Hers were very calmly delivered, pure psychological degradation. She was very narcissistic, such as entering beauty pageants, taking modeling classes, and becoming a varsity song girl (i.e., cheer leader) in high school. She craved the attention, and would walk past me on campus as if we were complete strangers — no, actually she’d probably smile to a complete stranger.

Sometime between his teens and 20s, my younger brother, Alan, emerged with his own narcissistic and violent, sociopathic characteristics. None of us were close growing up. The only two siblings who maintained an ongoing relationship into adulthood were Kathy, the oldest, and Alan, the youngest. They also shared the similar violent and hostile temperaments, the charming personas, and the complete lack of compassion, morality, integrity and of course, any semblance of honesty.

I guess from sheer luck, the gene skipped me. Doing so, though, resulted in me becoming the outcast, the same way my mom would end up being treated.

Question: What’s considered a bad-upbringing in terms of a sociopath … being spoiled or being abused?  Just food for thought.

It’s in our Genes … not our upbringing.

In summary, the bad gene was brought into the family from my dad’s side, and he passed it to three of his four offspring. I believe that I carry the gene, though I was the skipped generation. From what I’ve been able to gather, my dad got the bad gene from his mother’s side. The source paths don’t seem that difficult to identify, as long as one has a sufficient, if not just a minimal amount of experience to compare both parents.

Obtaining additional knowledge gathered from other branches of the family would prove very beneficial as well. And as luck would have it, I was recently contacted by a “distant cousin” from another branch of our family. He located me on Ancestry.com — a site I registered on a few years ago as a free member, and frankly, that was all I ever did. But his contact was very timely.

To tell my story completely, one must also know the physical trauma and injuries I endured, beginning with a broken back at the age of 12, and how my siblings used that to increase their character assassination of me, sometime after my hospital stay about 40 years later.

At the end of 2001, I had surgery on my back, and was infected with MRSA around my spine. Initially not even expected to survive, and after 120 days of intensive treatment, I never fully recovered. You can read all about the details leading up to that event from the links in the right column, right under MY NINE LIVES. If you do read it, pay close attention to the characteristics of my surgeon, and see if you recognize any familiar traits.

As I’ve said many times: “They kept me alive, but took away my life.”

How many sociopaths have you had in your life?

People who think they can read 10-steps on how to identify a sociopath need a reality check — it’s virtually impossible. Sociopaths are so cunning, such great actors, so manipulative, seemingly some of the nicest people around, that if you do suspect someone, there’s a good chance you identified a jerk. Sociopaths focus everything on hiding their true personality. They are the ones most people never suspect. Such as Bernard Madoff.

Unless you happen to witness something that sends chills up your spine — chances are you’ll never suspect anything. But if you do see something, you better hope they didn’t see you. If they discovered you witnessed something, anything, even nothing but they react from their own paranoia, it’s time for you to change jobs, or even move out of state. Because even if that individual laughs it off with an acceptable excuse, they now know you saw something that could threaten them.

The sociopath will win. They have no limits … you do.

They may even appear to become better friends with you, and that’s all it would be is “appearance.” What they could be doing is keeping a closer eye on you, and without raising your suspicions, attempt to determine exactly what you do know, what you did see, and what you will discuss. While at the same time, as they learn more about you, they could begin the process to decimate your character, spreading the most evil and malicious lies about you. So evil, that people who had associated with you, will begin to avoid you.

A sociopath takes no risks with having their public persona revealed as a fake, as that would threaten their entire lifestyle. Even if only fueled by their own paranoia, a sociopath will not wait to go on the defensive. What they do is what I call: offensive-revenge. A sociopath has virtually no boundaries or limits … they see it as a job that needs to be done, and nothing will get in their way to prevent them from achieving success. Not even the legal system.

It’s all in their public persona. Someone may present their persona at home, 24/7, just as they do everywhere else. Even a spouse can be extremely difficult to recognize as having sociopathic characteristics if they are determined to hide it from everyone, as they know even family can be a threat.

I believe that a sociopath can be so extremely ruthless, so evil, so guilt-free, that they are capable of what I call: indirect homicide. Such as a victim that became so banished and an outcast by those he considered friends, that the victim could resort to ending his own life.

And that sociopath would continue their maliciously evil lifestyle without losing a bit of sleep.

But frankly, we should really start at the beginning …

###

NEXT:  Growing-up hated by my loved ones.

Age: 2-4
Being Grounded

This has nothing to do with being placed on restriction, as that would be a bit odd for a toddler. This is about that other ground, the ground that electricity always looks for. Based on my size and the layout of the house, this has to be one of my earliest memories … which also could have ended my race before I ever got out of the gate.

I was crawling on the floor in our family room, and I happened to squeeze in behind an overstuffed chair. There, in front of me, were two things that seemed to go together, at least based on my limited-life experience.

On the floor was a metal bobby pin and on the wall was a small, rectangular plastic covering with two slots on top, and two on the bottom. I know my mom stuck things in there. So, I recall seeing no reason, whatsoever, that the two sides of the bobby pin should not go in the two little slots on the wall outlet.

Hence, while sitting comfortably at eye-level with the outlet, I proceeded to spread the bobby pin open, and slide it in.

From what I know now, that was my first time cheating death. An electrician once told me that more people die from standard 110 than the higher 220. With 220, the jolt is so powerful that it will literally throw someone across the room, thus breaking the connection. On the other hand, he said, 110 locks you on. He described it just as I remembered it.

I remember how the situation went from just playing to very painful panic.

The entire right side of my body had completely locked up … I was holding on to the pin tighter without the ability to let go, open my hand, move my arm, or make a sound. I cannot even guess how long it was before the connection somehow broke, but the bobby pin was red hot when it hit the floor, and I badly burned two fingers and my thumb.

I figured anything that hurt that bad was not something I should have been messing with, so to avoid the trouble that I would surely get in, I kept this ordeal to myself, as I learned to do with most things that hurt.

Increasing my Pain Threshold

I have suffered with physical pain as long as I can remember. Even before my injuries, I often got headaches, which I just assumed were like everyone else’s headaches. But I realized that other people were able to walk around and complain about their headache, yet I couldn’t even move with mine … unless I became nauseous, which then forced me to move.

They were migraines. The light-sensitive, sound-sensitive, nauseating, with the feeling of a nail-driven-in-just-above-my-eye kind of migraines. I could get them often, too, which I guess were cluster headaches … sometimes 3-4 in one week. Occasionally, I’d go a month without one.

At that early age, I began to question the true knowledge of many medical practitioners, i.e., doctors. For years, I was told I was not getting migraines, because I did not get the aura (don’t ask me, I never got one).

I was told an aura can manifest itself in different ways, and one friend told me she would get a big spot right in the very center of her vision, blocking the majority of her vision. I’ve also heard of tunnel vision, floaters, and all before the pain begins. I just get the pain.

In my mid-20s, I came across a medical research team’s white papers on migraine research that concluded … get this:  not everyone with migraines gets auras first.  Oh, really?

I was fairly young when I accepted that no one would be as tuned-in, aware, or as interested in my health and wellbeing as I was. So, I began studying anything affecting me, even diagnosing what was ailing me, so when I went to the doctor, I would ask for the medicine I determined would be best. Never once was I refused.

I’ve known my migraine triggers, and they’ve changed over the years: bright light, loud noise, certain foods (of course, all my favorites) as well as food additives, such as MSG. And when I was a kid, there was a product — and still may be — in a red shaker, called Accent. Pure, powered MSG to sprinkle on anything, and not knowing anything else at the time, we sprinkled.

But I wonder if my migraines have also been affected by some of the following injuries.

NOTE: it seemed as if I was always recovering from at least one bicycle or skate board crash, resulting in nasty road-rash. Now road-rash wasn’t usually life-threatening, but even so, road-rash hurt like hell. That’s where you slide on the pavement and end up with raw meat where skin used to be.

So, to keep this to a minimum, I’ll avoid the majority of injuries and include only the few which contributed to my skirts with death, and my condition today.

Age: 7-8
First Concussion

I remember being with friends at the top of a long, steep driveway, and waiting for my turn to ride the Flexi down the hill (a Flexi is similar to a snow sled you’d lie on, but with wheels).

The next thing I recall is regaining consciousness, lying on a sofa, in a strange house, with a woman frantically placing ice packs on my head. I was not crying, but I was very confused. I only stayed conscious for what must have been less than a minute.

The next thing I remember is that same woman helping me out of a car, and when I looked up, we were in front of my house. My grandmother was standing on the porch, as if she was expecting us. The lady helped me up to the house, where my grandmother told me just to go lie down in my room, which I did. My folks were on vacation and my grandmother was babysitting. The most pronounced memory of the event was how confused I remained … it was as if I was in a thick fog even at my house.

Days later, I remember asking friends what had happened to me that day. Apparently, I went down the hill on the Flexi, turned sharply uphill, which caused it to flip into the air, with me still holding on.

Our initial impact with the asphalt was completely inverted, meaning the Flexi was on top of me, resulting in the initial blow to my head. I was told I flipped a few times, came to a stop, and didn’t move. And of course, with my grandmother there, I received no medical attention.

Age: 12
Unconscious Again.

My pal, Randy, and I were out riding bikes, as we always did. It was summertime. We had ridden up into Woodland Acres where there was a fairly large, dry creek bed, with a very high and long rope swing. Just to get to it, we would need to climb onto another tree, pull a smaller rope to get the big rope, so as to begin a swing. The velocity was truly exhilarating. And even then, I was drawn to those two words.

For some reason, Randy got bored and wandered away to explore, probably no more than 40-50m. I remember I was able to see him when I was on the tree, and just before stepping off to begin a swing.

There was a piece of wood, a 2-by-4, on the bottom of the rope. I remember grabbing it differently than I had (which provided me the impending crash-course on the importance of thumbs — pun intended). I stepped off the tree, and began another, fast exhilarating decent. But as soon as I got to the bottom of the swing, and began the ascent up the other side, where the G-forces would be greatest, I remember the exact moment when I was no longer holding on to that 2×4.

Time plays strange tricks. First, I felt no fear, and that could have been because I felt as if I was floating, not falling. Thinking back to everything that went through my head, it would seem that I hovered for 5-10 seconds, though it could not have been more than a fraction. Floating was my last memory, as I have no recollection of the impact.

Rejoining the Real World

I was lying on my back when I opened my eyes to see Randy’s red face staring within arm’s reach of mine. His expression hit me as humorous, and I recall that it made me want to laugh. The look on his face was from panic, though, as he knew what I was about to discover — I wasn’t breathing. The beginning of my laugh was replaced instantly with overwhelming panic and intense pain. Nothing like I had ever experienced.

The harder I tried to take in a breath, the more intense my chest pain got, and as the seconds passed, I truly thought I would not be able to get a breath in time. It seemed like an eternity, which makes it very difficult to know how long it was before I got my first very shallow bit of air. But after the first small inhale, they slowly became larger.

From Randy’s Perspective

From what Randy said, it could have been anywhere from 1.25 to 2 minutes before he got to me. He said he heard a dull thud, but not a sound he thought I had made. But he looked over, and couldn’t see me. He said he called out a few times, and with no answer, he decided to get up and walk over — that 40-50m. He, of course, had no idea what he was about to face.

Due to all the oak trees, he did not see me on the ground until he was almost on top of me. He remembered clearly he saw no movement, my eyes were partly open, and then he realized there was no indication I was breathing. Right then, Randy said the panic paralyzed him, since at that point, he thought was I was dead.

My best guess is that this took place before the public awareness of CPR, so additionally, he felt completely helpless. He did the only thing that came natural: he yelled my name but got no response, he yelled it again, and again nothing. And as he was beginning to truly fall apart himself, bordering on shock, he screamed my name with everything he had, almost with anger … and with that, he said my eyes opened, my head slowly turned and looked at him, and with a brief hint of a smile, it disappeared instantly into a struggle for my life.

It was his third yell that I responded to, though I don’t recall hearing him yell anything. As kids, we didn’t think about it — just another day out playing, just another injury with very little loss of blood, hence, another successful day of play — but in hindsight, it was almost my very last.

Randy saved my life that day. I do not recall anything else after we rode our bicycles off to another exploration. By the time I got home that evening, it was probably not even on my mind. So, once again, I received no medical attention.

Age: 14  
2 years after the long-forgotten fall.

My freshman year at a Jesuit prep school. I was on the Judo team. After arriving home from a Judo practice one day, I began experiencing very acute muscle spasms throughout my back.

In a short time, the spasms became so intense that taking anything more than a shallow breath was quite painful. Within the hour, both my mom and dad took me to the hospital.

I easily recall how much I was struggling with the pain, I sort of remember having the x-rays taken. But from the time we were called back by the radiologist to view the x-rays, my memory is very clear.

As we entered the room, the light boxes were mounted on the wall to our right, and there were four or five films on display. But my focus didn’t get past the first film, since on that film, one vertebrae was obviously different than the others. Instead of having that squarish look, this one angled down on one side, so the right face was shorter than the left. It had been crushed. I recall being baffled as to what could have caused that in Judo. I noticed all that in the first couple seconds, before the doctor had even said anything. I did not take my eyes off that vertebrae.

The first thing the doctor did say was “I know you’re looking at that (pointing at the vertebrae we were staring at), and I’ll get to that in a moment, but I need to draw your attention to this.”

“Your son broke his back. Look here and you can see the fracture. But this fracture is not new … it has been healing for some time. None of this was caused by a recent injury.

I still laugh when I think about what happened next. Both my parents, in a simultaneous, choreographic move, rotated and looked down at me almost as if I were to make a statement. I was completely bewildered … as well as speechless, so all I was able to do was smile back.

It must have taken me days, if not longer, to place the rope-swing event, from over two-years earlier, as the cause for the damage to my spine. Two years, for a kid, is a lifetime … that rope-swing event had long become a non-event. But undoubtedly, that was all it could have been

I was referred to a orthopedic surgeon, and was under his care for the next 5-6 years. I try to see something positive in everything, and with this, I saw a 4F status that would keep me from being shipped off to Vietnam.

Teens and Twenties

As a life-long bicyclist, when it was time for us to get a driver’s license and a car, I got my license and a motorcycle. I began racing motorcycles by the time I was 20, and once during a race, I was hit by another competitor, immediately found myself sliding down the asphalt at about 70-80mph, and while I was sliding, I rotated around and saw what was happening behind me.

To my terror, someone else’s motorcycle was cartwheeling — front wheel over rear wheel over front wheel, etc., — in the exact same line I was sliding in, but moving much faster and gaining on me. My attempt to stand-up and simply get out of the way failed miserably since I was likely still sliding along at 40-50 MPH — but I remember feeling as if I would be able to do it. The motorcycle did land on top of me, but I was able to absorb some of the bike’s weight and velocity with my legs. That certainly was not the only time I crashed.

I also joined a speed-skating team, and probably did more damage to my back on skates than bicycles and motorcycles combined. From my teen years, I have never been without back pain, as it only got worse as I got older. No one told me I wasn’t indestructible, but I was told you only live once.

1986

Sitting at a stop light in Los Angeles on a nice sunny Saturday, I was taking my future ex-wife’s car in for a tune-up. I glanced into my rearview mirror just in time to see the car coming up behind me, but unable to see the driver’s face.

He was looking down at something on the passenger seat, and completely unaware that cars were stopped in front of him. He drove into me at around 40mph. To add insult to true injury, he fled the scene. And if I was ever able to focus on a small object disappearing in the distance, it was his tag … and somehow, with nothing to write it on, I remembered it.

Every time I got into my ex-wife’s car as a passenger, I would always have to raise the headrests up, since she said they messed her hair or something. Unfortunately, I did not notice that day from the driver’s side that the headrests were again lowered all the way down, which was at my shoulder level. The way my head snapped back, I thought it was going to rip off. If it were a cartoon, my neck would have been an accordion.

January 2001

Fifteen years had slipped by, when out of nowhere, my 1986 whiplash came back with an extremely dangerous and nasty attitiude …

continued in Part 2 …

Title Explanation :: Semi-related Parallel Trauma This series covers my other trauma, physical trauma. It runs parallel since pain has been an ongoing aspect of my life, just as the evil dished out by my sociopaths has been. And lastly, it is semi-related because crashing in a motorcycle race had nothing to do with the evil I was dealt, though some physical injury, and ongoing abuse, certainly was. Also, I know for fact that my physical well-being has always been affected by my state-of-mind.

January 2001

In late January, I began getting muscle spasms in my left shoulder. Within a week, I could no longer lie down, forcing me to sleep in a chair. The pain in my upper back and shoulders was becoming unbearable.

One evening, I was in my daughter’s room when I tossed her comforter onto the bed. That simple action almost took me out, by a new level of intense, acute nerve pain, unlike anything I had ever felt.

At least in my experience, pain caused by a pinched nerve all happens in a split second, just like getting shocked, but the residual effect of that much pain lasts for quite some time.

The best I can describe what happened in my daughter’s room was that a bolt of lightning originating in my shoulder, shot down my left arm with such force that I remember thinking my fingers were going to explode from the pressure. I yelled and cradled my left arm as I left the room.

I visited my PCP who took some film of my neck, then promptly referred me to a neurosurgeon at Piedmont Hospital. Dale R., MD, was the head of the Neuroscience Department at the hospital, as well as having his own surgical practice. He saw me the next day, primarily to take MRIs.

My next appointment with Dr. Dale was first thing the following morning for him to review the film. He told me he rarely sees anything quite as bad to highly suggest emergency surgery on a first visit.

He said he would always be candid with me, and at that point, he told me that worst case scenario, I was at risk for paralysis — with, or without the surgery — best case would be some permanent nerve damage. What he pointed out and explained was I had a severely herniated and ruptured disk that was compressing my spinal cord, and it could literally paralyze me if it got much worse. I had already lost most of the feeling in my left hand.

I stood with him as he and his secretary moved previously scheduled surgeries around to make an opening for me. His regular current wait time was three-to-four weeks.

My surgery was scheduled for two days later — Valentine’s Day, 2001.

Of My Five Senses, Hearing Wakes First

When I’ve come out of surgery, my hearing wakes-up first. My other senses do not exist. I cannot see, which is not like closing your eyes, it’s more like you don’t have them. Nor can I feel, which does not mean pins and needles, it means no body. Luckily my brain puts everything into perspective, as I know where I am and what I’m doing. But still, I feel as if I’m just a big ear floating in space, and listening to everything around me.

Lesson to Learn: Never talk in front of someone “sleeping” in a hospital bed, because you think they cannot hear you. You may end up being very surprised. After my surgeries, I would be able to hear and process everything I heard as normal. The one big thing not normal was that only my sense of hearing had returned — I could not see, move or make a sound.

Initially, I considered the surgery successful for a few reasons:

1  I was able to wiggle my toes;
2  I awoke in a horizontal position, and didn’t feel that pain;
3  the spasms were gone, and so was the lightning.

I did acquire nerve damage, as not all the feeling returned to my left hand. But time would be needed to confirm how successful it was overall, and unfortunately, time never provided the answer I hoped for.

My neck never healed correctly, and here, nine years later, my neck is providing me a constant level of pain, both chronic and acute, that I never had before the surgery. Also, I often hear grinding when I turn my head, which is accompanied with arthritic-type pain. My neck is held together by six titanium screws, and two titanium rods.

Since the surgery, I also need to be very careful while eating. Food lodges easily in my throat, as if they left a poorly marked detour in there. Even swallowing one typical sized pill will usually get caught, and more often than not, I need to bring it up, before I attempt to send it back down again. I’ve had a few fairly frightening experiences, moving beyond lodging to borderline-choking … the worst time it happened, I was alone and on the floor before it cleared.

What’s Changed

Even though my neck never gave me chronic pain, in just two weeks, it became the reason I would have surgery on my spine, like it or not. I doubt I would have ever had back surgery if not for my emergency neck surgery.

I figured my back would not be as difficult as my neck, not an emergency, and I’d be able to finish my life closer to pain-free. About a month after I recovered from my neck surgery, I went back to Dr. Dale, where he promptly had MRIs shot of my lower back.

He showed me where four vertebrae were virtually missing the three disks that were supposed to cushion them and protect the nerves … they were now, and had been for some time, virtually bone-on-bone.

I asked him about other treatments, and he explained them, but provided little hope they would offer any relief. I tried the only ones with any hope — both were epidural-steroid treatments, one administered in a simple office setting, and the second more surgically but with a much higher chance for success

In July, I had the simple office procedure, and it did exactly nothing, just as the pain specialist predicted.

In August, I showed up for the more invasive procedure. That pain specialist predicted the same outcome … little-to-no relief. My pain relief had vanished by the next afternoon … just over 24 hours. For the right candidate, epidural-steroid treatments can provide pain relief for six months and longer.

In September, I had planned to schedule my surgery, but time stopped and the world changed — I was watching CNN live when the second plane hit. I had been in those buildings, even at the top. That moment had a very lasting effect on me. It would be another month before I returned to “thinking surgery” and scheduling my back procedure.
 
continued in Part 3 . . .

2001 Nov 7, Wed

Karan, a woman I had met just a few months earlier, had offered to drive me to the hospital. It was not convenient for her in the least, either.

She had to drive an hour to get to my home from her’s, then travel another hour to get to the hospital. When we pulled up, I told Karan she could just drop me off at the entrance.

Her response was a very firm, “No way, I’m walking in with you.”

Karan won that dispute as she drove right to the parking deck and found a convenient spot. As soon as I checked-in, I was told they were ready for me in pre-op, so Karan gave me a hug, and wished me the best.

Within minutes of arriving in pre-op, they had run an IV, and suddenly, I had not one single care in the world. Shortly thereafter, my life was in the hands of an unnamed anesthesiologist. 

Once again, my hearing woke before my other senses, and to my immediate astonishment, I recognized Karan’s voice talking to the nurses.

Right after that, I listened as Karan called my parents and gave them a great prognosis … once again, be careful with what you say in the presence of a “sleeping” hospital patient. Luckily, I heard nothing but good stuff.

Karan, a widow who lost her husband to skin cancer a decade earlier, waited there for over six hours just so she knew I was OK. A woman I knew for only a short time became one of the champions in my life.

My own siblings never even called.
 

2001 Nov 8, Thu

Waking up this morning was my first real complete consciousness since the beginning of my surgery yesterday morning.

I had little bits of memory in recovery, and being moved to my room when I heard Karan. But then I believe they kept me sedated for the night, which was fine, except for one thing …

A pseudo-umbilical cord?! The first thing I noticed when I awoke was that my catheter was still in, which meant I was going to experience something I was hoping not to: someone yanking my catheter out while I was awake. Big bummer.

Morning Rounds: Dr. Dale R. appears in my room, but seems surprisingly serious. He said, “You bled too much.”  I first thought he must be kidding.

“The surgery took a lot longer than it should have.”  But he wasn’t kidding, as he was angry at me for bleeding too much.

I really wanted to say, “Do you want to do it again, and I’ll try to bleed less? Silly me, but isn’t that why you get paid the Big Bucks?”

Big Bucks :: adj noun :: 1) billing my insurance company $34,000 for a 4-5 hour procedure; 2) insurance company paid him $11,000, which he accepted, and likely wrote off the rest (taxes, what taxes?). He performs about six surgeries per week.

That was a side of him I had not seen, but it would be virtually the only side I’d see going forward.

Just after Dr Dale left, two nurses entered my room. Liz, a middle-aged woman, introduced herself as the head nurse. She then introduced Bridgette as a student nurse. Liz wanted to let me know that Bridgette would be working with the staff nurses that morning.

A short time later, while lying on my left side, my back to the door, I heard Liz’s voice as she was again entering my room. She was explaining the proper way to remove a catheter. I glanced up briefly to see that Bridgette was getting the ten-second training.

Almost immediately, very mixed feelings overwhelmed me, as I recall thinking I wanted to ask Liz to slow down with those instructions … don’t make her nervous.

Since all I was wearing was a hospital gown, I moved it out of the way as they approached … and kept my eyes shut. As I waited for a moment to interject a question, things happened too quickly.

Suddenly, I was lifted, followed immediately by a very strong and uncomfortable tug … sort of like having the catheter attached to a slamming castle door. I emitted an unexpected moan, and folded right in half into the prenatal position.

I was still trying to catch my breath after they were gone. They walked out so quickly and quietly that I wondered if they laughed at my reaction once they got to the hallway.

I have no doubt that I was Bridgette’s first catheter tug. It made me wonder if a nurse with a thousand good tugs to her name would have left me in a different state, something other than a rope-burn in the urinary-tract kind of feeling. Or maybe given me a 1-2-3…tug.

But, I recovered just fine in what seemed like an eternity.

I had my first of two scheduled appointments with a physical therapist that Thursday afternoon. I had no idea what to expect. She told me she just needed to see me walk, and since she couldn’t keep up, she said I was doing great.

2001 Nov 9, Fri

Morning Rounds: Dr. Dale came by to measure the amount of blood in my vacu-something. It’s a spring-loaded pouch, with a tube going into my surgical wound. Its job is to keep the hemorrhaging from filling my torso.

Dr R. once again reminded me that I bled too much, and I certainly would not be going home Saturday, as it was the early-release possibility. I didn’t see this in him before, but he was holding a grudge that I bled too much. What’s with that? I was already getting to where I was not looking forward to his visits, as he just carried an attitude.

I had my second of two scheduled appointments with a physical therapist that Friday afternoon, and this time I was led into the fire escape and asked to climb some stairs. So I walked right up one flight, looked back down at her, and she waved me to come back down. When I got there, she was laughing.

She looked up at me and said, “I meant just three or four steps.” She also said I was doing great and I should expect a fairly quick recovery, as most people do struggle to get up a few steps after the surgery I had. I remember not being surprised, since I was in good shape and expected to recover quickly.

It was Friday evening, and after spending two nights, it was the longest I had ever been confined to a hospital.

2001 Nov 10, Sat

Morning Rounds: Dr. Dale came by to measure the amount of blood in my vacu-something. I asked him if it looked as if I’d be able to go home Sunday … now if I had kept my mouth shut, my foot would have never slipped in so easily.

I recall his reply, steeped in attitude, that if I hadn’t bled so much, maybe … but at this rate, he didn’t think I’d even be going home Monday.

A simple “no” would have sufficed.

Early Saturday Afternoon

As I was rolling over, I felt a sharp pain around my surgical wound area. I immediately envisioned that a staple had come loose. A few minutes later, I got that sharp poke again, so I page the nurse.

When the nurse took a look at my back, she reacted startled, “No, it’s not a staple … your drain tube came out. Here, I’m just going to pull the rest of it out.”

With that, she came around to the front of me, and said, “Look, this much was inside your back”  indicating approximately 24-28 inches. She told me she’d leave a message with the doctor and let me know what he says.

About 30 minutes later, she told me he knew and he would see me in the morning on his morning rounds. Considering his reaction, I assumed it wasn’t that critical.

2001 Nov 11, Sun

Morning Rounds: With a nurse already in my room, Dale R, MD, entered, walked quietly to my bedside, and said, “So I hear you pulled the tube out of your back?”

I half-heartedly chuckled at his attempt at humor, and returned an equally humorous, “Yea.”

After a brief silence, he said it again, “I hear you pulled the tube out of your back?”

RED FLAGS APPEARED EVERYWHERE.

That time, I responded quickly and very directly …

“OK, that’s the second time you said that, so allow me to be perfectly clear about this: I DID NOT pull any tube out of my back. It would appear to me that the tube was not properly connected, and it worked its way out. Any other questions?”

He said nothing else about that.

After examining my back, he said, “Well, since the tube is out, I guess you can go home.”

If a surgeon, as well as the head of the Neuroscience Department, smiles and says I can go home, then it must be safe for me to go home.

At the time, little did I know that he had more than enough experience to be well aware that he was likely sending me off to my death … with a smile.

I bled too much.
 
to be continued … soon
 

Critical Events to Remember from Part 3:

1) Both physical therapists, from Thursday and Friday, told me I was doing great and I should expect a fully successful recovery.

2) Dr Dale kept reminding me that I bled too much — frankly, I think he was angry too much.

3) Saturday morning, Dr Dale stated that I may not even go home Monday, based on the amount I was still bleeding internally. That also factored in having the vacu-something fully-functional and completing its job until I stopped hemorrhaging — at least through Monday.

4) A few hours later, the tube came out. From that moment, the vacu-something ceased to provide any more of its critical functionality — something emphasized repeatedly by Dr Dale.

5) When informed, Dr Dale stated he’d check it when he saw me the next morning, Sunday.

6) Sunday morning he immediately appeared to be attempting to audio-record an admission from me, as if I were deliberately responsible for the tube coming free.

7) Dr Dale states that since the tube came out, I can go home (re-read #3 above).

Additionally, Dr Dale released me without a bandage covering my surgical wound, nor with any antibiotics. My understanding is that he was 75 years old when he operated on me.