Physicians' Untold Stories Read online

  “Patrick,” she said, “I am so glad that we were able to speak like this to each other. I never realized how much you appreciated and loved me.” I could sense her mouth quivering with emotion. “Thank you so much for listening to me today. I feel so much better. You have made me feel like my life was truly special for you.”

  “It was, Mom. I love you more than you know.”

  “I love you too, Patrick. I am tired now, and I think I will lie down. Goodbye, Patrick.”

  “Goodbye, Mom. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Son.”

  I had trouble putting the phone down. It was as if that feeling of love and peace would go away when I hung up, and I was not ready to get back to the real world. I reveled in the pure emotion that we expressed to each other, until I was interrupted by the ringing of the phone two hours later.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Patrick, it’s about Mom. Something happened!” I recognized the voice of my sister, Sherry.

  “No, Mom’s fine. I just spoke with her.” I said.

  “She’s not, Patrick. Mom died!”

  “No, I just got off the phone with her, Sherry, she’s fine.”

  “She’s not. Something’s happened. She died, Patrick. She’s gone! When Mom hung up the phone after talking to you, she walked into the bedroom and collapsed. Dad called the paramedics, and they brought her to the emergency room, but they were not able to save her.”

  It couldn’t be possible. I had just bonded with my mother in a way I never had before, and now she was gone. I just lost my best friend.

  Even though twenty years have elapsed since our conversation, I still become emotional telling her story. But I know what a great gift I was given, to be able to speak my heart on her last call. I think she knew her time was limited. She was always there when I was growing up to help with my awkward transition from child to adult. Now it was my turn to give my mom peace with her transition from mortality—to eternity.

  CHAPTER 8

  GUS’S LAST SALUTE

  SCOTT J. KOLBABA, MD

  JOHN R. BORN, DO

  GUS WAS ONE OF MY favorite patients. I know doctors should not have favorites, but we all do. He was a patient for thirty years. I always heard him coming because of his characteristic limp from World War II injuries. I watched him raise three wonderful children, finish a successful accounting career, and then retire. I knew his devoted wife, Lucy, who changed roles with him as provider when Gus entered the silent world of Alzheimer’s disease. But only after he was bedbound did I learn of his true heroism. I was visiting him at home (yes, a real doctor house call!) when I asked Lucy to tell me the story of his misshapen legs. She sat up in her chair and, with unmistakable pride, related this amazing story.

  Gus was an enlisted army corporal making his way inch by inch through France and into Germany. Fighting was intense as they crossed the border. Artillery shells rained into the forest throughout the day, and the hazy air was filled with the acrid smell of burning munitions, vegetation, and decayed flesh. At dusk there was an eerie silence, and Gus lay down to rest and talk with his friend, Robert Barnes, while the other members of his platoon stood in a circle, smoking. A sudden scream from a lone artillery shell broke the silence, exploding right in the middle of the standing men. Shrapnel pierced their faces and bodies, and all were killed within seconds. The only survivors were Gus and Robert, since they were not in the direct blast.

  Gus was hit in both legs from metal fragments that ripped through his uniform and shattered his bones in multiple places. He lay there among the dead in a pool of blood, unable to stand, hoping for a rescue party before he would suffer the fate of the other members of his platoon. As night fell, his mind was taken off the pain of his wounds by Robert’s agonizing groans. Gus could not speak, and Robert had been blown too far out of reach for Gus to comfort him with his touch. Early in the morning, before sunrise, Robert fell silent, and Gus knew that he, too, was dead.

  Weak from the loss of blood and in extreme pain because of his fractured legs, Gus held on until reinforcements came upon the gruesome scene hours later. He was stabilized by the medics in the field, and then quickly transported back to the surgical tents, where he was examined by one of the doctors. His legs were so mangled that the doctor knew immediately what must be done. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We are going to have to remove both of your legs.”

  Gus was devastated. In those days, losing his legs would sentence him to lifelong disability. Without legs, he believed he would not be able to provide for a family. Tears came to his eyes.

  “Please save my legs,” he pleaded over and over. “Please find someone who knows how to put damaged legs back together. I promise I will put up with any surgery and therapy to remain whole!”

  The surgeons, touched by his heartfelt plea, spoke with their commanding officer. He knew of a skilled orthopedic surgeon at Fitzsimons Hospital near Denver, Colorado, who might be able to do what Gus was requesting. They arranged for his evacuation to England, where he was transfused and stabilized. After two months of treatment, he was flown back to the United States and into the operating room of Dr. Michael Stanton, a young orthopedic surgeon on the cutting edge of bone grafting and repair. In his two years at Fitzsimons, Gus underwent seventeen operations and extensive physical therapy, which ultimately allowed him to walk out of the hospital. He was left with a lifelong limp and some pain, but he walked!

  Between surgeries and rehabilitation at Fitzsimons, he wandered into the kitchen one morning looking for a glass of tomato juice. Waiting there was a pretty young registered nurse named Lucy, and the glass of tomato juice led to a marriage that would span over sixty years.

  I asked Lucy if Gus was ever bitter about his lot in life, and she told me just the opposite. Nearly every day he expressed a genuine thankfulness for his life and his legs. I believe he truly was one of the “greatest generation.”

  When Gus was confined to bed because of Alzheimer’s disease, Lucy became his nurse and caregiver, honoring her vow, “for better or for worse.” She was his champion with the Veterans Administration and secured the best rotating bed available and other equipment necessary to prevent bed sores and to treat his recurrent aspiration pneumonias. She hired caregivers, pureed his food, and called me to see him at home whenever he had a change in status.

  But even with exceptional care, Gus was aging. He turned ninety on February 14, Valentine’s Day (Lucy was born on the same day one year later). His World War II injuries had become reinfected, and I knew this would be difficult to treat and probably impossible to cure.

  On a routine Friday morning I was making rounds at the hospital and had just seen my last patient when I answered a page from Lucy at seven. To my sorrow, she informed me that Gus had passed away. After I hung up, by coincidence, I saw my partner, Dr. John Born, coming in from the parking lot. We paused in the doctors’ lounge and exchanged news on our patients.

  “Lucy called this morning. Gus just died,” I told Dr. Born.

  His face paled as if he had just seen a ghost. For a few seconds he could not speak.

  Alarmed, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “That is so strange.” He sat down at the computer station to compose himself. “I was driving into the hospital when I had the overwhelming urge to turn off the radio. I never do that, but I was overcome with the feeling that I was being summoned by a more important call, and my thoughts immediately turned to Gus. I kept having flashbacks on what you had told me about his military career and his life, as if he was saying good-bye.”

  We checked the time of my page. Seven o’clock, the exact time Dr. Born turned off his radio!

  We have since reflected repeatedly on the events of that morning, finally concluding that somehow we were the honored recipients of Gus’s last goodbye. I don’t know why he picked us, although it would not be unlike him to say thank you to his doctors of over thirty years.

  So, to Gus, I say in return, “Thanks for your last salut
e, my old friend.”

  CHAPTER 9

  FREEZING COLD

  JOHN P. MENDENHALL, MD

  I KNEW I WAS FREEZING to death, because I read about the stages in medical school. First your body starts to feel cold. Then you begin to shiver. That’s the body’s way of generating heat. As you become more hypothermic (temperature below the normal body temperature), the shivering stops, and you become confused and very tired. They say it is not an unpleasant feeling as you slip off to sleep and then into a coma, and then death.

  I had been hiking with the scouts in a branch of the Rocky Mountains with peaks as high as thirteen thousand feet. It was a beautiful fall day, and the hiking was exhilarating. As we hiked higher and higher into the thin air, the scouts were excited about camping on the side of a mountain. I didn’t realize just how high we were until I gradually became short of breath. When I couldn’t keep up with the troop and started wheezing, I knew that I must have mountain sickness with fluid in my lungs (pulmonary edema). I knew I needed to be at a lower altitude and get medical attention, but we were too far into the wilderness for anyone to come to us quickly. We would have to hike down. At least that was the plan, until we were suddenly engulfed in a mountain blizzard. Walking for me was now impossible.

  In between gasps, I spoke with the other adult leaders, and we decided that, for safety, the scouts needed to get off the mountain, and I would remain with my sleeping bag to recover. They would then send a rescue team back to get me out.

  They left, and I was glad to be able to rest. At least I could catch my breath when I wasn’t moving. I found a relatively peaceful location on the trail sheltered by pines, opened my sleeping bag, and crawled in.

  It was still morning, but the temperature continued to drop. As I shifted in the bag, I heard the unmistakable crunch of the snow when it gets very, very cold. I zipped up, put the hood over my head, and curled up as much as I could to take advantage of what warmth my body was generating.

  After I had been lying there for only a short time, the shivering started. First my chest tensed, and then my arms and legs trembled before the shivering finally turned into true teeth chattering.

  My eyes became heavy as the shivering gradually left, and I became surprisingly comfortable. The gravity of my situation would not register in my brain, and, in a matter-of- fact way, I concluded that this would be a pleasant way to die. I closed my eyes for just one second, and then another, and then…

  “Wake up; wake up,” said a voice.

  I opened my eyes and discovered a forest ranger who had also been trapped by the sudden blizzard. He had been higher in the mountain and was descending on horseback. I was so disoriented that I was upset that my deep sleep had been interrupted.

  “Get up,” he said, “and cover yourself with this blanket, and let me help you get on the back of my horse.”

  It was a bumpy ride down the mountain, but we finally made it to the ranger station. From there they took me to the hospital, where I knew most of the staff. As I regained my senses, I was shocked to see my chest X-ray looking as white as the blizzard that stranded me. I wondered how I could get oxygen at all with so much fluid in my lungs. My recovery was gradual, but I was released several days later, thankful that a ranger with a horse just happened to be where I was in the expansive wilderness of a mountain range.

  Years passed, and my near-death freezing experience was just a distant memory. It was a typical work day when I left my house for the hospital at my usual time of five thirty in the morning. I first went to the hospital for rounds, and then into surgery before heading to the office located across the street. This morning, however, I did something I had never done before: I stopped at my office first. I don’t know why. I had hospital rounds to do but no work at the office.

  I opened the front door and sat at my desk contemplating my day and why I was there, when I was interrupted by an urgent knock on the back door. It was between five thirty and six, and our staff did not arrive until eight. I hurried to open the door. Standing in the cold was a man with tears streaming down his cheeks and an expression of ultimate desperation on his face.

  “I have just suffered a terrible loss,” he said to me. “My son was hiking in the canyon and got separated from his group. They just found him frozen to death.”

  I took his hand and we sat down. Between sobs, he went on, “I can’t imagine how much he suffered before he died. It must have been terrible. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  Now I knew why I had come to the office, and, without hesitation, I knew exactly what to say. “I want to tell you a story that will help you,” I said.

  I related the story of my experience with hypothermia and freezing on the mountainside five years before, and explained in an empathetic way that it was not an unpleasant experience at all, that his son must have been very peaceful before he died, and that he would not have suffered.

  The man’s countenance changed as he listened intently to my story. By the time I finished, he was calm. We hugged, and he left. It was really quite a short visit. I never learned his name, nor he mine. Later that day, I watched the evening news report that a boy had been found the night before, frozen in a nearby canyon.

  I wondered why I had chosen to stop at the office before rounds when I never did before, why the grieving father chose an ordinary back door of all the multiple doors in our medical complex, and why I knew just what to say when I was called upon to speak. My only conclusion is that we were brought together by a loving Creator to provide comfort and peace to an anguished father’s soul.

  I never saw the father again.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE ULTIMATE MISSIONARY

  NOEMI SIGALOVE, MD

  THE SILENCE OF THE MORNING was interrupted by the rhythmic clap of my shoes echoing off the concrete walls of the doctors’ parking garage. It was five-thirty in the morning, and I was hurrying into the hospital to make quick rounds before leaving on a well-deserved, three-day vacation to Tucson, Arizona. I had no way of anticipating what happened as I passed through the doors of the hospital that morning.

  My story started one year before when I first saw Adele Ashton for a minor surgical procedure. Her husband, Ron, always accompanied her. They were in their mid-eighties, and their weathered skin told of long days in the African jungle where they served as physician missionaries. They worked in a makeshift clinic in central Africa, where they spent long hours treating anyone who came to them for help, and then on Sunday they addressed the spiritual needs of the people living in the remote jungle villages. This was the life they knew until age deprived them of the stamina to handle the rigors of treating the desperately ill with minimal medicine and equipment.

  I sat in my exam room like a child at the feet of master storytellers, listening in awe of their tales of curing the native people of diseases I had only read about in medical school and of employing surgical procedures I had never performed.

  They were so loving and caring that I had to remind myself that I was not the patient. They always asked about my family, my career, my interests, and my life. But what they were most concerned about was my spiritual well-being.

  “How are you nourishing your spirit?” Dr. Ron would say. “Are you at peace with yourself and with God?”

  If anyone else asked those questions, I would probably be offended, but they always inquired out of love and genuine concern. I think my answers left them with the impression that I knew there was something else to this life, but I certainly did not have their faith. They were the ultimate missionary couple who would do anything to impart the peace they felt from the knowledge of God and the glorious life He offered after death.

  I treated Dr. Adele for several more months and always enjoyed our exam room meetings. Although I never saw them out of the context of my office or hospital, I admired their work and their sincere concern for me, and we became good friends. They always had a faith-building story to share, and each one was more inspirational than the one before.
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  On our last visit, Dr. Ron emotionally expressed his great thankfulness for my care of his dear wife. “Believe and have faith,” he said. And he promised, “The truth will become apparent to you in time.” I accepted his sincerity but was unsure about his promise.

  Adele regained her health, and I did not see my missionary friends again. However, since we were both connected with the same hospital, I was able to receive updates on their lives. I learned that Dr. Ron became ill with cancer, for which he was receiving treatment. I hoped he would respond and recover successfully.

  It was March 10, the day I planned to leave on my three-day vacation to Tucson, Arizona. I had not intended to work the morning of the trip, but there was an emergency surgery the day before, and I knew I would need to see my patient post-op early the next morning. So at five-thirty I headed into the hospital.

  As the hospital doors opened, an unusual blast of air temporarily took my attention away from the immediate scene, and I found myself on a different plane. In my mind’s eye, I saw Dr. Ron. He was standing in a casual outfit, and his eyes seemed to look right into my soul. He was smiling in a way that suggested the fulfillment of a major personal commitment.

  Excited to see him, I blurted out, “Hello, friend!” Startled back into reality by the sound of my own voice, I looked around to see if anyone had heard me. Fortunately it was so early in the morning that I was the only one at the entrance of the hospital. I felt a little embarrassed but walked on, wondering why Dr. Ron was on my mind, since I had not thought about the couple for a long time.

  I finished my rounds and was soon packing and traveling to the airport. The vacation was quiet and a great stress reliever. The three days went by too quickly, and I soon found myself at Tucson International Airport on my way back. I never check my e-mails on vacation to avoid any distressing news. But now that I was on the way home, I opened my mailbox while waiting for the plane to arrive at the gate.