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  As I passed the doctor’s lounge, I thought about getting a soda before I left, but I was distracted and forgot. As I drove away, I decided to stop at a gas station on the way home for a drink. It was about halfway home, just off the expressway. But again, as I was getting ready to pull off, I became preoccupied with whether I had ordered an appropriate medication for one of the patients I had seen on rounds, and I missed the exit. Fortunately the next ramp was to my home. I could wait until I got to my own refrigerator, which was well stocked with cold pop. I would then change into some casual clothes and take a well-deserved nap. As I worked out the plan in my mind, I went right by the exit!

  I must be really tired, I thought. I had never done this before. I would have to turn around to get back home. Then I remembered that just off the next exit was another community hospital. I was on staff but almost never operated there because they always seemed to be out of the orthopedic equipment I needed. But they had a great doctors’ lounge, and I could make a quick pass for a soda and then go home to bed.

  This time, I didn’t miss the exit. I was happy to see the tan building just a few blocks away. The doctors’ entrance and parking lot were in the back, but, for some reason, I parked on the other side and went in through the front door. I don’t remember ever doing that before.

  As I entered the lobby and walked down the hallway I heard a desperate plea. “Doc Mendenhall, Doc Mendenhall!” It was the voice of Kathy Staton, the daughter of Dave Adams, who had changed my life with his expression of love and kindness so many years before.

  “Doc,” she said, still catching her breath from the sprint to my side. “My daughter Judy just had a terrible fall from a zip line, and she broke the forearm bones in both arms. It’s terrible. Her arms are all deformed, and she plays the piano and wants to become a concert pianist! They think she may never be able to play at that level again. My father always told me you were the best orthopedic surgeon around, so I knew you would be the only one who could fix her. I’m so thankful you came.”

  I was totally exhausted, but how could I refuse to do the surgery? The real problem, however, was the hospital. They were almost always out of the right drills, plates, and screws I needed for a sophisticated surgery like this would be. I was trying to decide how to tell Kathy when one of the surgical nurses came down the hall after seeing her injured daughter in the ER. I think she must have read my mind.

  “Doc,” she said. “I have great news. You know how you always tell us that we don’t have the right equipment for your cases? Well, the operating committee decided to encourage more orthopedic surgery by ordering a large set of the finest orthopedic plates, screws, and drill bits. They arrived this morning, and I just picked them up from our surgical supplier. It’s everything that you will need.”

  And it was. Now I knew without a doubt that someone behind the scenes was directing traffic, and all I could do was to hold on for the ride.

  I went to the ER with Kathy and examined Judy. She was right. The radius and ulna in both forearms were fractured in multiple places. Her once beautiful arms and hands were twisted and functionless. This would be a major surgery, and I told Kathy it would normally take at least four hours.

  I knew the anesthesiologist, Howard Roberts, who was on call for the hospital that day. He came to the ER to see what he was facing, since he didn’t want to spend his entire Saturday in surgery. After we scrubbed and entered the operating suite, Howard marked the time on his chart and reminded me that I promised him I could do it in four hours. I nodded.

  As he was putting Judy into a deeper sleep, I was able to start on her right arm. I have never had surgery proceed so quickly. Her separated bones almost fell into place. The new orthopedic kit had the state-of-the-art plates and screws that I loved to use. Within forty-five minutes, I had finished her right arm and was starting on the left. That arm went as miraculously as the right. I was done within forty-five minutes again and informed Howard that he could wake Judy up. He nearly fell off his stool. He looked at the clock: 12:35 p.m. He subtracted the start time and recorded a total surgical time of ninety-two minutes. He had never seen anything like this before, and neither had I. When I went out to speak with the family, they were waiting for me at the door. It was great to see my old friend Dave Adams, Kathy’s father, who smiled when he saw me.

  “I knew you would finish quickly,” Kathy said calmly, “and I already know the result.” And she was right. Postoperative X-rays revealed that Judy’s bones were positioned perfectly.

  Her statement capped the most unusual day of my life. It was a day filled with a series of miracles, starting with something that prevented me from getting a drink in my own doctors’ lounge and from taking the exits to the gas station or to my home. Then Kathy Staton locating the person she wanted to operate on her daughter just because I chose an entrance I had never used before. Then performing a complex surgery in record time using instruments that were delivered just hours before I needed them. Finally Kathy’s entire family standing at the doorway to the surgical waiting room because they knew that I would finish hours before I predicted.

  And what about Judy, you ask. Did she ever play the piano again?

  Judy made an uneventful recovery from her surgery, but she required extensive physical therapy. Part of the therapy involved making a beautiful quilt for my family. But the real reward for me was receiving the following invitation in the mail nearly two years later:

  You are cordially invited to the opening performance of Judith Staton in concert.

  She played like an angel!

  CHAPTER 15

  THE DREAM

  RICHARD JORGENSEN, MD

  “NATIVE AMERICANS BELIEVE THAT IF you dream about someone, you must tell them about your dream. This is how the Earth Spirit communicates with mortal beings.”

  I thought this was a fascinating revelation from my psychologist friend, Janet Robbins, who believed it. Over coffee at Starbucks, we discussed her philosophy of life, a mix of modern psychology and 1970s free spirit. I tried to think of my last dream but couldn’t remember any, but her statement on revealing dreams resonated with me. I thought about it long after our meeting but never had an occasion to tell anyone about one of my dreams, until…

  The day was a typical surgical mix of emergencies and consults with not enough time to finish one problem when another appeared. I was tired when I got home and went to bed earlier than usual, but my sleep was interrupted by a strong, frightening emotion. My stomach was in knots from the most vivid dream of my life. I was watching myself in line at a funeral home, exchanging conversation with many friends. Flower arrangements lined the walls, and quiet classical music played in the background. Many were crying as they passed the open coffin holding the body of my best friend, Judge Mike Glasso. In my dream, he died suddenly, in his fifties, leaving stunned family, friends, and colleagues.

  The judge, starting from humble beginnings in a working-class family, achieved great success in his life. The turning point came in high school, when he was chastised by the assistant dean of boys for not living up to his great potential. The dean sat down with him and gave him this sobering advice, “Shape up or ship out. You should really quit school and get a job since you will never amount to anything.” That was just the reverse psychology Mike needed, and he became a student on a mission to prove the dean wrong.

  Mike graduated from high school and was only the second person in his family to enter college. There he was influenced by a professor to study law. Realizing that professional school would give him a greater chance to help others, he put himself through Chicago-Kent Law School by selling shoes. He was the valedictorian in his class, and, in his graduation speech, he encouraged his fellow students to do “good things” as lawyers. That became the motto for his life. He developed a program utilizing clinical psychologists to help the courts determine the best interests of the children in divorce proceedings. His model was adopted by the State of Illinois and many other states.

  Wishing to have an even greater impact, he progressed from county judge to chief judge and, ultimately, to one of a select group of Illinois Appellate judges. Now in my dream, his life was prematurely over from an acute heart attack. His face, retouched with funeral makeup, appeared as clear as in real life. I was totally overcome with emotion.

  The next morning, I went through my work on autopilot with an ache that would not leave my chest. I remembered Janet’s advice about revealing your dream to friends, but I struggled with how to tell my best friend that I saw his body in a funeral home. I finally resolved to call as soon as I finished my day.

  That evening I sat by the phone for several minutes contemplating the words I would use to express myself without emotion. This would be hard. I reached for the phone. I had the script arranged in my mind. My hand was sweating as I listened to the mechanical ring tone. Then he answered.

  “Mike,” I said, “I had a dream about you last night and felt I had to tell you about it.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “This is hard for me to say, but I dreamed that you were dead, and I saw you lying in a casket in a funeral home.”

  Mike laughed. “That was some dream,” he said, still laughing.

  As I told him more of the details he stopped laughing. I think he realized how upset I was.

  “Would you just do me a favor, and get a physical?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “If you think it’s important, I’ll do it for you. I haven’t had a physical for a while anyway.”

  I took a deep breath. I had done my job, and if there was a heart problem, his doctor would find it.

  Life went back to normal, and it was two weeks before we spoke on the phone again.

  “Hello, Rich,” he said. “Well, I had my phys
ical, and everything was just fine. I’m glad your dream was not prophetic. I had the blood tests, an EKG, and an X-ray, and he told me I was in perfect health. In fact, my internist said that I shouldn’t listen to my friends about my health, and I could stop worrying about dying.”

  I didn’t know how to respond, because I suddenly got that sick feeling all over again. I thanked him for the update, but over the next several days I could not get him off my mind. The dream was too real to ignore, so I called him back. “Mike, would you consider doing one more test, an ultrafast heart scan that can give an indication of whether your coronary arteries are blocked?”

  He hesitated. “Do you think I really need to?” he asked.

  “It would make me feel better,” I said, still remembering his ghostly face in my dream. I was going out on a limb and would be embarrassed if things were perfectly normal, but that little voice in the back of my head was too strong to ignore. If I was wrong, we were good enough friends that he would forgive me. After some hesitation, he finally agreed. Another sigh of relief!

  Judge Mike made that appointment for the heart scan, and it was so abnormal that his cardiologists, Dr. Rauh and Dr. Kerwin, scheduled an urgent angiogram (catheter study with dye to visualize the arteries in the heart). I canceled my morning appointments so I could be with my good friend on the morning of his procedure.

  Mike and I spoke inside his room before his angiogram about how unusual it would be for anything serious to be found since he had shown no symptoms at all. When he was called to the cath lab, I walked beside his gurney until he was taken into the procedure room. We were both anxious, but I think I was more concerned, because it was my insistence that brought him to this point. The procedure went well, and when it was over, Dr. Kerwin opened the door and signaled for me to come inside. We looked at the films together. Without speaking, he pointed to two of the three main arteries of the heart, which were 90 percent blocked. In addition, the main trunk was also partially blocked, a condition called the “widow maker.”

  “It’s surprising he is still alive!” said Dr. Kerwin.

  He called Bob Angelos, the cardiac surgeon, who put Mike on the schedule for bypass the following day. He was afraid that if he waited any longer, the judge might have a fatal heart attack. This much coronary disease, if untreated, usually results in death within months.

  Judge Mike was sedated but not out of earshot of our conversation. He motioned for me to come to his side, and, with a voice trembling with emotion, whispered, “Rich, thanks… thanks for saving my life! I guess you and God were looking out for me.”

  I was humbled with emotion as Mike’s words made me realize that I had been the messenger in God’s hands.

  Judge Mike underwent an uneventful cardiac bypass procedure and was out of the hospital in four days and back to the courtroom in six weeks. When he finally retired and moved to Florida, he left behind a legacy that touched the lives of countless children and families. That was fifteen years and a thousand golf games ago, many played with me.

  And, no, thankfully, I haven’t had any more dreams about friends.

  CHAPTER 16

  OPERATING IN THE PHILIPPINES

  MICHAEL I. HUSSEY, MD

  I WAS IN TROUBLE, AND I knew it. Marie’s surgery had been routine until she was suddenly bleeding uncontrollably from multiple sites. To complicate the problem, I was the only surgeon in the tiny eight-bed rural hospital, and the blood bank was twenty miles away.

  It was our traditional February mission trip to one of the outer islands of the Philippines. I had been richly blessed to achieve my dream of becoming a surgeon, and this was my way of giving back, at least partially. The Catholic mission in charge of our agenda believed in sending us to the poorest locations in the world where our skills and knowledge could do the greatest good, and, on this trip, they divided the thirty physicians and allied medical personnel into two work groups. When we left Chicago, it was cold and snowing, but here in the tropics, our daily temperature was between seventy and eighty degrees.

  Our group was taken from the main airport to a relatively modern city, Bacolod, where we stayed in a Western-style hotel. However, every morning we were transported back in time, traveling in a vintage bus to a rural hospital where the practice of medicine and surgery had not progressed beyond the 1950s. On the way, we passed through some of the most lush and beautiful scenery in the world, with tropical bamboo forests bordering rich farm fields of sugarcane and rice. The road was paved but so infrequently traveled that tropical vegetation grew in all the cracks, and farmers used the road to dry their rice. The bus driver navigated around each rice mound without a second thought.

  When we arrived at the hospital, I was not surprised to see a two-story edifice with peeling paint and rusty metal supports. It had the capacity for twenty beds, but the second floor was unused, making it an eight-bed hospital primarily for trauma from automobile accidents. Considering what I observed about the Philippine driving habits, this must have been a great need. When I saw the two marginally equipped operating rooms, I was thankful that I brought a bag from home containing over thirty pounds of scalpels, suture material, retractors, clamps, needles, and syringes.

  If greater operating capacity was needed, they simply set up two tables in one room. It was not uncommon for the lights to go out in the middle of a case, but there was no panic. The staff simply moved the operating table near the window, and the surgery continued as if nothing had happened. We found to our amazement that even under such primitive conditions, our surgical outcomes were as good as in our modern hospitals back home, but I still wonder if there was something more than good fortune behind those results.

  All of the Philippine people who were suffering, including the affluent, wanted to see the “American” doctors, but the mission prearranged clinic visits only for the indigent who could not afford medical care. On my first few trips, I expected to find that the people would be depressed over their lot in life, but I found just the opposite. Even the poorest of the poor were smiling, sometimes without teeth, and a billboard next to the road leading to our city featured two joyful girls with the caption, “Welcome to the city of smiles.”

  The humble Philippine people expressed great appreciation for what we were doing and brought us gifts of food and handcrafted presents whenever they could. On our first day, we were honored with a traditional feast of roasted pig. One of the delicacies they reserved for special guests was the cooked fatty skin. I thought it looked like whale blubber, but I ate as much as I could tolerate to avoid offending our hosts.

  After our welcoming dinner, I asked to tour where our patients lived. I was taken down a country road to what looked like a slum with hundreds and possibly thousands of houses built on stilts with cardboard or tin siding. “Why were they built above ground?” I asked our guide.

  “There is no sanitary system, and all the sewage goes directly onto the ground,” he replied.

  “I think I would want my home to be on stilts too,” I said.

  With my obstetrics and gynecology specialty, most of my surgeries were for pelvic tumors and bleeding. On our first clinic day, patients lined up for blocks. Their conditions always seemed to be the extreme of what I was used to seeing. With little medical care, they had to wait for a foreign medical team to arrive before they could have their procedures, and our trip was usually life changing for them (and often for us too). When it was time to return home, I always wanted to stay to help the women who would have to wait a year before they could have their surgeries, and we all knew some would not survive until the next year.

  Marie was one of the patients who waited in line for hours on my first clinic day. She had a natural beauty, with long, straight dark hair and a shy smile, but she was so desperately poor that she could not afford to see a physician. She was a diligent mother who loved and cared for her family despite suffering from a chronically distended abdomen and intractable pain.