Health-Scare

A nurse mentions surgery as my consciousness quickly fades. Most of the next week or so is blurred by a morphine haze. I wake up in a neck brace, and realize I have absolutely no feeling below my armpits. The muscles in my neck are on fire with pain. I have a feeding tube in each nostril and my arms are littered with over a dozen intravenous lines. A machine is breathing for me. Is this really happening? This must be a dream.

Suddenly the memories come flooding back. A ski jump. A sled ride. A helicopter. A hospital visitor plays with my hair and brushes over a thick scab. Shortness of breath. A clamp screwed into my skull. A doctor trying to "realign" my spine. Nothing but horrifying snapshots of chaos, confusion and pain. Many of these memories will go on to haunt my dreams forever.

Of the eighteen nights I spend in the intensive care unit, I sleep only one. This is mainly because the countless monitors I am attached to sound off relentlessly throughout the night. The nursing staff tells me that these monitors are networked to every patient on the floor, so when it beeps three times, it’s me… twice, it’s someone in another room. I suffer endless anxiety attacks, because every time I hear a beep, I can never remember if it was the second or the third.

Adding insult to injury, the ventilator tubes in my trachea block any air from passing over my vocal chords, leaving me without a voice. I mouth words to people, most of which they cannot decipher, and I must resort to spelling words out letter by letter. Having no voice makes my nights even more unbearable. I’m left alone for just minutes, but it feels like hours. Panic sets in after losing count of the monitor beeps, and I know I need drugs to combat it. Problem is, I have no way to call for help. All I can do is I stare out the door and watch as my nurse passes by a number of times. Completely helpless, I begin to cry.

Teams of doctors invade my room with SWAT-like efficiency all hours of the day, barking orders back and forth. They never look at me, talk to me, or even say my name. I’m referred to only by my condition: C3-C4 complete quadriplegic. They disappear as fast as they came in, leaving me, my family and the nursing staff without a clue as to what transpired. When we finally corner one of them, he callously informs us that I will never move again, and there is a high probability that I will never breathe again on my own either. More tears.

One morning, a doctor wrongly informs me that I am being sent home because there’s simply nothing left they can do for me. Two days later, another doctor comes in and tells me they’re moving me to a hospital more than two hours away from my home for rehab. Another false statement. Finally, after two and a half weeks of what seems like an eternity in hell, I’m finally transferred to a rehab facility close to home. Little do I know, my struggles have only just begun.

Just a few weeks into rehab, I find out that the short-term health insurance policy I purchased after graduating college does not cover medical equipment for the home, forcing me to go through Washington State’s Department of Social and Health Services (DSHS) in order to pay for these necessities. This means that every single piece of equipment I need requires lengthy letters of justification from both a doctor and a therapist before the DSHS will even consider covering my medical expenses. I’m warned that nearly every request is denied the first few times, calling for further explanation as to why each item is absolutely vital. My request for a wheelchair is turned down at first because DSHS doesn’t think I need footrests.

Suddenly I’m face-to-face with my government’s absurd health-care system. Prior to my accident, I viewed politics as nothing more than semantics. "Why should I vote? It’s not like any of this will ever affect me directly." I can’t help but recognize the irony. The system I once paid absolutely no attention to is now the very system I must rely upon. A system that lacks compassion and even logic at times.

After developing a deep pressure sore on my tailbone, I become painfully aware just how backwards the system is. One of my physical therapists informs me that skin breakdown is one of the biggest causes of compromised health for quadriplegics and paraplegics. I learn that pressure ulcers can lead to life-threatening blood infections, which can ultimately lead to amputations. Because of my limited mobility, I will have to be extremely careful with my positioning for the rest of my life. I find out that sleeping on an air mattress will greatly reduce the risk of skin breakdown. In the next breath, I am told that unfortunately, this is one of the items DSHS refuses to pay for. In the event that I develop a pressure sore at home (downright inevitable on a normal mattress), an air mattress will be rented for me until it heals, and taken away afterwards.

Financially, this makes no sense. Instead of spending a few thousand dollars on a piece of equipment that almost single-handedly prevents skin breakdown, the state will rent me an air mattress indefinitely, only to take it away for a few months until I develop another problem? Apparently so. For some reason, they would much rather pay tens of thousands of dollars on amputations, repetitive reconstructive surgeries and extended hospital stays than make a relatively small one-time investment that would not only save taxpayers money, but also prevent me further pain and mental anguish.

Soon, the term "health-care" begins to feel like an oxymoron. All I see is an industry overridden with redundant stipulations that has become so sterile and heartless it makes people feel more like burdens than patients. I begin to experience the miles of red tape that have caused rehab facilities to forget that "rehab" is short for rehabilitation. The focus is solely on getting a patient physically ready to survive outside the hospital without much consideration for the huge emotional adjustment that is needed as well. Though my therapists object to my discharge, they are forced to let me go because the only thing that truly matters to the state is that I worked my way off the ventilator. When I leave the hospital, I’m in no way prepared for life as a quadriplegic.

Now, I realize that it might be hard for DSHS committees to fully understand my plight, considering most of them have never found themselves in direct need of these benefits, but it’s still no excuse. I find myself almost wishing some of these men and women would see someone close to them end up in a position like mine, as sadistic as it sounds. But if that’s the only way they will understand the devastating effects of their decisions, perhaps it’s necessary. If nothing else, they can expect a continuous stream of letters and e-mails from me until changes are made. Because as it stands now, my life as a state dependent quadriplegic will be unnecessarily difficult due to a system lacking perspective and compassion, a system that seems to be working against the very people it was designed to protect.

I knew the second I woke up on that mountain that I was paralyzed. I had no idea, however, how far my struggles with both my body and my government would take me. I’m currently gathering as much information as I can to present a strong case to my local congressman because, while there is nothing I can do to change my physical situation, I can try to change my political one. All I can do now is stay informed, make my voice heard, and hope it doesn’t take such extreme measures for the rest of the politically apathetic members of my generation to reconsider their obligations as citizens. Because as you can see, it’s a harsh reality to face; finding out that the health-care system you unknowingly put into place by your lack of participation doesn’t really care at all.

Make your mark

So I was sitting in my hospital room the other day, high on a cocktail of morphine and Ativan (breakfast of champions), when my buddy Big Jim walked in.  Yep, you read correct… my hospital room.  Around 11 o’clock one Saturday last month, I started to get the chills, but didn’t think much of it.  Just wrap me up in some warm towels, and call it good, right?  Wrong.  An hour later, I was rocking a fever of 104° with a mean case of the shakes while throwing up like a champion.  Sweet.  The last time I had similar symptoms, it was 5 a.m. on Christmas morning two years ago, when Santa, the bastard, left a nice, neat little emergency kidney stone surgery in my stocking (not to mention three more scattered over the next few months).  Good times.

After about an hour or so of intense denial about the need to go to the ER, I finally gave in, and was whisked away in one of the local fire department’s red and white chariots, complete with sirens and flashing lights.  Go big or go home, yeah?  Another few hours of blank stares from ER doctors, and I was admitted with what was deemed just a really bad bladder infection, with no real explanation, or concern for that matter, as to why I was shaking like an epileptic in the throes of a grand mall.  Solution?  Bring on the drugs, baby. We finally discovered the culprit after a couple days, a negative CT scan of my kidneys and more than my share of early-morning (see: butt-crack of dawn) blood tests.  It turned out to be a fairly mean case of cellulitis on my left thigh from my knee all the way up past my hip.  New, much more advanced solution?  Some battery acid-like antibiotics, more than a week in "the joint" and, you guessed it, even more drugs.  Hooray for me.  Considering the loopy-as-hell state I was in, it’s a miracle I remember Jim’s visit at all.

Big Jim was one of my physical therapists in rehab after I got hurt.  On the outside, he’s one intimidating guy, complete with a shaved head, some burly tattoos and more muscle than most would consider humanly possible.  The tough exterior is completely betrayed, however, by the permanent smile he wears, and the unwavering positive attitude he brings to the hospital each day.  We had an instant bond through wrestling, because his boy Zack can only be described as an absolute stud in the sport.  Well, the word "phenom" also comes to mind… so does "beast."  Anyways… By the time this kid reaches middle school, he will probably have wrestled in, and won, more matches and major tournament titles than I did in my entire 12 year career.  I have an autographed T-shirt… and you think I’m kidding.  I’ve followed the boy’s success solely through his proud father’s stories, and I could tell by the smile on his face that morning that he had a yet another doozy for me.  I’m just glad he showed up in between hallucinations, or else this story would be about purple trolls wrestling in sequined jumpsuits or something.

A deep, booming voice teamed with animated deliveries, Jim’s wrestling tales are never lacking in the entertainment department.  This particular story came from one of the many wrestling camps the big man and his beast of a child attended over the summer.  While watching a coach show a high-percentage scoring maneuver during the technique portion of the day, Jim could have sworn he recognized the name of the move, but could not place where from.  As the session came to a close, the man sat all the kids down and told them that the technique they had just learned was named after a rather successful wrestler he knew who used it to win a lot of big matches throughout both high school and college.  This man, who was paralyzed in a tragic skiing accident, always had a great work ethic and an even better attitude.  The name of the move was of course… "the Salvini."

Jim could not recall the man’s name as he told me the story that day, but he didn’t have to because he’s a friend of mine.  His name is Randy Connelly, and he was the head wrestling coach at my old high school when I was away at college.  The epitome of the word "coach," Randy’s competitive spirit is overshadowed only by his passion for his sport, which tends to spread like wildfire throughout his teams.  Every time I came home on a holiday break, he eagerly turned practices (sometimes full weeks) over to me with the hopes that what I had learned from competing at a higher level would be passed on to his kids.  I can still remember his enthusiasm the day I first showed "the Salvini" to his guys during a practice over the Thanksgiving break.

And so it is, I have officially made my mark on the sport that helped make me who I am today.  Now, I have always been a firm believer that when we finally do leave this world, each of us will be remembered based upon a few key moments in our lives.  Because of this, I always tried (keyword: tried) to carry myself accordingly.  The way I saw it, no matter where you are, or what you’re doing, you never truly know who might be watching and, especially when it comes to younger people, possibly looking up to you.  Did the move get its name because I created it?  Sorry, I didn’t.  Because I was the best wrestler ever, perhaps?  Sadly, I wasn’t.  Or is it more likely that kids halfway across the state are learning "the Salvini" not because of what I did, but because of who I was?

How will you make your mark?  How do you want to be remembered?

The best man

It was a warm spring afternoon during the spring of my sophomore year as I wandered in to Hebeler Hall on the southwest corner of Central Washington University.  My mission?  To apply for acceptance into the Electronics Engineering Technology (EET) major.  My motivation?  Not exactly academic: I was about to enter my third season of wrestling and needed to have a major declared in order to maintain my NCAA eligibility.  When my dad had mentioned electronics, it seemed just challenging enough to keep me from sleeping through the rest of school.

By the time I was handed my diploma three years later, I was seriously second-guessing the decision I’d made.  A program that, with 138 credits for the major alone, looked pretty formidable on paper, ended up being littered with classes taught by professors that were more interested in their paychecks than your education.  Granted, I had a pretty kick-ass résumé, boasting an engineering degree with minors in both mathematics and computer science, but I was in no way confident with the education I had received.  That, and I could not avoid the sneaking suspicion I had that maybe I should have majored in something else (can we say English?  Journalism, perhaps?)  But given the chance to go back and possibly get a degree that more suits me, there’s no way I could do it for one specific reason: I wouldn’t want to risk not crossing paths with a guy named Jeff Weber.

My best buddy Mark and I met the man we call Web-Dog one day in the electronics lab.  With his off-the-wall sense of humor and laid-back attitude, we totally hit it off, and were best friends from then on.  We ended up taking almost every class in the major together, working on projects and labs side-by-side, and "cooperating" on the countless take-home exams we were given. The three of us were a perfect team; Mark was our project manager that always excelled in front of the crowd, I was the number cruncher who was good with the exams, and Jeff was the responsible one, the glue that held us all together, because Mark and I always tended to be a little on the slacker side.  Looking back, I don’t know how we would have graduated without each other’s help.

Jeff is one of those guys I think every man hopes they have the capacity to become one day.  With a firm handle on what matters most in life, namely family and friendships, he has this uncanny ability to let that which does not concern him truly slide. He is the greatest friend you could possibly wish for, because you know he’s always looking out for you, and only wants the best for everyone in his life.  Plus, you can always count on him to call you out when you start to lose focus on what’s really important.  He is the most driven man I know, constantly looking for ways to better himself as a person, as a man, and as a friend, and anyone that knows him, knows great things lie ahead of him. 

Last Saturday, Jeff married his longtime girlfriend, Kristal, in a small ceremony in town.  At a glance, the new Mrs. Weber’s timeless beauty and electric smile conjure images of the silver screen stars from the past, but a two-minute conversation with her quickly reveals the true beauty she harbors inside.  With a genuinely kind heart and a compassionate soul, she is probably one of the sweetest girls you will ever have the chance to meet, and I could not imagine a more perfect woman for one of my very best friends.

But as amazing as these people are individually, the relationship they have together is what shines brightest of all.  For the past five years or so, I’ve been fortunate enough to witness, firsthand, a special kind of love, respect and unwavering support that two people share which most people spend their entire lives dreaming about, and only the lucky few actually get to experience.  What makes their connection even more amazing, is that as the weeks/months/years have passed by, and life has hit its peaks and valleys, they’ve managed to hang on to the one thing that’s most important to them: each other. 

As long as I’ve known him, I’ve looked up to Jeff like he was my older, much wiser brother.  So it really came as no surprise when, while Mark and I watched him exchange vows with his bride (who could not have looked more beautiful on her big day) that this thought crossed my mind: no offense to the great guys that were standing next to him, but the groom in this wedding was by far best man in the room.

Credit where it’s due

I have a confession.  I’m not fully responsible for all the content of this blog.  Don’t get me wrong, the words are all mine, no one else’s…. it’s just the subject matter I can’t claim as all my own.  By now you’ve noticed that most of my stories have some sort of inspiration behind them.  My paralysis, past experiences, depression, friendships, family and even some of you play a major role in the tales I tell.  I would like you to meet someone special whose voice can still be heard indirectly through mine with everything I write.  Everyone, say hello to Brittany.

Brittany was my girlfriend, best friend, and roommate all wrapped into one for most of college.  We met the summer after my freshman year when I got a job at, get this, The Gap.  Hey, I was broke, and it was the only place hiring.  With a combination of model good looks, a sassy/sarcastic sense of humor and a down-for-anything attitude, she had me smitten from the first time we folded down the men’s polo section of the store, and we were nearly inseparable for the three years that followed.  In that relatively short span, we experienced more than most couples do in 30 years. 

The highs were high, sharing lots of love, tons of laughs and two crappy apartments.  We went to a few concerts, watched a handful of thunderstorms and rented more movies than you’ll see in your life.  There were journeys to faraway exotic lands like… Iowa, and… okay, just Iowa.  She suffered through three years of my weight cutting and monotonous wrestling tournaments, and I managed to survive the occasional "modeling session" for her photography classes.  I taught her to wakeboard, and she introduced me to Kevin Smith movies, Counting Crows, Elliott Smith, Reel Big Fish and peanut butter and butter sandwiches.

There were very few lows, but we faced more pain and loss than some ever do.  In the span of a weekend, we found our strength, character and relationship tested by having to endure the single most painful moment of our lives one day, only to awaken to the chaos that was September 11th the very next morning.  Our paths crossed when we were just teenagers and when they parted, we were far more grown-up than we would have ever imagined we could be. 

Fortunately, those paths eventually crossed once more, and I’m proud to call her one of my very best friends.  Now she’s a happily married mother of two amazing baby girls, and I have her to thank for helping me become the man I am today.  If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have a healthy appreciation of art, music and movies.  And that smart ass alter ego of mine?  That’s her, for sure.  But most importantly, without those hard times we faced, I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the special ones I have in my life like I do.  I wouldn’t have a fraction of the character and strength you all see and seem to admire.  I know for a fact that these clear perspectives on life and love that I’ve shared through this web site could not have developed without her. 

So, in hindsight, it’s a good thing The Crap…er, Gap hired me that summer seven years ago.  If they hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met Brit… and there’s a good chance this blog may have never come to life.  Thanks, b.  For everything.

(crappy apartment numero uno, circa 2001)

I think I want a blog

A friend said that to me a year ago today. Blog… blog… the term seemed vaguely familiar. Where had I heard it before? Weren’t "blogs" those Dutch wooden shoes? No wait, "Blög" was the name of that entertainment center that I saw in the IKEA catalog last week, right?  She laughed.  When she told me what a blog REALLY was, and that she wanted me to do one also, it was my turn to laugh.

I told her, a very talented (and published) freelance writer, that there was a reason I took engineering in college, and it wasn’t to meet girls (never had a single one in any of my classes): I hated, scratch that, I downright loathed  English, and the major only required three basic composition courses.  They were the only C’s I got in five years.  Writing just wasn’t my thing. 

In the end, obviously, I humored her and opened this site.  I posted the only thing I had ever written, a few pictures and a couple dorky lists, thinking that’s all this would ever be.  53 entries, three trips to the MSN homepage, 15 minutes of fame, a contract with a literary agent, and and over 900,000 hits later… here I stand (well, figuratively).  It should also be ironically noted that said friend pretty much lost interest within a week, and has only posted three things ever!  And while the list I just mentioned seems pretty amazing, they’re ultimately just things.  There’s one thing this goofy site has brought me that’s value could never be measured.  This "community" we’ve built.

Call it fate/God’s plan/whatever… it’s crazy to think about what has happened since my site was featured on MSN.com that fateful day last summer.  What started out with a bunch of complete strangers leaving comments of support, has developed into this close-knit community of friends who care and look out for one another like family.  Personally, there are SO many people out there who I haven’t actually met or spoken to in person that I hold very close to my heart… i.e. Jennifer, Keith, Marisa, Cori, Pilgrim Steve,Vanita (get well soon, girl), and Paul’s mom, just to name a few.

But I must say, it’s a little overwhelming to see how I was used as an instrument in all of this.  I was going back through my comments not too long ago, and it’s crazy to see how many people decided to tell their incredible stories after seeing mine, and how each one of them has gone on to make such big impacts on people’s lives they otherwise would have never known.  It’s humbling to think about.

My link on MSN.com that morning said "quadriplegic seeks purpose."  I’m starting to realize that that one link alone just might be a big part of it.  What a difference a year makes, yeah?

Somewhat perturbed

I’m extremely bored and slightly annoyed at the moment.  Maybe it’s the fact that I’m completely over-thinking my writing lately, and it would be easier for me to do a back flip than get out a complete thought these days, I don’t know.  I find myself wondering if the true reason I’m so frustrated is the realization I made a couple days ago that I will never be on Last Comic Standing… think about it… wait for it… yeah.  Sucks for me. Whatever the hell my problem is, it needs to go away.  Pronto.  I need to do something. 

A few ideas have crossed my mind that may need further investigation.  After someone pointed out www.dooce.com, and the fact that this broad FULLY supports her family just with the money from advertising on her blog, I have decided it’s something I should look into.  I mean, shit, The Man (MSN) is making money off my writing… why can’t I?  Of course, this will require my becoming edumakated in the cyber kung fu that is and to web design, but that shouldn’t be too difficult… I’m spry, or least I used to be.  And, you know I will have TONS of advertisers just kicking the door down from the get-go.  Seriously, can you think of a better place for The Gap to market Crippled Khaki???  I didn’t think so.

My good buddy Web offered up another decent suggestion when he and his wonderful fiancé were visiting last night: the stock market. Not really sure why that monster has always scared me so much… it’s just calculated gambling, right?  I never seemed to have much of a problem blowing $80 at the local casino’s blackjack tables, why not try my hand at this? It has to be at least SOMEWHAT safer, yeah?  Who knows, if I play my cards right, I might just make enough to be able to fund my long-awaited TV show, Queer Eye for The Crippled Guy, thus completing my plan of interstellar domination.

At the moment though, I’ve been keeping myself thoroughly entertained with some moviemaking software I’ve found.  The past few days, I have been transferring my old 8mm wrestling videos onto my hard drive, and toying with putting them all together in some sort of a DVD.  Is it just me, or did Bruce Springsteen’s "Glory Days" just start playing in the background?  Word, Boss, word. 

And look at that… a few complete thoughts.  Crappy thoughts, but thoughts nonetheless.  Hooray for me.

A kind request

Just a quick note to anyone that is planning to visit me anytime soon.  Could you do me a favor next time you’re here?  Pet my damn dog, would ya?  I mean, seriously… she’s almost 17 years old, completely deaf and pretty much blind.  What’s worse, she’s riddled with arthritis, and my parents decided to put hardwood floors throughout the entire house this last summer.  It’s bad enough that she barely has enough strength to get up on carpet, now every time she wants a drink of water, it’s a friggin reproduction of Bambi on Ice.  And then to top it all off, her best friend doesn’t so much as lift a finger when she walks in the room anymore! That’s gotta be confusing as all hell, don’t you think?  I wonder what goes through her head. 

"I spend my whole life being the sweetest dog on the planet, sitting, staying, fetching, etc…. and this is how these bastards repay me?  The guy that used to play with me all the time, just sits around in that rolling chair all day, and they turned the downstairs into a god damn slip and slide!  Sure doesn’t make it any easier to get away from those littler weasels that always chase me around and pull my tail.  Oh well, at least they tend to drop food every now and then."  So yeah, next time you come by, show Tess some love, okay?  Good talk.