Detour from Normal (39 page)

As noon rolled around, I waited with everyone else for the lunch cart. Just after noon George rolled Matthew up to a table in his wheelchair. I joined him at the table and sat down.

"Hi, Matthew, how are you feeling?" I asked.

"I'm great this morning. Hey, I have a special treat for you."

"What's that?"

"I ordered a Papa John's pizza for both of us, so don't eat anything else."

"Awesome, I could really use some pizza." Matthew had no idea that it had been a dream of mine to share a pizza with him. It was inconceivable that he would ask me to do that on my last day. "I'll supply the drinks. Bartender?" Al came over with a smirk on his face. "Can we have two of Matthew's signature drinks—apple juice?" Both Matthew and Al smiled, and he headed off to the snack room refrigerator to get some apple juice.

When the pizza finally arrived, Matthew and I clinked our juice boxes together in a mock toast. "Cheers," we said in unison. As I ate my lukewarm pizza, I swore it was the best I'd ever had.

After lunch I noticed Jimmy sitting alone at a table. He looked impatient. I'd never seen anything but a huge grin on his face, so I sat down with him.

"Jimmy, what's up? You look worried." He looked at me and a smile—a real smile—spread across his face. I sensed it was meant especially for me. "Weren't you supposed to be released?"

"Yeah, my girlfriend couldn't pick me up. She had to work. She's coming to get me later today."

"That's great. I'm happy for you. It's my last day here, too. My wife is coming to take me home."

Jimmy nodded. "That's good," he said.

It seemed like Jimmy had a lot on his mind that he needed to unload. He told me about his girlfriend, his mom, his cats, where he lived, and his old job as an electronics technician. I couldn't believe how much he talked. I'd never heard him speak so long or so well before. It seemed that he'd broken through all of his barriers and arrived at "normal." Finally, he stopped and sighed. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said, "You know, I really like you."

"I like you, too, Jimmy. I'm going to miss you. Good luck with your life." I extended my hand and we shook like two old friends. I was amazed at how far he'd come and so glad to have witnessed the miracle of his rebirth.

Normally I would have expected Beth to visit at 2:00 p.m. That day was different. She was coming at one to take me home. The long days of counting Emma's calendar stick-ups were over. One at a time they fell until there I was. I sat on the same sofa I'd always sat on when I waited for Beth's arrival. At 1:00 p.m., right on cue, the blue double doors swung open and she walked into the room. I couldn't help but notice how fantastic she looked. It was more than just clothes and makeup—it was an aura. She was vibrant, happy. She had a bounce to her step that had been alien to her in the past weeks. Instead of gingerly hugging me as she usually did, she wrapped her arms around me, pulled me close, and planted a warm kiss on my lips. Then she backed away with a sparkle in her eyes and smiled.

"What do I need to do to get out of this place?" I asked.

"I've got it all taken care of. You just need to come with me." She took my arm and hooked it in hers. We strolled toward the double blue doors that led to my freedom. Al was there waiting, all five foot six
inches of his lean Mexican body. As we approached the doors, Al peered at me through his round wire-rimmed glasses, then extended his hand and shook mine. "You're a good man," he said. "Good luck with your life, and God bless you."

We passed through the first set of doors and walked about thirty feet to another set of double doors. A security guard opened the next set of doors as we approached them. There was one last set of doors, an unguarded set through which I could see freedom. I paused at them for a moment, remembering when I had seen freedom through the doors at Pinecrest just past the janitor. I looked toward the concrete, asphalt, and parked cars for a moment, then stepped forward; the doors opened automatically. Phoenix's summer heat enveloped me, and I was suddenly in the real world again where people were friendly and normal; a world full of traffic and streetlights, billboards and grocery stores, crying babies and jets roaring overhead; a world where I could do anything I wanted, anytime I wanted, and, most importantly, be with the people I loved. I looked at Beth and smiled, tears welling in my eyes.

Chapter 33

THE LITTLE RED CAR

Father's Day, 2011: One thing I'd always wanted in my life was a perfect sale: one where I'd walk in, tell the salesman what I wanted, everything would go perfectly, and I'd drive home with my dream car...

Wait a minute. Haven't I already gone down that path before? Yes, I have, but I've learned that life isn't very generous with happy endings, and sometimes you just have to create your own. So after everything was said and done, I went back and bought that little red car all over again. I got the same salesman, made sure I had two bottles of water and finished every drop—right on cue—and purchased the same color, options, everything. It was the perfect sale all over again. The only difference this time was that Beth was by my side the entire time—or I'm sure everyone would have fled from me in panic. I got a generic thank-you e-mail from the salesman later, and I responded by telling him to feel free to tell potential customers that he had one customer who was so happy that he bought the same car twice. Not surprisingly, I never heard back from him. Later that evening, as the sun faded to red on the western horizon, I purposely drove west into the foothills of South Mountain for the sole purpose of being able to say, "In the end, I drove happily into the sunset in my little red car." It was just like it was meant to be—and this time I got to keep it.

Chapter 34

NORMAL SINUS RHYTHM

I thought that was it, that the little red car was the end. But I was wrong. You can't force endings—they have to go their natural course. Life had another ending in mind for me, a much different and fitting one than I could have ever conceived on my own. On the evening of January 31, 2012, I again found myself being restrained, then rolled on a gurney toward an awaiting ambulance. Horrific visions of my last ambulance ride from the PDC to Gracewood played in my mind, but I wasn't making a trip because of another mental breakdown. The problem wasn't my mind, it was my heart. To make matters worse, I was on my way to the very same hospital emergency room that Beth had told me to avoid at the beginning of it all. I hoped it wasn't a bad omen.

When I arrived at the emergency room of Chandler General, Beth was right behind me. She was a constant companion that evening, filling in whatever details I missed, and indeed doing all the talking at times as the emergency room doctors and nurses assessed the situation. It wasn't long before I was in a particularly spacious partitioned area of the emergency room filled with sophisticated medical equipment. It had an ominous aura to it, and I couldn't help but imagine scenarios of my
heart stopping there and what events might transpire as experts took advantage of all the fancy equipment and space to save my life.

As if to further emphasize that prospect, a male nurse opened the hospital gown that had recently replaced my clothes and began shaving the hair from my chest in specific areas where various electrodes were to be placed. When he'd finished, he placed five adhesive electrodes on my chest: one near my heart, two below my shoulders, and two more on the sides of my ribs. He then proceeded to place two large oval pads: one over my heart and the other over my ribs on my left side. They were unmistakable.

"Defibrillator?" I asked nervously.

"Don't worry; we're just placing them in case we need to pace your heart. If that's necessary, we'll sedate you."

I imagined my drugged body jerking once per second in response to powerful electric shocks through those pads. After the nurse finished connecting all the electrodes and plugging them into an EKG monitor, Beth and I got to see the reason for my breathlessness and nausea firsthand. An electronic interpretation of my heartbeat scrolled across the EKG display. Even to a nonexpert, there was obviously something wrong—it was irregular, and sometimes there was no beat at all. Numbers on the right side of the screen, indicating my heart rate in beats per minute, varied between thirty-five and forty-two, but almost always were under forty—that was nearly half my normal heart rate.

"See the big peak on this waveform?" the nurse asked, pointing to a large spike on the display. "It's missing a P wave, which would normally precede it. The P wave represents the electrical signal that initiates contractions of your right and left atriums, or the top portion of your heart. After that, the ventricles, or lower portion of the heart, contract at this time, just after the large spike on the waveform."

"So what does that mean? What happens if I don't have a P wave?" I asked.

"The P wave is the pacing event that controls your heart rate. When it's missing, the ventricles pace at a very slow default rate."

"What about when there's no heartbeat, like that," I asked, pointing to a flat line on the waveform.

"That's called a pause. It can be caused by a premature beat or some other pacing anomaly."

"Is it serious?"

"It can be, but right now we're primarily concerned with your missing P wave."

A short time later, a doctor visited us and showed us a copy of an EKG he had obtained from Desert Hope, which had been taken on April 18, right before my surgery. It was shocking to see the difference between that waveform and what we were looking at now. My heart was clearly in distress.

There was much activity and concern for me in the ER, but it was evident that despite how bad things looked, I was stable. So the five electrodes were removed from the EKG machine and plugged into a portable transmitter that was placed in a chest pocket of my hospital gown. I was told that my heart would be monitored remotely twenty-four hours a day using the transmitter. I was then transported up to the cardiac telemetry unit and given a room where I was to await a diagnosis by a cardiologist the next morning. Once I was situated in the room, I turned and spoke to Beth.

"You look exhausted. You should go home. I'm in good hands here, and they'll be watching me all the time."

"OK." She squeezed my hand and kissed me. "I'll see you in the morning. Call me on your cell phone if you hear anything in the
meantime." She placed my cell phone on a cart next to my bed where I could easily reach it.

After she left I tried fitfully to sleep, but I felt nauseous as a result of my low heart rate, and it seemed I could never get enough air; my slowly beating heart was barely able to provide enough oxygen to my body. When I first moved to Arizona in 1990, it had been to work for Medtronic, a company that manufactured pacemakers. I knew quite a bit about them. That night all I could think about was the cardiologist informing me that I needed one and that it would have to be implanted immediately. With the thought of surgery came the fears of new mania and further institutionalization, but at least I was taking lithium per my court order, so perhaps I would be immune; lithium can prevent manic episodes.

When morning arrived I had an opportunity to talk to Conner, the day nurse. I mentioned with concern that I hadn't had a lithium pill since six o'clock the previous night and that I usually had one around 10:00 p.m. before I went to bed.

"I take four three-hundred-milligram tablets a day, one at a time at morning, noon, dinner, and bedtime. I think they are CR, slow release," I explained to him.

"Where's your pharmacy? I'll call them and arrange to get some. I think you'll be OK only missing one last night."

I gave him the pharmacy information, and he wrote it down and left. At 9:00 a.m., Conner returned with a small paper cup containing a single lithium carbonate tablet. I took the cup and tipped the tablet into my mouth, then accepted another cup of water and washed it down.

"I'll bring you another one at one p.m.," he said.

"Thank you," I replied.

At 9:30 a.m., Dr. Cree, the cardiologist, arrived. He was friendly and courteous. He walked to the side of my bed and extended his hand. I shook it firmly and prepared myself to hear the worst.