Physicians' Untold Stories Read online

  There was a message from the hospital vice president. As I opened the text, I gasped with emotion. It read, “It is with great regret that I announce the death of Dr. Ron Ashton on March 10. Dr. Ashton valiantly fought a battle with cancer. He was a friend to our hospital and on God’s mission serving the poor of Africa with his wife for over fifty years. We will all miss him.”

  That was the day I left on vacation and the morning he appeared in my mind’s eye as I entered the hospital doors. Ron had fulfilled his promise to make the truth apparent that there was something after this life, and the expression on his face made me believe it was the crowning missionary moment of his life.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE DIME

  STEPHEN J. GRAHAM, MD

  I WONDERED IF THE UNUSUAL tattoo on John Walters’s arm might be related to the sadness in his eyes. He was seeing me in the emergency department for abdominal pain. I was initially hesitant to ask him about the tattoo, but curiosity got the best of me.

  “Is that a coin?” I asked, pointing to his forearm.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “That’s a little unusual,” I said tentatively, not wanting to offend him.

  “It’s a dime,” he said. “I did it for my son, Robby.”

  He paused and took a breath. I soon realized why I had struck such a deeply emotional chord.

  “He was killed,” he said as he stopped again to compose himself. “It was terrible, an accident on the expressway over ten years ago. He was my…only son. He loved coins and had an incredible coin collection. We would go through the change together to find the pennies, nickels, and dimes for his collection books. My wife and I would give him the rarer coins for his birthday and Christmas. His favorite collection was dimes, and he had an unusual knack for finding them everywhere. We would go to a Cubs game, and he would find a dime under his seat or on the sidewalk outside his favorite storefront Christmas window. Whenever we did anything special together, he would find a dime. It was really uncanny.

  “I know you probably won’t believe this, but after he left us, I started finding dimes too. Anytime I do something that would have been special for him, I find a dime—vacations, dinners out, sporting events. They appear on the floor, under a plate, or anywhere. I can almost count on it now, and I think it’s his way of communicating. He looks out for me, like my guardian angel. I wanted Robby to know that I knew he was there, so I put this tattoo on my arm. If you look at it, the year is Robby’s birth year, and his name is right here, R-O-B-B-Y.”

  “That’s a touching story,” I said, trying not to show my skepticism, while at the same time wishing it really was true. But it was true for John, and that was the important thing.

  After I finished his exam, John went for a CT scan, which revealed a minor infection.

  “I have good news,” I told him after the radiologist called with the report. “You won’t need to be admitted to the hospital. It’s a simple infection. I’m going to give you some antibiotics, and you need to follow up with your regular physician in three days. Oh, thanks for sharing Robby’s story with me,” I said as I turned to walk out of his room.

  “I had a feeling you could help me,” he said. “Thanks.”

  John’s story resonated in my mind, but I still couldn’t get myself to accept that a loved one could communicate from the other side.

  I made my way back to the doctor’s dictation area where patients have no access. As I sat down at my computer to complete his notes, something on the floor caught my eye. I reached for it. A dime!

  A sudden eerie feeling came over me. Then I smiled.

  “Thanks, Robby,” I said under my breath, “for looking out for your dad…and for helping me believe.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “GET THE PADDLES!”

  FRED BOLLHOFFER, MD

  “THIS IS GLEN ELLYN AMBULANCE number seventeen on our way, transporting a sixty-two-year-old male with chest pain and EKG changes of an acute anterior MI. ETA twelve minutes. Concerned about his rhythm, frequent ventricular ectopy.”

  “Okay,” the nurse dispatcher replied. “We are opening the door for bay number two. We are ready for you.” She looked over at me with a wink and a smile. She knew that as the ED doctor on duty, I was the one who needed to be ready. She also knew that I was already an hour behind, with three patients who would have to wait while I attended our new emergency.

  I worried about the paramedic’s comment about the patient’s rhythm. Usually fairly astute, the paramedic knew that his rhythm could degenerate into ventricular tachycardia or fibrillation, both causing a life-threatening arrest. His comment was a warning.

  In exactly twelve minutes, the ambulance pulled into bay number two. As I waited for the gurney to be rolled out and into room A2, the cardiac suite, I tried to finish a few charts on the computer. When I realized no one was leaving the ambulance, I became a little nervous and thought I had better run out to the bay and see what was happening.

  Before I even got into the ambulance, I heard the, “One, two, three, four” as a paramedic called out the cadence to his CPR compressions. The worst had happened. The patient’s rhythm had degenerated into ventricular fibrillation, and his heart had stopped beating. He had died.

  “Get the paddles!” I yelled as I stepped on the rear bumper and grabbed the handle to make my way into the back of the ambulance. Chest compressions stopped briefly as one paramedic rubbed conducting jelly on the man’s chest, and the other carefully placed one paddle to the right of his breastbone and the other on his left chest. “Stand clear!”

  His whole body lurched as two hundred joules of energy pulsed through his heart. There was a smell of burning hair, but the man immediately sat up and looked around. I breathed a sigh of relief, although I knew we were not out of trouble yet.

  “Let’s get him into the room!” I said to the nurses, who were now waiting at the doorway of the ambulance.

  He was quickly wheeled into the emergency department, but just as he went through the doorway to the cardiac room, the nurse watching his telemetry yelled out, “V. fib.”

  His heart had stopped again. His eyes closed, and the color drained out of his face, leaving him a ghostly white.

  I grabbed the paddles in the room. “Stand clear!”

  Again, a sudden lurch, and he opened his eyes and looked around. But he looked as though he was far away, not part of what was happening in his room. He looked much too calm.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  He started to answer, but before he could, his eyes rolled back, and he went limp. His heart stopped for a third time.

  I grabbed the paddles one more time. “Clear,” I said. I looked around to make sure that no one was touching him or his bed. Again a powerful shock, and his rhythm returned immediately to normal. We hung a bag of IV lidocaine to prevent his rhythm from degenerating again, and he finally stabilized.

  His monitor now showed a normal rhythm. The nurses handed me the arrest record to sign. I looked on the paper to see his name, Robert Andrews.

  “Hi, Bob,” I said. “I’m Dr. Bollhoffer.” I shook his hand. It seemed a little anticlimactic to be making introductions to a person we had brought back from the dead three times.

  He smiled as politely as he could under the circumstance, and then seemed to drift off again into his own world. I wondered if he was aware of what had happened or if he was so frightened that he was retreating back into his shell. I have been involved with code situations frequently over my years in the emergency department, but never quite like this.

  “Bob,” I said. “Are you okay?” He didn’t answer so I said again, “Are you okay? You should be fine now, but you must have been frightened through that whole experience.” I tried to reassure him as much as I could.

  “You know, Doc,” he said. “I’m not frightened at all, I think because of what I just experienced. When my heart stopped, my older brother came to me right here in this room. I could see him as clearly as I see you. His expres
sion was so calming, but he didn’t speak. My father also came in and walked toward me. Then my ex-wife joined him, and she had a similar welcoming expression on her face. They all stood together by my side.” Tears welled up in his eyes.

  “It sounds like that should have been comforting,” I said. “Is that why you were so calm? Will they be visiting you here?”

  “That’s what’s so strange,” he said. “When I died and my heart stopped, I think they came to take me home. You see, my older brother, my father, and my wife all died years ago.”

  PART THREE

  HEALING

  CHAPTER 13

  GONE FISHIN’

  JOHN MESSITT, MD

  IT WAS HARD TO SEE Bob lying lifeless in bed in the ICU, having suffered a massive stroke and in a deep coma. Bob was my friend. He and I often shared fishing stories in the doctor’s lounge in the early morning before rounds. He was in family practice and sometimes used my specialty of obstetrics for difficult deliveries, but I think his real passion in life was fishing. He could tell me what lure to use for every body of water in the country and in some foreign countries too.

  “We’re planning to remove his life support if there is no progress in three days,” said his ICU physician as he walked past the room. “He’s totally unresponsive to any stimulus and is essentially brain dead.”

  Those were chilling words. Bob and I were laughing together several days ago. I sat down alone with my old friend and drew my chair closer to the head of the bed as I touched his hand. I felt helpless. Was there nothing I could do?

  As I leaned toward his lifeless body, the words started to come, slowly and quietly at first, like a whisper, and then louder and more boldly.

  “Bob,” I said, “I want to tell you about my recent fishing trip to the Northwest Territories of Canada.

  “We flew into Hay River, Canada, and, from there, took a small one-engine float plane past Great Slave Lake to the Mackenzie River. The location was too remote for landing strips, so we put down on the river.” Now I was really getting into the story.

  “I thought it would be an enjoyable experience, until we hit the water—and bounced. That was the white-knuckle time as the plane (and I) pitched back and forth. By the third bounce, I decided I was glad I was not a regular commuter.” I instinctively looked for a smile on his face, but, of course, there was none.

  “When we finally glided to our mooring, I was happy to step onto a solid dock. Our guide unloaded the luggage and accompanied us to our one-room log cabin with a wood-burning potbelly stove in the center for heat.

  “The first morning broke with the sun rising over the water and burning the mist off the river. The sky had wisps of clouds, as if a painter had dragged his brush over a deep blue canvas. After a lumberjack breakfast, we walked across the permafrost ground to our boat. We used tiny Daredevil lures, the smallest I had ever seen, for trolling, with only the river current propelling us. Bob, I’m not sure if even you have used such tiny lures.” My typical fishing “one-upmanship” now brought a smile to my face.

  “My first cast was with a large eight-inch muskie lure to simply clear the line and make sure there were no tangles. Before I could reel it in, I had my first strike. It was a grayling. The river was full of them, and they were all hungry. They get to be about three pounds and put up quite a fight. Have you ever caught one?” I paused instinctively for a second, almost expecting an answer.

  “It seemed like all we had to do is drop the lure in the water, and we had a fish. By the end of the day, my arms were tired from reeling in our catch. We released most of them, but it made for a day like no other. Bob, I’d like you to go there with me someday.” I turned to look around the room to make sure no one had entered, but I was still alone with my fishing friend.

  I had known Bob for ten years. We never socialized or went fishing together. Our special time was in the hospital setting in the morning, where we became acquainted with not only our fishing stories but with each other’s children and grandchildren, their interests, occupations, and aspirations in life. It took a stroke for me to realize just how close we had become. Life’s funny like that. You don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone. Now my tales were the only way to keep connected, but in ways that I never imagined at the time.

  In addition to his family, medicine, and fishing, Bob also loved his greenhouse. In fact, he was so excited about his plants that he once called me at 3:00 a.m. When I answered the phone, Bob had an excited tone in his voice. I got up and was getting ready to get dressed to go in and help him with a delivery, but it was not about any obstetrical emergency.

  “John,” he said. “This is Bob.”

  “Yes,” I said with a sleepy voice.

  “You have to come and see it!” he said.

  I thought about what I needed to wear to do a delivery, and then get to the office.

  “It’s beautiful, and the smell is like nothing you have ever experienced!” he said.

  Now I was really wondering what he was talking about.

  “My night-blooming cereus is in full glory in the greenhouse! It only opens at night and just once a year, and this is the night. You have to come and see it.”

  I put my pants back in the closet and resumed my place in bed with a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Bob,” I said. “But I’ll see it in the morning. Good-bye.”

  I just couldn’t share his excitement about a flower. But that was Bob. He was passionate about everything.

  Every day that I visited him in his ICU bed, I hoped he would miraculously recover, but I knew this wasn’t possible. He had been in the unit for three days now with absolutely no progress, and the plan was to take him off life support in the morning. Each day I told him another story. My wife and friends questioned my sanity telling stories to someone who had no chance of hearing, but I had a strange compulsion to continue. It was something I could do, and probably the only thing I could do for my friend.

  The last morning of his life I functioned in slow motion. I walked tentatively into the ICU with an empty feeling in my chest. When I entered his room, I realized it was too late. His bed was stripped to the mattress, and the room was dark and empty. He must have died during the night. I felt sad that I couldn’t say my last goodbyes to him, but I smiled as I remembered our good times together.

  As I shuffled out of the ICU with my head down, I saw one of the nurses at the nursing station.

  “What time did Bob die?” I asked.

  Her laugh at first seemed inappropriate. “Oh, he didn’t die,” she said. “He woke up yesterday, and we transferred him to the step-down unit!”

  I stood there, unable to process what she just said. It took me a few minutes to realize that, for me, he had just come back from the dead. I hurried to his new room to see him but found that he was down for some tests. Bob was discharged to a rehab facility before I could see him, but just over a week later, I walked into the doctors’ lounge, and there he was, just like old times, standing in his usual place, having an oatmeal breakfast.

  “Bob!” I said. “You made an amazing recovery!”

  “John,” he said with a smile as he moved closer to me, “I want to thank…you…for coming to see me…every day.” His speech was halting and labored from his stroke, but he obviously had something important to tell me. “You were the only one who…ever talked to me, and you…you don’t know how much…how much I looked forward to your…stories. My favorite was…the Northwest Territories…for grayling. You never told me…that one before. It was…your best.”

  He became emotional as he told me about his experience. He was able to repeat even the smallest details of every story I told him when he was in an apparent coma. I wonder to this day if there was something more in those stories that I didn’t comprehend at the time. Is there a time when a person so close to death makes a decision to stay or leave? Could some simple fishing stories, told by a friend, make a difference? I’ll never know.

  What I do know is that two men, bonded
by friendship, met every morning under unusual circumstances to share stories about what they love, and both came away feeling better. I think that’s what life is all about.

  Bob continued to recover over the next few months and lived for many more years.

  If you were wondering, he never made it to the Mackenzie River in Canada to fish for graylings, at least not in this life.

  CHAPTER 14

  A SERIES OF MIRACLES

  JOHN P. MENDENHALL, MD

  IT WAS THE LOWEST POINT in my life. I sat at my desk contemplating the problems I was facing, when my nurse and receptionist came into my office beaming. “Look what someone left on your reception table,” my nurse said. What she laid on my desk took my breath away. It was a large gold-leaf frame, and inside was my family tree, also in gold leaf. Each of my ancestors had a glass birthstone. The tree depicted an extensive group of relatives going back to many great-greats. I was at the base of the tree, as if each of my ancestors depended upon me. How could I give up and let them all down? I thought.

  I was touched beyond words. I could feel a tear well up in my eye, as I turned to my nurse and receptionist to ask if they had seen the stranger who had anonymously brought the package to my office. Both thought they saw Dave Adams’s car drive out of my parking lot that morning. I had served on some church committees with Dave, but we were not close friends. How he knew I was at a crossroads in my life, I will never know, but his gift of unselfish love made me realize I could overcome any obstacle, and it turned my life around. I rarely saw Dave again as our lives went separate ways until… well, I’m getting ahead of myself.

  As an orthopedic surgeon, I maintained a busy operating schedule, but this particular week was over the top. I happened to be on call much of that week and was looking forward to having the weekend off. In fact, I had been up most of the night in the operating room and was finishing morning rounds on Saturday. It was a great feeling when I called my partner and signed out. I turned off my pager, changed my coat, and headed out of the hospital.