Chapter 10 The Crash

As the spring of 1994 brought new life to the flowers, grass and trees in Northern Virginia, I began to accept the fact that I was slowly, but surely, dying. The sarcoidosis was an unrelenting foe. Each card which we had played to counter its latest thrust was only a delaying action. The drugs and the devices inside me were stopgap measures to slow the inevitable. There were no other defensive measures available. I would have to play the hand which was dealt me.

My realization that I was approaching the end of Life Row did not send me into a state of constant melancholy or bitterness. By now I had rationalized my condition and was mentally prepared for the conclusion. I had slipped quietly into Kübler-Ross' fifth, and final, stage of death and dying, acceptance.

My daily routine did not change. I continued to teach at Woodbridge High School. I did make adjustments when necessary if I found myself in a situation requiring more physical stamina than I possessed. Most of those around me, except Sharry and Emily, probably did not notice a change. We made plans for a family vacation at the beach in North Carolina during the first week in August and a short get-away for Sharry and me at a bed and breakfast in Michigan near the end of June. We were not planning on trouble.

I was continuing to see Merlino, Matthews and Friehling on a regular basis. Friehling and his group concentrated on my arrhythmia problem and the operation of the AICD and the pacemaker. Matthews restricted his observations to cardiac problems other than the rhythm disturbances, and Merlino looked after everything else. It was a nice division of labor. During one of my visits with Matthews following the pacemaker implantation, he said, "Ed, I want you to get a mugga."

"What's a mugga?" I asked, wondering if I could get one free on some dark alley in D.C..

"It is a test to measure how much your heart is pumping each stroke. It's official name is 'multi-gated acquisition study' and it is abbreviated MUGA. That's why it is called 'mug-ga.' Actually it will be a resting MUGA."

"Where do I get this mugga? And what all is involved?"

"You can have it done at Fairfax Hospital. It is a nuclear test. A technician down in Nuclear Medicine will inject about 3 cc of sodium pyrophosphate into your blood stream to tag the red blood cells. By 'tag' I mean 'bond.' Then you will wait, maybe 20 minutes or so, for this process to take place. The technician will then inject a small amount, 25 millicuries, I believe,of a radioactive isotope into your blood. It attaches itself to the sodium pyrophosphate. You will then be placed on a table so that a machine can measure the radiation from the isotope in your blood as it passes through your heart. A computer analyzes the results and computes a number which reflects the percentage of blood being pumped out of your left ventricle compared to the total volume in it. For a normal heart the percentage is 45 to 65 percent. I need to know what yours is now. It will undoubtedly be lower. It is a good way to follow the pumping effectiveness of your heart. This will give us a baseline to determine quantitatively how much the sarcoid is affecting you."

I interrupted, "What isotope is this? How long of a half life does it have? I assume that it is a gamma emitter, isn't it?"

By now, Dr. Matthews had become accustomed to my physics teacher questions. He smiled as he patiently answered, "It's technetium-99. It is one of those artificially-made isotopes used in medicine. I don't know its half life, off hand - ask them when you have the test. It's a gamma emitter most of them are, because the radiation has to pass through the tissue of your body to the detector, and betas and alphas can't make it that far."

I nodded as he continued, "There is some other useful information which we can get from the mugga, such as a check of the wall motion of your heart, but the ejection fraction is our main concern. The whole thing will take about two hours."

Dr. Matthews' estimate was a good one. When I received the MUGA the following week, I learned that the half life of the isotope was 6 hours. I once again took the opportunity to get my physics classes involved. The following morning at school during first period I went to the teacher's restroom to obtain a urine sample in a beaker. As I was racing back to my classroom with the sample, I literally bumped into the principal, Pam White, as I rounded a corner. Somehow or other, I managed not to spill the radioactive urine on her, or the floor.

"My God, Ed! What is that?" she reacted.

"It's hot pee. We're counting it in class today to determine its half life. Want to watch?"

Pam had the good taste not to ask anything else. "Uh, no thanks. I think that I'll pass on this one. Let me know how it turns out."

Upon my return to the classroom, we used a Geiger counter to measure the number of counts per minute of gamma radiation being given off by the isotope in the urine sample. Although nearly 24 hours had passed since I had been injected with the technetium, the count rate was still high. The students recorded the count and the time of day. As the day progressed, each class took a reading of the same sample. By the end of the day, we had gathered nearly 8 hours of data. The following day we measured the sample again in each class and then calculated the actual half life. The students were surprised by the consistency of the results and how closely their answers for the half life came to the stated value of 6 hours. Surprisingly, no one seemed to be offended by our lesson involving my urine, but we were, by then, nearly 3/4 through the school year. My students (and presumably their parents) were accustomed to strange happenings in Mr. Linz' physics class. I was hoping that someone would call Pam White to complain, so that she could respond, "What are you so upset about? He nearly spilled the stuff all over me."

When I saw Dr. Matthews for an appointment in mid-March, he had the MUGA results. "Your ejection fraction was 38 percent. That's less than the normal range, but not as bad as I expected. Things could be a lot worse. How are you feeling?"

"Not so hot. I get winded quite easily now. I have to stop to get my breath frequently whenever I go up stairs. I also can't walk very fast. The good news, I guess, is that the AICD has not fired since last summer. I certainly don't need that."

"Your breathing is probably not going to get any better, Ed. The pulmonary function tests which you have had indicate declining capacity, but the real problem is your heart. I would be lying to say that things are improving."

I knew exactly what Matthews meant. I think that both of us were recalling his estimate three years earlier that I might have just two years to live. We both understood that I was now on borrowed time.

Merlino continued to monitor the condition of my liver and kidneys through frequent blood tests. The results indicated that all was not well with my liver. Because three of the parameters were out of the normal range, Merlino ordered an ultrasound test of the liver. The test was conducted in much the same manner as the echocardiograms which I had received at routine intervals since 1991 - a sonic probe rubbed over the skin in the area of the target organ. Nothing unusual was noted. We knew that the combined effects of the Amiodarone and the right heart failure were creating increasing damage to the liver, but nothing could be done.

May brought the annual Busch Gardens Physics Fair field trip and the Advanced Placement physics test for my seniors. The school year was almost over. I was looking forward to our planned family trips.

Aunt Jean and Uncle Tony arrived for a visit on Memorial Day. They were in the final stages of a cross country vacation from their home in Arizona. I was happy to see them. I had an appointment with Merlino on that Friday morning, so I took off work for the day so that I could give Jean and Tony a quickie tour of Washington after seeing Robin. All had been reasonably well at 9 AM during my doctor's appointment. Shortly after we arrived in D.C., however, I began to feel very tired. We drove aroundthe Capitol area and then parked in the Union Station lot for a walking tour of the revitalized train station and its shops. By noon, I was feeling exhausted. I apologized to my aunt and uncle for cutting the tour short, but I had to get home. I was not certain that I could drive home safely. I said nothing about just how ill I felt to Jean and Tony.

I did not mention my problem to Sharry that evening, because I had promised Aunt Jean that I would take her to Annapolis to see the Naval Academy the next day. I knew that if I told Sharry how terrible I felt she would insist that I see a doctor immediately.

The trip to Annapolis was a nightmare. I could barely walk. I felt as if I would not be able to drive the 50 miles back to Springfield. My chest hurt, I was out of breath, and I wanted to be in bed.

As soon as I walked in the door at home, I told Sharry what had happened. We telephoned Friehling's answering service, but both he and Del Negro were not on call. We soon received a return phone call from a doctor who was covering for them that weekend. He was not familiar with my history, and the sound of his voice suggested that he was young. After I explained what had happened during the past two days and how I was p>

"Monday morning?" Sharry yelled, when I explained this new doctor's advice. "I'm calling Dr. Merlino. I think that someone needs to see you now."

I did not protest. I was hurting.

Sharry telephoned Merlino's answering service immediately. Although it was now nearly 7 PM on a Saturday evening, Robin returned our call within ten minutes.

"What's up, Ed?" she asked.

"I'm feeling real bad, Robin. My pulse is all over the place. It is really erratic. We just talked to some new arrhythmia doctor who is covering for Dr. Friehling this weekend. He thinks that it is a-fib. He wants me to wait until Monday to see someone."

"No way!" exclaimed Merlino. "We need to be real conservative on this, Ed. Go to the E.R. now. He can't tell over the phone whether you are in a-fib or anything else. I'm not an arrhythmia specialist, but the only way to know for sure what is happening is an EKG. I will call ahead to the E.R. to let them know that you are coming so that you don't have to wait there forever to be seen. And make sure that Sharry drives."

As I thanked Robin, I thought, "Merlino to the rescue again! Sharry was frightened, but relieved that Dr. Merlino had been available to provide a second opinion. Jean and Tony did not seem too alarmed - they had both had their own share of heart problems. Emily fixed dinner for them after we rushed out of the house to the emergency room.

Merlino's call had greased the skids in the E.R. Upon our arrival, one of the emergency room doctors examined me immediately and took an EKG.He looked at it closely and mumbled, "I'm not sure. Could be a-fib. I'm going to fax this thing to the arrhythmia guy on call so that he can check it out. Since you have that AICD and all that other stuff in you, I would prefer that he decide what to do."

Sharry and I waited in the examining room where the EKG had been conducted. I continued to feel terrible. We held hands and worried together.

In about an hour the arrhythmia doctor who had spoken to me on the phone arrived. He was relatively young, and his mood suggested that he was not a happy camper. We had obviously ruined his Saturday evening. I think that he was also angry that Merlino had overruled his advice to wait until Monday.

"Well," he confessed in a totally non-apologetic, and even condescending tone, "It turns out you're not in a-fib. It's v-tach, but at a low rate."

"How low?" asked Sharry immediately.

The doctor gave me the "And who is she?" look.

"I forgot to introduce you to my wife, Doctor. That's Sharon. She's a registered nurse."

Without turning to look at Sharry, the doctor stuck his hand over his shoulder and moved it up and down as if he were shaking her hand. Sharry and I looked at each other in dismay. This guy was not earning our confidence. Within the past three hours, he had given me a mis-diagnosis over the telephone, acted as if he was doing us a favor by coming to the hospital, and now offended us with his mannerisms.

"Your heart is in ventricular tachycardia at about 120 beats a minute. Your AICD is set too high to do anything about this. It doesn't sense that anything is wrong. Apparently your condition has changed. You are now going into v-tach at a much lower rate than before. I think that I can fix it right here."

To his credit, the doctor had brought the correct laptop device to interrogate and control my AICD (there are several different types and each has its own interrogation device). Within five minutes he successfully used the laptop to pace me out of the v-tach. Almost immediately, I felt fine.

"I'm going to lower the threshold settings on the AICD so that it will pace you or shock you at a lower level to keep this from happening again. I will set it to pace you at 110 and then to shock you if it gets to 120. I don't think that you need to be admitted to the hospital tonight."

"That sounds fine to me. I feel much better now. I will take it easy for the next several days. Thanks for coming in to help us."

Sharry and I left the E.R. around midnight. We stopped on the way home at a diner to eat the dinner which we had skipped. We talked continuously about everything except my medical condition, as if somehow we might fix the problem by ignoring it.

Jean and Tony left the following morning for their return trip to Arizona. I went to church, but did little else for the remainder of the day. I wanted to be able to go to school the next morning, because it was "egg drop day."

Near the end of each school year, I give the students an assignment of designing and constructing an "egg delivery vehicle." This project is an old standby for physics teachers. It has been around for years. I chose to use it as a method of raising grades prior to the final exam while also allowing the students to observe the results of each other's creativity. I had purchased eight dozen eggs so that each student could receive one to place in the egg delivery vehicle. We would then go to thebus tunnel in front of the school and drop their creations, one at a time, to a chalk target 30 feet below. If the egg survived the fall without breaking, the student would receive a double weighted 100. If the egg broke, I gave its dropper an 85, as long as there had been evidence of some effort in the design of the delivery vehicle. There were also bonus points for the longest flight time and accuracy of hitting the target.

The egg drop was always a big favorite with the students. Unfortunately, events were about to occur which took me out of the 1994 egg drop.

All went well during Sunday afternoon and early evening following the E.R. episode. I felt fine. As I lie in bed just before sleeping, I suddenly felt my heart flutter. "Here it comes!" I whispered to Sharry, who was lying beside me.

"What?" she asked with evident alarm in her voice.

"I think that the AICD is going to fire. I can feel my heart racing. I hope that the damn thing paces it out before it shocks me. I'm scared."

I tried to lie perfectly still. I did not want to be shocked. I began to sweat.

After perhaps 15 minutes, Sharry broke the silence. "I'm going to call Dr. Friehling. This is crazy."

It was now midnight. When we called Friehling's answering service, we were happy to learn that Ted was on call instead of that other guy. He returned our call almost immediately.

I explained to him what I thought was happening. Since he was unaware of the E.R. incident and the changes which had been made in the AICD settings, I gave him a brief summary.

After a short pause, Dr. Friehling responded, "I think that you are well-protected, Ed. If you go into v-tach, the AICD is there to help you. You may get shocked, but that is why we have it in there. I know that this sounds difficult, but try to get some sleep. You'll be OK. Call me right away if the device fires."

I am not sure what I expected Friehling to say. I certainly did not want to go back to the hospital. I wanted some type of miracle so that this nightmare would go away.

But it would not go away. The remainder of the night was horrendous. Both Sharry and I lie awake worrying about what might happen next. Ted's advice was not reassuring. I think that we both cried several times during the night. We did not speak at all, except for Sharry's occasional, "Are you OK?"

As I lie next to Sharry, my thoughts drifted back to the summer of 1967, when I had first met her. I was a young officer then stationed at theNaval Nuclear Power Training Facility just outside Saratoga Springs, New York. The curriculum, which involved shift work and long work days, was designed to teach us how to safely operate a nuclear reactor similar to those found aboard submarines. While on a lunch break, I spotted a note on the bulletin board seeking any officer with a sword to be an usher at a military wedding in Saratoga in two weeks. Having had no social life since arriving in upper state New York, but having a shiny new sword, I volunteered.

Sharry was one of the bridesmaids. I introduced myself to her at the wedding, and we began to talk. As the reception progressed, we enjoyed each other’s company, but probably drank too much. I learned that she had grown up in New York, New Jersey, and Maine, graduated from the University of Connecticut, and was currently working as a registered nurse in New Haven, Connecticut. As the reception ended around 10 PM, we both assumed that we would never see each other again and shook hands good-bye. By midnight I was in the Saratoga Springs jail for going through a red light with my headlights out. My Navy uniform saved me because the police allowed me to sober up overnight before releasing me with no charges the following morning. My only thoughts of Sharry were fuzzy. I liked her, but she was obviously bad luck.

Several months later I was riding my motorcycle in the Berkshire Mountains in western Massachusetts and decided to continue south to New Haven to try to locate Sharry. I assumed that she was still working the evening shift at the VA hospital in West Haven. I sent a note to her floor asking if she would like to have a drink together after work. Her return note said, "Only if you're buying."

After having a few beers at a local Yale hangout, I realized that it was past 1 AM. I asked her if I could stay at her apartment. She very reluctantly said, "OK, but you are sleeping on the couch, and you better be gone before my roommate gets home in the morning."

I did exactly as she requested. Unfortunately my motorcycle was stolen during the night. I did not go back to tell Sharry. Instead, I hitch-hiked directly back to upper state New York. This Sharry person was definitely bad luck.

Six months later, while I was assigned to Submarine School in Groton, Connecticut, I called Sharry and asked, (1) would she like to go to New York City some evening, and (2) did she have a friend with whom we could fix up one of my roommates so that we could double date? She called back saying yes on both questions. On the following Saturday my roommate, "CM" Wood, and I drove the 60 miles to New Haven to pick up Sharry and her friend, Joan, and then another 60 miles into New York to visit some bars in the Bowery section of the city. Heavy snow started to fallon the way home, but we made it to New Haven. I did not even consider asking her if we could stay overnight for several reasons, not the least of which was the concern that my car would be stolen. Somehow CM and I made it back to Groton by about 4 AM. This misadventure made it three for three in terms of Bad Luck Sharry. I decided to concentrate on other women.

A few months later I received a post card from Sharry. She was in Denver and reported that she was driving across the country to take a nursing position at Stanford University Hospital in Palo Alto, California. I had no idea why she sent the card. I assumed that she must have had car problems and had nothing better to do while awaiting the repairs. It certainly could not have been spawned by her fond memories of our dates. Since I did not yet know where I was to receive my first shipboard assignment following Submarine School, the news about her move to California had no serious interest for me.

About one month later I received orders to the pre-commissioning unit of USS GURNARD (SSN 662), a nuclear powered fast attack submarine which was under construction at Mare Island Shipyard in Vallejo, California. One other recent Submarine School graduate, Mark Davis, had also received orders to GURNARD. Although we were both 1965 graduates of the Academy and had attended the same class at Submarine School, we did not know each other. Our interests were divergent, to say the least. At the Naval Academy we had run in different circles of friends. When we arrived at Mare Island, Mark and I discovered that we were the only officers who had yet reported to the unit. Although we had no official status, we decided to take daily turns as Commanding Officer of GURNARD. This lasted about two weeks until the real Commanding Officer and Executive Officer arrived. Soon most of the other nine officers reported, and Mark and I assumed our true roles as low guys on the totem pole of seniority.

Although Mark and I still had few common interests, we decided to purchase a house together in Napa, California, about 15 miles north of the shipyard. Napa was in the middle of northern California’s wine country. Inflation had not yet affected property values there, and we were able to obtain a small, but very adequate, two bedroom tract house for $17,500.

Shortly before I had left Connecticut, the New Haven police had unfortunately located my stolen motorcycle, just as I was poised to collect a handsome sum from the insurance company. The Navy would not pay to ship the motorcycle to California, so I disassembled it and shipped it in a large wooden crate as "professional books." Mark was an excellent mechanic (at least compared to me). He helped me to reassemble the motorcycle, and soon I was off riding in the hills surrounding Napa.

One day I decided to ride the bike south to Palo Alto to look up Bad Luck Sharry. I am not certain why I chose to do this. I found her address in the phone book and proceeded the 90 miles across the Golden Gate bridge and through San Francisco. It was 1967 and the heyday of flower children, Janis Joplin, drugs, and anti-Vietnam war feelings, particularly in certain sections of San Francisco. I was caught up in the clothing fads of the time. On the day I visited Sharry, I was wearing orange corduroy bell-bottoms and a Mexican poncho. When I arrived at her apartment, one of her roommates answered the door. I asked to see Sharry. The roommate looked me over, closed the door in my face, and yelled, "Sharry, there is some weird-looking guy here to see you."

Sharry and I started to date, usually meeting in bars in San Francisco, which was approximately half-way between our respective residences. I continued to be a heavy drinker. It was not unusual for me to drive back to Napa in my LeMans convertible with the top down and a magnum of cheap champagne as my companion.

During the period that we were dating, Sharry was doing shift work as a staff nurse at Stanford. It was an exciting period to be there because Dr. Norman Shumway and his cardiac team were performing some of the pioneer work in the U.S. in heart transplant operations. Little did Sharry or I realize at the time that this experience gained by the medical community from Shumway's work would have such a direct impact on us 25 years later. In fact, one of the young cardiologists later involved in saving my life received his training at Stanford under Shumway.

As the construction of GURNARD progressed, Mark and I found ourselves in shift work, typically involving 12-16 hour days, usually seven days a week. This routine certainly cut into my social life, but I was young, foolish and determined not to cut back completely. Sharry and I continued to see each other, although on a less frequent basis. We both dated others. There was no indication of a lasting relationship. GURNARD completed construction and was commissioned in mid-1968. The submarine went directly to sea to conduct tests off Hawaii and later near Bremerton, Washington. Sharry and I wrote each other occasionally, but it was a fragmented relationship with little opportunity for dating.

GURNARD was then assigned to San Diego as its homeport. Mark and I sold the house in Napa for a considerable profit. He bought an airplane, and I bought a 30 foot cabin cruiser. By now I also had a second car - a white on white 1957 Chevy convertible. I never considered it excessive for a 25 year old Navy Lieutenant to own two convertibles, a motorcycle, and a cabin cruiser. Sharry flew to San Diego occasionally to see me for a weekend, but we both continued to have other social interests.

In December of 1968, my father became seriously ill with pneumonia. His years of smoking-induced emphysema heightened the problem. I took emergency leave from GURNARD and flew back to Kentucky to be with him and Mom. When Sharry heard the news, she immediately flew from San Francisco to join me. As a nurse, she helped me understand the seriousness of Pop's condition. She was also able to assist my mother during the long hours in the hospital.

One evening after Pop had shown improvement, I took Sharry to Cincinnati’s Eden Park which overlooked the Ohio River. It was a beautiful, cool evening and, as we looked at the lights across the river in Kentucky, I asked Sharry if she would marry me. She was sufficiently surprised that she almost pushed me over the edge of the cliff toward the river below. She then said, "Yes."

We decided to fly to New York City to share our news with Sharry's family, who lived in suburban New Jersey. I wanted to formally ask her father for his blessing for our marriage.

I had met Mr. Madigan once before at a lunch with Sharry in San Francisco. He was the Executive Director of News and Special Events for ABC and was traveling to Japan on business. Our conversation was pleasant until I asked him what it was like to be working for the "number three" network. Sensing by his reaction that I may have just committed a mild faux pas, I attempted to recover by telling Mr. Madigan of my plans to leave the Navy to become a professional gambler. Although I carefully explained why such a move was essentially foolproof because of my "secret system," he was obviously skeptical. After the lunch Sharry told her father how wonderful it had been to have a meal together with the two men in her life. She later told me that he had dryly replied, "Surely there is someone else besides him."

While at Sharry’s home, I talked to Mr. Madigan about our plans to marry. He was not overly enthusiastic, but he did not openly express regret or indicate his opposition. In retrospect, I think that he regarded me as a rather foolish young man, but acceptable, if Sharry loved me.

We set a wedding date for June 26, 1969 to be held in Sharry’s home church in Short Hills, New Jersey. Arrangements began immediately since there were only four months to prepare. I was involved in none of this. I immediately returned to further sea duty on GURNARD in San Diego. Sharry flew back to Palo Alto.

Three months later Pop became seriously ill again while I was at sea. He struggled valiantly, but his lung function had deteriorated to essentially zero due to his lifetime of smoking. Before I could return from sea, my father passed away.

I flew home for the funeral. It was a very emotional experience for me, because I felt guilty about not being there when he died. I had long talks with Mom. I told her that I was confused about where my life was going. I explained to her that I was very nervous about getting married in three weeks. I talked to a local priest, who was absolutely no help. He told me to pray to my patron saint for guidance.

I decided to telephone Sharry in California to tell her that I wanted to call off the wedding. My ego was so distorted that I imagined her killing herself upon hearing the news. We decided to meet in Los Angeles to discuss the matter further that weekend at the wedding of Sam Dutrow, one of my Academy roommates. I felt like a total jerk. I knew that all of the preparations had been made for our wedding and that I was causing considerable grief and embarrassment for not only Sharry, but also her family. Wedding announcements had been sent out, dresses had been purchased, the wedding was imminent. Sharry was very angry with me, to say the least. I was a true rat. We left Los Angeles with her heading north to Palo Alto, while I returned to GURNARD in San Diego.

It was doubtful in my mind that I would ever see Sharry again. Upon reaching GURNARD, I decided to sign on for a large cash bonus to remain in nuclear submarines for four more years. The ship sailed shortly for an extended sea cruise to the western Pacific. For the next 15 months, I became involved in the intense pressure and activity aboard the submarine. Although I was still a junior officer, I was given considerable responsibility and loved every minute of it. We visited ports throughout the Far East and experienced several exciting submerged adventures involving Soviet submarines.

In late September of 1970, GURNARD returned to Pearl Harbor, Hawaii for repairs and torpedo testing. I was assigned to study all day, every day, for the Nuclear Engineer's examination. It was mandatory to pass this extremely difficult two day, written and oral exam, if an officer wished to continue in nuclear submarines. The examination was held at periodic intervals in Washington, DC by the czar of the Navy's nuclear program (and many claimed, the entire Navy), Admiral Rickover.

I threw myself into an intense study program, but I continued most of my self-destructive drinking and social habits. One evening I found myself examining exactly what I had become. My conclusions both embarrassed and frightened me. I was indeed well on the road to becoming a genuine "burnt out case" at age 27. As I thought about this, I went over several options. The most appealing was to try to regain control of my personal life. Perhaps I should see if I could marry and begin a family.

Unfortunately there was no one that I could think of who might take me. I had enjoyed a great relationship only with Sharry, and I had blown that opportunity nearly 18 months ago. I decided that the only option which I had was to contact her, beg forgiveness, and ask if we could resume a serious relationship. The telephone call to her from Hawaii to California was the most difficult of my life. Not only did I ask her to forgive me, but I also told her that I wanted to marry her if she would still have me.

Sharry's initial response was understandably cool and skeptical. She did not say no, but she certainly did not seem to be terribly excited about my offer. We agreed to talk later on the subject. I was not very optimistic about my chances.

Several days later I telephoned again. She said that she had considered my request for marriage, and that it might work out. I asked her if that was a "yes." After several statements warning me about dire consequences if I were to call off this wedding, Sharry agreed to marry me. I did not realize at the time that her decision to give me a second chance would have such incredibly positive repercussions throughout the remainder of my life.

Because of my Navy schedule, we had to arrange for a very short notice wedding. I had orders to fly to California the following week to visit Navy Reserve Officer Training Corps (NROTC) units at four universities, starting with UCLA in Los Angeles. Sharry recommended that we meet there to finalize plans for the wedding to be held the following weekend in Palo Alto. Our brief time together in Los Angeles was not uncomfortable, considering the circumstances. We enjoyed each other's company, and both of us were pleased with our decision to marry. We were not concerned about the short time frame involved. All of the key players (her parents, my mother, and our California friends) would be there. Sharry had arranged for the use of Saint Ann's chapel at Stanford University, she still had her wedding dress, and I would be wearing my Navy uniform.

Our wedding took place on Halloween, 1970. We always kidded about the date, but at least I was never guilty about forgetting our anniversary! Spurway was my best man. In keeping with his bohemian style now that he was a civilian and living in a tent near Monterey, he did not wear a suit. He did, however, offer some very moving words during the service when he read about five minutes of remarks. It was a great wedding - no dictatorial photographer, no consultant to over-organize, - just a cozy, fun celebration for everyone involved.

Sharry’s roommates helped to host a highly informal, but very enjoyable, reception at their home that evening. We then flew to Hawaii for our honeymoon. It was not a typical honeymoon, because I had to return immediately to my daily study in preparation for the Engineer examination. We were living in a furnished apartment in downtown Honolulu. It was not exactly fancy living. Some guy was murdered in the basement garage our first week there. We had a 1960 Oldsmobile convertible which burned nearly as much oil as gas. I had bought it for $150 from a sailor going to sea and sold it two months later to a different sailor for $160 and a ride to the airport on our departure from Hawaii.

One week into our Hawaiian experience I made one of the most ill-advised decisions of my life. To this day Sharry has not forgiven me, and I do not blame her. I asked my mother to come to Hawaii to stay with us so that she could see the islands. I had not even discussed this with Sharry. For her part, Sharry was amazingly calm, at least for the first week. After a few days together while I was at work, the tension between the two increased dramatically. Of course, I was oblivious to this development. Mom stayed two weeks, a full dose for anyone, much less a new bride. For the remainder of our years together Sharry has always told everyone how she had to spend her honeymoon with the mother-in-law.

All of these memories flooded my mind as I was lying next to this wonderful person who had somehow found something in me to love for over 20 years. It was primarily her steadfast support and strength of character which had enabled us to make it this far together. Now, however, we both knew that we were facing the unknown. Was this the final crash? If I did go into sustained tachycardia, would the AICD fire properly? What would happen if it did fire, but my heart continued in v-tach? How many firings would take place before it quit? Would I then die?

Although each of these questions had been valid for the past several years, I was now forced to confront them in the reality of a hot sweat, lying in my own bed, next to my equally terrified wife. Sharry has never discussed the details of her emotions that night. Her only comment has been, "It was the low point of my life."

I got out of bed just before 6 AM. I had slept little, if any. After taking a lengthy shower, I was dressing in front of my chest of drawers. Sharry was in the shower. Without warning, I felt the unmistakable bolt of the AICD firing in my chest. I instantly yelled out, "Oomph!" as I doubled over in shock. My scream must have been very loud, because Sharry came running naked from the shower and Emily immediately appeared from her bedroom with a look of horror on her face.

"It fired. I'm OK now, I think," I said softly as I straightened up. "I'm going to sit on the bed for a few minutes."

Sharry paused and then said, "We have to call Friehling."

"I'll call him from work after his office opens. He said that I should expect this. The device is working."

It was obvious that Sharry did not agree with my plan, but she did not argue. In a few minutes, I finished dressing and went downstairs.

After placing a bagel in the microwave, I went to the dining room to pick up my wallet and keys. I was planning to load the eight dozen eggs into the truck to take to school. Just as I reached for my wallet, the AICD fired again. It was as if I were in the midst of an instant replay of the scenario upstairs just ten minutes earlier. My scream of pain brought both Sharry and Emily running downstairs. They both now knew what had taken place and were coming to help me.

"It happened again. I wasn't doing anything special. It just fired. I think that I am back to a normal rhythm again." For some reason, I was defensive, as though I was begging my wife and child to understand that this was not my fault.

"You're not going to work. This is serious," said Sharry sternly. She was definitely lecturing me.

My reaction was confrontational. "Oh, no, I'm going in. The egg drop is today, and I'm going to be there. I'll call Friehling later."

I glanced at Emily. She was standing rigidly as if she were a white granite statue. It was bad enough that her father was in serious medical trouble, but now he and her mother were arguing about it.

Before we could continue our debate, the AICD fired again. This time I slumped into one of the kitchen chairs and started to cry. I knew that I was headed to the hospital. I had no way of knowing whether the setpoints on the AICD had been set too low in the E.R. or my heart condition had further degraded.

Sharry telephoned Friehling's answering service to tell him that the device had fired three times in the past twenty minutes and that she was taking me to Fairfax Hospital immediately.

Before we left the house, Ted called to tell us to go directly to admitting instead of the emergency room. He had called them to expect me and to place me in a room on the second floor where I could be continuously monitored.

I felt safer once I was in a hospital bed, but I was still frightened. I was now acutely aware that I might be in the final stages of my life. I found myself praying frequently throughout the day. At 11 PM that evening, my confidence was totally shattered when I received another series of three shocks approximately five minutes apart. The hospital heart monitoring system indicated that I had indeed been in v-tach each time and that the AICD was functioning correctly. Each time it had attempted to pace me out of the dangerous rhythm, but the heart did not respond and a shock was required. I lay awake most of the night in spite of receiving medication (Valium, I believe) to calm me.

Al Del Negro came in to see me before breakfast. "You had a lousy night," he said. "I looked at your trace. We're going to do an EP study on you later this morning. We are going to try a drug called Mexitil on you to see if it will help. The problem is that you are now going into v-tach at a very low rate - probably around 110. We'll see what we can do for you."

The Mexitil did not work. The EP study showed that it exacerbated the problem. My arrhythmia doctors now decided to try an IV approach involving 30 cc/hr of Pronestyl. I would remain on that drug for two days and then another EP study would be conducted to assess its effect.

The Pronestyl did not work either. Ted and Al were able to induce tachycardia at an even lower rate during the EP study on Thursday. The only good news was that my heart was remaining stable at all other times. All medication avenues were exhausted. The only option was to go home, take it easy for several days, and see how my heart responded.

When Nelle heard that I was in the hospital, she flew home immediately from Indiana where she was working two summer jobs to help pay for her college expenses. We decided that Sharry should work on Friday and that Nelle could drive me home. Tom Cindric, one of my teaching buddies at Woodbridge, had given the final physics examinations to my students for me. Because the exams were all essays and problem solving, I had to grade them over the weekend. Graduation was the following Friday, and grades for the seniors had to be in to data processing the next school day after each final exam. I "took it easy" by grading the examinations and compiling quarter, semester and final grades for over 120 students during the next several days at home.

I did not go into school on Monday or Tuesday. Nelle shuttled the exams back and forth for me. The last section of exams were held on Tuesday. After grading them at home that evening, I decided to ride with Nelle to Woodbridge as she returned the last set of grades to the office.

"I feel funny. I think that I will stay here in the van while you take the grades into the school, Nelle," I said as we entered the Woodbridge High parking lot. Nelle stared at me, obviously trying to decide if it would be safe to leave me. "Go ahead. I'll be OK. Then we can go straight home."

Nelle ran to the school office with the grade sheets. She was back at the van in less than two minutes. As we backed out of the parking space, the AICD fired.

I screamed, "Oomph!" and doubled over momentarily.

"Dad, are you OK?"

"Drive home Nelle. Be careful. If this thing goes off again, we'll go straight to the hospital. If I pass out, pull over and use the car phone to call 911."

Nelle was incredibly calm. She simply nodded and stared at the cars ahead. I was very proud of her.

In less than a mile I suffered another shock.

"We're going to the hospital, Dad. I will call Mom. Are you well enough to be able to call Dr. Friehling's office?"

"I think so."

The connection with Friehling's office was intermittent as we passed through a cellular dead zone while crossing the Occoquan River. I had reached Al Del Negro. I was able to pass enough information to him so that he understood that I was being shocked. He concurred that I should head to Fairfax Hospital.

It was Wednesday, June 15, 1994. I asked Nelle to drive past our home on the way to the hospital. I did not tell her why, but I was convinced that I might not see it again. Nelle did not slow as we passed by. Emily was in school, Sharry was on her way from work to meet us at the hospital, Sydney, our Australian cattle dog, was the only family member at home. I remember how nice the yard looked. Then I openly cried.

Upon arriving at the hospital we learned that there were no open beds on my usual spot, the second floor. I was admitted to a room on the third floor. It had less sophisticated heart monitoring facilities, but there was a system in place and I would be closely observed. During the afternoon I had one episode of light-headedness, but no shocks. In the early evening, while Sharry was still with me, I was paced out of an arrhythmia by the AICD. It did not have to shock me. As I felt the pacing taking place, I gripped my sheets tightly in anticipation of the coming shock. A nurse ran into the room and asked excitedly, "Mr. Linz, are you OK?"

"I think so. I believe that I have just been paced out of an arrhythmia. Can you check the trace to see what it says?"

There was no shock this time. The nurse returned quickly to the room after going to the monitoring unit at the nurse's station. "You were right. I will call Dr. Del Negro."

Sharry and I spent the next two hours in a tense atmosphere. When would it happen again? At 10 PM I insisted that she go home. I was now feeling better than I had felt all day and she desperately needed sleep. I told her that I would telephone home if anything else happened.

As soon as Sharry left, I gathered a stack of student essays and went to a small empty room at the end of the hallway. There I read the essays for the next hour and a half. Each year, sometime in the final two weeks of class, I give the students three questions to consider:

(1) What would you like to be doing ten years from now? (job, family situation, locale, etc.)

(2) What will you have to do to make your answer to question #1 happen?

(3) What do you think that you will remember most about this class ten years from now?

I always enjoy reading their responses. Almost all are genuine and sincere. Most want a great job, at least half would like to be married and have a family, and nearly all believe that they will remember my corny jokes and how much I hate hamsters. As always, I became rather emotional as I read their hopes for the future. It was particularly wrenching, because I could not help thinking that I might not see any of them again. Their graduation would be in less than 48 hours, and I would definitely not be there.

Shortly after returning to my room at 11:30 PM, I heard a loud commotion in the hallway. The noise was rapidly getting louder and apparently approaching my room. Suddenly, just as at least five people entered my room with a cart in front of them, the AICD fired. I screamed in pain as several nurses grabbed me to keep me from falling over.

"Your monitor alarmed, Mr. Linz! We came to help you. Are you OK?"

"I think so. I need to sit down."

As I sat on the edge of the bed, I noticed that my roommate, an older man recovering from open heart surgery, had remained asleep through my ordeal. I also decided that I now had a good estimate of how long it took the capacitor inside the AICD to charge up and fire after its computer recognized an arrhythmia situation: about the length of time for five people to race fifteen yards to my room from the nurse's station after my monitoring alarm goes off. All of the nurses except one left the room. As we talked, I said quietly, "Here it comes again."

I was correct. BOOM! I was hit with another shock. The nurse appeared to be in shock herself. There were few AICD patients on the third floor and she had never seen a patient in the midst of being shocked by the device. She grabbed my hand and said nothing. She held my hand for at least ten minutes. Two other nurses had come to the room immediately after the second shock, but left when they saw that I was being cared for. I was now terrified. Would I live through the night?

I did, but it was the worst night of my life. I thought about calling Sharry as I had promised her, but I rationalized that she could do nothing to help, and that she desperately needed the sleep. After the nurse left the room, I tried to remain absolutely motionless. I was afraid to move, even slightly. I certainly did not want to go to sleep. If I were going to die, I wanted to face it directly. Most of the night I prayed for God's help. I believed that I was ready to go if He wanted me.

There were no shocks or recorded arrhythmias through the remainder of the night or the next day. I telephoned Sharry at her office early in the morning to tell her about the shocks. She was extremely upset that I had not called her, but I was not sorry about my decision. Each of my doctors seemed concerned about my worsening condition, but there was no discussion of new treatment or medication. I felt terminal.

At 11 PM that evening a nurse came to my room and said that I needed to go to x-ray for a chest x-ray which had been ordered by Dr. Matthews earlier in the day.

"Now?" I asked incredulously. 'Why 11 o'clock at night?"

"This is the first available time today. They've been busy with emergencies."

"This is crazy," I protested. "Is anyone going with me? I will have to be off the monitor while I am down there."

"We don't have anyone. You'll be OK. It will take only a few minutes. I have called for a transporter to take you down there in a wheel chair."

I should have protested more rigorously, but I was worried that I might become upset in the process and trigger the AICD to fire. I did not want that.

The transporter, a young East Asian who spoke little English, arrived shortly. The nurse disconnected me from the monitoring system. Within minutes, I was headed to the basement of the hospital for a midnight x-ray.

Radiology was empty when the transporter and I arrived. He left me sitting in the wheel chair in the hallway as he searched for a warm body. We could hear laughing and voices, but it took at least five minutes to locate a technician.

"Chest x-ray, huh? How come now?" the technician asked me when he came to take me into the x-ray room. The transporter had left long ago. I had been alone for at least ten minutes.

"Just take it. The nurse on the floor said that you have been busy. I don't feel too good. I think that I need to get back to the floor."

The technician was excruciatingly deliberate as he walked through the x-ray procedure. "Can you stand up by yourself?" he asked.

"I think so. But I don't feel very good."

The x-ray was completed and I was wheeled into the empty hallway to wait for a transporter to take me back to my room on the third floor. As the technician left me, I said, "How long will I be here? I really need to get back to the third floor where I can be monitored."

"I called them. Sometimes it takes a while this time of night for someone to come."

The technician disappeared into a room down the hall. I immediately heard laughing and loud conversation. I never felt more alone.

At least twenty minutes passed. Suddenly I felt my heart begin to race. As I braced for the inevitable shock, I felt the strong beat of the pacing mechanism in the AICD. Fortunately, it was successful in reversing the arrhythmia and I was not shocked. As I regained my composure, I began to sweat heavily. I yelled, "Would someone please help me?" I began to sob as I realized that I might die unnoticed in an empty hospital basement hallway.

After three more screams for help, the technician looked out of the room in which he was partying and asked, "You still here? What's wrong?"

"I think that I may be dying. Where is the transporter?"

"I told you. They are busy this time of night. I will call them again."

"No! Please don't do that. Will you please take me yourself to the third floor. I'm in trouble! I have a heart problem. I need to get back there now!"

The technician was not impressed. He looked back into the room where his friend was apparently located, looked at me, and then shrugged and said, "OK, but it's not my job. I'll take you up there."

He did, but with a major attitude. When we arrived on the third floor, the nurse looked as if I had hit her in the stomach when I told her what had happened. "Oh my God!" she said. "I knew that we should have sent someone with you."

Dr. Friehling had an even stronger reaction the next morning. From what I could determine, he went ballistic. Apparently, when he had gone to the nurse's desk to find out what had happened during the x-ray incident, he had found that the technician who was supposed to be watching the monitoring system was not at his station. This negligence, coupled with the error in judgment by the evening nurses in allowing me to go unattended by a nurse to x-ray, had caused Friehling to explode, "I want my patient off this floor immediately. Put him on the second floor where someone will take care of him." I did not hear his exact words myself, but when I was transferred to the second floor less than twenty minutes later, all the nurses were abuzz about the incident. Dr. Friehling had apparently spared no expletives in conveying his message. As far as I know, he never apologized for his outburst. He felt that he was protecting his patient's interest. He had lost confidence in the staff on the third floor and wanted me where he was comfortable that an arrhythmia patient would be properly monitored and cared for.

All went reasonably well on the second floor. I thought of my students when they graduated from Woodbridge the following evening. I wanted to be there to share their excitement. I had not missed a graduation ceremony since I began teaching in 1985. On Sunday evening I had another pacing incident in my room, but no shocks. I wondered what was going to happen. I could not remain here indefinitely. What could we do?

Friehling answered this question as he and Al Del Negro entered my room on Monday morning, June 20. "You need a new heart," he said enthusiastically.

"A new heart? What do you mean?" I asked.

"A transplant. Your heart isn't going to make it much longer. I have talked to Bob Matthews and Kevin Rogan and we think that we can get you on the list for a transplant. You and Sharry need to talk this over with the transplant team. They will be in to see you today."

Before I could respond, Al broke in, "We think that we can keep you stable with the Procainamide which you have been taking since last Wednesday and a drug, Dopamine, which we will give to you intravenously. We cannot do much else. The sarcoid is winning. You need a new heart."

We talked for several minutes. I thanked both of them for all of their efforts to help me during the past three years. "I'm alive today because of you guys. I will talk to Sharry. The transplant sounds like the only option left."

Sharry arrived at lunchtime. Our discussion of the transplant decision was surprisingly brief. We both realized that it was our only remaining hope. When Dr. Rogan, a cardiologist on the transplant team, arrived later in the afternoon to discuss a possible transplant, we were ready with our answer.

"Let's do it, Doctor. Do you think that we can get one?"

Dr. Rogan was cautious. "Our transplant team has to evaluate you, both medically and psychologically, before we can place you on the list waiting for a donor heart. There are far more people waiting for hearts than donor organs. We will have to follow specific procedures, but I believe that you will be judged to be in Category 1. That means top priority."

A series of doctors and nurses came to see me during the next 24 hours. Each was an expert in a different specialty. I was thoroughly examined several times, but always from a different perspective. A female psychiatrist, for example, seemed to be very intent on determining whether or not I would be compliant with a challenging medication regimen. No one would promise that I would be on the list. By evening of the next day, Sharry and I were becoming anxious. We knew that my case was now being evaluated by a committee. Would they consider me to me a good candidate for a transplant? Or was something unforeseen going to dash this last hope?

The answer came from Dr. Matthews the following morning. "Kevin Rogan just called me," he said. "The committee has decided in your favor. You're now on the heart transplant list. It could be today, next week, next month, or maybe a year, but you are going to get a new heart. You will have to stay here until then. You're too sick to go home to wait. We have to monitor you continuously and keep you on the Dopamine drip. I think that you have made the correct decision."

When Dr. Merlino saw Sharry and me later that afternoon, the three of us openly wept together. She was expecting twins in less than three weeks and had not been working. I was overwhelmed that she had come to the hospital to see us. Her message was, as always, straightforward, "You've crashed, Ed, but I think that we can pick up the pieces."

I had no idea how long that process would take.

Read the Introduction

Chapter 13 Kristi

The Transplant Library

Last modified: 11 May 2000