emergency die on the
operating table.
I called my ex-wife, Carol, who was living in Maryland with
our two children and her second husband, explained what was going on, and asked
to talk to my son and daughter, who were respectively 11 and 14 at the time. Carol
was sympathetic and immediately went to pick up our children at their various
activities, so we could talk before I went into surgery. It was difficult for
me to hear their voices, for they were trying so hard to be strong for me and to
hold back their tears. I tried to hold mine back as well.
“Everything will be fine,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”
I knew they would be coming down to Tampa, but I honestly
wasn’t sure I would ever see them again. I can only imagine how frightened they
must have been. I was already very heavily sedated and scared, but I still had
the sense to speak briefly with my sister, Marilyn, who was in Fort Lauderdale.
“I think it might be a good idea if you come over here,” I
said.
I also had a nurse call some of my friends—Neil Cantor,
Richard Gorbaty, and Norman Linton—to tell them what was going on and to
provide them with the names and phone numbers of key people I was working with
on various projects and other matters that I deemed important. I even asked
Neil to stay in touch with those people and keep them in the loop while I was
going through this emergency, and he did that in his usually thorough and
dependable way.
Although I was drugged, I asked Norman Linton to please handle
a couple of financial matters for me, which I had intended to take care of
after the weekend. He did that for me, and even went beyond that by helping my
family financially throughout my ordeal.
My sister called my brother, Eric, who was living in Israel,
although I didn’t get to speak to him at that time. I do remember,
however, hearing his voice when I eventually woke up from the surgery. After the
voices of my children, his voice had the most significance for me.
When Steve Kreitzer called me, just before I went into
surgery, he reassured me how necessary it was, and that I would get premier
care with Dr. Lopez as the lead surgeon.
The next thing I remember was seeing Dr. Lopez, who had a calming,
reassuring, and comforting manner.
After that, I was placed on a gurney, where I was prepared
for the surgery.
The last person I remember seeing was Norman Linton’s
girlfriend at that time, Connie Wickstrand, who came with Norman to the
hospital right after I talked to him on the phone. Connie held my hand in a
gentle compassionate way as I was wheeled off to the surgical theater. Her
kindness was comforting and took my loneliness and some of my fear away.
In my drugged state, I said to her, “There’s nothing like a
mother’s touch, is there? Thank you for sharing your motherly touch.”
Then, with a whoosh of the wheels under the gurney, I saw the
bright lights of the hospital corridor ceiling passing by like a blur of
headlights on a heavily trafficked road in the dark of night. The lights were anonymous
and blurred, illuminating me as I was transported to the even brighter, colder,
and more sterile-looking operating room.
There was activity all around, with lots of people doing
lots of different things. But despite their presence, the room felt empty, for
I was very cold, very alone, and very scared. As I lay under all the bright
lights, I sensed the intense mood among the doctors, nurses, and technicians.
They were all totally focused on the details of their tasks at hand, and not
one of them was at all interested in my meager attempts at humor.
When the anesthesiologist came over to me, I was hazy, but I
remember that he looked powerful, and the light behind him illuminated him in a
way that made him stand out from everyone else.
“Is this it?” I asked. “If so, please make the drugs strong
and good.”
That’s the last thing I remember.
Four weeks later, I woke up, unable to speak or breathe on
my own. I couldn’t even write legibly. Everyone told me that it was a miracle I
had even survived. As a matter of fact, one of the members of the surgical team
visited me in my hospital room after I was out of the ICU, and confided to me
how lucky I really was. He said that he and his team had difficulties getting
my heart and lungs to function again after the surgery, and they had to resort
to using a defibrillator numerous times.
My sister Marilyn flew in from Ft. Lauderdale and took charge,
the best she could, of keeping everyone informed and insulating me from all the
well-wishers who wanted to see me while I was in the Cardiac Intensive Care
Unit.
My brother Eric flew in from Israel and spent weeks at my
side. He advocated for me with the doctors and made various logistical decisions.
In order for him to be able to observe the Sabbath, for he was an Orthodox Jew,
kosher food was brought to him, and he even slept in the waiting room of the ICU,
so he wouldn’t have to drive. When he couldn’t be with me at the hospital, he
was on the phone with me multiple times each day and totally involved in every
aspect of what was going on.
My sister and her then boyfriend ended up staying at my home
for more than a month. Together with my brother, Neil Cantor, and Norman
Linton, they kept everything on track. What an awesome amount of love and
caring they all provided.
Richard Gorbaty did not let the hospital get away with
providing anything less than the best service, even though my health insurance
company made that difficult. Neil Cantor handled matters on both a business and
personal level. Norman Linton even gave money to my family members for their
own use, without expecting to be repaid. My children were there, and my ex-wife
came as well, along with some of her local girlfriends, who were there to
support her. Many other friends and caring family members brought an outpouring
of loving concern and provided support, each in their own way.
As for me, I was in a coma, oblivious to everything that was
going on—heavily sedated and connected to life-support systems and various
other machines. Unconscious, I was hanging on, but it was only the life-support
systems, the medications, the constant professional care, and the prayers, love,
and support of family members and friends that kept me alive.
There were many complications and issues at various points.
The doctors told my family that they didn’t know what the outcome would be. It
was a day-to-day vigil. My friend, doctor, and fellow synagogue congregant,
Steve Kreitzer, even
told our rabbi that it was not a good situation and could go either way. I had
a tracheotomy, was connected to a respirator, was on a catheter, and received
nutrition only through a feeding tube that was inserted through my left nostril
and channeled all the way down to my stomach. Oxygen was being pumped into me.
Pain medications were provided by means of IV’s and direct lines. Additional
medications to control my heart rate and my blood pressure were also provided. The
doctors gave me various antibiotics to combat infections and the resulting
fevers. At various points, my temperature rose as high as 105 degrees.
Diuretics were used to address the accumulation of fluids in my lungs and
pericardial sac.
I was placed on a special bed, thanks to the intervention of
my friend Richard Gorbaty, who advocated for it, even though the hospital said
it wasn’t covered by my insurance policy. He was adamant and insisted, so the
hospital finally provided it. The bed rose, turned, and put my body through
movement that it was unable to do on its own. The bed could also lower its
temperature in order to deal with my intense fevers. Throughout this process, I
lost a great deal of blood.
Apparently, as I learned much later, the rabbi at my temple
mentioned my condition during services and my need for blood, after which many
of my family members and friends donated blood on my behalf, including
my ex-wife Carol, Richard Gorbaty, Kevin Cohen, and many others.
Further complications ensued, starting with pneumonia. My
left lung collapsed, half of my diaphragm was paralyzed, and I had encephalopathy
of the brain. On top of all that, as they told me weeks after I was home, I had
a mini-stroke, which is one of the many risks from this type of surgery. Fortunately,
as they later told me, I was lucky that the stroke occurred in a portion of my
brain that does not affect speech, movement, and so many other things that
could have easily been affected. There is no telling what the result might have
been if the particles of blood clotting and other material that lined the
inside of my aorta had shot up to my brain through my carotid arteries to
another section of my brain.
There is little I remember about the weeks I lay comatose in
the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. Perhaps that was a blessing, since I had been
kissed by death. As is written in the Zohar,
“The Book of Splendor,” one of the literary works of the Kabbalah,
“a kiss is the merging of one breath with another.” However, in this instance,
death’s kiss was intent on taking my breath away. But it was not to prevail.
All I remember, and I can still recall it with vivid detail, was being in
tremendous pain, being colder than I had ever been, and being so very tired. I
had the sense that the pain, the cold, and the fatigue would never go away.
But I do remember that I had a pervasive sense, an intuition
if you will, that if I could just move my body to a place that I saw
clearly in my mind, the pain, the cold, and the fatigue would end. I tried to
go there, but to no avail. It was an undefined place—very dark, pitch black,
and without shape or form. I couldn’t get to it, though. I tried and tried and
tried. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t move from where I was. I was
getting colder and colder, in more and more pain, and more tired than ever—so
tired that I couldn’t move. I even tried to crawl to that special place. I literally
visualized dragging myself there on my hands and knees. Finally, after an
enormous amount of futile effort, I started to inch my way there. Ever so
slowly, with persistence, I was getting there. The closer I got, the more the
cold and pain seemed to lessen, and I could relax. I could feel myself getting
closer and closer. All I could think about was, At last, I can rest.
When I was almost there, I suddenly heard faint voices saying
sweetly, “I love you, Daddy,” and then, in a deeper tone, “You are the best,
Dad.”
It was my children, Rachael and Andrew.
I wanted to go to them. I didn’t care about the cold, the
pain, or the fatigue. I tried to stop crawling to the imaginary place, but I
couldn’t. A magnetic force seemed to be pulling me closer and closer to it. I
tried to stand up, but was unable to. I felt stuck, as if quicksand were
sucking me in deeper and deeper.
Then the voices became louder and louder.
“I love you, Daddy” in a soft sweet tone, and then, “You’re
the best, Dad” in a deeper tone.
With a surge of all the effort I could muster, I thrust
myself toward the voices. When I opened my eyes, Rachael and Andrew were
standing by my bed, saying those very words.
That is when the doctors say I came out of the coma. It was
at that point that I started to turn my situation around. The fever that had
been so worrisome started to break. Later, I learned that the doctors had told
my family that they had done everything for me that they could. I was either
going to come out of it and respond within the next twenty-four hours—or not.
My family members and closest friends had been coming in to
the ICU during the twenty-minute intervals they were allowed every hour,
maintaining a constant vigil, continuously touching me and talking and singing to
me. I had been kissed by death, but refused to return the kiss.
I am sure that many other things happened during my time in
the ICU, some of which I am not aware of to this day. Others, in my view, are
unnecessary to share. Suffice it to say that I had a tremendous medical team,
who possessed many varied skills and specialties to facilitate my recovery. Along
with my loyal and dedicated family members and friends, they were clearly a
blessing.
There are, however, some things that remain in my mind that
I would like to mention. Although I was no longer comatose, I was heavily
sedated and remained on a respirator, feeding tube, and other life-support
systems. In order for me to get to the next level of recovery, my lungs had to
relearn how to breathe on their own, which was enormously difficult.
In the midst of his worldwide travels as a senior project
manager for Comverse Technologies, my brother called me many times every day. A
nurse would put the phone to my ear, as I was trying to relearn how to breathe
on my own, and Eric would say, “Gulp the air, brother. Try to swallow it.” He
would say in a slow, methodical, deep voice, “Just breathe slow and deep, one
breath at a time.”
Rabbi Dubrowski, who had become a friend of mine over the
years, would come to my bedside and pray for me. While I was still comatose, he
came to the ICU every Saturday night after sundown, and conducted the Havdalah service by my side.[7] My
nephew Benny, my brother’s oldest son, who studied on an intense track in a
prominent yeshiva in Israel, mobilized his contacts to pray for me. Benny
believes that the power of prayer is magnified by the scholarly level of the
people who are praying.
My Uncle Harvey, who lived in Phoenix at the time, had his
wife, my Aunt Toby, a talented pianist, record a cassette of her playing
soothing music. My family members played it at my side while I was in a coma,
although I never consciously heard it.
My children, my sister, Norman Linton, Neil Cantor, Richard
Gorbaty, and my brother (when he was in Tampa, and by cell phone when he was
not) would all come into my ICU room during the limited time they were allowed
to visit during each hour. They would all talk to me, sing to me, or touch me,
hoping that they would be able to get through to me on some level. They never
gave up or stopped. One time, when I was heavily sedated and still connected to
the respirator and other life-support and monitoring systems, they put a cell
phone to my ear as they sang “Happy Birthday” to my son. When I heard Andrew’s
voice, I unconsciously tried to get out of bed to go to him, but had to be held
down. After that, they tied me to the bed.
There was another time, when I was not responding to my
treatments, that Norman Linton said to me, “Sandy, if you recover from this
next year for your birthday, I am going to buy you a brand new red Cannondale
touring bike.”
But I just lay there, totally unresponsive. Minutes later,
as he was leaving, I lifted my legs and started moving them as if I were
cycling. Apparently, that was quite a sight, but I have no memory of any of it.
When I finally regained full consciousness, I was challenged
by having to learn how to breathe without a respirator and eat without a
feeding tube. It might seem that those would be easy things to do, but they
proved to be extremely challenging and required great effort. I was amazed,
however, by the level of care, competency, and patience under demanding
conditions that the professionals and staff of the ICU provided. They really
helped me to overcome the hurdles I was facing as I adjusted to my newfound condition.
There was one nurse in particular who was amazing. She was highly
involved in my care, and my family and friends later told me that she was
involved with them as well throughout my ordeal. Apparently, she even cried
with them at one point. No doubt, even in this medically restricted setting,
she and I shared a mutual chemistry. Sometimes, people are simply drawn to each
another and connect on multiple levels.
There are so many other stories about that medical crisis,
most of which would probably bore anyone but me. I do, however, want to mention
my New York Yankee tickets. Every year, I have season tickets for the Yankees’
spring training in Tampa. My seats are incredible: on the first base line, right
behind the Yankees’ dugout. I always take clients or friends to the games, all
of whom really prize sitting in those wonderful seats. In 2000, spring training
arrived while I was in the hospital. My sister and her boyfriend took care of
getting tickets to some of the people on my list of invitees. After I came out
of the coma, I gave tickets to some of the nurses and staff members who were
helpful to me. They all loved the seats, and going to the games became the talk
of the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit.
Recovering sufficiently for me to be transferred to a
private room from the unit was a monumental step. Initially, I remained on a
catheter, intravenous tubes, feeding tubes, and oxygen through the opening in
my trachea, as well as through my nostrils. At that point, I didn’t know
that I had had a tracheotomy. I only knew that there were times when I couldn’t
breathe and was full of something in my throat. Then the nurses would perform a
procedure called “suctioning,” which I didn’t realize was extracting the accumulation
of fluid from my throat. I only knew it helped.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I began to rehabilitate. At first, my
only means of communicating was by writing. I was still unable to talk because
of the tube in my trachea. Nevertheless, I started to walk, tubes and all—initially,
just from the bed to the door of the room and back. Then a little farther. And
then a little farther still, until I could walk completely around the floor. Of
course, in the beginning, I needed someone to assist me. However, with
persistence and determination, I started to be able to do it myself, albeit
with the support of a walker. Eventually, I didn’t even need that.
The challenge was on, and I rose to it. I was intent on
recovering. From one time around the perimeter of my wing, which was originally
a big accomplishment, I got to the point over the next two weeks or so where I could
go around twice, and then three times, and then four times. With each increase
came new challenges, but I was determined to push the envelope to the limit.
The trick was to learn what the limit was and not go beyond it. Taking baby
steps was the key.
I vividly remember what a feeling of accomplishment it was
the day my catheter was removed. I also remember the day I could stand by the
sink and mirror and wash my hair and shave by myself.
As a dedicated exercise enthusiast before this major medical
event, I found that walking was not the most difficult part of this phase of my
recuperation. The most difficult part was learning how to breathe again. I
remember thinking at the time that my compromised condition would never end and
that I would have to live like this for the rest of my life. I was so scared of
having to live in a diminished capacity. I knew that was the wrong way to
think, but my emotions overtook my logic. Ultimately, I had to “trick my mind” into
believing that I would transcend this situation and prevail.
As I started to recover and slowly regain strength, I became
aware of another nurse who took a liking to me. We interacted the best we could
without my being able to talk. She would come to my room during her breaks and
read books to me. As she talked, I would do the best I could to respond by
writing notes to her on a pad. Later, she would shave me and wash my hair. She
was a very exotic and interesting woman. Although not especially attractive
physically, she had an inner beauty and presence that transcended anything the
physical lacked. But there was no question that we had an energy and a special
friendship between us.
When my friend Jerry Faitelson made a special trip from
Buffalo just to see me, I was delighted, although I couldn’t talk to him. It
was enough just to be together.
My cousin Renee Cooperman, who lived in Arizona, also made a
special effort to see me as a representative of her family.
Many local friends, including Doug and Maureen Cohn, came by.
Doug has always been a close friend and mentor to me—sort of an older brother
figure. When my health insurance company wanted me to transfer to a less
expensive rehabilitation facility, Doug and Maureen offered to have me stay at
their home, rent a hospital bed, and have their housekeeper assist private duty
nurses until I recovered enough to go home. Fortunately, I was able to remain
in the hospital long enough until I was discharged to my own home.
I have been so blessed in my life with friends and other
special people. Having been blessed with such special friends humbles me
greatly.
Other friends wanted to come see me and help in any way they
could, but they were discouraged from doing so by my sister and brother, who
thought it was best for me to recover on my own. One such friend was Ken Kaufman,
who was scheduled to fly to Italy with his new girlfriend (who is now his wife).
He was prepared to cancel his trip to be there with me. When my family
explained to him that there was nothing he could do to help, he went to Italy
and got updates about my condition from my family by e-mail.
When the day finally came for me to be discharged, my sister
and her boyfriend came to pick me up. I had made arrangements to have all of
the flowers, balloons, cookie baskets, and other gifts for me sent over to the
children’s area of the hospital, insisting that they be given to disadvantaged children.
Before I left the hospital, my attendants, at my request, wheeled me back to
the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit where I had spent so much time, dependent on
life-support systems and mostly in a comatose state. When we got there, I was
shocked to see the room and the bed I had been in. The room was filled with the
latest medical equipment, and the bed was so high-tech that it could actually
chill me to lower my temperature. Seeing it all was intense.
The staff who were working on that shift were delighted to
see me. Every one of them told me what a miracle it was that I was alive.
When I finally got outside for the first time in a month and
a half, I was greeted by a beautiful sunny day with a bright blue sky and
fresh, crisp air. My appreciation of life and the miracle of a new day was
spectacular to me. The sight of a bird flying by was magnificent.
When I got home, I was somewhat disoriented by being away
from the security of the hospital. Also, I was totally weak, fragile, and uncertain
about my prognosis.
My family had arranged for me to be attended by a private
duty nurse, Angie Medina, who was very comforting and helpful. I hurt all over,
and couldn’t even stand in the shower, but had to sit on a special seat while Angie
bathed me.
My hands and fingers shook all the time like someone with
Parkinson’s disease, and I was cold all the time. I couldn’t tolerate air
conditioning, and had to be bundled under blankets and robes. Although the
doctors wanted me to get out of bed and move around or change positions, I
could only do so for very limited amounts of time, and spent most of the day
and night napping.
That very first night home in my own bed was very difficult
for me because I was frightened of the dark like a little child, even though I
tried to act “grown up.” Eventually, I overcame my fears and was able to sleep by
inserting Andrea Bocelli’s CD Sogno (“Dream”)
in a CD player by the side of my bed. Bocelli sings a duet on that album with
Celine Dion entitled “The Prayer,” which I loved, so I had the CD player set to
repeat that song over and over again all night. The soothing music, the lyrics,
and the voices filled the silence of the night, comforting me and eventually enabling
me to sleep.
Rachael and Andrew flew down from Maryland to be with me two
days after I got home. They brought a special pillow with them, which was
designed to ergonomically support my neck and spine. Spending time with them in
my own bedroom was the highlight of this period of recovery. I told them that
hearing their voices when I was in a coma had comforted me when I was in that
dark ethereal space. They didn’t know that I had heard them, so this was a very
emotional moment, and we “Three Mahrskateers” had tears in our eyes.
I came out of all this intent on recovering, pushing the
envelope to the limit but not beyond. I did everything in my power to transcend
the illness and disease. My role model for this approach was my dear friend
Doug Cohn, who had a rare serious form of anemia, which just came upon him out
of nowhere. As is his style in so many things, however, Doug chose to make the
best of his life. As he would typically say about many things, “Just get on
with it.” He used to joke around by saying that he was the cover story on Platelets Monthly Magazine.
Up to that point in my medical odyssey, I never fully
comprehended what had happened to me and what I was facing. All I knew was that
I wanted to get back in shape again. My creed was recovery, and I focused all my
energy on that. My muscles were atrophied from spending a month and a half in
bed, and I was totally disoriented, overwhelmed by the list of restrictions and
instructions from my various doctors. I was clear, though, that I would do
everything in my power to get strong. As in medieval times, when a gauntlet was
dropped to signify the start of a joust, I was committed to staying the course.
But that proved to be one of the most difficult tasks I ever undertook in my
life.
I clearly remember my first walk outside. I had to muster
every ounce of energy just to move along my driveway and through the little
parking area in front of my house. I immediately realized that walking outside
required much more effort than walking through the corridors of the hospital. But
my doctors were very clear that the only exercise I could do was walk. So, walk
I did. Twice a day, every day. Each day a little more. I remember thinking, What a truly remarkable machine the human
body is.
When people asked to visit me or bring something over, I would
ask them to walk with me instead. I couldn’t walk alone, since I had to have a
water bottle and my cell phone with me, and a companion just in case anything
went wrong. My co-walkers included Angie Medina, Neil Cantor, Richard Gorbaty,
Dickie Garrett, Murray Garrett, Bonnie Gorbaty, my sister Marilyn, Bill
Suskauer, Steven and Kevin Cohen, and Dick Coley.
Ever so slowly, I started getting back into shape, walking a
little farther each day. I kept saying to myself, “It’s not what happens to me
that matters, but how I deal with
what happens to me.”
One day, Angie drove me in her car to Sam’s Club. I had to take
a special foam pillow with me to protect my chest from the seatbelt, since the
surgery had broken my ribs and cracked my chest bone. When I entered the store,
I was immediately overwhelmed by its enormous size, although I had been there
countless times before my illness. I tried to walk at first by holding on to
the handle of a shopping cart for support, but I ended up having to use a
handicapped motorized cart. That taught me what it is like for people who
require that type of apparatus for even the simplest tasks.
When people asked how I was, I borrowed the line from my
friend Doug Cohn, paraphrasing it for my own situation: “I’m the new cover story
on Aorta Monthly Magazine.”
My sister and her boyfriend stayed with me until she was
satisfied that I was on the road to recovery. By then, Passover was coming up, so
Rachael and Andrew arrived for the Seders. I was still wearing my bathrobe all
the time, since I was incredibly cold—literally, chilled to the bone. Everyone
else in the house was warm, but I couldn’t stand the slightest chill, which
would be magnified many times over. Because my hands were still shaking, I
couldn’t hold a fork or a spoon without shaking and trembling.
At the first Seder, I had a small sip of wine, and was
amazed that I felt a buzz from it.
“I’ll make you a cup of coffee or tea to settle you down,”
my sister said.
“No,” I said. “I like it.”
When everyone left after Passover, Richard Gorbaty made a
special trip to be with me, the next weekend. He went on walks with me and helped
me to adjust to being alone.
During the months from Passover through the summer, I
religiously pursued my exercise and rehab program. My close friend and client
Barry Cohen, Esq., had two twin sons, Steven and Kevin. Steven, who throughout
his life had undergone open-heart surgeries, nevertheless frequently came by to
walk with me. His brother Kevin, who had my blood type, donated blood when I
needed it while I was in the hospital, and when I was home, he came by to walk
with me. All these people were amazingly supportive during those early months
of recovery.
Since I was not allowed to do anything but walk, lifting weights
was strictly off limits. As a result, my muscles atrophied even further. I was eventually
able to work a little bicycling into my exercise regimen, but not much. As a
matter of fact, my surgeons had told Norman Linton, with whom I had often
cycled in the past, that I would never
ride again the way I used to. Perhaps I would be able to ride around the
neighborhood, but never again any great distances or at high speeds. I had to
be totally aware of my heart rate, since my cardiologist didn’t want it to go
above 118 bpm, and he wanted my blood pressure to stay as low as possible.
It was especially hard for me not to be able to work out
with weights. Over the years, I had learned to love my weight workouts and was
proud of the physique I had developed. Now my sense of my physical fitness was at
a low level. I felt out of shape and had not yet learned patience. I now
realize that I had so much to be grateful for, but back then I was totally
impatient with my recovery process, and started to feel a little sorry for
myself. I now realize how ridiculous that was, and what a mistake I made. Those
feelings would prove to lead me down an unnecessary detour from my road to
recovery.
In business and in my personal finances, I was overwhelmed by
having to use numbers. I simply couldn’t perform certain basic cognitive and
mathematical functions, which was totally frustrating to me. In some ways, I
felt helpless. This incapacity was the byproduct of the particles of blood and
other material lining the inside of my aorta, which broke away when my aorta
was clamped while I was placed on the heart-lung bypass machine. Those
particles apparently shot up to my brain, which is what had caused the
ministroke in the first place. There could be no doubt that I was experiencing
varying degrees of diminished capacity in some areas of my cerebral functioning
After the summer and heading into the fall, I fell into a
funk, during which I was depressed, despondent, and stayed home all the time,
excluding myself from all social interaction. When I stopped walking on a
regular basis, I gained weight and got into an even deeper slump. From starting
my recovery process full steam ahead and focusing on whatever was necessary to
get back, I was now totally ineffective, feeling sorry for my situation and the
new limitations on my lifestyle. I now know how silly, sad, and unnecessary those
feelings were.
Finally, out of desperation, I went to see Douglas Uzzell,
Ph.D., a psychologist and friend, who helped me to reframe things to get back
on track. Most of all, he reminded me of a technique I had written about years
before, entitled “The Process,” which appears in Chapter 17, above, and is
repeated here:
THE PROCESS
(or how
to deal with and respond to a stressful situation)
• Feel it. (What
does it feel like under the emotion?)
• Honor the
feeling.
• Find the fear
or stressful feeling and face it.
• Do the first
small task to start to relieve it. (Eat the elephant technique: How do you eat
an elephant? One bite at a time.)
• Recognize the
tendency to overreact, and defer it.
• Do not allow
emotions to cause obsession.
• Seek to fully
understand the issue.
• Know that there
is a course of action and correction for everything.
• Use the
Serenity Prayer as an affirmation. (“Grant me the serenity to accept the things
I cannot change, the courage to accept the things I can, and the wisdom to know
the difference.”)
• Ask, “What
difference will this make years from now?”
• Don’t just
react, be patient until the time is right, and then be proactive.
• Realize that no
matter how bad the incident or situation may seem, “this too shall pass.”
• Repeat all of
the above as many times as necessary.
In December 2000, following a suggestion from Neil Cantor, I
bought a treadmill, which I incorporated into my exercise regimen, and used it
regularly as one of my main physical activities. That medical odyssey caused me
to experience a full gamut of emotions, with many bumps along the way. I tried
very hard to transcend all the highs and lows of my situation as I proceeded on
a path of recovery. One of the most effective means of accomplishing that was
by getting my body, mental state, and life in general back to where they should
have been. It was one of the hardest challenges I have ever undertaken in my
life.
As a result of all those experiences, literally every aspect
of my life changed. I had to travel less frequently to see my children. I was
unable to work with the same degree of effectiveness. I was unable to go out very
often. My sleep patterns changed. I required medications on a daily basis. My
doctors and I had to constantly monitor my condition. And the list goes on and
on. To keep myself on a positive track, I constantly repeated the mantra: “My
past does not equal my future.”
I became determined that the up-and-down roller coaster ride of pain, the physical and emotional
handicaps, and the ever-pervasive mode of being in and out of depression and
loneliness would not be a part of my life. I built up to a point where I
was able to return to the Harbour Island Athletic Club (HIAC). My friend Neil White,
a personal trainer at HIAC, went around to the various machines with me with a
blood pressure device to determine the amount of weight I could lift and what
my corresponding blood pressure was for each exercise. The amounts of the
weights were very small and seemingly insignificant; however, I was determined
and I did it. Baby steps initially. Only three days per week of resistance
training. But after almost a year, I was back, and it felt great.
Norman Linton bought me the new
Cannondale Road Bike that he had promised when I was in a coma, and I slowly began
to ride it more and more as a supplement to my exercise and fitness routines. I
made up my mind that I would be patient, gradually building up to being able to
go greater distances. Patience and persistence were the keys.
Then I bought a dog, a purebred
Weimaraner, which my children and I named “Hombre.” I knew that he would be a
lot of work, but I also knew that as a result of having him, I would be forced
to be more active, getting out of the house and walking more. I would walk
around the block at least twice a day for Hombre to perform his bodily
functions, or I would take additional walks on Bayshore Boulevard, or I would
go to the dog park to let him play with other dogs, while I interacted there with
other dog owners.
Furthermore, although I had
always been a voracious reader, I disciplined myself now to really tax my
brain. First of all, I bought books on a variety of topics, some very technical
and detailed, and forced myself to read them and study them carefully. Subjects
that I would never have normally chosen to read about, I forced myself to
understand, one paragraph at a time. Then I started to write about this medical
odyssey, which forced me to concentrate and was cathartic. I was determined to
challenge and retrain my brain, forcing myself to work it as hard as I was
working my body.
A mutual friend introduced me to
a man in my neighborhood, Wayne, who had gone through a similar experience—although
his was more recent, at a different hospital, and under slightly different
conditions. When we met, Wayne and I bonded instantly. For a month or so, we
walked together twice a week in the mornings, with Hombre accompanying me. Wayne
and I talked about our ordeals and our individual approaches to recovery. He
wasn’t as committed as I was to a rigid exercise regimen. But observing him
strengthened my resolve to recover. I was working hard at reinventing myself.
At some point, a new neighbor,
Guy Joseph, who was a recently retired military officer, rented the townhouse
next door to mine. We would go out with Hombre during what I refer to as my “warrior’s
creed” period, becoming better and better friends as we walked on Bayshore in
the evenings. Guy supplemented my warrior’s approach with e-mails that were on target
and motivating. For example:
From: gjoseph
To: mahr
Wednesday, March 20, 2002, 9:48 AM
Morning, Sandy,
Here is a call to arms for a Warrior
such as yourself. You’re on track, and I can tell that you will let nothing
stand in your way.
“Forget past mistakes. Forget failures.
Forget everything except what you’re going to do now and do it.” —William
Durant, founder of General Motors
Happy hunting, my friend, have a great workout today!
Your friend,
Guy
From: gjoseph
To: mahr
Thursday, March 21, 2002, 9:57 AM
Morning, Sandy,
I just wanted to wish you a safe
workout today—go get ’em, partner!
“Believe and act as if it were impossible to fail.” —Kettering
I didn’t have time to send you draft
documents last night, but I plan on doing so this evening. Let me know if you’re
going to strut tonight.
Guy
From: gjoseph
To: mahr
Monday, March 25, 2002, 10:25 AM
Sandy,
Have a great workout—how was the bike
ride this weekend? This is 8 or 9 straight days of working out? Hang in there,
partner, you’re doing great!!!
Here is something for you:
“Success is in our ability to learn
from the past, adopt new ideas and actions in the present, and to challenge the
future.” Let me know if you are going to walk this evening—I’m there if you are.
Guy
My friend Chuck Navarro, whom I had hired to work with me when
I started my business in Buffalo many years ago, came to be with me during a
particularly frustrating time in my recovery. When I first met him, he was over
65, retired, and a former manager of the Brunswick Company. I was 28 when I
hired him to work for me as a manager in my fledgling company. As of this
writing, I had known him for more than twenty-five years. In addition to our relationship
at work, we always enjoyed a very special intellectual friendship, which revolved
around philosophical discussions and a mutual passion for reading books. He
moved from Lockport, New York, to the Daytona Beach area to live with his son. Chuck
was 91 years old when I wrote this, but still active, vital, fit, and vigorous.
Since then he has passed on. His being with me for a few weeks during my medical
odyssey was comforting and reassuring.
The final
step that enabled me to nail my
recovery and get to the level that I am at now was “framed” for me by Neil Cantor.
While we were talking one day, he helped me to come up with a program called “90
Days and Reassess.” At that point, I knew that I was going to steel myself with
“Iron Will,” and had come up with the concept of doing so with my “Warrior’s
Creed.” Neil told me that I needed to give myself 90 days and stay strictly on the
program. In the past, I had learned how easy it is to get discouraged after
trying to effect a major change in my life. When I didn’t see the results I had
hoped for, I would sometimes give up after thirty or sixty days.
Nevertheless, I liked Neil’s
idea, and started the Warrior’s Creed: “This Is the Year This Warrior Will
Conquer the Undisciplined Areas of His Life.” I stuck to the program like glue,
literally transforming myself to incredible levels. Although I prevailed, I
learned that recovery is a painstaking process, the keys to which are
persistence, patience, and intelligent decision-making.
A little more than two years after
all this began, I wrote the following e-mail to some of my family members and
close friends:
Subj:
16.58 miles nonstop…at about 15 miles per hour
Date: 5/5/2002 12:27:27 PM Eastern
Daylight Time
From: mahr
Just sharing and letting you know that
this morning was a milestone for me, something that I have not accomplished;
however, have been looking forward to since my surgery. I biked 16.58 miles nonstop
at approximately 15 mph. (Actually, as some of you will recall when I
celebrated my 50th birthday by biking 50 miles, this is approximately the same
route that I biked three times that day.) It is a big accomplishment for me,
something I have been working on since the day I woke up from the coma and
learned about what happened to me. It is by no means what I intend to
accomplish; however, it is something the doctors and many others never expected
me to be able to do. I want to let you all know because you are the ones I love
and am closest to. I want you to know that I continue to commit to being a
warrior and a work in process; it has just taken me a little longer than I had
expected.
The prognosis for my future is uncertain on a physiological
level. I have a persistent flap in my aorta above the area of repair, extending
into my aortic arch. It is not the type of situation that calls for prophylactic
surgery, since that is high-risk and very complicated. My condition is being
monitored regularly by my doctors with testing and annual CT Scans and
Echocardiograms. Reports are then sent to the Baylor Medical Hospital in
Houston, Texas. Dr. Joseph Cosselli is the leading medical expert on my
condition, so if further surgery is required, it will probably be done there. However,
I have chosen not to focus on the limitations or possibilities that may arise
in the future. Rather, I have chosen to live my life in as full and as
proactive a manner as possible. I am totally vested in the belief that I will
continue to heal myself, making conscious decisions on a daily basis that will
propel me along that path.
I do not fear death. I am fully aware that part of living is
dying. The Theory of Dynamic Rejuvenation states that since we are either
living or dying, there is no state of constancy. Each and every one of us eventually
gets some medical condition; it is just a matter of what we get and when we get
it. Some of us get things sooner, others later. What defines the quality of our
lives is how we each choose to deal with whatever it is we get.
In September 2002, when I originally wrote this essay, I exercised
on the treadmill every morning for at least 63 minutes. Additionally, at least
five days per week, I usually did another 45 to 60 minutes of some sort of
cardio, which was a combination of the elliptical machine, the rowing machine,
and the recumbent bike at the Harbour Island Athletic Club. I did weight
training at least three days per week. I generally went for a long bike ride
once per week. I regularly walked and played with Hombre. My diet was and is
mostly vegetarian—largely comprised of fresh raw fruits and vegetables, some
fish, and various organic protein products.
As I continue to read and study, I have been finding that there
are fewer subjects, especially those related to math, that frustrate me. I am
learning many interesting new things that I normally would not have learned. My
writing about all this has been cathartic, and hopefully people somewhere will
benefit by being inspired by my example to overcome their own adversity and stay
on the path of their recovery.
I prevailed, and so my earthly journey continues.
[1]This writing is also published online at
http://survivalandrecovery.blogspot.com/.
[2]A
line spoken by Anthony Hopkins in the film Red
Dragon.
[3]For
many years, I was a member of the Dean’s Advisory Council for the College of
Business at the University of Tampa.
[4]This
woman, who was part of a company that went public, also had investments in a women’s
clothing store and purchased some of the dresses that had belonged to Princess
Diana. After Princess Di’s death, this woman gained worldwide recognition by
donating some of the dresses to benefit Princess Di’s causes.
[5]For
most weeks, I worked out every day, but at least for five days per week, for
one and a half to two hours, with a combined and varied exercise regimen of
weights and cardiovascular routines.
[6]The
meeting was with my friend Brian and a real estate broker who represented
Amsouth Bank, a prospective tenant.
[7]The
Havdallah is the service that is performed at the end of the Sabbath each week.
