The whole story
Talking to our friends who are reading Ben’s blog I realized that not everyone has heard the whole story of what happened to Ben a couple of months ago, so here goes. On Wednesday night, March 22nd at 11:30 we were in bed and I was still sitting up and reading, luckily a J.A. Jance mystery, one of my favorite writers. I need to write Judy, who I met at the Pacific Northwest Writer’s Conference last summer, and thank her for making her stories so compelling. Otherwise I would have woken up next to a dead husband.
Ben was tossing and turning and I was slightly annoyed with his uncharacteristic squirming about. All of a sudden he announced, “I’m sleeping on my stomach, ” which was odd. He flopped over, put his face flat down on the bed and immediately started snoring. I thought he was horsing around. Then his legs started going and I assumed he was imitating our dog Bones who chases rabbits and makes all kinds of snorts and squeaks in his sleep. “Cut it out,” I said, playfully slapping him on the butt. And then Ben’s legs really started kicking and he made more Bones-like noises.
I will always be thankful I looked over and noticed that Ben’s neck was bright red and puffed out like a blowfish. My first thought was that he was holding his breath, trying to freak me out. He’s always pretending to have a seizure or get electrocuted. Not funny by the way. Many husbands, including Ben’s brother, say they will never fool around with such things ever again. For some reason I had the good sense to pull down the sheet to check out the rest of his body. Fortunately we sleep in the buff, or it may have taken me longer to discover that something was seriously wrong. Ben’s neck was like a bullfrog, he was straining and I realized he was moving his bowels. That’s when terror shot through me. I’ve read enough mysteries and seen enough movies to know that’s what people do when they die. Then Ben’s body went limp and ice water ran through my veins. He lay perfectly still. I tried to roust him, hitting his face and screaming, but he was out cold.
I ran to the next room, trying not to go too fast so I wouldn’t stumble, and picked up the cordless phone off my desk. By rote, already numb and in shock, I dialed 911 and said, “I think my husband had a heart attack.” My mind flashed on stories of my friends, who when their child was hurt, were too hysterical to remember their addresses or phone numbers. I kept my cool and told them where we lived as I hurried back to Ben.
“Is he still breathing? “ the dispatcher asked.
Another jolt of fear went up and down my body. I climbed on the bed. “I don’t think so. He’s on his stomach and he went limp. How would I know?” I asked.
“Turn him over,” was the reply.
I put the phone down. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to move a 165 lb. of dead weight, but it took all my strength to finally get Ben onto his back. His eyes were rolled back into his head, his skin a scary purplish-blue, his mouth bloody and it didn’t take a mirror test to see he was not breathing. “He’s not breathing. Should I start CPR?” I asked.
“You’re going to have to get him onto the floor,” came the reply. “It won’t do any good on the bed.”
“But I can’t,” I said, looking down at what seemed like miles down to the floor. I could barely get him turned over, let alone get him down to the ground. Clearly it was impossible.
“Do your best. You’re doing fine,” came the reply.
I set the phone on the bed and eased Ben over to the edge, no easy task. Then the reality of having to throw him onto the floor hit me. I struggled to find the phone, tangled in the bed sheets.
“I’m going to have to throw him on the floor. Won’t I hurt him?” I asked, petrified at the thought of Ben’s head hitting the oak floor.
“Just do it,” was the answer. “He’ll be okay. You’re doing great.”
I didn’t feel so great. Everything seemed in slow motion. I felt as if I was underwater and in some surreal dreamlike state. And I was so chilly. The light was cast with an eerie white blue. I threw a couple of pillows down to shield Ben’s head, I got on the other side of the bed and pushed with all my might. Ben went down with a nasty thud, missing the pillows, landing on the side of his face. I hopped down next to him, knowing I had to turn him back over, praying for the strength to flip him again. I did it. Then I searched for the phone, lost in the blankets. “Okay, he’s on the floor. Can I start CPR now?” I pleaded.
The horrible reply was, “No. Is your front door locked?”
I was frozen. “It’s locked,” I said. “Can’t they break it down?”
“No, it will take too long. You’ll have to go unlock it for the medics so they can get in.”
I pleaded to let me start CPR but the dispatcher explained it was more important that the medics be able to get in and do their thing right away. Next to Ben being blue and blood gurgling out his mouth, this was the hardest part, leaving my dead husband to go and unlock our front door. The journey downstairs felt like a lifetime. I went quickly but carefully, afraid of tripping and knocking myself out. I finally made it to the front door, leaving it open a crack and as I passed the living room I fussed with whether I should tidy up. But I realized cleaning up was crazy and I trekked upstairs, back to Ben. “Okay, the door’s open. Now can I start?” The last time I took a CPR class was in 1973 when I was an Evergreen student so I needed guidance, plus I had never actually done CPR on a real human being, let alone my own husband. First I had to clear Ben’s airway. He let out a horrible burble and blood dribbled down his chin. Then I had to put my lips over his, liver blue and so cold, wet with blood, giving him two breaths. More gurgling. Then I straddled my legs over his body and found the right place to push and I pushed with all my might, using all of my body weight. I thought I cracked his ribs but I knew I should keep going. Later I found out I had opened up his chest wall, which was good.
I was pumping on Ben’s chest when I heard a yell from downstairs, “Barb, its Dave Haag. Where’s Ben?”
I couldn’t believe our luck. It was our friend Catherine’s husband, a fireman. “We’re up here Dave,” I yelled back.
In a flash our tiny bedroom was filled with a SWAT team in black and they took over, Dave leading me out to the hall and downstairs. I stood alone in our living room, frozen and in shock, waiting for the outcome. It seemed like hours but later I learned it was only minutes before Dave came back downstairs.
“I’m sorry Barb. I’ve been on hundreds of these calls. It doesn’t look good. We’ve been unable to revive him,” Dave said. He called the chaplain for me.
I stood there, dumbfounded in my pink bathrobe, not quite believing what he was telling me, thinking of funerals and Six Feet Under. Dave made a call and suddenly a chaplain in a fireman’s suit appeared, wondering if I wanted to pray. You bet I did. I’d been praying the whole time but thought it might be more official coming from a chaplain so we prayed real hard. Then he asked if there was anyone I should call. My mind went blank. First I thought I didn’t want to impose on anyone by waking them up. It felt like the middle of the night but it was still before midnight. By rote I dialed phone numbers I could remember. I called Nancy and Bill, Nancy answered. The chilling words came out of my mouth, “Nancy, I think Ben’s dead.” She agreed to meet me at the hospital. Cecelia answered and she agreed to meet me too. I had to search for my sister Jane’s new number and I was just telling her that it looked like Ben had died of a heart attack when Matt, one of the medics, ran down stairs. Later at the hospital I learned that Matt was a friend of Ben’s son Tom.
“We’ve got a pulse and blood pressure,” Matt reported, jubilantly. I stood there, holding the phone out so Jane could hear what he was saying. Basically what he said was they had revived Ben on the fifth shock. We would know more in the next 24 hours whether Ben was going to be able to pull through. Later I found out that only a couple of years ago they only zapped someone 3 times.
The medics hoisted Ben down our narrow and steep staircase in a sheet, carrying him out our front door to the gurney and putting him in the emergency vehicle. Bones franticly ran up and down the driveway, yodeling and yapping, watching them leave with Ben.
I called Ben’s son Tom, waking him up. With a heavy heart I had to tell him, “Tom, your dad’s had a heart attack. I’m following him to St. Pete’s.”
“I’m there,” was Tom’s reply. Later I learned that Tom had driven 120 miles an hour to get to the hospital from Rochester.
The chaplain asked me if I wanted to get cleaned up before we went to the hospital. I looked down at my robe and my hands and realized I was covered in Ben’s body excrement. When I looked in the mirror, my face and mouth was smeared with Ben’s blood. I went upstairs in what felt like a dream and tried to clean myself up the best I could, but I didn’t want to take the time to take a shower. It sounds silly now but at the time I was befuddled with what in the world to wear. I put on Ben’s shirt that he had been wearing that day, wanting to keep his scent around me. I put on his jacket, the one with his wallet so I would have his information with me.
Before we could leave I had to get Bones back in the house and he was frenzied, wondering what had happened to his master. Finally the chaplain and I coaxed him inside. I felt terrible leaving Bones in such a state but I had to get to the hospital. On the way over, the chaplain spoke of Ben as a WAS. My blood pressure rising, I finally corrected him and said, “As far as I am concerned my husband is still an IS, thank you very much.” The chaplain back peddled, apologizing. (It’s amazing to me how many health professionals continue to refer to Ben in the past tense.)
The chaplain dropped me off at the special waiting room at the hospital, a cold concrete room with emergency vehicles light flashing outside. Tom arrived and they asked me if I would like a hospital chaplain to pray with. Of course I would. More family and friends arrived and we were shuffled from one bright white room to the next. Then the doctor came out and spoke to us, asking questions. (Ben’s critical care nurse turned out to be my friend Susan and she held me as I cried. My friend Natalie was the technician who ran tests on Ben’s brain activity- we hugged and cried together too. Ben’s cardiologist and critical care nurse turned out to be Tom’s customers- Tom owns Fishy Business on the Westside.)
Then came the daunting task of trying to figure out how long Ben had gone without oxygen. It took the medics 4 plus minutes to get to our house- luckily Dave knew us so he didn’t have trouble finding us or figuring out our front door. It had taken seven plus minutes to revive him. The question was- how long had it taken me to call the medics. Not long, but anything over six minutes for a brain without oxygen is not good- there was going to be brain damage and Ben might not ever come out of a coma.
It was grave. Ben couldn’t breath on his own. Because he had aspirated, he quickly developed pneumonia. Ben’s brother Mark spent the night with him the first night and it was touch and go. My son Abe arrived from New York in 12 hours after I called. My Aunt Alice and Uncle Dick, a Unity minister, came and prayed. My cousin Bill, the doctor, drove all night from Lake Tahoe, interpreting what the doctors were telling us. (Bill was the first medical person who gave us any hope.) Ben’s daughter Cheryl flew in from Louisianan. Even Ben’s 93-year-old mother was by his side as were most of Ben’s 8 brothers and sisters and other family members.
Over the next few days the doctors kept talking about me having to make a decision and asked questions about whether or not I wanted to keep him on life support. “You bet I do!” was my constant reply. “Whenever you think it’s time to pull the plug, let’s double or even triple the time.” Gone were my ideals about not keeping someone alive on life-support. The doctors kept telling me the first 24 hours were critical, then the next 48, then the next 72 and so on. Family and friends gathered and we basically took over the Critical Care Unit waiting room- we became known as the Bolender block party. We kept explaining that Ben was on a delay, you know how you ask Ben a question and 5 minutes later, after he’s pondered, you get an answer. So even though they might not think that he responding, we were sure he was going to, but on his own time.
A mass of loved ones huddled around him, looking for some sign. First he opened his eyes and we were ecstatic. I thought I would never see my husband’s baby blues again- the last time I saw them they were rolled up back in his head. The next vital thing was whether he could respond to commands or recognize loved ones. We told them that Ben had never responded to commands so they should ask him NOT to squeeze their hands. We were sure he was recognizing loved ones, but the doctors said, “The family always thinks that.” Finally on Sunday Ben’s eyes and head followed the nurse around and she too became a believer. But the doctors still warned that he might not fully come out of it, and they talked about quality of life issues. But we never stopped believing he was going to come out of it.
The doctors and Critical Care Unit nurses still don’t believe it. In 26 years at St Pete’s, only one patient who lost oxygen as long as Ben did made it out of the hospital alive. It’s interesting to me that as soon as Ben was moved up to the 9th floor all the nurses and doctors said there was no way he could have been without oxygen that long and be able to come out of it so fast. But you do the math- it was at least 12 minutes. Now, I guess it doesn’t really matter, the health professionals can think what they want. As far as I am concerned it was a miracle.
Ben was tossing and turning and I was slightly annoyed with his uncharacteristic squirming about. All of a sudden he announced, “I’m sleeping on my stomach, ” which was odd. He flopped over, put his face flat down on the bed and immediately started snoring. I thought he was horsing around. Then his legs started going and I assumed he was imitating our dog Bones who chases rabbits and makes all kinds of snorts and squeaks in his sleep. “Cut it out,” I said, playfully slapping him on the butt. And then Ben’s legs really started kicking and he made more Bones-like noises.
I will always be thankful I looked over and noticed that Ben’s neck was bright red and puffed out like a blowfish. My first thought was that he was holding his breath, trying to freak me out. He’s always pretending to have a seizure or get electrocuted. Not funny by the way. Many husbands, including Ben’s brother, say they will never fool around with such things ever again. For some reason I had the good sense to pull down the sheet to check out the rest of his body. Fortunately we sleep in the buff, or it may have taken me longer to discover that something was seriously wrong. Ben’s neck was like a bullfrog, he was straining and I realized he was moving his bowels. That’s when terror shot through me. I’ve read enough mysteries and seen enough movies to know that’s what people do when they die. Then Ben’s body went limp and ice water ran through my veins. He lay perfectly still. I tried to roust him, hitting his face and screaming, but he was out cold.
I ran to the next room, trying not to go too fast so I wouldn’t stumble, and picked up the cordless phone off my desk. By rote, already numb and in shock, I dialed 911 and said, “I think my husband had a heart attack.” My mind flashed on stories of my friends, who when their child was hurt, were too hysterical to remember their addresses or phone numbers. I kept my cool and told them where we lived as I hurried back to Ben.
“Is he still breathing? “ the dispatcher asked.
Another jolt of fear went up and down my body. I climbed on the bed. “I don’t think so. He’s on his stomach and he went limp. How would I know?” I asked.
“Turn him over,” was the reply.
I put the phone down. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to move a 165 lb. of dead weight, but it took all my strength to finally get Ben onto his back. His eyes were rolled back into his head, his skin a scary purplish-blue, his mouth bloody and it didn’t take a mirror test to see he was not breathing. “He’s not breathing. Should I start CPR?” I asked.
“You’re going to have to get him onto the floor,” came the reply. “It won’t do any good on the bed.”
“But I can’t,” I said, looking down at what seemed like miles down to the floor. I could barely get him turned over, let alone get him down to the ground. Clearly it was impossible.
“Do your best. You’re doing fine,” came the reply.
I set the phone on the bed and eased Ben over to the edge, no easy task. Then the reality of having to throw him onto the floor hit me. I struggled to find the phone, tangled in the bed sheets.
“I’m going to have to throw him on the floor. Won’t I hurt him?” I asked, petrified at the thought of Ben’s head hitting the oak floor.
“Just do it,” was the answer. “He’ll be okay. You’re doing great.”
I didn’t feel so great. Everything seemed in slow motion. I felt as if I was underwater and in some surreal dreamlike state. And I was so chilly. The light was cast with an eerie white blue. I threw a couple of pillows down to shield Ben’s head, I got on the other side of the bed and pushed with all my might. Ben went down with a nasty thud, missing the pillows, landing on the side of his face. I hopped down next to him, knowing I had to turn him back over, praying for the strength to flip him again. I did it. Then I searched for the phone, lost in the blankets. “Okay, he’s on the floor. Can I start CPR now?” I pleaded.
The horrible reply was, “No. Is your front door locked?”
I was frozen. “It’s locked,” I said. “Can’t they break it down?”
“No, it will take too long. You’ll have to go unlock it for the medics so they can get in.”
I pleaded to let me start CPR but the dispatcher explained it was more important that the medics be able to get in and do their thing right away. Next to Ben being blue and blood gurgling out his mouth, this was the hardest part, leaving my dead husband to go and unlock our front door. The journey downstairs felt like a lifetime. I went quickly but carefully, afraid of tripping and knocking myself out. I finally made it to the front door, leaving it open a crack and as I passed the living room I fussed with whether I should tidy up. But I realized cleaning up was crazy and I trekked upstairs, back to Ben. “Okay, the door’s open. Now can I start?” The last time I took a CPR class was in 1973 when I was an Evergreen student so I needed guidance, plus I had never actually done CPR on a real human being, let alone my own husband. First I had to clear Ben’s airway. He let out a horrible burble and blood dribbled down his chin. Then I had to put my lips over his, liver blue and so cold, wet with blood, giving him two breaths. More gurgling. Then I straddled my legs over his body and found the right place to push and I pushed with all my might, using all of my body weight. I thought I cracked his ribs but I knew I should keep going. Later I found out I had opened up his chest wall, which was good.
I was pumping on Ben’s chest when I heard a yell from downstairs, “Barb, its Dave Haag. Where’s Ben?”
I couldn’t believe our luck. It was our friend Catherine’s husband, a fireman. “We’re up here Dave,” I yelled back.
In a flash our tiny bedroom was filled with a SWAT team in black and they took over, Dave leading me out to the hall and downstairs. I stood alone in our living room, frozen and in shock, waiting for the outcome. It seemed like hours but later I learned it was only minutes before Dave came back downstairs.
“I’m sorry Barb. I’ve been on hundreds of these calls. It doesn’t look good. We’ve been unable to revive him,” Dave said. He called the chaplain for me.
I stood there, dumbfounded in my pink bathrobe, not quite believing what he was telling me, thinking of funerals and Six Feet Under. Dave made a call and suddenly a chaplain in a fireman’s suit appeared, wondering if I wanted to pray. You bet I did. I’d been praying the whole time but thought it might be more official coming from a chaplain so we prayed real hard. Then he asked if there was anyone I should call. My mind went blank. First I thought I didn’t want to impose on anyone by waking them up. It felt like the middle of the night but it was still before midnight. By rote I dialed phone numbers I could remember. I called Nancy and Bill, Nancy answered. The chilling words came out of my mouth, “Nancy, I think Ben’s dead.” She agreed to meet me at the hospital. Cecelia answered and she agreed to meet me too. I had to search for my sister Jane’s new number and I was just telling her that it looked like Ben had died of a heart attack when Matt, one of the medics, ran down stairs. Later at the hospital I learned that Matt was a friend of Ben’s son Tom.
“We’ve got a pulse and blood pressure,” Matt reported, jubilantly. I stood there, holding the phone out so Jane could hear what he was saying. Basically what he said was they had revived Ben on the fifth shock. We would know more in the next 24 hours whether Ben was going to be able to pull through. Later I found out that only a couple of years ago they only zapped someone 3 times.
The medics hoisted Ben down our narrow and steep staircase in a sheet, carrying him out our front door to the gurney and putting him in the emergency vehicle. Bones franticly ran up and down the driveway, yodeling and yapping, watching them leave with Ben.
I called Ben’s son Tom, waking him up. With a heavy heart I had to tell him, “Tom, your dad’s had a heart attack. I’m following him to St. Pete’s.”
“I’m there,” was Tom’s reply. Later I learned that Tom had driven 120 miles an hour to get to the hospital from Rochester.
The chaplain asked me if I wanted to get cleaned up before we went to the hospital. I looked down at my robe and my hands and realized I was covered in Ben’s body excrement. When I looked in the mirror, my face and mouth was smeared with Ben’s blood. I went upstairs in what felt like a dream and tried to clean myself up the best I could, but I didn’t want to take the time to take a shower. It sounds silly now but at the time I was befuddled with what in the world to wear. I put on Ben’s shirt that he had been wearing that day, wanting to keep his scent around me. I put on his jacket, the one with his wallet so I would have his information with me.
Before we could leave I had to get Bones back in the house and he was frenzied, wondering what had happened to his master. Finally the chaplain and I coaxed him inside. I felt terrible leaving Bones in such a state but I had to get to the hospital. On the way over, the chaplain spoke of Ben as a WAS. My blood pressure rising, I finally corrected him and said, “As far as I am concerned my husband is still an IS, thank you very much.” The chaplain back peddled, apologizing. (It’s amazing to me how many health professionals continue to refer to Ben in the past tense.)
The chaplain dropped me off at the special waiting room at the hospital, a cold concrete room with emergency vehicles light flashing outside. Tom arrived and they asked me if I would like a hospital chaplain to pray with. Of course I would. More family and friends arrived and we were shuffled from one bright white room to the next. Then the doctor came out and spoke to us, asking questions. (Ben’s critical care nurse turned out to be my friend Susan and she held me as I cried. My friend Natalie was the technician who ran tests on Ben’s brain activity- we hugged and cried together too. Ben’s cardiologist and critical care nurse turned out to be Tom’s customers- Tom owns Fishy Business on the Westside.)
Then came the daunting task of trying to figure out how long Ben had gone without oxygen. It took the medics 4 plus minutes to get to our house- luckily Dave knew us so he didn’t have trouble finding us or figuring out our front door. It had taken seven plus minutes to revive him. The question was- how long had it taken me to call the medics. Not long, but anything over six minutes for a brain without oxygen is not good- there was going to be brain damage and Ben might not ever come out of a coma.
It was grave. Ben couldn’t breath on his own. Because he had aspirated, he quickly developed pneumonia. Ben’s brother Mark spent the night with him the first night and it was touch and go. My son Abe arrived from New York in 12 hours after I called. My Aunt Alice and Uncle Dick, a Unity minister, came and prayed. My cousin Bill, the doctor, drove all night from Lake Tahoe, interpreting what the doctors were telling us. (Bill was the first medical person who gave us any hope.) Ben’s daughter Cheryl flew in from Louisianan. Even Ben’s 93-year-old mother was by his side as were most of Ben’s 8 brothers and sisters and other family members.
Over the next few days the doctors kept talking about me having to make a decision and asked questions about whether or not I wanted to keep him on life support. “You bet I do!” was my constant reply. “Whenever you think it’s time to pull the plug, let’s double or even triple the time.” Gone were my ideals about not keeping someone alive on life-support. The doctors kept telling me the first 24 hours were critical, then the next 48, then the next 72 and so on. Family and friends gathered and we basically took over the Critical Care Unit waiting room- we became known as the Bolender block party. We kept explaining that Ben was on a delay, you know how you ask Ben a question and 5 minutes later, after he’s pondered, you get an answer. So even though they might not think that he responding, we were sure he was going to, but on his own time.
A mass of loved ones huddled around him, looking for some sign. First he opened his eyes and we were ecstatic. I thought I would never see my husband’s baby blues again- the last time I saw them they were rolled up back in his head. The next vital thing was whether he could respond to commands or recognize loved ones. We told them that Ben had never responded to commands so they should ask him NOT to squeeze their hands. We were sure he was recognizing loved ones, but the doctors said, “The family always thinks that.” Finally on Sunday Ben’s eyes and head followed the nurse around and she too became a believer. But the doctors still warned that he might not fully come out of it, and they talked about quality of life issues. But we never stopped believing he was going to come out of it.
The doctors and Critical Care Unit nurses still don’t believe it. In 26 years at St Pete’s, only one patient who lost oxygen as long as Ben did made it out of the hospital alive. It’s interesting to me that as soon as Ben was moved up to the 9th floor all the nurses and doctors said there was no way he could have been without oxygen that long and be able to come out of it so fast. But you do the math- it was at least 12 minutes. Now, I guess it doesn’t really matter, the health professionals can think what they want. As far as I am concerned it was a miracle.
