Move over, Mr. Gehrig, because today I am claiming that distinction.
I’m fortunate because I have received a second chance at life at 62 years old.
Because of a unique set of circumstances, I’m darned lucky that I have lived long enough to write this story.
During the first week of October, I was suffering with flu-like symptoms — coughing, sneezing, runny nose and a fever. I decided I was going nip it quickly and scheduled an appointment to see my physician, Dr. Thomas Hilsman of Albany.
What I never realized when I made that routine appointment to see the cherubic doctor was that it would lead to life-saving, triple coronary arterial bypass surgery.
During my exam, Dr. Hilsman, a fifth-generation Southwest Georgia doctor, told me emphatically that I needed to get a heart cauterization test — AND NOW. The concerned look on his face revealed the gravity of my situation. His office immediately set up an exam with Dr. Thomas Joiner of Albany.
During an exam in November with Dr. Joiner, one of the city’s leading heart cauterization specialists, I learned that I definitely needed the test and it was scheduled for Nov. 27 at Phoebe Putney Memorial Hospital. That marked my first experience with the staff and services of the oft-criticized hospital.
A soft-spoken physician with a direct approach, Dr. Joiner said during the 20-minute procedure, “Mr. Levine, I have bad news for you. ... Your three main arteries leading to your heart are blocked, one 98 percent, one 95 percent and one 85 percent. There’s nothing I can do for you. You need bypass surgery.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?” I stammered.
“Yes,” he responded.
Enter Dr. Francis Herbold.
I met with the Albany physician, who specializes in bypass surgery, in late November, and he concurred with Dr. Joiner’s diagnosis. The date of Dec. 11 at Phoebe was set for the triple bypass procedure. My hospital stay was supposed to be six to eight days. It lasted for 18!
My “fun” really started following the surgery.
The last thing I remember before the procedure on Dec. 11 was asking Dr. Herbold a question: “Did you have a fight with your wife last night?”
He immediately responded, “No!”
I said, “That’s good, then let’s rock ’n’ roll.”
Between that brief exchange with Dr. Herbold until sometime late on Dec. 14, I remember ABSOLUTELY nothing. When I say nothing, I mean nothing. I do not remember a catheter being inserted and removed. From everything I have been told, I had to be totally out of it not to feel that.
Fortunately, my sister and brother-in-law, Madeline and Charles Berman, drove from Florida to be with me for the surgery and during the first portion of the recovery period. While I remember virtually nothing during that period, my sister endured the pain for both of us, and that was no easy task.
After the five-hour surgery, Dr. Herbold met with my sister and brother-in-law and termed the procedure “one tough operation.” He also told them that he had trouble finding suitable replacement veins.
“We couldn’t have waited to do this operation. ... It absolutely had to be done now,” Herbold told my sister and brother-in-law. He added that I would need to be careful for the rest of my life and if I did not lose 100 pounds by December 2008, I would be back again. He also said that I must exercise regularly and learn to read labels on food in order to eat properly.
He also uttered one of the biggest understatements of all time when he said, “Barry probably will be out of it for a couple of days.”
Because I had more tubes in me than there are tunnels under the Hudson River connecting New Jersey to New York, I only could communicate by moving my eyes or trying to speak with a tube down my throat.
My family saw me briefly about 4 p.m. after I was moved into a private room in the Intensive Care Unit.
During this period, I was kept in restraints around my wrists to be certain that I didn’t do anything foolish — like remove that darned tube from my throat.
At some point, I managed to extricate myself from a restraint and tried to remove the tube. Fortunately, the nurse sitting at my bedside managed to grab my hand before I did any damage and put me back in restraints.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that if the tube is removed without being deflated, it could destroy your vocal chords, rendering you unable to speak.
Unable to control me, the hospital security force called my sister and brother-in-law at 4:30 in the morning on Dec. 12, asking them to please come to the hospital to try to calm me down. I apparently was insisting that I was going to get out of bed, get dressed and go home — less than one day after the surgery.
They arrived within 30 minutes, a record for my sister getting dressed and leaving her home.
The hallucinations from the after effects of the anesthesia must have been working in high gear as I muttered to my sister, “Bugs in bed. Bugs all over bed.”
My sister gently took my right hand, moved it around the bed and asked, “Barry, do you feel any bugs?” I shook my head no. Then she took my left hand and asked, “Barry to you feel and bugs?” I again indicated I didn’t.
The next episode occurred when I insisted that the staff had moved me into another room and I was going to get out of bed, get dressed and return to my original room.
My sister then said, “Barry, if you’ve ever trusted me in your whole life, trust me now. Do you see that white board across from the bed? ... Do you see what’s written on it? It says, ‘Dear Barry, Get well soon.’ Wasn’t that in YOUR room?”
I nodded affirmatively and the room episode ended quietly.
By Dec. 14, things had started to return to normal. The tube was removed from my throat. I began eating — Jell-O, pudding, soup and applesauce. That’s hardly the kind of meal a first-ballot inductee into the “Knife and Fork” Hall of Fame wanted. I’m a steak-and-potatoes man, certainly not a Jell-O, pudding, soup and applesauce type of guy.
Because I suffered nerve damage when they opened my chest during the procedure, I had little control of my fingers. Either nurses or my sister had to feed me and that did not make the food taste better. My sister also had to sign my name to checks so I could pay household bills.
My liquid intake was carefully monitored to be certain that there was no buildup around the heart and lungs.
With the help of several nurses — yes, it DID take several nurses — I also had my first visit to the “little boy’s room.”
On Dec. 15, I was moved to the Cardiovascular Step Down Unit.
Bonny Voyles, a registered nurse, was assigned to me for most of the day shifts. The perky 30-something did an excellent job encouraging me and helping me make the first moves of true recovery by getting me out of bed and into a chair, no easy task.
“You were very kind, but not more of a challenge than other patients. Like most, you were concerned about taking a deep breath or getting out of bed because you were afraid it would hurt,” Voyles said.
When asked why she serves as a nurse, she quickly replied, “I love what I do and can’t imagine doing anything else. There’s a tremendous sense of satisfaction in seeing people get well and going home.”
Among the other nurses with whom I dealt in this unit were Laura Mikkelson, Erica Lott, Donna Scott, Krystal Oliver, Patricia Nichols, Coleen Hartzo and Barbara Hunter.
A key part of my stay in this unit was regaining my strength and being able to walk beyond the five feet to the bathroom. It was especially important in my situation because I had a scar from the surgery on my left leg from the groin area to the middle of my calf.
Heather Sadler, Christy Chastain and Teresa Timmerman, who comprise the inpatient cardio rehab unit, have the responsibility of coaxing patients to walk — first with a walker and then on their own.
“I do this because I enjoy seeing patients improve and you did improve,” said Chastain, who has been at Phoebe for four years. “It’s a rewarding job because you get people when they are recuperating and help make them better.”
Echoed Timmerman: “The patients are so appreciative. ... They know the walking is good for them, and it’s a good feeling helping people.”
Added Sadler: “The job is rewarding because you see another side of it. ... You get people who can barely get out of bed and work with them so they can walk down the hall. It’s just great to see.”
There was a major battle brewing during this period — my departure date from Phoebe to return home.
Dr. Herbold originally estimated that I would be home in six or seven days. However, hospital officials were determined not to release me at that point because I lived alone.
They kept insisting I would experience major problems without assistance at home. And I responded, with all my Yankee stubbornness, that I have lived alone for almost four decades without difficulties. So what’s the big deal?
Finally, a bargain was negotiated.
Instead of going home, I would be transferred to the Acute Inpatient Rehabilitation Unit on Dec. 21 for one week — and only one week — and then be released on Dec. 28.
It takes a big man to admit he was wrong. I was sooooooooo wrong!
And I learned that in the rehab unit. I was forced to realize just how much the operation had taken out of me and that the recuperation period was going to be a lot longer than I had anticipated.
Working closely with two of the unit’s therapists, Debbee Ward and Angie Powell, I learned the road to recovery would be a long one.
The perky Powell, who could pass for actress Meg Ryan’s younger sister, handled the physical therapy portion and Ward, the youngest-looking 44-year-old I’ve ever seen, the occupational aspect.
An 11-year Phoebe employee, Powell goaded me into doing the work/walking necessary to improve my strength. And it worked. Because of her efforts, I gradually improved.
“I love what I do,” she said. “I realize that I make a difference in people’s lives through therapy, but this can be frustrating at times trying to figure out how to help people who are not putting forth an effort.”
Ward, a transplanted Californian who has been at Phoebe for 16 years, has the difficult task of teaching patients to perform everyday tasks.
Simple things that you have done for your whole life are difficult. Try putting on a T-shirt when you can’t raise your elbows above shoulder level because of the surgery or putting on a pair of pants or putting on socks and shoes when you can’t bend.
She also made sure that I could get in and out of a shower and on and off a bed similar to the one I have at home.
Ward helped me learn how to handle some of those skills with various contraptions.
“I like helping people and by doing occupational therapy I can help people the most. Sometimes it’s difficult when you have patients who have the ability to do things but won’t or don’t. But the job is really satisfying,” Ward said.
Ann Peacock, a member of Phoebe’s staff for nine years and the unit’s caseworker, assisted with social issues. She helped arrange a nutritional consult to help with my diabetes, the length of time I would remain in the unit and arrange for the physical therapy and nursing help I would receive once I returned home. She also helped arrange for housekeeping needs.
“I just enjoy helping patients and seeing them get well enough to go home. It’s just satisfying to me,” Peacock said.
There were a plethora of nursing staff members who assisted me in this unit including Yolanda Williams, David Tyson, Sabrina Thomas, Drina Young, Amy Porter, Mikee Genetempo, Linda Fletcher, Mary Ford, Mary Hardison, Tueshia Grant, Mary Anne Edwards, Louise Battle, Zina Jackson, Ernestine Johnson, Frances Willis, Carolyn Brown and Rositta Nix.
Through their combined efforts, I was released with stipulations on Dec. 27, taken home by my nephew and his wife, David and Lynne Berman, who had driven from New Jersey and arrived on Christmas Day. I was not allowed to drive until Feb. 11, lift anything more than five pounds or push or pull anything. The rules were to protect my chest following the surgery.
That ended my stay at Phoebe and one of the most memorable periods of my life.
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Much of what folks say and write about Phoebe is negative, primarily about its alleged exorbitant costs.
What people should be writing about Phoebe is that Southwest Georgians should be thankful that they have such a quality facility.
Phoebe’s staff members — from the time you enter the hospital until you leave — are the most professional, dedicated and caring group that I have ever encountered. Because of the staff’s quality, my sister, who urged me to have the surgery done in Atlanta, eventually admitted that I made the right decision to have it performed at Phoebe.
People will complain that Phoebe’s costs are prohibitive. Maybe they are. But when your life is on the line as mine was 110 days ago, I wasn’t thinking about money. All I cared about was getting the best possible care I could, surviving the coronary arterial bypass surgery and recuperating. Phoebe provided that opportunity.
All the money in the world would not have done me a darn bit of good if I had been in the ground.
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