This is not a post about me or my business. This is about being human and recognizing, in all of the people around us, what it is to be human. We are all human.
On Saturday, October 1, while on my way with my wife and kids to go to the movies, we encountered a man, off his bike and down on the side of the road, who had suffered, as we found out later, a massive heart attack. He had what is called a "widow maker" heart attack, resulting from a total occlusion of his left anterior descending coronary artery. Another passerby, a bicyclist like the man down but (as I learned) was not with him, had encountered the man down moments before and look a bit rattled, seeing the seriousness of the situtation, but not seeming to know what to do.
My father was a surgeon, my uncle a pediatrician. I considered medicine as an undergraduate but found I didn't have the cutthroat temperament that was prevalent among pre-meds, nor did I really have the drive to pursue the career. I was also eminently distracted by a lot of other great science that was taking place in molecular biology and genetics in the early 1980s. So, after college, I traveled down a road that included healthcare, commercial biotechnology labwork, biotech business development and ultimately market analysis of medical technologies. I was fascinated by the idea of applying science to specific, targeted applications -- diagnostics, therapeutics. That road took me into healthcare, but in a role that is at arm's length from people, the actual recipients of healthcare.
The man down is younger than me. I'm 51. Aside from being unconscious, he looks like he is in pretty good shape. My guess is that he could be in his mid or late-30s. (I learn later that he is actually 49.) With the mountain bike, his helmet on, sunglasses on, lying on his back on the slope by the sidewalk -- he looks like he is just resting from his ride. But as the other biker recognized, the man down is not resting, he's unconscious.
Twenty years ago, I worked at Parkland Hospital in Dallas, close to the University of Dallas, where I got my bachelor's degree. I worked there to gain exposure to the front line of medicine. Parkland is a large county hospital (where JFK was brought after Dealey Plaza) that encounters everything in metropolitan medicine from major to minor trauma and every type of ailment, injury and disease. Its ER alone is larger than most hospitals, even at big cities. As an "emergency technician" -- slang for "do everything unappealing that needs to be done in the ER", from clean up to "take this poor soul to the morgue" -- I encountered a lot of medicine that was perfectly suited to showing me the hardcore reality of medicine. It neither validated nor rejected my view of medicine as a career, since for whatever reason I felt as if I already knew this was the way it was. People live, people die, naturally or not, and all of them happened there, from the poor old emaciated woman with jet black hair (dyed probably out of vanity), whose family brought her, in advanced stages of metastatic cancer, to die in the ER without pain, to the poor blue collar worker who suffered a massive heart attack at the end of his otherwise unremarkable day. I saw those who were beyond help as often as those who were pulled from the abyss by underpaid nurses and exhausted ER docs who just did the right thing when it was necessary.
I pat him several times on the shoulder and call to him, "buddy, are you OK, can you hear me?". No response. I check his pulse. I feel two, maybe three beats that are feeble and not convincing. The beats stop. I pull off his sunglasses. That hits me hard, since his eyes are looking at something, or nothing, that isn't here anymore. I realize that I've seen this before and I start to tense (this man is close to the end). I put my ear to his chest to hear something, anything. Nothing. At this point, I hear my mother urging me to do the right thing no matter what. I just start in without much thought and, in any case, I feel as though I'm operating purely on instinct anyway.
I am thinking, this man is young -- younger than me -- I have no doubt that he has a young wife and young kids. My eyes well up as I think, someone loves him, someone depends on him, I have to do something, I have to try. "Call 911" I yell, knowing there are other people behind me, and I hear someone respond that they're on it. I pull off his helmet (thinking, it's too tight, the strap must be hurting his ability to get air), he's in the bushes on a slope, let's get him down on the sidewalk. I worry that his head, which lolls so freely forward and back, will hit the pavement. I call to the other bicyclist to hold the man's head, he does, and I lay him down.
At that point, it is really a blur as I do everything I can, calling upon everything I have learned from training years ago, from references to CPR I have read recently (not realizing how "relevant" they are), to my instincts. He needs oxygenated blood. How long has he been down? He's warm, not long, but it's also hot today. Who knows? I give three to four breaths to make sure there's fresh oxygen in his lungs. The air comes back in a groan from him (my emotions say he's alive, but my logic tells me it's just air coming back over the vocal cords). He needs compressions, mostly compressions. I start doing the compressions, knowing that it's the center of the sternum, above the xyphoid process and that it requires deeper compressions than my instincts might suggest.
Time is passing faster than I can realize. I honestly have no idea how long I have been at the compressions. Five, ten minutes, more? Sirens, fire trucks, Orange County Sheriffs, suddenly there are MANY people here. An EMT asks, Are you OK? Can you continue? I need to get set up, he says. I'm fine (I can't see how I would stop until they told me to). He says, OK, just keep going a little faster, a little deeper, so I do.
Eight years ago, in the middle of the night, I had a deep chest pain that didn't resemble any minor ache, pain, or gas bubble I had ever had. I called my doctor, got checked out. At 43 years old, I had two coronary arteries that were nearly 90% occluded. An angioplasty and a stent brought me back to my wife and kids and changed my definitions of what was important from then on.
I am relieved to have all of these professionals take over, with their training, experience, and technologies. But at the same time, I worry about this poor man, who I have come to have such a vested interest in, and whether they will absolutely do everything they can to get him back.
He is defibrillated two, three (?) times, arms flying up in reaction to the jolt. I wait for some kind of response that is not a simple reflex, a reaction. An EMT tells me he's in v-fib (ventricular fibrillation) -- I ask if that is in any way a good sign, but he says no, not really. Neighbors have now arrived, recognizing me or just drawn by curiosity to this event. I tell those I know that this doesn't look good. I try not to break down. This poor man. His poor family.
I realize, after giving my story and contact details to police that it is time for me to leave. The man is being put on a stretcher, loaded into the ambulance. An officer comes to me, shakes my hand and says thank you, he has a chance. I am startled. He says there is a pulse, he may yet make it.
My wife and kids are in the car across the street, I need to go to them. (I learn that my wife wanted to make sure 911 was called, knowing that cell phones are sometime unreliable in giving precise locations, so she drove to a neighbor's house, burst in and did so. She will always do the right thing.)
I see a woman arrive at the scene, very distraught, she must be his wife. I want to comfort her, but it is all so chaotic, uncertain. I am so afraid for her future and his.
I have no idea who he is. I've never seen him before. But that doesn't matter. He's human. I'm human. I have no choice but to try and help him.
My first instinct after telling people about this is to tell them, take a course in CPR. Get certified. Someday you just might need it and you will never regret that at least you did your best.
He is still in the hospital. His fate is uncertain and he may not yet make it. All I know is that, if I was not there and did what I did, his fate would indeed be certain.
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