dodging bullets

Last updated on 2 May 2020

The trouble is, you think you have time.

Buddha

There are few things as humbling as winding up in an ER. It is one of those places where you give up total control over what happens to you. You become a part of a machine that appears chaotic and yet we are assured is totally under watch.

To me, being in an emergency room is tantamount to failure. It means that I failed to heed specific and obvious signs that things are amiss, that my body somehow has let me down, that even the notion of a personal medical crisis is admitting that any providence over my deliberately and diligently crafted health and fitness doesn’t exist.

This will be one of those uncomfortable essays. It’s going to sound like whining and, truth be told, maybe I am a little. It might be simply a waste of the four or five minutes it takes to read that could be better spent reading a real book or being with your partner or kids. I am aware of that.

But just as important, at least to me, is the fact that I am still here, even after being told by a young doctor that allowing me to get back in my car and go home would be “medically inadvisable” and bordering on “medical malpractice.”

But just as important, at least to me, is the fact that I am still here, even after being told by a young doctor that allowing me to get back in my car and go home would be “medically inadvisable.”

Every year between 60,000 and 100,000 people die from blood clots, known in medical parlance as Deep Vein Thrombosis and Pulmonary Embolism. And in 25% of these cases, the first symptom is death. Meaning, they had no idea what was happening until they died. Ten to 30% of people afflicted with DVT/PE die within 30 days of their attack.

This was my third DVT and PE. Third. It would be overdramatic to say that I nearly died. I don’t think that is true. It’s more that I could have died. The difference is important. It was when I was fighting with this young doctor to allow me to go home that it occurred to me just how closely I came to not beating the odds.

“I can’t afford to stay overnight,” I said to the doctor. “I can drive home and be back in the morning.”

“It would be medically inadvisable for you to go home,” he said. “In fact, it would border on medical malpractice if I let you go home.” 

I was in the hospital, hooked to monitoring devices by umbilical cords, the beeping and whirring measuring my heart rate, my breathing, the amount of oxygen in my blood. In the hours since I arrived, I had had x-rays, a CT scan, an ultrasound and gotten poked a few times, once to insert a tube that would take blood and another to shunt fluids into my veins.

As I thought about exactly why my body had betrayed me and my ego, I remembered the deep twinge that showed up in my thigh off and on for more than six months that I ignored. I waited uncomfortably for the next nurse or tech or doctor to come in and ask me the same questions so they could get up to speed on my condition and realized by disregarding the signs I was the one who failed my body.

How did I wind up here of all places?

There are so many things that can go wrong with our bodies. It’s amazing to me that they function as well as they do for as long as they do.

There are so many things that can go wrong with our bodies. It’s amazing to me that they function as well as they do for as long as they do. I have been very focused on my health and fitness ever since I started running nearly four decades ago. Since my first strides, I have been determined to own my biology; I was going to be the one to decide how long I lived before stuff started breaking down. 

But my medical history the past 11 years has shaken that conviction. It doesn’t make sense to me that I would face so many medical crises. Cancer? C’mon. Blood clots? No way. 

I failed miserably at hearing what my body was saying when something was wrong until it was almost too late.

It’s forced me to examine my assumptions about what is health and how somebody like me actually lives a long time. Running 50 miles a week and doing sit ups and yoga was supposed to protect me from all things medical. I thought taking vitamins and drinking smoothies made from frozen fruit and spinach inoculated me from disease. How wrong I was. 

Part of owning one’s health, I realize, is knowing when something is not right. While I can feel good about my commitment to exercising, eating healthy and getting sleep, I failed miserably at hearing what my body was saying when something was wrong until it was almost too late. What would have happened had I addressed the pain in my leg six months ago?

A couple friends recently said they believed our health and longevity is more dependent upon our genes than how we live. I don’t believe that. I can’t believe that. I believe that I get to decide how I want to live, what constitutes health and fitness and, ultimately, how long I will live. Then again, I might be deceiving myself. 

My doctor has told me I am a “recovery machine.”

My doctor has told me I am a “recovery machine.” He believes that my overall healthy lifestyle, while it didn’t prevent cancer and blood clots and asthma, has saved me. That someone who isn’t as health-aware would have died any number of times with what I’ve faced. My most recent blood clots mean that I will probably be on medicine for the rest of my life. But I’m not quitting. Dodging bullets is what I do. But now I’m going to listen better for the shots.