Life, Interrupted

Things were going great, until they weren’t

Free at last, free at last

Careful readers of JEP (you know who you are) may have noticed a drop in production recently. Looking over JEP’s long arc that began on Substack just before January 2021, we’ve posted 373 pieces on a variety of topics — from politics and culture to music and memoirs, travelogues and impressionism, and even a little inspiration and humor. That works out to an average of two posts a week. Not quite the Atlas-like production of Herb Caen, who while at the San Francisco Chronicle produced more than 16,000 daily columns. But hey, I would have been happy to tie Herb’s shoelaces.

So I’ve fallen down, if not in quality, certainly in consistency and delivery. But I have a good excuse. I almost died last week.

A week ago Thursday was a normal day. I did have some mild trepidation about a long-scheduled routine invasive medical procedure, something that millions of Americans undergo every year, but my inner Boy Scout took over and I complied. I came home with a little discomfort, but after I polished off a physician-sanctioned martini (with two Motrin and a twist) that evening I felt fine and turned in.

I felt sluggish the next morning. I’ve got plenty of work to do at a new local radio station we’ve launched, Cape Fear Radio, and some new client work, but couldn’t focus on either. I even tried listening to the new Phish album, but it sounded flat. Something was off. Mary was going on errands so I told her I’d take a short nap,

I laid down at 1 p.m. and felt that little frisson of a warm afternoon nap. When I awoke an hour later I felt like I was freezing to death on the Arctic tundra. I was in a fetal position suffering from uncontrollable convulsions. My jaw was clenched so tight I thought I might dislocate it. I tried to grind through it, but just went further into the maelstrom. The convulsions grew deeper and more violent. When I managed to grab the cell phone on my bedside it took a few tries to reach Mary; my fingers couldn’t find the buttons. When I got her I think I said “Idonowwzhaaaaonnin, cumo,” but what she actually heard was “I don’t know what’s happening, please come home.” She and my cousins had me in the ER within 20 minutes.

I seemed to stabilize during the ride, or at least stopped shaking so much. The ER intake was quick and efficient. The docs asked a few questions about the process I’d just had and my general health, including a question that would soon be the forefront: “What’s your normal blood pressure?”

Then came tests. Probes. IV lines. Moments of calm punctured by flurries of activity followed by sotto voce conversations. There seemed to be a lot of incoherent activity. I tried to maintain some humor. Somebody asked that question they constantly ask in a hospital, as if they’re trying to trip you up: “Name and date of birth?”

“My name is Joe Biden but I can’t remember when I was born.”

That lightened the mood a little.

Time passed. Mary was always there, my cousins came in and out.

At one point, I asked a nurse if I could have something for pain. “Where’s the pain?” she asked. “Everywhere,” I said. In a few minutes it felt like everyone in the world was my best friend. I didn’t have to ask what she’d given me.

I finally slept. Sometime in St. John’s dark night of the soul, a new doctor woke me up. “Hey bud, how we doing?” He seemed in charge, with a deep southern drawl,

“Uhkay,” I said, trying to swim to the surface. I learned later this was about 36 hours after I’d been initially admitted to the ER.

“OK, listen. We just got our first blood cultures back. You’re sick, bud, real sick. We can’t take care of you here so we’re moving you up to ICU at New Hanover (a regional hospital about 30 miles north). You have sepsis and we need to stabilize you before you go into shock. We can try and keep your blood pressure and oxygen levels up (at that time about 60/30 and the low 60s respectively) but you need a lot more antibiotics and probably a mainline insertion.” I think I remember the last term correctly. I imagined someone jabbing a needle in my carotid artery.

(Note: For those who don’t know or may have forgotten what sepsis is [count me among the former], here’s a thumbnail overview from the Global Sepsis Alliance: “Sepsis is a life-threatening condition that occurs when the body's response to an infection damages its own tissues and organs. Instead of local inflammation resulting from a local infection, which would be the appropriate response, the body’s entire system goes into inflammation. This inflammatory response can lead to dehydration and changes in circulation, for instance a drop in blood pressure. This can compromise the ability of the circulatory system to provide adequate oxygen etc. to the tissues. That leads to dysfunction in various organs, such as the lung, heart, kidney, and brain. It can also lead to shock, multiple organ failure, and death, especially if it is not recognized early and treated promptly.”) 

The next hour was one of the most harrowing of my life.

The hospital wanted to medivac me to New Hanover, but the cloud cover was too low, so an ambulance was the default. Within minutes, I was strapped in and clamped down, two women in the front, two in the back. My convulsions had returned and my temperature was dropping like Biden’s polls. It felt like wiping out on a 10-foot wave and being thrashed around with nowhere to go and no way to breathe. My existence was under assault. My field of vision began to constrict. I had the distinct thought that I wasn’t going to make it — more than a thought, a palpable certainty. The oxygen was probably turned up to 11. One of the gals yelled “Go emergency!” and the sirens and lights were on the rest of the way. Not that I would ever hope you have to experience it, but an ambulance ride at 90 mph isn’t exactly a BMW.

When we reached the ICU I got a quick brief. I needed my blood oxygen and BP to go way up, as well as small boat of antibiotics. “And we’ll have to give you a ventilator.”

I don’t remember anything for about the next 20 hours.

Someone in my family was asked what kind of music I’d like to hear when the vent came out. I’m still trying to guess which Grateful Dead tune graced the ICU room when it was removed. I’d like to think it was “Touch of Grey.”

While all that was happening, my family had been congregating — daughter Jessie, son-in-law Breton and little Beau from California, as well as son Phil from Asheville. Mary was my rock and my cousins Don and Pam could make anything happen. At one point later in the week when I’d been moved to gen pop (hospitals do have a kind of incarceratory vibe) Mary suggested we have a family prayer. Let’s just say that we don’t pray together often, but it felt right. By now, we knew we were on the right side of this journey. Hands were laid on top of each other on my leg. As soon as I opened the prayer, little Beau walked over and put his hand on top of mine and kept it there, which is remarkable for a hyperactive 2-year-old. The grace of God takes many forms. Family is sustenance and that little hand on top of mine represented yet another generation of love and sustenance.

I came home on Friday, eight days later. Clearly, the medical procedure had introduced bacteria into my bloodstream of an extraordinarily virulent strain, which quickly escalated to sepsis. There are still lots of questions to answer and IV drips to administer, but the grass has never been greener, the air has never been sweeter and I haven’t slept this well in a very long time.

I’m writing this piece for a few reasons. After four years, I’ve developed a deep bond with my readers — some good friends and some people I’ve never met. You are all uniformly smart, attentive and often funny. Because of that bond, as I said at the top, I wanted to explain my absence. And, finally, it’s all I can do. Writing saves me. Like family, it sustains me. Writing makes sense of the world and shows me a way forward,

I’m on the path again.

Peace out.