My Next Step (7 page)

This time, things were different. This was an unforeseen horizon, one that rose up quite unexpectedly and one that was very unwelcome.

After listening to the doctors, it was evident to everyone that my surgery was risky and that if I managed to survive it, there was a strong chance that I’d be paralyzed for the rest of my life. They debated about what I would want and quickly came to a unanimous decision.

They told the doctors to operate.

CHAPTER 5

Wanting to Die

A
bout four weeks into my ordeal, I was still in excruciating pain. I hurt so badly and by this time, the medication I was on was having the added effect of making me feel depressed. I still had tubes down my throat, which I never found comfortable.

What’s more, I had wires, lines and drips plugged into my body—all of which were attached to some type of apparatus that was keeping me alive. Dr. Barry Molk had come into the room to check on me as he had done so many other nights before. I lit up whenever he came for his daily visits. He’d hold my hand and talk to me, telling me that things were getting better. He’d pat my arm while encouraging me to fight and stay strong.

“Never give up, Dave.” Dr. Molk’s presence was always uplifting to my spirits. Sometimes he’d squeeze my hand and ask me to do the same. If I could, I did. If not, I’d always blink my eyes or nod my head to let him know that I could hear him.

On this particular night however, something was off. When Dr. Molk came into the room, I was blank. I didn’t respond to him in any way.

While my memories of those first four weeks are pretty scarce, there is one moment I will never forget. Shortly after Dr. Molk left that night, I recall suddenly being unusually lucid—and believe me, there weren’t many of those nights during those first few weeks. I’d come to the realization that I was going to die and I had started an inner dialogue with myself about what that really meant. It was a very logical discussion—one I am certain wasn’t a dream and one that didn’t personify who I was or how I had lived my life.

You’ve lived a helluva life
, I thought.
But living like this isn’t worth it
. I wanted to sit up but I couldn’t. I was still paralyzed and the pain never stopped—ever. My quality of life was diminishing, but from where I was sitting, it appeared to be gone altogether. I couldn’t talk because of the tubes down my throat and even if I could, at the moment, I was immersed in my own personal pity party. I couldn’t imagine living another day like this. No way. I was done putting up a fight. I needed rest, relief and was craving peace. The only way I could think of to get peace was to die.

I began thinking through all of the details that I might have overlooked, starting with my estate plan, my family’s needs and of course, whether my company was properly prepared for my departure. As far as I could tell, everything had been put in its proper place. Gail would be cared for, my kids were living good independent lives and my company was already running as it should without me. Whether my friends and colleagues knew it, my contingency plan had been put into place long before I arrived at Sky Ridge—and though I wasn’t completely aware of it at the time, it was working just as I had hoped. My management team excelled in my absence, operating the company every bit as well as I would have had I been there. In retrospect, I find that both satisfying, because I had an influence in their training and in getting them to that point, and yet very humbling, because it meant that I wasn’t indispensable.

With that mental checklist complete, I began to think about all of the ways I might be able to die. I tried to slow down my breathing, which resulted in me fading in and out of consciousness. I held my breath, but that didn’t stop my heart either. I thought, “Go ahead—die. Stop breathing and let your heart stop beating.” But it wouldn’t.

Several hours passed before I realized I must have fallen asleep. My first thought when I came out of my drug-induced fog was, “You coward! You’re such a loser. For forty years of your life you have given speeches on never quitting!”

I had never quit
anything
in my life.

I’ve been in combat and airplane crashes.

I’ve driven NASCAR and survived dangerous category 5 rapids.

I’ve done every adventurous thing known to mankind, including feats that could kill you, and never once stopped myself out of fear that I wouldn’t make it through.

There were so many people fighting to keep me alive, giving of themselves in unimaginable ways, and all I was thinking about now was giving up.

“
That makes you the worst kind of hypocrite. If you give up now, you will wash away forty years of delivering speeches to tens of thousands of people, encouraging them to never give up, to deal with whatever obstacles have been put in their way, to find the courage to face those obstacles head on! Screw it. I won’t quit. Not now, not ever!”

The minute I had that epiphany, I made up my mind to keep on fighting. I owed it to everyone to never give up. I’ve had a lifetime of minor and major setbacks just as I’ve had minor and major accomplishments. Each one taught me that this is not the end of the world. You move on. I learned courage from the soldiers I stood next to in the fields of Vietnam and from the way Gail handled her challenges knowing she would be partially paralyzed for the rest of her life. She never once cried, never complained and she never missed a therapy session. She never looked back and said a word about what she lost. Instead she looked forward toward her future and figured out a way to recover. Gail’s quiet persistence was an inspiration to me and to so many others who watched her battle the odds. It certainly was a learning experience; one that taught me that even if you had your nose bloodied, you have to get up and keep on fighting.

So, I made up my mind right then and there that if I was going to be a paraplegic, I’d be the best damned paraplegic in the world. I’d learn to play wheelchair hockey or basketball, and to be just as tough as an able-bodied person. I wouldn’t lose who I am just because I lost the use of my legs or arms. I knew I had the inner strength to do whatever it took. I would not spend the rest of my life bedridden. I just needed to rally my determination again.

Everyone has moments in his or her life that turn into weeks and sometimes months or even years. The most important thing to remember is that moments do pass. No matter how bad it hurts, the world does come back into focus. You have to live your life one step at a time. Perhaps you will take small steps instead of giant leaps, but as long as you keep moving forward, you will always be taking your next step.

I am a fairly smart man and though I don’t profess to be nearly as smart as a lot of my colleagues, one thing I am sure of is that I can outwork anybody. I acquired that strong ethic and mental toughness at a young age while growing up on a farm in the Midwest. Every year from March through October, we raised white-faced heifers that grazed on the land of our pasture. When fall came, they went off to the butcher.

The heifers were constantly getting out of the pasture. One day, my father came home to find that a cow had gotten out. She was several hundred feet away, down near our pond. We needed to go get her and bring her back up to the barn. As we made our way toward the cow, I noticed my father was carrying a twenty-pound cinder block with a large linked chain attached to it that we sometimes used as a dog lead. When we reached the wayward heifer, I watched in horror as my father wrapped the chain around her head. He dropped the block on the ground and then told me to get a switch. He wanted me to hit the cow a couple of times to get her to move. We were trying to get her to budge, but she was being obstinate.

I was just a little fella at the time, so I could lie on the ground under the legs of that old cow and hit her with the switch. I wasn’t hitting her very hard, but I assure you I was scared to death she would stomp on me. When the cow still refused to move, my father lost his temper. He grabbed me off the ground, threw me up against the side of the cow and said, “Make up your mind whether you are more afraid of me or the cow.” I don’t recall my father ever getting mad like that before or after that day, but I do remember I was no longer afraid of that cow. I beat her like a drum, whacking away until she finally moved.

That moment stayed with me the rest of my life and frankly helped put fear in its proper perspective. Many years later, I was in a foxhole with some buddies in Vietnam when I began laughing for no reason at all.

“What’s so funny?” someone asked.

“I ain’t afraid of that cow, I’ll tell you that.” They didn’t know what I meant, but I sure did.

I’ve thought about that day at my father’s farm many times over the past sixty years, and here I was, lying in my hospital bed staring down the cow yet again.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ ”

There have been many terrible times throughout the course of my life. I was not an overnight success. I worked very hard and made a lot of mistakes that I’ve had to pay for along the way. There have been so many make-or-break moments in our company’s history when I’ve stood back and wondered if I’d thrown away twenty years of my life—times when I risked losing it all because of those mistakes. When you look at anyone in life whose actions appear heroic, you must realize that they actually got to that plateau step by step and more often than not, by taking very small steps. Through all the life events I’ve experienced—whether it was being in combat, building my business or suffering extraordinary financial difficulties during downward markets—I somehow perservered. I managed to live through each challenge, overcome it and ultimately learn that
what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger
. In reality, those life experiences gave me the fortitude, the toughness, to face the hardest battle of my life—which was first and foremost to survive and then to learn to walk again, one step at a time.

CHAPTER 6

Baby Steps

A
gainst all odds, my first surgery was a success. My blood sugar, blood pressure, heart rate and breathing were starting to progress well, and I was able to respond to touch and recognize voices. When I awoke, I felt no pain in my upper or lower back. Although it was a temporary reprieve, it was a much needed one.

Miraculously, the doctors were able to locate and drain the fluid buildup along my lower spinal column as planned. They rid me of as much of the staphylococcus bacteria as they could, but the test results indicated that the fluid they removed did not have as much of the infection in it as they expected. The next seventy-two hours would provide the doctors with enough information to help them decide what to do next.

Within a day or two of surgery, my ever-present fever had dissipated, which was a very good sign that the infection was losing ground. I began to stabilize for the first time in a month. One of the best moments for me was finding out that my ventilator tube would finally be removed. I was deliriously happy when I heard that news. The thought of being able to completely close my mouth was heavenly. I knew it would be uncomfortable for the next few days as I got used to breathing on my own again, but that was ok. I even looked forward to coughing up my own phlegm because that would be another small step toward my recovery. We all recognized that the process would be slow. In fact, someone in the group dubbed it my “Baby Steps” toward healing and recovery.

When I first awoke from my coma, I had the mind of a child. I’m told my cognitive reasoning was that of a four year old. (Well, that might have been true before my coma too, but only after a few drinks!)

I know I must have been really out of it because I’m not at all a touchy-feely kind of guy, but when I opened my eyes and my daughter, who was standing next to me, asked to hold my hand, I said, “Yes!” Of course, I also asked about Gail and how she was. I was more worried about her than myself.

With each and every day bringing me closer to moving on with my life, I had to consider what that life might actually look like. At the time, I didn’t have the mental ability to really consider the options. I still had to learn the basics all over again, like how to eat, chew and swallow my food. Sitting up in bed was considered a great accomplishment—one I met as often as I could, but not often enough to satisfy me.

My throat remained raw and tender as I tried my best to start talking. I needed to give my voice and vocal cords a rest, so the doctors curtailed visits for a few days. I spent the next two weeks slowly doing some limited range-of-motion exercises on my left arm and leg. The right side of my body was still paralyzed.

I was finally able to have a shave on February 19
^th
, and for the first time in weeks, began to resemble my old self. My nurse Jean gave me that first shave. I liked the results so much I asked her do it throughout the rest of my stay. Though she used an electric razor, I was still grateful for her steady hand. It’s a strange experience to look into a mirror and not recognize the face staring back at you. Something as simple as shaving helped me reconnect to my old life, to my old self. It gave me a sense of familiarity that I found both comforting and inspiring.

My chest tube was removed about a week after my ventilator, which meant I could finally sleep more comfortably than I had in weeks. My breathing had become deliberate and steady, which was extremely encouraging. I was showing all sorts of signs of improvement, so these baby steps seemed to be paying off. I was eager to complement my range-of-motion work with physical therapy, but my doctors said I wasn’t quite ready for that yet.