Some of the Classmates of '61 Lunch Bunch, 2004
News From Dave
December 30th 2007
Everything about my transplant so far has been perfect. I'm not having any rejection problems, and life is gradually becoming as normal as it's likely to be. I'm back to work, and tonight I'm off to play a dance job. The immuno-suppression drugs I'll be on for the rest of my life have had some mild side effects -- like much darker and thicker (and less controllable) hair, a very slight tremor in my hands, and a "wired" until 1:00 a.m. sleep pattern. I've heard that these can produce mood swings, BUT I HAVEN'T HAD ANY ^%$%*&% MOOD SWINGS, so I guess I'm pretty lucky.
Merry Christmas 2007 from the Irvines
For the Oakwood Drive Irvines, this was the worst of years and the best of years. It began, as all years do,
with January. Slogs-R-Us, Dave's incredibly cheap law firm, had given us a Christmas bonus last year - an all-
expenses-paid week's tramp steamer cruise in the Gulf of Mexico, stopping at quaint and charming Texas port
cities: Brownsville, Corpus Christi, Galveston, and the little Rio of the Texas Gulf, Port Lavaca, which is especially
charming in February. We were really looking forward to that. Many of you have asked why I stay with Slogs-R-
Us, and I have to tell you it's because of the benefits. The hard truth of it is that but for the medical insurance the
firm has carried, I would be among the 45 million Americans without health coverage; you see, after my 1994 heart
attack and valve replacement, I'm uninsurable but for the Slogs-R-Us policy.
As things turned out in January, I really needed that coverage when I finally concluded it was time for
some very minor prostate surgery. The good news was that I had health insurance; the bad news was that the
carrier was UBetcherLife, a consortium of Joliet bookies, whose patient care manager is a guy named Big Julie. I
should not have been surprised that the doctor on their plan was a large animal veterinarian, and I found myself
sharing a semi-private room with a recovering race horse. And what a bed pan that was! I was just grateful that
anesthetic was provided as a deductible. That's when it happened. I threw a clot, or several, and on January 23rd I
had a massive heart attack. My run as Linda's can't-fix-anything, arm candy, trophy husband has been extended.
Here's the short story: there is no medical reason for me to still be here. I landed in the ER at LDS
Hospital, and by the time I had been stabilized on a heart-lung bypass, my heart had stopped several times, once for
eight minutes in an ambulance from Bountiful. I was hospitalized for two months, one of those in an ICU. At the
most critical moments, I had about a 30% chance of surviving. I was in a medically-induced coma for four weeks,
during which time I nearly lost a leg and the toes on the other foot. Long story. When it was determined that there
had been no brain damage (no, Gen. Larry Morris, that was not a pre-existing condition), the docs installed a
mechanical pump - A Left Ventricular Assist Device - and I lived on/with that for five months. The LVAD is
about three pounds of titanium hardware, and it was connected through my chest wall to a large, master electrical
unit. I was tethered to that machine with a 20-foot line, or I could plug myself into a battery unit weighing about
nine pounds, which needed to be changed out every four hours. An LVAD, bless its heart, sounds like an internal
threshing machine, and that saga is a whole separate story. Fortunately, Bountiful Light & Power never had an
outage while I was in extremis. My Father's Day gift was a heart transplant, courtesy of a profoundly generous
donor family. The post-transplant progress has been very successful. I still have some leg issues, but the toes have
mostly recovered. I'm on an intensive physical workout program, and I'm at about 60% of my strength from a year
ago. It will be some months yet before my stamina is back, but I can manage a slow jog for a few hundred yards, a
fairly brisk walk for three miles, and I'll try skiing in January if my feet are up to it. My heart is 28 years old, so
that probably means I'll have to go through another mid-life crisis. I've had superb docs and nurses, and I'm
slowly getting back to my oar at Slogs-R-Us ("We keep you alive to serve this ship; row well and live").
UBetcherLife, however, has terminated my health coverage. I tried to explain to the bookies that LDS
Hospital did its first heart transplant in about 1985 and that guy is now 86 and still kicking, but they weren't
buying. Their business plan is built on a high-risk pool and the probability that their insureds will croak quickly.
Doubling down on me, according to Big Julie, "has cost us a mil, wasn't woith it, and was bad fa' business. Yeah,
it may have been nice fa' yer family, but whodda we care 'bout dem? Fa' that matta, whodda we care boutchew??
We shoulda put a contract on ya before ya got to those pricey docs & sweety-pie noises ["it's not "noises" the
sound, its "noises" for nurses; Big Julie is hard to translate]. From now on , we're stickin' wi' horses."
Unfortunately, Big Julie is the only guy in the medical field who still makes housecalls - with a seegar and heat.
Getting Moi through all of this has been no small feat, and all credit for that goes to Linda. She didn't
flinch, wasn't rattled, and was tireless and on top of everything, even when things were at their diciest. We are
indebted to Sen. Dodd and Pres. Clinton for getting the Family Medical Leave Act passed; and Bronx cheers to the
GOP congressmen and Justices Scalia and Thomas who tried to kill it. FMLA allowed Linda to take 90 days off
work at the ARUP blood bank (without pay) to put the wheels back on my wagon after they blew off. There were a
few months when I was, literally, her fifth child. I couldn't do anything but breathe. That got old quickly, and next
to "Dave's going to make it," her happiest moment was hearing, "He no longer needs a 24/7 minder." Mall sales
spiked memorably that day. In a weak moment (probably fueled by rare guilt), Slogs-R-Us handed her two tickets
for a Panama Canal cruise in April. I tried to nominate her for a Nobel Prize. Memo to the Irvine girls: be sure to
marry someone who can put the wheels back on the wagon when they fall off.
The Irvine kids rallied too. They kept Linda sane and the house together. During the weeks when I
couldn't talk because of a breathing tube, Scott made up a large-letter alphabet board so I could spell out words.
My first to him were, "I have become Ruprecht," (if you remember Dirty Rotten Scoundrels). He and Natalia are
back from 5 months in Japan with Disney on Ice, and they leave at month's end for a 4-month tour of Eastern
Europe. Though not abandoning his signature Genie shtick, Scott has actually been seen pair skating in purple
tights as Snow White's prince. Natalia is seeing the irrational side of U.S. immigration policy up close and
personal. You all should rest more easily knowing that the gumshoes are being very careful to be sure she's not a
terrorist and is actually married to Der Genie. For a KGB plant, she's sure a sweetie.
Lindsay, aka the Beltway Snoot, gave up her summer to hold down the fort at home. She's in a little-
known DOD school, the National Military Intelligence College, and when she finishes, she gets a second master's
degree in spookiness. We are grateful to those of you, interviewed by the feds for her TS/SCI security clearance,
that you didn't rat her out. She still dances for a professional troupe, Silk Road, and the debate continues about
whether this is bellydancing (we say) or high class Central Asian dancing (she says). It seems to come down to the
presence or absence of a belt of coins into which large denomination bills are tucked. I caught a performance in
New York, and the costumes are dazzling. I asked her director if I could take some pictures, and there was a slight
hesitation as she said, "Well, as long as they don't end up on the Internet," It was telling as Lindsay jumped in and
said, "Don't worry, he can barely get on the Internet let alone know what he's doing once he's there." Ouch! That
was the same trip where I was hit on by SigourneyWeaver. True story. You could be reading about it any week
now in National Enquirer. Lindsay's still aiming to be an Arabist and wants to spend a year in an undisclosed
Middle East location learning street Arabic. No thanks to her lip that I have to do my own laundry and ironing.
Cullen, speaking of classified information, is still slowly ticking off engineering classes at the U of U.
We've had a couple of sightings this year, some poignant, and hope there may be a few more.
Kristen is back at BYU after finishing a church mission in San Antonio, Texas. The pod people did not
carry her off, and the 18-month absence coincided nicely with the termination of her felon status at BYU for
excessive parking tickets. The new major is art history, for which (natch) she must go overseas. We've finally
figured out that what happens in Provo stays in Provo. Where she disappears to in Bountiful may be another story,
but she assures us there's nothing happening. However, it's OK. Dad has come up with three Grimm Bros.-type,
highly daunting tasks a would-be suitor must complete before we even talk, and they will slow everything down for
a couple of years. Her neatest trick (or maybe Linda's) was getting a 5-day pass from an understanding mission
president to allow her to make it to the hospital before Dave croaked. In piecing things together after the fact, she
leaned over and said, "Daddy, it's the Punkin." He was hallucinating at the time and remembers seeing her but
wrote it off to drugs, knowing somewhere deep that she would have been in Texas - not where he was in Mexico.
Maybe the worst of years, but certainly the best of Christmases. Everyone will be home this year, for the
first time in several. We will be making merry in earnest. Many of you have been involved in our saga from the
beginning, and we are so grateful for your letters, calls, visits, and prayers. It's been a very ecumenical project, and
we questioned no prayer's bona fides. They all surely helped, as did a hospitalful of medical experts. Christmas
for us, this year especially, is a time of gratitude for miracles. Thanks to the truckload which have come our way,
life is sweeter, friendships dearer, time together -- priceless. We think of you (far-flung or near-flung) often, even
if our calls or correspondence are spotty. And we absolutely relish the chance to see you in person either at your
place or ours!
Much love and Merry Christmas!
Dave & Linda Irvine
In October I was in NYC for a Human Rights First event where the gaggle of retired military flag officers I work with (I'm
the bagel of the bunch) were recognized for our efforts to oppose the Bush administration's use of torture. When I was
introduced, the MC said that I had just had a heart transplant. Siggy (we're that close) was one of the presenters that night, and
afterwards she came over to me, patted me on the chest (there you have it: hit on), and said, "Congratulations, stay healthy."
To be sure I hadn't misread what had happened, I asked her to do it again, which she graciously, even happily did. I'm sure the
writers at N.E. can work with that. I know what the wink meant. And no, Dr. Bob House (my clever Denver shrink), I do not
have a Walter Mitty problem. This really happened. I'm sure there's a good reason she hasn't called, and I understand.
September 24th 2007
Everyone --
I pledged a couple of weeks ago to go easy on your inboxes, so I hope this won't be an intrusion. My 15 minutes of fame are about up.
We went to a local Chinese restaurant the other night, and my fortune cookie had this to say: "fortune is on your side - play it for all it's worth." I think I should respect the streak and let that be my last fortune cookie. Yesterday was biopsy day, and the report again was no sign of rejection. The docs are delighted that I'm so boring, and I think the glide path, so far, seems to be textbook perfect. I look at slightly different measurements of progress: my predisone dosage has been lowered and likely will be lowered again next week. I've been fortunate to not have experienced the severe side effects of that drug, so a lower dosage is (I hope) a good sign. I went cold turkey yesterday on oxycontin, and so far it's been tolerable, even at night. If anyone knows Rush Limbaugh's phone number, I may have a deal for him. A wimpier painkiller is still useful (my sternum has been sawed through three times now), but I'm managing three 2-hour work-out sessions each week (pretty challenging routines) at $250 per pop. I could have unlimited access to the same equipment and facilities for $25 per month, but the kicker is the heart monitor -- the data from which is also boring. I think that goes on for another six weeks, and then I lose the monitor, which is fine. I see some musculature returning, and the regular workouts are the key to skiing in January. My heart evaluation clinics have been cut from twice per week to once every two weeks.
I haven't seen Michael Moore's newest movie, but I've had my share of health insurance fiascos. When I was in the ER in January and back in the OR for the LVAD insertion, three docs were working me over in combined surgeries of about 20 hours. We're in a running dogfight over one of their bills. Months after the fact, the insurance folks concluded that I only needed two surgeons for such simple procedures involved in keeping me alive, and that claim was denied. May have to go to the mat on that, but I'm relieved to know that the crisis was, evidently, not as serious as everyone had thought at the time. Whew!
In anticipation of a Saturday night dance gig, I hauled my clarinet out today to see if I have any chops left. It wasn't as bad as I feared; I remember in the hospital fog that was February, looking at a right hand that was frightfully swollen, wondering if I'd ever be able to play again. I'll break out the sax tomorrow, but anyone can play a sax (well, maybe not banjo players); clarinets separate the sheep from the goats. I can still hit the notes; arpeggios in sixteenth notes and four flats are a bit rusty. With some practice, I think I'm ready to reclaim my chair in the 23rd Army Band.
Last week was a big one on Oakwood Drive, with Kristen's (Kid # 4) return from an LDS mission in Texas. One of the significant miracles of January was how Linda managed to get her home within 24 hours for a few days while I was in extremis (or extremis minora in the view of my insurance carrier). I am indescribably thankful that her last memory of Moi is not on death's door in a hospital bed with two dozen tubes running everywhere. It was a very happy reunion, and she's still Kristen.
We're planning a quick trip to Sun Valley on September 8th. In July, I was reelected as a director and president of a Sun Valley condominium homeowners' association. It's like being the mayor of a very small town. That's a long and curious story since I don't own a condo there. Scott (Kid # 1) does. I was able to participate by speaker phone in what could have been a pretty contentious annual meeting (turns out [to my shock] I am not universally beloved -- Rats!), but my cool-headed fellow directors tamped down the malcontents and we all got reelected. I'm not sure what is common in annual homeowner meetings for most associations, but for the second year, we've hired a police officer to be a quiet but visible part of the meeting. The Atelier saga would make another interesting (and almost comic) chapter in a book, and no one gets a dime from what we do, but I've made some really wonderful friends in the process. We've got a great board of directors, and we all like each other a lot. We're thinking of getting together for a celebratory weekend in San Francisco (on our own nickels) to commemorate having survived a tough year.
Thank you again for helping me get through the challenges of the last several months. I feel better and stronger each week, and I'm playing the adventure for all it's worth.
Love,
Dave
July 17th 2007
Everyone --
Today (Monday) - a month out from the transplant -- was biopsy #4, blood tests, and an echocardiogram. The biopsy results were again clear -- no indications of rejection; and the doc (with a huge smile) described the echo exam results as "exceedingly boring." Boring enough that I don't have to go in for another biopsy for 2 weeks, and they've dropped one of my two weekly clinic visits. If things stay constant, the biopsies drop to one per month in October. Today's was the moist painless I've yet had, but I'm at the point where I'm looking at each one as a milestone to work through rather than a procedure about which to be apprehensive. It's possible that my medical team is just being nice, but they seem as excited as I am about stuff, and I think I'm becoming some kind of poster child for progress and rapid recovery. Not being half dead -- maybe nearly dead -- when the second surgery was done likely made a lot of difference. Getting a really good heart in the process is no small thing either.
I launched a pain experiment today and skipped my morning Big One. It got to be pretty uncomfortable, but not excruciating, so I think I can gradually keep reducing the dosage of pain medication I've been on. I've already cut the "lifeboat dosage" to nearly zero, and if I can cut the regular daytime stuff by another third this week, I'll consider that significant progress in the back-to-normal department.
This likely will mean nothing to anyone but me, but I was curious why, when I'm lying down, I can see and feel each heartbeat in the area below my ribs where the LVAD once was. The medical answer was that following a transplant the beats are so unusually strong that they may be reverberating in strange places, but the surprise was that for the first several hours after a transplant, the pumping strength is strong enough to shake the bed. It becomes more normal over time, but I thought that was interesting. I was concerned that I might have done something to unhinge it, but that was evidently a dumb question. I do dumb questions quite well, especially at 0300.
You have all been kind to put up with these weekly updates; you've been through some very dicey moments with me, and a lot of happy ones, as I've tried to share what was happening over the course of a year that, so far, has been extraordinary in my life. We think the chances of my keeling over are more remote at this point than being hit by a truck on I-15, so I'm going to self-censor myself and cut back these spam intrusions on you to coincide with the periodic medical reports and less with my rambling editorial commentary. I'm often asked what I've learned from all of this, and I guess Lesson #1 is no one needs a heart attack. Lesson #2 is that you can't have too much medical insurance; I'm likely close to having blown through a million bucks. (You'd think I might deserve a plaque on the hospital's Donor Hall of Fame.) But Lesson #3 is that there is more strength and healing power in friendships and love than I imagined or knew existed a year ago. That manifests itself in many different but important ways, whether it's two email sentences, a card, a call, a "you're in our prayers" (the ecumenism here has been impressive and wonderful), a family's mobilizing and rallying to pull me through, and I should not overlook the healing power and esprit de corps boost of banana cream pies, malts, and smoothies. You've all had a hand in getting me where I am today, and I just have to say Thank You on behalf of myself -- and, I believe, the donor whose family wanted as much good as possible to come from their personal heartbreak and tragedy. In a couple of months, when I and they have a more developed appreciation for what has happened in all our lives, I want to send a letter to let them know that I'm carrying around their gift and will always be aware and grateful that they gave me a new life. The hospital cleaning woman's wisdom (as my psych therapist) was greater than mine.
Much love,
Dave
July 11th 2007
Good friends --
It's been another good week on Oakwood Drive. Last Thursday, I actually suited up for a Public Service Commission hearing -- dress shirt, bow tie, the whole nine yards. I was coherent, didn't drool or fall over, stayed zipped up; and for the first time since January, I FELT LIKE ME again. THAT was wonderful. I can still be a lawyer! Although, I still get a little unnerved when people say they weren't sure they'd ever see me again. We were at the Burninghams for dinner Saturday night, and that also felt like me again.
Yesterday was my weekly autopsy -- er, biopsy, and there are still no signs of rejection. As Dr. Rendell was reading down the page with the biopsy data, he had a huge smile on his face, and he'd say "ABC. Boring. DEF. Boring. GHI still boring. XYZ. Very boring." Everything was so normal; the pumping action was strong, and the glide path is looking superb. I think we have the sleep issues under control, and I no longer dread going to bed. I put in another 2 miles on Bountiful Boulevard with Lindsay today, and we were clippin' along.
No one is happier about the degree of my progress than Linda, who is managing to work herself back into the saddle at ARUP. It's been extremely helpful to have Lindsay here providing flanking cover for me, and things are gradually getting back to normal.
They're normal enough that today I booked a 2-week Panama Canal cruise for next April. The docs OK'd that, provided the glide path doesn't change. So, the downside is that I also bought trip insurance, just in case. Linda has wanted to do that for years, and I think she's earned it. I believe I'll be cleared for U.S. travel around mid-September, which will be three months since the transplant. (By the way, I finally am referring to the heart as "my" heart more than "my new heart.") In three weeks I should be cleared to drive again. Come September 15th, we're outta here. I have no idea where, but everyone is getting cabin fever.
So, the news is all good. I'm gradually weaning myself from the industrial-strength pain killers I've been taking. I plan on making an inspection tour of the Montana and Denver armies in late September-early October. I have a bet to pay off in Denver to my favorite shrink. We made it a year ago, and I had bet that the political pressure to withdraw from Iraq would see a substantial -- as in 40,000 or more -- troops home by last November's elections. So I was off by one election cycle. Since he analyzes me between the lines, it's only fair that I do the same thing: it's my bet (there I go again) that he believes this has been the only Oedipal war we've ever fought, and that he took the bet just to see if he could roll me. I'd go double or nothing, but he's too happy that I owe on this. Clever, crafty guys, these shrinks! I never know when a cigar is just a cigar, but when he visited me in the hospital a couple of days before I got discharged, we did some official PT laps around the corridors -- which will always be fondly remembered. He was in whatever the digital BDUs are called these days, and I was in a hospital gown, the sight of which he was enjoying way too much. He likely had a bet with a nurse that I couldn't keep it together.
Much love to you all,
Dave
July 4th 2007
Alla Youse Great Friends a'Mine --
On June 25th my new heart and I hauled tail out of LDS Hospital. It has been really nice to be home, and everything so far is very positive. I had my second biopsy Monday, and so far there are no signs of rejection. The biopsy next Monday is a critical one, but no problems so far. Lindsay and I logged two miles + on the Boulevard yesterday and another today. We've been walking to the neighborhood fire station in hope of finding (and thanking personally) the paramedics who first saved my life; but the crew hasn't been in when we've shown up. Other than the pain associated with surgery, I feel GREAT -- as long as I stay ahead of the pain curve -- and we've been pretty successful in that department. Better living through modern chemistry.
In six weeks I'm cleared to drive, and by that time my sternum should be strong enough to allow that. I can't lift weights through that period, but gradually, afterwards, I can get a weight program going. Being home without batteries has been quite a different experience. In some ways, the LVAD made a prisoner of me, even in my own house. I don't have to be tethered to 20 feet of electrical cord at night, and I don't have to haul batteries everywhere (and worry about running out of juice).
Life is a bit more complicated than it was at this time last year. I probably take 30 pills a day, and they are broken down to fairly precise timing requirements. Most of them are prescribed to deal with the side effects of the Big Ones. One of the Big Ones (immune system suppressants) has had the strange (though not unexpected), Nixonian effect of accelerating and thickening my beard growth. If the effect spreads to the top of my head, I won't complain, but I may be turning into Scott Calvin of The Santa Clause fame.
I feel good enough that I have a Public Service Commission hearing with a loyal client on Thursday. Yesterday, I tried on one of my regular suits -- and it fit!!! I could never have done that while the LVAD was inside me. Small victories, to be sure, but they are accumulating faster than I had thought they might.
Your cards and letters still bring big smiles and much laughter. I received a large manila envelope the other day with about 10 get-well cards inside) from Chris Marshall (the other half of Chris & Lisa -- my two Connecticut pals for 40+ years) -- who had faithfully bought the cards over the weeks, wrote notes in all of them, but somehow never quite got to a mailbox with any of them.
We shipped Scott and Natalia (aka Natashka) to Japan earleir in the week, and they will be skating there until mid-November. It's barely over 4 weeks until Kristen comes home from San Antonio, Texas, and I am counting down the days of the longest 18 months of my life.
It's a glorious 4th of July!
Love,
Dave
June 25rd 2007
Y'all --
After 5 months, Battery Man (aka "Stinky the Pig") HAD A REAL SHOWER!!!!! About half an hour's worth. HOT water; steam, a close, decent shave. Aqua Velva aftershave. Clean sheets. Clean Ralph Lauren hospital gown. Clean hospital pants (3 sizes too large). I have to hold them up as I walk -- a curious spectacle; I hold my pants up with one hand and my PIC airbag with the other. Clocked 2 miles. First real look at the bod -- pretty hammered and bent over. Can't find tush; won't be kickin' beach sand in anyone's face real soon. Blowin' this taco stand Monday afternoon. Referred to new heart as "my" heart for first time since I've had it. Had first Lindsay Back Scratch since Christmas and turned into green Jello on the spot. Feel GREAT! If you call me after Monday, use 801-949-6693. Dinner Monday night at El Matador; will likely order everything on menu. Hard time sleeping lately because I can't stop thinking of things I want to do. Cloud Nine not a bad place to hang out.
Love,
Dave
June 23rd 2007
My dear and wonderful friends --
Linda and Lindsay have been great correspondents, and I'm very happy that tonight I can go back on duty myself. This has been quite a week for the Oakwood Drive Irvines. I believe Lindsay and Linda have communicated my feelings about Day 1 pretty thoroughly, so I'll try to not be repetitive. How do you explain or sufficiently express gratitude for two birthdays? How do I ever figure out why I'm still here and a donor whom I've never met is not? Why does it take so much tragedy to create so much opportunity? I know no more about the answers to those questions tonight that I did a week ago; but it has been a very remarkable several days.
Here is my immediate status: I transferred today from the ICU to the Cardiac Rehab ward. Normally, those movements around the hospital are made in a wheelchair (more defensive medicine), but I walked it. I was lucky someone else was hauling my stuff. Lots of familiar faces, including one incredible nurse who got me through a very hard afternoon last March by just sitting by my bedside for an hour and holding my hand through remedy-less pain. There was nothing that I could say that day, but there were some reciprocal tears this afternoon when she came by to see me. I used to think that all the Army medical unit slogans were kind of hokey; but all I've been able to think about today is the old 328th General Hospital and its "Go Thou and Do Likewise" motto. Maybe it's no coincidence that some of my closest Army friends have been doctors and nurses. It was very gratifying that Drs. Ron Eagar and Bob House made such an effort to come to Bountiful from Denver to check up on Battery Man. The call from Landstuhl Regional Medical Center and Dr. Bill Pfiefer from Germany was so very thoughtful. Chaplain Jack LaPietra from the 5502d Army Hospital is more dear than he knows. To Bill Beaman and the Montana Army -- how can I thank you enough for so many years of comradeship? It's at times like these that it's very frustrating to be unable to link up these multiple circles of amazing friends whom I know and love, but who know so little of each other. So many of you have called, written, or visited that I can't begin to name names; Bob Adams and Gen. Larry Morris have been so very diligent in that respect -- Morris to the point of noting in that respect that he previously had not been sure I even HAD a heart -- Larry's swipe at the Bar. I wish there were some way I could communicate or share my newest circle of doctor and medical friends with all of you. Drs. Bruce Reid, Mark Bunnell, V.J. Reddy -- the whole staff of docs and specialists at the LDS Hospital Heart Failure Clinic (they need to come up with a better name: the Close Call Clinic). There are doctor-patient relationships, and then there are these new friends with whom I have bonded for life. Dr. Kent Jones, who replaced my mitral valve 13 years ago happened by to remove a stitch yesterday when the drain tubes were pulled. How ironic that Dr. Atoosa Koroush would be in Bountiful from Texas -- and bringing beautiful flowers with her remarkable, selfless heart-- the very day before my new birthday. How do I say "thank you" enough to Mike and Elisa and David at HRF? Old friends (even as old as Kim) are so very treasured, and at least I can share those thanks personally. I can't wait to see you all again. I won't start with that long list of names, but how bright the sun shines on my world because of you and the years we have logged together. There has not been a single day in which I haven't re-played all of the fond memories, of which I have a boatload. Yes, I've already taken the duck club 8mm film to be digitalized. The delightful, nightly email from Sun Valley's Ron Shuck, Loren Bullock and Jeff Summe has been too long absent; the 6th ITAAS faculty still makes me smile -- all of us older, but I see every one of them young and snappy in starched khakis. Army pals from all over the world have kept me in their thoughts and prayers. All of it is overwhelming. How lucky I was to have fallen into the orbit of Mike Cottam and the 23rd Army Band; I've saved every card, and there were so many I can't even start to count.
First, a report on the heart itself. According to all the docs, it's in excellent condition, very strong, and it beats with enough force that my Cassini-designed gown moves with the very slight pressure of cotton on my chest. They are VERY pleased with the metrics. One of my advantages was that the time between extraction and implantation was very short. If it isn't rejected, it should outlast me. There are three critical time frames for rejection: three days, three weeks, three months. To fool both organs, I am on heavy doses of anti-rejection medication, which reduces the effectiveness of my immune system -- so, I have to be VERY careful about any risk of infection. One of these drugs is Prednazone, which may give me a slightly puffier look -- or may not, or the shakes, depending on how long I'm on a high dose. Lots of handwashing, not much handshaking for three months. Probably not much kid contact. The over-the-counter price of this stuff is about $5,000 per month, so thank the Powers for Tricare and a military retirement benefit I had never once even thought about. I may bankrupt the system before any of the rest of you have a chance to draw down on it. Whether some of these are lifelong remains to be determined.
Second, what have I noticed in terms of capacity? Many [hospital] people have said "you look awfully good." I figured that was mostly a kindness of speech, because I still look like I survived the camps (I'm about 15 pounds down from January and Christmas indulgence); but yesterday I got a short look at my face in a small mirror. There is considerably more color in my face and on my arms than there has been for months; I'm no longer looking like Banquo's Ghost. I attribute that to a stronger circulatory system. Even my dubious toes no longer tingle quite so much (I'm down three nails). I asked Linda to bring in my running shoes tonight, because I'm managing about 1.5 miles (today) around the hallways, and the slippers I've had don't feel all that great at that distance. In fairness, that's not one-shot distance; that's three walks per day. Today was the first day this week that I've been out of tubes and in control of my own hygiene schedule. It's nice to be able to shave when I want to. I'm still pretty bent over, and it's hard to straighten up, but walking feels good.
I'm also guzzling whatever gets put in front of me -- which, after my bouts with the reduced stomach capacity and nausea, amazes me. Saturday or Sunday may be shower time (yes, I'm being careful), and I expect to be shipped home on Monday.
Considering January, all of this is just miraculous. I don't have to re-learn how to swallow, and -- did I mention -- Battery Man is history. Each of you have given me more strength, more confidence in the future, more reasons to be thankful to still be here. The heroes of the story have been Linda and the kids. This has been nothing like anything we could have expected or anticipated. Linda's resilience and hard, hard work have been so far beyond and above "for better or for worse" than she or I could have imagined in 1969. At a time when the wheels all came off, Linda and the kids somehow managed to put them back on. The enormity of the decisions they made together staggers me. I suppose there are easier ways for closeness and bonding within families to fall into place, and if there is one good thing to have come from all of this, besides keeping me alive -- and I hope it will in time justify the effort -- there has surely been a maturing of those relationships that is 25 years ahead of its time. In the literal sense they are the kids, but in another they are my heroes and incomparable friends.
So -- at 2300 Thursday night, here in the Rehab ward, life is far more than it used to be. I treasure you more than ever, and the stars outside are sparkling more than ever. We have an extra measure of time; and the price drives me to want to put it to good use. Janet and Alan, we're going to ensure that might doesn't make right. Karen, you and your incredible family are not the last of the Mohicans; how could I have ever made it without you?
With all my love -- there were, in fact, two transplants -- the heart of "my" heart is still here,
Dave
June 17th 2007
Hello all...
This is Linda writing but on Dave's account because he has the correct email list.
As Lindsay mentioned, the respirator did come out at ~1800 Sat. Dave's worst nightmare was losing the ability to swallow again from prolonged insertion, provided all else went well which it DID!
Sat. evening he was seated on the edge of the bed to "dangle." They are already getting his body used to its upright position. During the night he had a long discussion with his RN, Rob, and with the CNA, Zach, about torture. Dave was exhilarated this morning when Lindsay and I arrived. He was up in a chair and stayed there all day except for a 2 hour nap just before cardiac rehab techs walked him around the nursing station 3 times. His RN said he started out with a walker but she ended up pushing it as he did most of the walk on his own. Such a tremendous difference from the January episode.
I told him tonight before leaving that he was on an "endorphin high" and would pay for it tomorrow. The tremendously high doses of the anti-rejection meds are known to cause great mood swings, and Dave has been warned to expect them. Day 3 and 4 [Monday and Tuesday] are classically the worst days of the first week, so Dave is prepared for a downer tomorrow.
The following are his observations following heart transplant:
1) Dave thought that he'd have a sense of panic when the pager went off ,
[ The pager DID NOT go off. I was sitting at the kitchen counter when
I got a call from the Transplant Team asking why Dave hadn't responded.
Fortunately they had my cell phone #.]
but instead, when I told him a heart was available and we needed to head to the hospital, he experienced a great sense of excitement! Things were finally happening...
2) His room's housekeeper was mopping today and he thanked her for keeping the room so clean and comfortable. It apparently surprised her that a patient would even notice her efforts. What ensued was what Dave called a stimulating "psych therapy session." Her comments have given him a new perspective on his new heart. She said, " Don't ever feel guilty about the donor/ donor's family tragedy. You didn't cause it and the donor lives on through you and the good things you can do because your life was prolonged. You will be able to experience good and happy things because of this wonderful gift, and the donor will be part of your life for as long as you live."
3) The best thing about the newspaper today was that he was not listed in the obits.
4) LDSH plays the first line of the Brahms' lullaby each time a baby is born. During his original stay he was there so long that he ended up detesting it as it played so often. The first time he heard it following transplant he enjoyed it because it signified a "new life" for him.
5) This was the greatest Father's Day ever, because a new heart beats the classiest tie any day.
6) On waking up, Dave appreciated the "Sounds of Silence." Saturday was the first time since Jan. 25th that he was NOT hearing the internal noise and feeling the constant motion of his LVAD. He was very grateful for the "marriage" but even more grateful for the "divorce."
7) Dave has been amazed by the number of hospital personnel who have stopped by to say Hello and wish him well in his recovery.
8) Dave was very grateful that his Miracle Doc [as Kristen dubbed Dr. Bruce Reid while here in Jan.] was home this week and not on vacation (later in June.) He performed the transplant with cardiac resident, Dr. Mark Bonnell, who also helped with the original lifesaving surgery. Dave had a great, if a bit teary, conversation with Dr. Reid this morning. How do you adequately thank someone for saving your life multiple times?
9) Lastly, much of Dave's euphoria today was due to 1) his excitement for the future opportunity to express his deep appreciation to the donor family who agreed to donate organs while experiencing such agony over the loss of their loved one, and 2) his awe for the technology and medical expertise of his caregivers.
As one email suggested, Dave can now celebrate 2 birthdays: his original (Aug. 30) and his new (Jun. 16th).
The next 3 weeks are pretty critical for successful transplant, so please continue to keep Dave in your good thoughts and prayers. Our miracles continue...
Linda
June 15th 2007
Dear Friends --
You all might want to know that Dave Irvine was summoned to LDS Hospital early this morning, around 4:00 a.m., preparatory to receiving a new heart.
After being assured that the donor's heart was in good shape and ready for transplant, the doctors commenced surgery around 6:00 a.m. The surgical team worked throughout the morning and into the afternoon -- weening Dave off of the L-VAD, getting him hooked up to a by-pass machine, in-planting the new heart, ex-planting (that's what they call it), the L-VAD.
The doctors reported that the donor was young and athletic with a very strong heart. They said that the surgery went as well as this type of surgery possibly can go. Their faces were beaming!
I'm not sure how long Dave will have to stay in hospital this time, or how long the rehabilitation period will last; all I know is so far, so good, and battery-man appears to be a thing of the past.
Please keep Dave in your thoughts and prayers during this transitional period. I'm sure Linda and the family appreciates all of the prayers that you already have offered and continue to offer on their behalf.
Alan.
June 9th 2007
Everyone --
Well, here I am -- still here waiting for the beep. It's been two weeks since I started hauling the beeper around, and I go to bed each night expecting it to go off at 0300, but no action so far. I conclude from this that the transplant team is being a bit choosy about what they'll accept, so I can't complain about the delay.
Obviously, this hasn't been the 2007 I had expected. This is the year I was supposd to be litigating the constitutionality of Utah's political nomination system (and the source of our ultra-wacky Legislature). I was thinking that this whole business would likely cost me a year of my life, and then I realized that "cost" was a really poor choice of words. As fragile as I may be, I haven't gotten used to the idea that I might have any business being anyplace else. It still feels like an "interruption," not the end of the play. I'm not sure what I'll be thinking on that trip to the hospital, but I suspect I'll be both very happy and a tad nervous.
Life as Bettary Man may not be loaded with excitement -- the days are much the same day in and day out, but by golly, I'm still here; and the prospect of a new heart is really pretty exciting. The contemplation of what's yet to come is worth the wait for the beeper to go off. This whole thing is miraculous, and I've got a ringside seat. Every day brings a message from my high school classmates and Army friends -- even other members of the Bar -- who'd a thunk it. I never cease to be amazed at your collective thoughtfulness, and I again have to tell you how much I appreciate your good wishes and warm support. Battery Man is one lucky guy!
Love,
Dave
June 3rd 2007
Everyone --
I remember annual traing at sunny (and hot) Ft. Irwin, CA in July 1967. I was a PFC on KP in a desert field kitchen, and I kept thinking that that very day would be a fine day for my commission as a second lieutenant to show up. (It finally showed up in October.) Thus it is with the transplant list. I'm still here. But I know more. This past week has been rough; especially Friday. Call it The Zyvoxian Curse. Zyvox is cosmic-strength antibiotic which my docs put me on "just in case" I had an infection along one of my NYC subway map incisions that was looking a little red/brown. Or, it could just have been an inflammation from my body's reaction to some kind of webbing they implanted to close the cuts.
On Thursday, I made a command decision to ditch the Zyvox, because it was making me sick as a dog (we went through this just after I got home from the hospital.) I was spending half my time in the bathroom and the other half upchucking whatever I tried to eat. So, Friday I showed up for my regular cardiac rehab workout (with heart monitor), and the report was don't even get on a machine because you have a tachicardia -- which I learned means an accelerated heart rate. I had lost so much fluid that my electrolytes were out of whack --The Zyvixian Curse -- and my good friend Dr. Steve Horton hauled my tail to a hospital room where he told me they were going to have to shock my heart back to a normal beat. Half my heart still works. Considerately, they knocked me out before zapping my chest, and then spent the rest of the day giving me IV magnesium plus assorted other stuff. (The last time my chest got zapped, I was fully awake, and I hit the ceiling -- an oops moment for sure.) I went home at about 5:00, but felt pretty hammered. The best thing was that everybody agreed with my command decision to ditch Zyvox. Battery Man is almost a new man, and another couple of Zyvox-free days should have me back to normal -- well, normal for me.
While I was killing time with the IVs, the organ coordinator for LDS Hospital spent a fair amount of time telling me that they had already passed up several offers on me. The potential donors had a history of drug abuse. The transplant team won't take an organ where there is a possibility of drug abuse or any other HIV infection possibility. Banjo players, known low-lifes all, are generally not considered. In an emergency they will take one of the hepatitis types, but "you're not in an emergency status, so we're holding out for the best heart we can get." I asked her to start looking for a jazz clarinetist. One heart recipient asked afterwards if she might have received a hispanic heart. The crew was leery of confirming or denying that, but the woman said she had this strange craving for Mexican food that she had never had before. Also, I'm not just ON the list; I'm at the very TOP of the list. She also said that it's not uncommon for these calls to report for surgery to get made in the middle of the night. I've also developed no antibodies either to the LVAD itself or to any of the blood units I received in January. That's good news.
So, today is feeling like a really good day; I've re-discovered my appetite, and can spend much more time watching old movies. The "at death's door" look has disappeared, and the Zyvox is locked away in a cabinet, where it pounds on the door hoping I'm dumber than I look.
Also, the current sleeping cocktail seems to be working most of the time, so Battery Man can't complain about much.
Scott gets back from Russia tonight, and Natalia comes back on the 5th. Lindsay is on a freeway somewhere in So. Cal. and she'll show up around the 14th.
Not a bad day at all.
My best to all,
Dave
24 May 2007
My good friends --
This is likely to be Battery Man's last communique. As of this afternoon, I've been listed for heart transplant, Category 1-A -- which more or less means me first, women & children later. When I get paged, I have 30 minutes to get to the hospital for surgery, so unless this drags out (which I doubt it will), I'm once more turning reporting duty over to Linda, since this will be impossible for me until after the fact.
I successfully navigated a vampire procedure this morning, which involved running a catheter through a vein in my neck into what remains of my own heart in order to measure internal heart blood pressure. As it was explained to me, the right side of my heart is pumping blood to my lungs, and if some kind of extra force is necessary to adequately oxygenate that blood, the pressure could blow out a new heart. My numbers were normal, so even though I have a pulmonary test of some kind scheduled Tuesday, the docs listed me anyway. Linda had the ARUP lab run some comprehensive blood analyses, and so far I haven't developed any antigens to the LVAD which might complicate a transplant.
So much for the medical details. For Moi this is like a release from prison. It's not that I don't appreciate the miracle of the medical technology which has kept me alive, but life as I've lived it pre-Battery Man has been severely limited. It's as though the last 3 months have been marking time, and the exit door from Limbo Land is in sight. I will go to bed tonight with visions of skiing, scuba diving and traveling -- and Christmases yet to come -- dancing in my head.
It's been a good week. Last Saturday we went to a band concert by the 23rd Army Band -- my buds -- who went a little nuts when they saw me, and and played "If I Only Had a Heart," (from "The Wizard of Oz"), which they dedicated to me. At the end of the program, Director Mike Cottam (the world's greatest band director) made a reference to me as the Army's highest ranking clarinet player, and I then had two interesting people stop by to say hello. One was Loren Bullock, who is on a condo association board of directors with me at Sun Valley -- a very long story since I don't own a condo there -- and one of my favorite, great nurses from the ICU where I spent about 6 weeks in January and February. Mike is saving my chair for me for Veterans' Day, which is more a commentary on the disproportional ratio of brass to woodwinds in a military band than a credit to my musicianship.
Tomorrow night, Linda and I are going to the ballet, where I will sorely try the patience of my neighboring seat mates if the tempo of the tympani doesn't match the tempo of MY tympani.
The Salt Lake Tribune was kind enough to run an op-ed of mine last week, which coincidentally ran the same day an op-ed ran in the Washington Post on the subject of the growing acceptance of torture by soldiers and Marines serving in Iraq. The Post column was authored by Generals Joe Hoar and Charles Krulak, both retired four-star Marines (Krulak was once the Marine Corps Commandant), and the real deal. If I don't make it through Round Two, there are a few people who would show up at a funeral with hat pins, just to make sure -- and I wrote the op-ed in part as a way of serving notice to that bunch that I'm still very much here. By the way, if I don't make it out of the operating room, please don't waste money on flowers. I'd much rather you consider a modest contribution to Human Rights First in New York City (David Danzig at 212-845-5252 is one point of contact). HRF is the amazing and wonderful group of lawyers who brought this remarkable group of retired flag officers together. But for HRF, my place in the Army's general officer food chain would never have brought me into the same circles Hoar and Krulak occupy. Not that they've invited me for dinner.
I had a great visit on Tuesday with one of my favorite Denver docs, COL Bob House, who, as a psychiatrist, has been heavily involved in Denver's transplant business, going way back. His insights were VERY interesting.
So -- it's been a big day, and my sore neck and I (and Linda) are headed to bed to watch "The Absent-minded Professor" and contemplate where we want to go first once I'm out of the woods.
Thank you all again for your loyal support -- which has been amazing to me and a powerful source of continuing resolve and strength.
Dave
P.S. For my Utah friends, the week was not all happy news. I spoke with Dr. J.D. Williams, who told me that his cancer has again become active. J.D. has always been my favorite prof and a dear friend, and my heart goes out to him and Bea.
21 May 2007
Everyone --
First, I need to thank all who've sent messages and cards -- so many that I have a hard time keeping up -- because they really brighten the days.
The frequency of these reports has dropped, since my days are same old/same old, and excitement is an infrequent (but periodic) visitor. A minor tragedy has snuck upon me, which causes me a grievous sense of loss; a side effect of the wheelbarrowfull of medication I'm on has killed off my ability to tolerate Diet Coke. It now tastes metallic and awful, and this breaks my heart. Cranberry juice and lemonade still work well, but soft drinks have lost their once-powerful appeal.
The transplant listing I'm waiting for is still a bit elusive; once I'm listed, I think getting a heart will happen fairly quickly. We are hoping (but not betting the farm) that I'll get listed next Tuesday, but who knows. The elusiveness of dates certain is somewhat frustrating, as is the fact that one of my docs seems not to understand why that might be so. The hang-ups until now have been understandable. My groin wound has healed over, though it's still looking a little like a shark bite, but it's closed, and it will likely be several more months until the swelling and tightness in that leg disappears. Then it was a dental clearance (no oral infections or cavities). Then the issue was "we'd like to see you a little stronger," although no one could quantify exactly what that means. I spend 3 days a week in a cardiac workout clinic, and then I try to walk a mile on the off days. But what "enough" is remains a moving target. We saw my #1 doc, Bruce Reid, last Monday, and he said I was ready to go. When I asked how he had made that assessment, he said the "looking at me he could just tell." So go figure. I also asked him if he would be doing the surgery, and he said, "You're my special project; no one else even gets to get close to you. Day, night, weekend, whatever it is, I'm doin' it." We consider him our Miracle Doc, and I'm relieved he's the one. The latest hiccup -- if it really is one -- is some redness around one of my incision scars. That could indicate some kind of low-grade infection (I think he called it cellitis) so I'm back on an industrial strength regimen of antibiotics with the frequent trips to the bathroom they entail -- more than anyone needs to know. Sleep is still a major problem, and I think I've gone through about every sleeping pill pharmacies carry. Usually, I get about 2 hours a night until I build up enough of a debt that I crash for 6 hours. I was taking a Percocet/Ambien combo, which I finally gave up on (my docs thought it should have knocked out an elephant) because all it did was give me the same 2 hours, but with really bizarre dreams. Bizarre but very revealing. I had no idea that a sales clerk in a local store is actually a serial killer, but I was on his list the other night, and I MUST get down to the store and tell them all I know. Who knows when and where he'll strike again? Only the Shadow knows, and that would be me. Civic duty weighs heavily on me at 0300.
Those of you who've been around me understand the noise problem -- my family calls me The Croc. This pump makes two set of noises every second of every day. The loudest is a metallic WA-THUNK, which has an internal component like someone inside my chest playing tympani against my rib cage. The other is whoosh-whoosh from the drive line/air vent that moves air from the pump to the tube that goes into my chest. Evidently, some battery people get very attached to this, and when they come to after getting a heart, the absence of this constant sound/feel is disquieting. That will not be Moi.
Some good things have happened since I last wrote. I am out of invalid sweats and gigantic slippers (my feet were too swollen to fit into anything but shoe boxes. I made an appearance at the Utah Supreme Court on the 3rd, and Linda miraculously got me into a coat and tie and a dress shirt she had altered to accommodate my tubing, batteries and my pump drive line, and I looked halfway presentable. I've been to a couple of Bountiful Power Commission meetings looking fairly normal. For about a week I've lost the slippers that got me through the hospital walks, and now I can get into my running shoes. Yesterday, for the first time, I was able to tie my shoes by myself (how's THAT for excitement!!). My arms no longer show the trail of IV insertion sites. I've lost about 20 lbs, and I'm trying to gain some of that back, although the thought of at last being able to fit into my favorite White Stag ski stretch pants is a motivating, happy thought if I stay where I am. I can get up and down our stairs and around the house pretty easily, and a couple of weeks ago Linda and I managed an NCAA women's gymnastic tournament for two nights at the Huntsman Center with all of its stairs. We had a great time, and I survived the stairs. I also can get myself out of bed without having to be pulled up.
Linda's father died a couple of weeks ago, and so we had Lindsay here for an unexpected but thoroughly delightful week. We put Scott on a plane yesterday to Moscow, where he links up with Natalia for a couple of weeks, and then they'll be back here for about a month before heading to Japan for 5 months.
I've now been home for almost 2 months, and while it has been slow work and the days pretty much the same, I remind myself that I started this leg of the trip as a complete invalid, unable to do anything solo. The listing will happen when it happens, and in the meantime, I continue to be amazed that I'm even here at all. I don't know that I could manage life as Battery Man and no sleep for 5 years, but the pump will wear out in two, so that's not an issue. It still staggers me to remember that as I was in the middle of having this heart attack and calling 911, it never occurred to me that I might be dead in a few minutes. The thought of dying never crossed my mind; I just figured the paramedics would get me to the hospital and I'd get patched up and sent home in a few days -- an annoying but minor inconvenience. Four months later, I'm celebrating being able to tie my own shoes as a major accomplishment. Wow! My love and best wishes to you all!
Dave
29 Apr. 2007
Everyone --
I mentioned last week that Mr. Walker made me look like a 95 year-old geezer; Mr. 4-Footed Cane reduced that to an 85 year-old geezer, but he is now history, even for stairs, which I can do pretty well. So I'm now navigating solo. Two month ago, that looked close to impossible. Yesterday was a gorgeous spring day, and Natalia (Scott's charming Russian pair skater wife) and I did 1.1 street miles. We managed another red-letter day last Friday night, when we successfully navigated the Huntsman Center and its steps to watch the NCAA Women's Gymnastic championships. I didn't make a spectacle of myself, and my sweats uniform fit right in.
Scott and Natalia arrived Tuesday, and they have been invaluable in so many ways -- getting down the Christmas lights, mowing the lawn, spelling Linda for some greatly-needed breaks. Natalia leaves Thursday for a two-week mini-Disney show in Russia, and then Scott joins her in St. Petersburg on the 21st for a week.
Pat of our medical drill is periodic sterile dressing changes; one on my drive line (the tube that runs into my chest to the heart pump) and the other of the groin wound. Linda does these, capped, gloved, and masked. These come off every two to three days. The groin wound is -- we think -- healed over, which we hope to have confirmed in a Tuesday visit with the plastic surgeon who pulled things together.
Mr left toes feel almost normal, but my right toes have a ways to go. The pig that went to market and the pigs who stayed home and had roast beef, respectively, have black nails that look like they're in the process of coming off. I learn new thing about the saga every day, which scare me to death. My right toe problems are due to a blood clot that cut off circulation to my foot. I'm fortunate it didn't go to my brain, but there was some discussion by the docs about just removing them. I now know that Linda pitched a fit when she heard that, and insisted that they do everything they could to save all of them, because "without toes, Dave won't be able to ski, and that would kill him." I can't believe how many tough calls she had to make, nor the fierce advocacy she brought to the whole period while I was in La La Land. I have been extraordinarily fortunate to have had her in my corner. I pretty much dissolved when I learned that, and there have been many such moments.
We should learn more this week about the transplant listing situation, and that will be the next hurdle. I had a great visit Thursday from one of my Denver docs -- there are no friends quite like Army friends -- who flew in for the day just to check up on me. There isn't a day that goes by that I'm not overwhelmed by the thoughtful kindness of so many good friends. Even Maj. Gen. Larry Morris sent me a card commemorating Arbor Day, which when he worked for the State and got the day off, as a legislator I got a bill passed eliminating Arbor Day as a state holiday soley because I knew it would frost him. As the years have gone by, I have regretted such arbitrary frivolity and abuse of power for is own sake, but he has never forgiven me, and repeatedly says, "I'm just glad I didn't wish you a Merry Christmas."
Have a good week, and thank you again for your kind thoughts, prayers and moral support.
Dave
03 Apr. 2007
Hi Y'all--
I and my mechanical heart made it home from the hospital Friday night, thankfully before they finished me off. Long story there. We celebrated with a Rumby's Voodoo salad and tortilla soup. Sleeping in my own bed was wonderful. I have hard work ahead on my treadmill. I am pretty tied to home for the next few weeks. I'd be delighted to see/talk to any of you. I have a full schedule of therapy at LDS Hosp. about 3 days each week, so call before stopping by. I'm happy to do lunch, but we have to do it at home. My 24/7 minder and keeper are happy to pay our freight, but it's tough for us to pick up the fare.
It's hard for me to stand up and down, and so the surest way to call me is on my cell phone: (801) 949-6693. I will keep that handy.
These weeks have been a real ordeal for all of us, and I have very much appreciated your cards, letters, and emails. They have been real morale boosters.
I should explain why Linda virtually locked down the TICU early on. I was unconscious for much of that first month; I had a breath tube down me, and I couldn't talk. Earlier, I was mostly naked, intubated to beat the band, and vulnerable as the dickens to infection. Evidently several folks stumbled in on me in extremis, and Linda pitched a fit with the staff, thus the lockdown.
Step 2 is a heart transplant, which we hope will be accomplished by the end of summer. By the way the non-hospital cream soda I'm slurping is hitting the spot.
These next couple of days are "skakeout days" to see how we manage at home. I'm cooling it, and sleeping a lot. By next week I think I can gradually begin dealing with Slogs-R-Us.
Love,
Dave
26 Feb 2007
Everybody --
When I received Linda's invitation to come and visit Dave, face to face, at the hospital, I had more than a little trepidation in going. I imagined myself as Barnardo, on the battlements at Elsinore, asking that famous question, "Who's there?" Would there be a ghost in the machine, and, if so, what nature of ghost (Hamlet Senior or an Impostor)? Or would there be just a machine? But as soon as I put on the gown and gloves and walked into the room, there could be no mistake: It truly was Dave as we know and love him. And I breathed away a great burden of worry that, no matter the re-assuring reports from other witnesses, nevertheless had weighed on my soul ever since the heart attack.
Dave is hoarse (this is from respirator-tube-in-the-throat-for-weeks-and-weeks-syndrome or RTITTFWAWS for anyone fond of medical acronyms), speaks slowly, and clears his throat often with the help of a long tube, shaped and sized like a riding crop, for expectoration. Linda keeps a damp kerchief, as coolant, atop his head, and the combination of kerchief -- which is white -- and the tube -- as riding crop -- reminded me of Peter O'Toole as Lawrence of Arabia in that old David Lean film. Dave, as you all know, is handsome in an O'Toolish sort of way, and this, of course, reinforced my reminiscence, although the hospital, at least on the day of my visit, appeared to be fresh out of camels to go with the crop.
Dave immediately confirmed in words what was plain from the expression on his face, namely, that he was in possession of all mental, emotional, and spiritual faculties. The proof of this was positive and undeniable. He had watched Our President giving a television speech earlier in the week, and, notwithstanding studious scrutiny of these proceedings, remained convinced that GW is an "idiot." In fact, he made me write -- "The guy is nuts" -- just in case my wits, unlike his, were moving at glacial speed that day.
After favoring me with these unmistakable indicia of sanity, Dave pressed forward with the next most important topic. The "book club" or "reading group" which has met every month for many years in the Irvine home and which, some time back, had discussion sessions on "Journey Into Light" and similar New Age memoirs, has been importuning Dave for a revelation from Over There. But notwithstanding the initial attack, when many thought he had died and was dead on arrival at the hospital, and even though he has been revived by defibrilation no fewer than 5 times since -- bringing him back from the portals of death on each occasion -- Dave reports that, during this entire ordeal, there has been no luminescent glow at the end of a dark passage. Nor was he welcomed, at any time, by a Committee of Elders from his Family Tree -- or, for that matter, a posse comitatus, consisting of those right wing luminaries of his youth, Ezra Taft Benson, Ernie Wilkinson, and Steve Urquhart's heavenly doppelganger. I pressed him pretty hard on these points, having received a special commission from the New Agers (who can't get over the "synchronicity" of their out of body readings and Dave's experience) -- and, like a good lawyer during cross-examination, even read passages from Book 11 of The Odyssey, attempting to refresh my witness's recollection with Homer's images of the Underworld and the Shade of Teresias. But in Dave's case, there was no "band of angels," swinging high or low, "coming for to carry him home." All the angels, it seems, were otherwise engaged, having stayed in the emergency rooms and surgical suites of the hospital, in the prayer circles and celestial rooms of the temples, keeping Dave earthbound. In God's Economy, I guess there are only so many angels to go around, and -- during January and February -- as it happened -- the angel workforce was assigned, not to that tunnel with light, but to overtime shifts at the Thoracic Intensive Care Unit (TICU) at LDS Hospital. So for all of those book club friends who were hoping to see an Ascension Manual, authored by Dave and on the New York Times Best Seller List, please file your grievance with the Bureau of Angelic Work Force Services.
Dave's Big Diurnal Deal is laps around the TICU rectangle, using a "walker." At present, he does 2 laps per day, which, he claims, is the functional equivalent of 3 games of tennis. That much tennis, given his present condition, is at once amazing and exhausting. This is especially so in his left leg and right arm which, because he has been bedridden for an extended period, have lost a lot of muscle mass and are improving only gradually. He must have "pretty good game," moreover, to do these exercises while tethered to a forest of poles, lines, beepers, and carts. Every thing is tangled by the end of each Thoreauvian adventure, and then Linda and the TICU staff unravel the knots, unplugging and re-plugging (in a hurry) all of the tubing. In addition to the walks which are considered PT or physical therapy, Dave does OT or occupational therapy, re-establishing his small motor skills such as writing. He is doing better than OK in all of these efforts, and knows that full recovery will take "time and work," but he is eager and enthusiastic about his prospects in this regard.
As he goes through this daily regimen, Dave says that he is free from pain. It's hard to sleep at night -- but he chalks this up to life in a hospital -- where somebody is always taking your pulse, poking you with a needle, or emptying your bedpan. It's all interruptions, all of the time, no peace, and less privacy. Along these lines, I noticed a loud noise, metronomic in regularity, as I stood in the room. I could have sworn that Captain Hook's nemesis was on the premises, but it was the clicking of Dave's artificial heart -- and not a clock ticking in any crocodile's belly -- that made this sound. The artificial heart is set for 68 to 90 beats per minute, a rate that increases automatically during the labor of walking -- on account of special stress-detecting sensors. (Linda explained at length the mechanics of the heart and I got increasingly light-headed while listening -- as many of you know, I don't do well with either mechanics or blood) This definitely is not the "lub-dub" that I used to hear when my Grandfather, Dr. Silas Smith, lent me his stethoscope for self-examination. In addition to the enforced insomnia, noted above, Dave is temporarily "diabetic," since, as a therapeutic strategy to encourage healing, the folks at TICU have imposed fairly tight glucose controls.
What is Dave's definition of a Really Fantastic Day? The day he was rewarded with ice chips (4 altogether) after a turn around the unit -- and then was able to swallow the chips of ice successfully. What does Dave want as a bonus on a Hypothetically Really Fantastic Day? A chocolate malt, washed down with a cherry coke, from the Hires Drive-Inn on Fourth South and Seventh East. Puts the simple pleasures of daily life in perspective, doesn't it? Everybody at TICU predicts that, in 2 or 3 weeks, Dave will be able to experience this Hypothetically Really Fantastic Day.
Dave expects to be in the TICU for another 5 to 6 days, counting from last Tuesday, the 20th. Then he should transfer to a cardiac rehabilitation unit on another floor of the hospital where, under close watch, he will continue the exercises and therapies described above. He will spend approximately 5 weeks there. Everybody hopes that he will be homeward bound in about 6 weeks from now, sometime around the end of March or beginning of April.
At some point, Dave will go back to work as a lawyer (although his work will be more limited, and, in the main, from home) while he waits for the realization of what he calls his top priority, "Plan A," that is, a heart transplant. In the meantime, he did not sound too excited about his new persona as "Battery Man" -- an allusion to the circumstance that, if he wants to unhitch the extension cord and leave home, he will have to go equipped with a battery-pack, worn as a rather bulky vest, so that he will have portable power for the ventricular pumps that keep him with us. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice when he said the words, "Battery Man," and I teased back that the batteries undoubtedly will cramp his style if he has to wear them while scuba diving with a tank of compressed air. And we both nodded in agreement that the aforementioned GW would be pleased as punch that, since Dave isn't likely to get by any airport security screenings with all that equipage, he also isn't likely to be traveling east for anti-torture orations before Congress or on the lecture circuit. But perhaps Dave worries more that the battery-pack will cramp his sartorial style. And, indeed, as you all know, Dave is the nattiest of dressers with his braces and bow ties. I'm not sure that batteries, although alliterative, will be comparable as a fashion statement. But surely somebody among Dave's friends knows a Gucci or Polo or Ponce de Leon, and can come up with a design statement. For my part, I'm interested in marketing "Battery Man" as another Marvel Action Comic Book Figure, with rights and royalties for the big screen. I already have a call in to "GenieMan" for some practical advice on this score, and am drafting the agency contract in my off hours -- intent on cashing in and making a killing. Why else are we blessed with the truly exploitable misfortunes of good friends? Dave, needless to say, is entirely understanding of this effort -- as any good lawyer worth his salt would be.
Dave gives a lot of credit for the miracle of survival to Dr. Reid, his surgeon. But he gives equal if not more credit to all of the cards and letters which held messages of well-wishing and support from family and friends. Dave says that he never fully appreciated, until his own catastrophe, how inspirational in fact these messages are to someone in distress. He claims that they motivate him more than he ever could have imagined, each day, and day by day, to get up and walk with a will to live. There is some moisture in his eyes as he is telling me this -- as if we needed any seal of sincerity from Dave. But then he gives me one of those Irvine deadpans and says that -- of course -- when all is said and done -- he will see whether the chatter of prayers and postings on the Bountiful High Class of '61 Website is just talk or really means something -- when one of his old classmates steps up and shows some willingness to donate an organ! Once this happens, he assures me that, in due time, he is going scuba diving again, and, for precedent, he points to one of the scuba instructors at the U of U who does this regularly, courtesy of a transplanted heart (and there goes my Battery Man Marvel Action Comic Book Character!).
Dave still is saying "no" to visitors -- except by special invitation through Linda. This isn't because he doesn't want to see you -- he does want to see everybody out there. It is because (a) he still isn't talking all that well, (b) he's exhausted much of the time, (c) he "looks like hell" -- in a hospital gown accessorized with catheters -- and (d) there is the ever present risk of infection at a time when he is inordinately vulnerable in that regard. Once Dave is moved out of TICU and into cardiac therapy on a different floor, he can see visitors, albeit with moderation. So please be patient. In due time, Dave will be back in our midst.
You have to wonder why God (if you believe in God) does something like this or allows it to happen, the pangs of uncertainty, the physical hurt, the suffering slowness of recovery. Is there a point or a purpose to any of it? I had a conversation with Dave -- which I never will forget -- when we shared a trip to China back in the 90s -- about the conundrums of theodicy -- with a very poignant focus on his diabetic daughter. I'm not sure where he is on this subject at present and in view of present circumstances, but Emily Dickinson, who was irreverent and ironic by turns about God, had this meditation which comes near the mark --
He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on --
He stuns you by degrees --
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers -- further heard --
Then nearer -- Then so slow
Your Breath has time to straighten --
Your Brain -- to bubble Cool --
Deals -- One -- imperial -- Thunderbolt --
That scalps your naked Soul --
When Winds take Forests in their Paws --
The Universe -- is still --
There is not only an echo from Job but also something of the sublimity of suffering in Emily's offering. I wonder whether she wrote this during her extended period of ocular angst, fearing that her own lights might go out altogether.
At the visit's end, and as I drove home, my mind kept pondering these imponderables, Emily, Hamlet, the ghost in the machine. Was that really the Dave Irvine that all of us have known and loved for so long? Or have we lost the Dave we knew -- in the ambulance during CPR at the top of Victory Road, when he arrived DOD at the ER, under the surgeon's knife, or in the shock of defibrilation -- and this is a new person that we now will have to come to know?
The Irvines, as many of you are aware, have deep roots in the Mormon tradition, and the sacred literature of that faith speaks frequently to the question of suffering. The Saviour suffered, according to one of these passages, "taking upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people[,]" that his heart "may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities." Christ is the exemplar of suffering, a guide on the path that all must walk. Whether this suffering occurs in the body or as ritual in the temple which is emblematic of the body, there is always something vicarious or with the quality of vicariousness about it. Our suffering, like the seals of the temple, binds us with empathy to one another. Dave has suffered through this crisis, and we, his friends, have suffered with him. Dave's heart is sure to be even more tender than before -- and in more ways than one. And none of us ever will be the same -- whether by ourselves or in relation to each other. For one, I am looking forward to life with the New Dave in all his iterations, Battery Man, Generalissimo of the Anti-School Voucher Campaign, and Scuba Diver Extraordinaire. And may his heart, always so full of loyalty and love for others, never miss another beat.
Kind regards. Alan.
17 Feb 2007
Hi all,
Dave is sitting up in a chair for ~ 1 hour at a time twice a day. It takes 2 RNs, usually male, to move him, but his balance and strength will gradually come back. I try to get him to do isometric exercises in bed...twist the ankles, lift his elbows off the pillow, turn his head from side to side. It's amazing how much muscle tone is lost lying in bed. Dave was never a heavy man but has now lost ~8-10 pounds, and that is with a 3 pound LVAD buried in his chest. His face and arms are looking a bit gaunt. Not the best way to lose weight.
The doctor has found clots forming on the catheter that feeds from his right arm directly into the heart. This line allows medicines to mix more readily in a large volume of blood. The clots are getting larger and the danger of breaking off to another organ has prompted the return of anticoagulation. They hope the oozing mentioned in a previous email doesn't become significant. When I mentioned my concern about the clots, the doc said they could only deal with 1 crisis at a time and keeping Dave from bleeding was the #1 priority. Hopefully the clots won't enlarge too fast and can be dealt with in the very near future.
Dave has started reading emails himself. It will help if I can find his bifocals. He has multiple pairs of cheap magnifying glasses all over the house, but the one pair of prescription glasses is playing hide-and-seek.
I think they plan to try removing the respirator this weekend or early next week. It will be a relief to have him able to talk. Using sign language to explain about quarterly taxes and the IRS leaves me mystified. If nothing else, I've learned that I know little about Dave's business life. It's a good thing that close lawyer friends are looking out for Dave's practice and his clients.
My life revolves around work (saving FMLA for Dave's discharge from the hospital), taking an extended lunch to visit late morning, then returning around 1700 for a later visit. He is making slow but sure progress forward. Fortunately his sister's family has been able to give him LDS Priesthood blessings. We appreciate your prayers and ask that they continue. We're still a long way from recovery, especially when unexpected issues jump up and smack us, but we've had the best care workers and support people during this time. Thank you for all for your good thoughts and concern.
Linda
15 Feb 2007
Hello all,
I took 'Der Genie' to the airport early this A.M. and hated to see him go...but life must go on. So...you'll have to get your news from me (Linda) without the humor and color that Dave has obviously passed on to his kids.
Today was one of the little steps backwards. A slowly decreasing hematocrit alerted the docs to a bleeding problem, so today Dave had another procedure to hopefully find and correct the problem. They found nothing too serious via laparoscopy and decided to let things heal by themselves with transfusion support. Dave dodged another bullet there. His general weakness from 3 weeks prone has necessitated the continuation of the respirator. He is frustrated that he can't communicate readily, and I get frustrated that I can't decipher a lot of things that Scott seemed to know intuitively. We'll continue to plod along communicating as best we can.
A brief stand today to get to a chair for a "sit down" was exhausting. The RN said it was like running a marathon, and that Dave will be tired and sore tomorrow. The healing comes with a price of pain for each little effort forward.
I know many of you are anxious to visit with Dave, but I've been asked by the TICU Nurse Manager to discourage visitors. This unit is strictly for seriously ill patients, and visitors other than the immediate family are NOT authorized as they interfere with the work of the staff, which is to care for and improve the condition of the patient.
Since Dave can't talk with the respirator in, it is a frustrating experience for him when he should be dealing only with those activities that will get him well again. We are constantly told that this will be a long, slow process, so please be patient with us when we ask you to wait until Dave is out of the TICU and in a private room, and can tell you himself that he's tired, or out of sorts and wants you to visit another day. That's the best gift you can give Dave at the moment.
Dave has no recollection of anything after opening the door for the EMTs. This last Sunday was the first time he was lucid enough to start to understand the time line of the last 3 weeks, and the tremendous medical effort expended on his behalf. I think he's on information overload, and the talk of a heart transplant is beyond belief. Dr. Reid, the heart surgeon who kept Dave alive, was very positive tonight about a future transplant. His comment was "another's tragedy will be the gift of life for you."
Thank you all for your interest in Dave, your encouraging emails which I read to him, and especially for your continued prayers for recovery. We appreciate them all.
Linda
11 Feb 2007
Everybody --
Three steps forward, two steps back.
Linda said, "I love you," and Dave winked at her. Dave is using his reading glasses; Scott tried them on for size and Dave smiled. Dave is responding to questions with the patented Irvine eyebrow gesture.
He had more surgery, this time to fix an infection in the right leg. Linda says that they jump-started his heart once when it stopped again. I guess these problems are serious but routine with heart patients.
Notwithstanding the above, Scott sounds upbeat when I talk with him and the signs of recovery are generally positive. Some day soon, the medical staff will take out the respiratory tubes and Dave will be able to speak.
That day can't come quickly enough, of course, but a healing heart has its own timetable, I'm sure.
Alan.
5 Feb 2007
Everybody --
As many of you already may have heard, Dave is recovering nicely from his last surgery. The right ventricle assist device was removed and they have put his chest back together again. His color is good. The nurses sit him upright periodically as part of a physical therapy regime. He still is too sedated to converse, but he responds to communications from others. Linda is reading cards and messages out loud to him. The nurses are looking for something other than football for him to watch on TV.
He has come a long way, but still has far to go. Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers.
Alan.
1 Feb 2007
Everybody --
Dave continues to make progress. All bodily functions are normal. All neurological signs are good.
In fact, Linda has been reading get-well cards and news stories out loud to Dave in the intensive care unit. As indicated before, Dave is heavily sedated and, to all appearances, remains unconscious. But some of us believe that he hears Linda's voice and welcomes the sound. At least the nurses on the floor have come to appreciate the readings. They have told Linda that, hearing about Dave through everybody's cards and the news articles, makes them realize what a special person is under there care -- not just another gown.
Dave is in surgery this morning. His right ventricle has made enough progress towards recovery that the docs are removing the temporary pump that was giving it support. The surgery today should take about 4 to 5 hours. If all goes well in the surgery, and if Dave's recovery from the surgery is normal, the medical staff will button up his chest in a few days. Then it is hoped he will be on that steady (but long) road to permanent recovery, while he waits for a matching heart and a transplant procedure.
Alan.
30 Jan 2007
Everybody --
In my last report, Dave had survived 14 to 15 hours of surgery last Friday. This surgery, as you will recall, was for the purpose of implanting two heart pumps, one -- permanent -- for the left ventricle, and the second -- it is hoped -- temporary -- for the right ventricle. If the right ventricle continues to show signs of improvement, with the assistance of this temporary implant, then the right pump might be removed. If not, then an additional procedure will be performed so that permanent pumping equipment can be installed to assist the right ventricle, equipment that would be similar to the l-vad in the left ventricle. All of the above is designed as a bridge or transition to a heart transplant. I believe that I explained that Dave is well-positioned, given his overall health, body size, and blood type, to receive a new heart.
Since late Friday, Dave has shown steady, post-operation progress. He had some bruising and swelling on his foot, which the doctors flagged as a possible sign of clotting, always a dangerous situation for heart attack victims, but this was nothing out of the ordinary, according to the docs, and, in any event, the bruising and swelling was cleared up through standard remedial measures.
All post-operation bleeding issues have been resolved. He has no infections. He continues to pass his neurological tests. Other bodily functions are working. The docs say that he is meeting all of their daily parameters for recovery. Everybody is very encouraged by this progress, of course.
When I went up yesterday to check on Dave, Linda was at work and the kids were running missionary errands with and for Kristin, good signs in and of themselves.
Thus far -- the medical staff hasn't allowed Dave to achieve full consciousness on purpose. He is tethered to a lot of devices and movement is "contraindicated" (part of the medical vocabulary that I have picked up in the last few days) for other reasons as well. They have decreased sedation sufficiently to conduct the neurological exams, but that's all. There was a rumour yesterday that the docs might "bring Dave to" just a little more today so that he might have a conversation with Kristin before she goes back to Texas, but I'm not sure on this point. If it happens, I'll let you know.
That's the report for today. More later.
Alan.
26 Jan 2007
Everybody --
Much of yesterday was keeping watch, hoping that Dave's heart, which, until now has appeared to be dead, would return to life.
Mid-morning witnessed a partial resurrection of Dave's right ventricle; it now is showing signs of recovery, and, as you will see below, there is a substantial hope that this recovery will continue until at least this portion of the heart might become self-sustaining. The afternoon saw more neurological exams where Dave continues to appear normal in all respects. Dave wrinkled his brow when Linda squeezed too hard on his hand. He is tracking with his eyes. And so forth.
The cardiac specialists, doctors and technicians, were in and out all day, explaining different options respecting surgical treatment and equipment variations. There has been a lot of deliberation by the docs in terms of how best to proceed. This is really an art, with a lot of judgment calls. There are many contingencies, some of which, if they materialize, could alter the course of action. The various risks and potential complications also are numerous. So there is no easy way to summarize what is being decided, but the bottom line, at this point, is this:
Dave's situation shows enough promise to warrant further heroic efforts, including the surgery that was mentioned in yesterday's e-mails. The trauma of the heart attack, while doing damage to the heart, miraculously did not impair the function of his brain and other organs. So they are performing surgery on him today in order to take him off the external heart support systems which have sustained him thus far, and are implanting some equipment that will accomplish the same task for the foreseeable future -- as a bridge -- until a transplant operation becomes possible.
The chosen implants, as described last night (but which can change), are a left ventricle assist device, a so-called L-Vad, and a different device that is designed to sustain the right ventricle, the one that has showed some signs of improvement, with a view to encouraging that improvement until this part of the heart might become self-sustaining. If this works, then the device for the right ventricle might be removed within 5 days.
There are many, many contingencies and risks in connection with this surgery. For example, what to do with the already existing artificial valve on Dave's heart? Since the surgeons have to lift the heart to insert the l-vad, and since the tissue around the artificial valve (the one that developed the blood clot that created this emergency in the first place) is damaged and friable, the stress of lifting might cause bleeding and this would complicate the surgery. So the doctors are thinking about removing the articifical valve at the beginning of the surgery in order to avoid this risk, but then what? Do they replace the valve? And, if so, with what? There are various options in this regard, one of which is simply not to replace the valve, and to have the work of that valve done by the l-vad. The doctor says that he can't see why this wouldn't work, but it is something that never has been tried before. He is consulting with the other specialists on his team, one of whom is away in India, and they are going to make a choice in this regard. This is just one part of the entire procedure that is taking place today, even as this is being written, and it illustrates the complexity of the process.
As noted, all of the above is intended as a bridge so that Dave can survive for some extended period until a transplant becomes possible.
For those of you who are thinking what I was thinking -- no, he won't be able to go scuba diving with the l-vad! There are cords and battery packs and even showering at home will be difficult if not impossible.
But the prospects for transplant are good for Dave, for a variety of reasons that I won't go into at this point -- simply because that would be getting ahead of myself. He has to get through today. The risks are high in this surgery and the odds are uncertain.
So please keep praying. Linda is surrounded by all of her children and family and that is a great comfort and strength to her. I'll report further tomorrow.
I appreciate your forwarding this to all folks who have expressed an interest in Dave's situation.
Alan.
24 Jan 2007
Our classmate and dear friend, Dave Irvine suffered a massive cardiac arrest Tuesday, Jan 23rd and as of yesterday, things were not looking good. Early in the afternoon, he was very critical and in a coma, with machines keeping him alive However last evening, things changed for the better, although still very critical.
Here is what Kim Burningham shared with me last night.
"I just came from the hospital. Although this morning the news was all bad and indeed I went to obligations I had at the State Capitol convinced that death was imminent, tonight is indeed miraculous. I hasten to add that the next days, weeks, even months may be a series of ups and downs.
But this afternoon, a doctor conducted a test for brain function. She asked Dave to wiggle his toe, and he did; to do something with his finger and he did, and to open and shut his eyes, and he did! Although I had been convinced that brain function may well have gone, it now appears that he has good brain function, and although his heart does not yet function, machines and eventual transplant can change all of that. Linda, his wife, is full of hope tonight, and so am I."
Barbara suggested that we request faith and prayers on his behalf and also that he may find a heart for a transplant to keep him going for a few more years, because that is basically what he needs in the near future. Of course in these situations. things change almost daily.
Damn......it's tough getting older.....this situation has made me really stop and ponder....Dave appeared to be in great health, slim and scuba diving on a regular basis. I know a few years back he suffered a heart attack while in San Francisco on assignment with his army band and had to be rushed to surgery, but I felt he was doing OK since that event. I guess in spite of outward looks, if your ticker is fragile, some things can happen that changes everything, and rather quickly and perhaps even unexpected. Maybe this ought to be a wake up call for the rest of us to check out what kind of shape we are in with our ticker, weight, etc?
Tom Tolman
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