by Dave Liniger
CHUCK
I stayed by Dad’s side for about a week. I picked up a nasty cold from being around the hospital. When I discussed it with the doctors, they said it would be better if I wasn’t around—even in the waiting room for fear of getting anyone else sick. So, I flew back to Florida until I was healthy again. My girlfriend Bonnie and I started traveling back and forth with one of us trying to be there as often as we could throughout Dad’s stay in the ICU. When I couldn’t be there, I’d get constant updates. Junior and Mary were at the hospital around the clock. John personally knew many of Dad’s doctors. They were all a little more in tune with the actual illnesses and what he was going through. I would ask for briefings and updates. I told every one of them that we were on the same page and in agreement. If a surgery had to be done, they had my full support for it and if they couldn’t get a hold of me, then they should cast my vote in their favor. I had nothing but trust that my siblings would make the right decision
MARY
As the days began to turn into weeks, I became the unofficial greeter in the ICU. Our family and friends had commandeered a table that became “our” table for the time we were there. Other families had their areas too. Whenever they’d leave for a quick shower or to walk their dogs—whatever, I’d always throw a coat over a vacant chair to make sure their space was there when they returned. It’s not that we didn’t want anyone new to come in—that of course, is inevitable. I just understood what it meant to have your own space in the ICU waiting room. It offered some comfort and consistency in an otherwise very depressing and miserable place.
When you are in the ICU section of a hospital for more than a few days, you realize there are no secrets. Doctors come in to brief family members on their loved one’s condition, on decisions that need to be made, or worse—to deliver the unthinkable news that the person you are there for has died. Everyone else in the waiting area can hear what the doctors are saying—except when they ask you to go into the private room off to the side. We all knew what that meant—and secretly hoped we wouldn’t be the next family called in.
I got to know several of the families as each came in, full of fear, angst and worry. I did whatever I could to offer support, whether it was bringing Starbucks to someone who’d slept on the couch all night or sadly, attending the funeral of their loved one who passed.
JUNIOR
The pressure in the ICU is always underlined. The door of death is right there—all of the time. The pressure can build until suddenly the slightest thing can push an otherwise rational person over the edge. I’ll never forget a young girl I met, who I called “Oreo Girl.” The reason I called her Oreo Girl was because all she craved while she was waiting in the ICU was an Oreo cookie—not a mint Oreo, which seemed to be the Oreo of choice in the waiting room—just a good old fashioned plain cream-filled Oreo. Her dad was in for a heart condition and a staph infection like our dad, so we bonded over the similarity in their cases.
“All I want is a real Oreo! Is that too much to ask?” she wailed before collapsing to the floor crying. The pressure had gotten to her in a way it hadn’t seemed to penetrate our group. Perhaps we stood strong because we were never alone or because we knew that if we gave in to the pressure mounting against Dad, he might too. The only choice was to be strong and remain positive.
During our time in the ICU, we got to know several families whose loved ones lost their battles. They’d go into that room knowing what the doctors were there to say. They’d emerge a few minutes later, changed for life. One of the more interesting surprises was how often those people would return to the ICU the following day to shake hands, hug, cry on a familiar shoulder and thank everyone for their support. Sometimes they’d sit and talk for an hour trying to process their loss. Other times, it was just a way to connect with others who shared their pain for one final moment.
What I realized early on in this journey was that every family in that area was just like us. Some were only there for a few days but most of the families would be around for ten days or more. We had no idea at the time that we were looking down the barrel of a month or more of ICU hell.
MARY
We never talked about Dad dying. Not once. It was certainly the ten thousand-pound gorilla in the room, but my brothers and I never sat down and said, “This is what’s going to happen with Dad dying.” For the first couple of weeks, his condition was hour-by-hour. One hour he was doing great and the next, he wasn’t. One hour his color looked pink and the next hour it was gray. When I first got to the hospital, someone came over and asked me if I wanted to meet with the chaplain. I was confused by their question because in that moment and for the days and weeks that followed, it never occurred to me that this might really be the end. At first I thought they were asking because they thought we were a religious family and might want to do some praying. What they were actually offering was a chance for the chaplain to deliver Dad’s last rites. Thanks, but no thanks. I knew Dad was in dire straits—that he would have a tough road ahead of him—but I couldn’t bear to think that he might actually die. Maybe I was in denial, but none of us thought that this was how Dad would ultimately go. Junior always joked that there would be some fantastic fireball or grand explosion involved when Dad’s time came. All we could do was focus on the positive. I think we all got that trait from our dad—a trait I didn’t really appreciate until this happened.
CHAPTER 4
Decision Time
Iwas kept in a semi-comatose state for the first couple of weeks in the ICU, while the doctors did their very best to make sure I was stable enough for the antibiotic treatments to work. The doctors knew I was in a tremendous amount of pain but there were also concerns about the infection. I was responding to the antibiotics but hadn’t completely flushed the bacteria from my system. By February 13th, my blood cultures were negative of staph, which meant it was no longer in my bloodstream. My platelets and white cell count were also much better, but the sepsis was still present along my spine. I was consistently running a temperature, so Dr. Kevin Molk, my personal family doctor, met with an infectious diseases specialist, who thought my fever might have been caused by a pocket or pockets of abscess located around my knee or in my joints. Dr. Molk suggested doing a PET scan to determine the exact cause and location. A PET scan is a mobile, full-body scanner that travels from hospital to hospital and just happened to be at Sky Ridge that day. The full-body scan provides immediate results by using radiation to locate the abscesses. This way, doctors can see where they are and whether they can be drained. Unfortunately, after lots of dialogue, the doctors did not believe I was medically stable enough to be moved from my room, even if my bed and machines came with me. No matter how good an MRI is, it cannot show the detail that a PET scan can. Not being able to take advantage of the PET scan on that day was an unfortunate lost opportunity.
As an alternate solution, Dr. Molk ordered an MRI on my knee to look for swelling, as well as one on my back to check the progression of the infection along my spine. I’d undergone MRI’s every few days since I arrived in the ICU, but the one they planned to do on this day would take several hours, which made it extremely intensive and taxing on my body.
When I finished with my MRI and was resting in my room, my doctors suggested that everyone go home to get some rest. Besides, it was Valentine’s Day. Almost everyone there had a sweetheart they should’ve been with for the holiday. They’d all been there for two solid weeks and I am sure, needed a break. Even so, Gail and Mary didn’t want to leave. They were sitting together in the ICU waiting room when they suddenly heard the words, “CODE BLUE, ROOM 20” over the loudspeaker.
Mary had sat in the ICU long enough to know the room numbers of every patient in the unit. Out of boredom one day, she went on the Internet and looked up the various codes and the meaning of the colors she heard called throughout the day so she could understand what each stood for. However this time, there was absolutely no confusion about what was going on—Room 20 was my room and
Code Blue meant I was in cardiac arrest.
By chance, Dr. Barry Molk, the brother of my family doctor, who happens to be a cardiologist on staff at Sky Ridge, was in the ICU when they called the Code Blue. By the time he ran into my room, I had flatlined—that’s hospital talk for “died.” I had no heartbeat. He couldn’t get one back so someone pulled all of the tubes out of my mouth and nose as Dr. Molk began performing CPR.
Ultimately, he was able to revive me and I started breathing on my own. Even though I couldn’t talk, Dr. Molk spoke to me. He explained everything that happened. Apparently several of my tubes had become clogged with bile and mucus, which actually had the effect of suffocating me. My heart had stopped because of that and not because I was having a heart attack. My breathing was still labored though, because in addition to the cardiac arrest, I suffered respiratory arrest from a collapsed lung, which may have been caused by either the removal of the tubes from my mouth and nose or from the pressure of the chest compressions. I don’t think we will ever know, but there were several minutes when I wasn’t getting enough oxygen, which caused my heart to slow and then stop.
Dr. Molk told me he’d saved a lot of lives in the past, but I was the first who had his eyes wide open, as if I were awake throughout my resuscitation. I didn’t remember a single moment of it and I couldn’t talk because my throat was raw, but I sure was grateful that Dr. Molk was there.
GAIL
I immediately knew it was Dave’s room when I heard the Code Blue. I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant but I knew it was something bad. I wanted to rush over to be by his side but I couldn’t get there before the doctor started working on him. After Dave was stabilized, Dr. Molk came down the hall to the waiting room to tell us he was all right. I was so relieved that I began to cry. This was the first time I’d let my emotions show since Dave was admitted to the hospital. It was a miracle that Dr. Molk was just steps away when Dave’s breathing stopped. If it weren’t for his fast actions, I’m not sure Dave would have survived.
From that day on, Dr. Barry Molk became one of my husband’s greatest advocates throughout his illness. Even though he wasn’t Dave’s doctor before this happened, he became a good friend because of it. Dr. Molk stopped by Dave’s room early in the mornings, sometimes arriving before I did on my way to the office. It was also Dr. Molk who sat our family down very early on and encouraged us to only say positive things to Dave when we saw him. Even if he was sleeping, he suggested we reinforce the positive by reassuring Dave that he looks good, stronger and better. He said there was great healing power in touch, so we should hold his hands, stroke his hair, rub his arms and legs and make any kind of physical connection he could feel, even if he was unconscious.
MARY
Chuck’s girlfriend Bonnie shared an article she’d read about how people in comas can actually hear you. She said one of the most common things people talk about after coming out from a coma is the feeling of being alone. Once I read the article, and at Dr. Molk’s suggestion, I completely changed how I spoke to my dad. I wasn’t sure he could hear me, but every morning I walked into his room and gave him a pep talk like I was a coach getting ready to send my fighter into the ring.
“Good Morning, Dad! You’re in the ICU at Sky Ridge. You’re really sick but you are improving and I want you to know that right now Dave Jr. and John are out there and they are playing cards around the corner from your room. None of us are leaving until you come home with us. You are not alone, Dad. It’s going to be ok.”
My dad is not a touchy-feely kind of guy. He’s always been more of a rough and tough John Wayne cowboy type than a Cary Grant. One of the only nice memories I have of being in the ICU with my dad is being able to hold his hand. If he were awake, he’d never let me do that. It’s not that he isn’t a kind man—he’s the best. It’s just he was never very affectionate. When I was growing up, instead of hugging me, Dad used to reach out to shake my hand. I always laughed and said, “Dad, just give me a hug!” It’s not the kind of man he ever was. So in a strange way, I was grateful to be able to hold my father’s hand and share a connection I longed for but never had.
After my cardiac arrest, I was still kept pretty drugged up and in a semi-conscious state. There were days I was out of it and completely non-responsive and other days when I was awake and able to have conversations I wouldn’t remember moments later. Sometimes my talk sounded more like gibberish or a foreign language that only made sense to me. Other times, especially during the first four weeks in the ICU, even if I wanted to speak, I couldn’t, so I’d do my best to communicate with my eyes.
When certain people, including Gail, Adam and Margaret, walked into the room, I’m told I would light up. My gaze would fixate on their faces and I’d never look away. I still couldn’t move my arms or legs but I could move my eyes so I’d focus them and do my best to let my visitors know how I was feeling. Whenever Dr. Barry Molk came into my room, I’d open my eyes very wide, as if to say I felt good, safe and secure with him there. When the doctors and nurses were discussing something about my treatment I didn’t agree with, I’d give a certain look that let Junior, Mary or anyone else who knew me well know that I wasn’t going for it.
DR. BARRY MOLK
Dave’s doctors were contemplating doing tracheo-plasty on him right around the time he had his cardiac arrest. When I spoke to him about it, his eyes kept getting wider and wider and his breathing started getting harder and harder. He experienced all of the signs I’d expect to see from someone about to have a panic attack. He’d calm down for a minute, and then he’d widen his eyes again. I could tell his eyes were shouting, “NO!” He couldn’t talk, but he was definitely communicating that he wasn’t happy with what he was hearing, as tears welled up in his eyes.
After the results of my MRI came back, Dr. Prusmack explained that my situation had become dire. Although I had been responding to the antibiotics, the infection along my spine was still very invasive. The only way to save my life was to operate along my spinal cord and spinal nerve to remove the infection. It’s a delicate procedure because he would have to scrape my spinal cord and nerves with a scalpel to remove the sacks of pus. There was no margin for error. He was somber as he described the horrific situation to my family and friends. He wouldn’t promise anything positive, as he knew this would be a Herculean effort to save my life.
The anesthesiologist for the surgery was there too. He reiterated that although the surgery was risky, the medical instability of my failing organs made it even worse. They needed to drain the sacks of pus that had attached to my spine to relieve the pressure in my back, which was likely causing my paralysis. If they didn’t, chances were, I’d be paralyzed for life. In all likelihood, they could eliminate some of the staph, but they would probably never get rid of all of it.
“What if you don’t operate?” someone asked.
“He is going to die.” Both doctors confirmed their worst fear.
Having just come through a heart scare, my family and friends huddled together as a group to make a decision about this latest news, since I was in no condition to do it myself—and they knew they had to make it fast.
JUNIOR
The only time we ever wavered in a decision as a group was when the doctors were contemplating putting a trachea tube in dad. We were worried about putting the tube in before dad’s surgery. Some decisions in the ICU have to be made quickly on the fly, while others allow for a little time. This was one of those decisions. There was something telling each of us not to do the surgery now but we knew that scar tissue can form in the trachea that could cause permanent damage to his throat and ability to speak. We got them to hold off for a couple of days, but we knew it was down to the wire.
The doctors were planning to do my tracheotomy on February 15th, the day before they wanted to schedule my back surgery. I overheard a conversation between the nurses and doctors in my room about moving the time of that procedure from 5:00 PM to 1:00 PM. The doctor was suggesting they ought to do t
he procedure earlier that day because Dr. Prusmack was scheduled to do his operation the following day and they wanted to give me a slightly broader window to recover before going under the knife again with Prusmack. I hadn’t uttered a word since the tubes had come out from my cardiac arrest. It’s not that I didn’t want to, I simply couldn’t because they had reinserted the ventilator tube down my throat, which was now extremely raw, sore and very uncomfortable. As the dialogue continued in my presence, my daughter Mary turned toward me and noticed I was crying. That’s when everyone was certain that I didn’t want the tracheotomy. I knew it meant I would lose my voice. I could handle being paralyzed because I could learn to move in a different way, but the thought of losing my ability to communicate—one of my greatest assets in building my business and helping others achieve their dreams—was more than I could accept. I cherished my public speaking skills and couldn’t fathom the idea of never being able to communicate, inspire and motivate an audience again. Now more than ever, I wanted to preserve my voice so I could use it to share this journey of survival, this journey of learning to be the best you can be with what you have left. Of course, I had a long road ahead of me, but somewhere not so deep inside of me that day, I inherently understood that my voice would be the platform with which to share this experience someday. I’m so glad the family held off making that decision, because it turns out that I didn’t need the procedure after all.
JOHN
We quickly figured out that if you want to get a doctor to talk to you, don’t sit in the waiting room because doctors don’t come into the waiting room. They have four or five patients who each have families on pins and needles sitting there. If they came in, they would get questions from all sides. We noticed that they had a tendency to walk up the hallway to their office after leaving the ICU. We found that the best way to get their attention was to stand in that hallway because they had no choice but to walk by you. Dad was declining and Junior and I were in the hallway talking about what the next steps should be and what to tell people, when we spotted Dr. Molk coming out of Dad’s room. We asked him how Dad was really doing. He told us that Dad was in critical condition and still had a long way to go before he would be out of the woods. He looked at Junior and me and said, “There is a lesson here—you can be doing everything right in your life, and just because of a little tiny bug that has gotten into your system, a few days later you’re in ICU fighting for your life.” He looked right at me and said, “The lesson is, don’t wait too long to start living your life.” I have probably thought about that conversation every day since then. It certainly made me take a look at my life and what I have and have not been doing with it.
