by Dave Liniger
My second goal was to tell everyone at the hospital that I would be going home by June 29th—and that I would be walking out of there on that day.
The key thing to remember here is that I set my goals high, but I didn’t set them out of reach. There was a possibility I could walk again. Bear in mind that what is achievable for one person may not be for someone else. When you’re in a rehabilitation hospital with a spinal cord or brain injury, for instance, there are realistic goals and then there are those that can never be achieved. Even though great strides have been made in medical research, when a spinal cord is severed, it’s still impossible to put it back together. A person with that kind of injury may have the goal to move a single toe, but that’s not likely to happen. Positive thinking is healthy, but possible thinking matters too. The staff at Craig does their best to teach each patient about realism and hope, but if your goal is not possible, they will show you how to make the best of the options you have left. Positive thinking won’t change the truth, but a positive attitude can help you get through the period of disbelief, grief and anger anyone would feel in such circumstances, so you can put together a plan for how to live your best life. That’s what I tried to do every day by verbally making declarations about my intentions and refusing to give up. I made my goals my obsession.
During that time, I was permitted to do work only on my upper body; I couldn’t even flex my head or neck. I had to remain flat and still. But I figured that if I had to be flat on my back, then I would at least strengthen my hands by squeezing a rubber ball. I asked one of the kids to get me a can of racquetballs that I could scrunch, and that’s exactly what I did.
I couldn’t stand yet, but I could practice wiggling my toes and stretching them several times a day until my range of motion got better and better.
As a way of helping me reach my big-picture goals, my family set smaller ones I could hit along the way. In addition to my countdown calendar, they taped other goals up on the wall of my room too. They were very creative and clever about it. For example, Mary brought in a picture of Peyton Manning throwing a football with one hand and pointing with his other. She added a caption bubble that read, “Look, it’s Dave without his catheter!” They did everything they could to keep the atmosphere light and positive.
My attitude was simple. In order to get to the work I really wanted to do, I had to get through these thirty-five days of hell. I knew I would never be able to learn to walk if I didn’t heal the hole in my backside first. I accepted the fact that I was going to be on bed rest for those five weeks and dealt with it by motivating myself to get to the other side. The mind is a very powerful tool that can work for or against you. This battle was every bit as mental as it was physical. I couldn’t let the darkness that came at night control the outcome of my days. I had to be fearless, fight through the pain, and face the unknown.
“We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.”
-Kenji Miyazawa
During those days, I was fortunate to have so many friends stop by to help me pass the time. A buddy from the Marines, who lives more than a hundred miles from Denver, came to visit me almost daily. Dave Fisher, a friend who is a police officer, brought me a galvanized steel bucket.
“This is for your bucket list,” he said. “You have to start thinking about things you want to do before you die.”
Inside, there was a message that read, “This is from your kids. Let’s go to Hawaii on vacation, and please take Officer Fisher with you!”
I thought that was very funny. What I realized, though, was that I had no bucket list. I’ve already done most of the things I’ve wanted to do in my life. Every day people get up and read another National Geographic and say, “I would like to go do that,” but up until my hospital odyssey, I had the ability to go and do wherever I wanted, and I often did just that. I suppose learning to fly could be added to the list, but since I already have my pilot’s license, it would have to be learning to fly like Superman.
I recall having read a book many years ago called The Three Boxes of Life. The book suggests that there are three boxes we all live in throughout our lives. The first box refers to your learning years, which include birth through your college education. The second refers to your earning years, which include college through retirement, and the third is playfully classified as your yearning years. These are the years that are supposed to be dedicated to your golden retirement, but because you can’t physically do any of the stuff you could do when you lived in your other two boxes, you spend them yearning for what you could have or should have done before. The philosophy of the book is that one should live in all three boxes at the same time. It doesn’t make sense to live in the earning years and save so much that you never take vacations or enjoy life by doing the things you love to do. I’ll admit that when I was healthy, I was considered by many to be a workaholic. I was always the first one at the office in the morning, usually arriving by 5:00 AM. Even so, I always remembered to take time off. I never had a problem going on safari to Africa for four weeks at a time without calling home or checking in at work. I spent plenty of my weekends in Scottsdale or Lake Powell boating, fishing, golfing or spending leisurely time with my family. So as I reflected on my life, I knew I wouldn’t be one of those guys who spent his golden years yearning. Not even during my prolonged hospital stay, when my future was uncertain. I was alive, which meant I would continue to live as I always had—with renegade gusto.
Anything I want to do, I know I can achieve. I may never run a marathon, but even when I was able-bodied, that wasn’t one of the things on my long-term wish list anyway. The love of my life has been my business and my business accomplishments. I have done the adventure thing to no end, and truth be told, will continue to pursue adventure in the future. I love going over to a local racetrack on a Saturday night and pushing the younger drivers around. I get great pleasure from driving fast cars, flying airplanes, hunting, fishing and camping. And I can still do all of these things—maybe not to the extent that I once did, but I can choose to participate instead of spending the rest of my days watching from the sidelines. Where’s the fun in that?
CHAPTER 8
White Rabbit
Since very early in my illness, about ten days into my stay at Sky Ridge, something very strange and terrifying had been happening. I was suffering panic attacks and vivid hallucinations. These occurred well into my time at Craig. Nothing in my life had ever given me anxiety before, nor had I ever suffered from claustrophobia. As a seasoned deep-sea diver, I’ve explored caves under water and never once felt symptoms like the closed-in feelings I was having in my hospital bed. Everything about my situation was making me uncomfortable and filled with angst, from the tubes in my mouth to the heaviness I felt in my body as a result of not being able to move. As a way to help calm me, the doctors prescribed anti-anxiety medication, which took the edge off but not completely away. Every day was a struggle to fight my fear, and my ever-increasing health challenges weren’t making it easy.
A common side effect of MRSA is pneumonia, which I unexpectedly contracted in the first couple of weeks at Craig. My lungs filled with fluid and I was having difficulty breathing. Since I’d already suffered from a collapsed lung in the ICU, this development was of great concern. The fluid in my lungs made me feel as if I was suffocating. Because of my experience as a seasoned sky and scuba diver, I knew certain techniques to control my breathing and to help me stay as cool and calm as possible. But it wasn’t easy when I had nurses standing over me telling me to breathe slower and into the bag they had placed over my nose and mouth to help me get control.
Control.
Now there’s a thought, because sometime early on during my stay at the ICU, it hit me like a ton of bricks that perhaps for the first time in my life, I had no control over anything. And this was not welcome news.
I will readily admit that before I got sick I was considered by many to be a control freak. I never believed in asking anyone for he
lp—even when I could have used it. It has never been my style and even now, something I will likely struggle with for years to come.
When I started RE/MAX, I thought I had to do everything myself. I was the chief cook, the washer, the guy who emptied the trash and anything else that needed to be done, because I had a lot more time than money back then. As I matured and hired better people than myself, I realized that relinquishing control to those who are more skilled or experienced than you is how a business really grows and flourishes. No man is an island. If you create a successful business operation, you mature with it. If you’re smart, you’ll let the experts do what you hired them for and leave them alone. You can’t micromanage people in the boardroom or, as I have now come to find out the hard way, in a hospital room either.
Even though I knew and trusted the nurses and practitioners who were coming to my aid, I still desperately feared being alone. I begged anyone who would listen not to leave me for a minute—and for the most part, they didn’t. There are a couple of times during the day when nurses change shifts. During those times, there’s a gap in accessibility. Junior and Mary had been still taking twelve-hour shifts to be at my side, but as time ticked by, they both needed to get back to their lives. Mary’s husband Jeff had been extremely supportive of the time she was spending away from home, and was tending to their business in her absence. These are the kinds of family situations that can sometimes take a toll on relationships if there isn’t a strong foundation in place.
There were plenty of times when I tried to convince my children to go get the car, unplug me and sneak me out of the hospital. Of course, they knew I was delirious, and because I was suffering short-term memory loss, wouldn’t remember asking them this five minutes later, so they usually just appeased me by saying they were going to get the car and that they’d be right back to fetch me. Then they’d leave the room, grab a cup of coffee or a bite to eat and return thirty minutes later to find me fast asleep. They described this experience like the movie Groundhog Day, where Bill Murray’s character relives February 2nd over and over, aware of the time loop while everyone around him isn’t. He used the experience to take advantage of the unsuspecting locals, playing jokes on them and learning their secrets.
My children did their best to find the humor in what was an otherwise agonizing situation for everyone. Mary came up with the idea of stocking my room with grab-and-go food that anyone who came by could take. It was set up like a virtual 7-11. Nurses who hadn’t eaten a thing all day or night would pop in to check on me and grab a cup of Ramen soup, a bag of chips, Twinkies, Ding Dongs or a handful of candy to keep them going. The kids thought it was a great way to give back and take care of the doctors, nurses and techs who were taking such good care of me. I was glad to have the company when they came in, especially at night when I couldn’t sleep.
MARY
Dad was constantly asking me to get him out of the hospital. He’d say things like, “We should get on the plane. There’s money on the runway. We need to go. Go get the golf cart. Tell the nurses you’re signing me out.” At first I was confused by his desire to escape the hospital because I was certain he was aware of where he was and why he was there. I was trying to be logical with someone who wasn’t in a logical frame of mind. I’d take out a pen and paper and write all of his requests down.
Golf cart, got it.
Plane, ok.
Sign paperwork, check.
Then I’d walk out the door. He was none the wiser by the time I returned.
When I was awake, the kids often made jokes, tried to get me to laugh, and generally kept me upbeat, even if I couldn’t remember anything they said moments later. “Foam in, foam out” became one of their favorite sayings, because of the antibacterial foam everyone was required to use before entering and exiting my room. There was one day when a family friend thought it would be funny to bring a giant stuffed moose into my room. One of my nurses could see that I was confused by it. There’s no doubt I would have gotten a big kick out of that moose if I had my wits about me. But I didn’t. My nurse was able to convince my kids to take the stuffed moose to the opposite side of the room so I wouldn’t start having nightmares about it. The moose became the butt of many jokes in the coming weeks. There were pictures taped to the wall of my room of the moose wearing my thoracic brace as it ate out of the giant candy bowl that had been brought in for visitors, and even one of my doctors listening for its heartbeat with his stethoscope. Those pictures made everyone laugh when they saw them. My cognitive thinking was limited at best, and though there was no ill-intent, I believe they were humored by my ignorance from time to time. I can’t say that I blame them. From what I’ve been told, I had the mind of a preschooler and for a while there, I was acting like one. I’m sure I promised great fortunes to each of them, but I as far as I know, they didn’t get anything in writing, so I believe I’m still a financially secure man.
Junior and Mary were by my side 24/7. The fact that they and so many others were there, holding my hand or talking to me even when I wasn’t awake, was the emotional bridge I needed when my fear crept in.
And it always came, especially late at night.
I’ve always thought of myself as a tough son of a bitch. Hell, I tell people that all the time. And for most of my life, they believed me. Well, that bravado works fine with the curtains open and the sunlight shining through the windows in daytime, but it quickly disappears at one o’clock in the morning when no one else is around and unimaginable terror starts to seep into the dark places of your mind. Even with Junior in the room, my dreams often turned to nightmares that seemed so real I felt all alone.
At some point, one of the drugs they were giving me really started to affect my mental state. As a result, I began having extraordinary hallucinations. They started when I was in the ICU and continued throughout my stay at Craig Hospital. They only came at night—never during the day.
Prior to getting sick, I’d heard all sorts of stories about guys who go into rehab and during their withdrawal, hallucinate all kinds of crazy stuff, seeing monsters, snakes and such. I always laughed and thought it was a heap of crap.
It’s not.
Almost all of my hallucinations took place with me in the jungle and even though it didn’t make sense, usually involved a boat of some type. They were all brilliant, vivid and felt as if they were actually happening. The most common hallucination had me in a huge gunfight with some bad guys. There were three of us on my side and dozens on the bad side. I recognized the two guys who were with me—they were police officers I’d known for years from Denver. I have no idea why they were in my dream, but I was glad they were there.
In that dream, we were in a terrible shootout where we killed almost all of the enemies. There was one guy left to kill. I could hear him moving around and see his shadow, but I couldn’t get to him.
Exhausted, I leaned against one of the officers. Just then, I saw the last bad guy standing. He had a beard, was heavily tattooed and looked American. I could see that he was holding a six-shot eight inch barrel .357 Colt Python. I could smell his sweat and taste his fear. I remember thinking it was strange that he was using that kind of gun, because these days it’s so obsolete.
I watched as he made a mad dash across the woods and hid behind a tree. I didn’t know why he was such a bad guy or why we were fighting. It was obvious that we were in a situation where nobody could win. Either all of us died, or only one of us walked. Tired of waiting, I stood up and shouted across the forest: “Why in the hell are you trying to kill us? Why don’t we call it quits? It’s been a long day. Lots of people are dead. Why don’t you turn around and leave?”
The stranger answered back that he had fought in Iraq and had been left behind. He felt like nobody cared for him then or after he got out.
“Brother, I’ve been there. I understand the pain you’re going through. I’ve lived alone myself. This has been a hell of a day and there’s no reason for anyone else to die,” I answered as I
threw my gun down on the ground. “Go ahead and leave. It’s over.”
The stranger looked at me and said, “Were you in the military?”
“Yes.” I told him about my experiences and even though we fought in different wars, I knew we were brothers in arms.
“We will both live another day,” he said as he placed his weapons down too. I watched him get on a motorcycle when suddenly a pretty woman got on with him just before they rode away.
“How did you know he wouldn’t kill you?” one of my cop friends asked.
“He wasn’t going to kill me. He was the one who was hurt and trapped,” I said.
I had that same hallucination several times, which started to grow into more stories of me in the jungle. In one variation, I was tied up and being held hostage. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t get loose or summon help. Another had me working for the DEA fighting drug lords, while several others took place in a hospital where I tried but couldn’t get anyone’s attention. I was so thirsty, but people were ignoring me. I was lying in a hospital bed, unable to move my arms or hands, crying, asking someone, anyone for a glass of water, but nobody would help me.
Finally, a nurse came into my room and asked, “What’s the problem? You’re making too much noise!”
“I need help. I’m thirsty and no one will take care of me. Where is everyone?” I was always panicked during this particular hallucination.
“We’re busy!” she said, before turning her back toward me and walking out the door. Although all of my nurses in the ICU and Craig were extremely kind to me, the nurse in this hallucination was a real Nurse Ratched, the awful nurse from the movie, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
The various hallucinations were endless, and they all had this strange gurgling sound in them that I’d hear every eight to ten seconds. I sometimes got so violent from the thrashing about, I’d pull out my IV and try to take off my oxygen mask. Whenever that happened, an alarm would go off, alerting the nurses on duty that I was without oxygen. Junior was usually around and had my mask back on before anyone could get to the room. Still, my nightly episodes were trying for everyone. The hospital wanted to tie me down, but my children wouldn’t allow it. They knew that was the worst thing they could do to me because I’d feel like a prisoner instead of a patient. Instead, whenever Junior couldn’t be there, they placed a technician or a nurse by my bedside all night so I wouldn’t hurt myself. If I started to have a hallucination of any kind, they’d reach over, touch me and hold me until I woke up. Sometimes their face would be right in front of mine.
