Author’s note: The third and final part of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life” will explore my spiritual journey since that fateful summer in 2010. The following excerpt is the introduction to Part Three.

Part Two, Chapter 8, “Sharks & ‘Cudas,” will continue next week with Excerpt #63.

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I embarked on a journey to understand God sometime in early August 2010. Before that, my conception of God was a mythical symbol that lived in the pages of Holy Books interpreted by men developing cultural philosophies. I was baptized, received communion, confirmed, married, and given last rites as a Roman Catholic. Despite receiving all the sacraments the Church has to offer, I was unsure of God’s presence in my everyday life.

When the chaplain at Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center walked into my room in the ICU that August day, I was in the depths of an emotional meltdown. Fully awake, but paralyzed and with a breathing tube in my throat, I was in the beginning stages of irreversible hopelessness. I listened to the chaplain talk about faith and gratitude.

My journey toward true spiritual understanding began that day. It wasn’t an “aha” moment. In fact, I’ve learned that the road to discovering God has no end. A few days later, a doctor expressed confidence that I would fully recover from a deadly side effect that left me in a coma for six weeks.

He said that a “higher power,” not so much his years of training and caring for patients, was responsible for the miraculous turn of events. My condition rapidly improved with each succeeding day. My mind was filled with wonder and swirled with questions.

God is a universal cosmic force that’s had many names throughout history and around the world. The ancients referred to “nature” when explaining the causes and effects of the universe. Native American and other cultures use the term, “The Creator.” When scientists can’t fully describe the cause of a phenomenon, they call it “universal law.”

Whether you practice Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, Sikhism or any other organized religion or philosophical tradition, faith in God is the cornerstone to understanding the inexplicable. No matter your religious, spiritual, or scientific tradition, that “higher power” brings meaning to the universe.

Since those early days in August 2010, I’ve been on a personal faith journey. Some days are marked by calming enlightenment and others have led to uncomfortable uncertainty. At one moment, the meaning of my life and God’s role in it seems to make sense. In another, it makes no sense at all.

The massive cardiac episode that changed my life has left me with a heart that works at about ¼ of the efficiency of a healthy heart. This has placed severe limitations on my energy. As a result, I have plenty of time to think, reflect, and pray on what God and faith mean to me. I usually do this when I’m on my daily walks.

Sometimes I step out to my beloved arbor in the backyard and sit in the coolness of its shade contemplating all that my family and I have been through. For family and friends, the 100-day ordeal in the ICU, operating rooms, and hospital ended six years ago. For me, it’s a daily reminder of the majesty of God.

On the road to enlightenment, I’ve learned that having faith in God is the key to understanding our place in this uncertain and ever-changing world. As is my nature, I went to the bookshelves to unravel the mystery of faith.

A dear friend introduced me to Marcus Aurelius and the ancient philosophers of Stoicism. My brother David shared New-Age writings about God. Other friends recommended that I delve into the works of Mahatma Ghandi, Muhammed, Buddha, and Paulo Coelho. Reading such diverse viewpoints on a common theme inspired me to dig deeper into my own religious upbringing and tradition.

The words of Jesus Christ and the Gospels are more meaningful to me as a result of my literary excursion. I came to realize that faith can come in many forms. Throughout my journey, I’ve come to believe that faith is rooted in acceptance, gratitude, and doing good.

ACCEPTANCE

I’m a classic “Type A” personality. I use to work tirelessly. After 106 days in the hospital, five weeks in a coma, two months in the ICU, three weeks of intensive physical rehabilitation, and three years of building up strength, I wanted to be “normal” again. That didn’t happen.  Frustrated and angry, I persistently asked God, “Why me?”

Reflection and prayer led me to the answer: “That’s just the way it is.”

Once I realized that there was nothing I could do to change the fact that my heart works at ¼ its capacity, I was able to move on with my life. Through exercise, diet, and faith, I stay healthy enough to make the most of what life has to offer. Acceptance has inspired to pursue longtime passions like writing and working with high school students on the east side.

GRATITUDE

The concept is simple, “be thankful for what you have.” I struggled most with this concept because it flies in the face of our modern way of life. The American notion of working hard to obtain things is embedded in our culture, so the idea of acquiring “more” is valued over “settling.”

I fell into this dangerous trap. Acquisition of material goods didn’t drive my ambition. I thrived on being recognized for my “successes.” Along with recognition come legions of supporters with whom to celebrate accomplishments. When my energy level dissolved along with my weak heart muscle, the acknowledgement for which I worked so hard evaporated as well.

I grew resentful.

Learning the true of meaning of gratitude changed that. God has given me the gift of a second life with an amazing family and a tight circle of wonderful friends. There was a time when I took this for granted. Now I don’t. I thank God for them and celebrate with them every day. This revelation has helped me see the power of being grateful for all of God’s offerings.

DOING GOOD

In 1 Timothy 6:18, God tells those he has showered with gifts “to do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share.” This concept has always been part of my being. I fondly remember my parents sharing what little they had to help those who were less fortunate. I took these values with me into my professional and public life.

Somewhere along the way, the lines blurred between good works and professional advancement. In the rough and tumble worlds of business and politics, winning is the ultimate goal. I’m proud of the good I was able to accomplish in leadership positions. But, I also enjoyed the satisfaction of triumph. I’ve come to understand that that’s not what God means in Timothy.

My spiritual journey has inspired me to dedicate every day to try my best, with this gift of a second life, to do good in the way God intended: No recognition. No fanfare. No expectations.

The path to a better understanding of faith has been frustrating, revealing, and humbling. It’s also been therapeutic and full of love and understanding. No matter what religious, spiritual, or philosophic traditions, or lack thereof, you subscribe to, my life is testimony to the healing power of acceptance, gratitude, and good work.

Author’s note: The following passage is from of Chapter 8, “Sharks & ‘Cudas,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  This is the 62nd excerpt in the blog series.

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Sitting by my side, Sandra held my hand and anxiously awaited any word from the critical care doctor on weekend duty. He was a handsome, blonde-haired professional who communicated with Sandra in straightforward fashion. The nurse who staffed my room for that night was a friendly woman originally from Brazil who had a passion for her patients and soccer.

Sandra later told me that the nurse treated me with care that went beyond the professional during the scary fever episode. Before the weekend was over, she invited Sandra and me to join her and her husband at a San Jose Earthquakes soccer match when I fully recovered.

After another battery of tests, there was still no verdict on the cause of my elevated body temperature. The doctor explained to Sandra that the steady high fever combined with my lung failure and heart condition made for an extremely dangerous situation. He recommended that testing be halted until my body temperature could be stabilized.

Sandra agreed and soon the medical team, led by the nurse’s warm and sincere care, covered my body with an “ice blanket.”

It had been a couple of days since doctors began weaning me off the paralytic and sedative medication. The ICU Psychosis that caused the vivid dreams was surely at play that weekend. When I blinked, I probably caught glimpses of the doctor and nurse. With the medicine wearing off, I’m sure I felt the sensation caused by the fever. I also had several dreams that may have come from the same time. I vividly remember my sister Patty trying to help me out of a thick sweater and Sandra pouring water over my body.

Sandra mentioned that there was much chatter about Gabby and Ximena’s birthdays when family visited me in the room that weekend. I also had dreams, probably from this time, of being trapped and paralyzed unable to help Barbara’s grandchildren. In a couple of dreams, they were in a small room and I was helpless as faceless men on drugs tried to enter the room to hurt them. All of this may have been the inspiration for the suffering babies from the fever dream.

In addition to my profound love for Marisa and Erica, I felt a love for my nieces and nephews as if they were my own children. Perhaps, in my state of medically-induced psychosis, the babies from the fever dream and the kids in the trapped dream represented my nieces and nephews who loved me and helplessly stood on the sidelines

While the family was celebrating Gabby’s quince, Sandra shared the latest developments with Tía Martha, Tavito, Ana, Will, Juanita and Marianne in the waiting room. They prayed before quietly sitting down to take stock of the situation. It was another setback and Sandra was feeling the strain stronger than ever turning to her faith to carry her through.

Being an emergency room nurse, Marianne reassured Sandra telling her that she made the right decision with the “ice blanket.” Ever the faithful woman, Tía Martha comforted Sandra with the same assurance that can only come from a mother who had her fair share of life experiences.

Comforted by the notion that God was in charge and directing my medical team, Sandra spent the evening talking about the birthday blessings of the past two days and chuckling at the thought of the partiers at the quinceñera. For the rest of the night, she was able to take her mind off of the fever crisis and enjoy the company of the family and friends who stayed behind in the waiting room

About a year later, Sandra recounted that scary night in the hospital. Family and friends talked about how the situation at the hospital became part of the party. In spirit, it felt to the partygoers that I was actually there with everyone. It was a rare occasion where the uncertainty of life collided with the beauty of celebrating a life that was embarking on an exciting and limitless future.

Pancho took video footage at the party. The video tells a tale of a courageous family living life with faith in its heart. The camera  followed a path of moving about the room visiting and catching up with family and friends. This is like my modus operandi at parties. Over the course of an evening, I’m like a nomad wandering from table to table sharing stories that end up in laughter or caring reflection.

Pancho’s camera appeared to be following a path I would have taken that night. Jumping from table to table, he recorded people as they greeted me and sent prayers. Looking into the eyes of each person, I could see the love and sincerity that came along with their words.

One segment in particular captures the power of love and prayer. Tío Tavo Peralta, with his warm smile and signature baseball cap sitting slightly tilted on his head, looked directly at the camera assuring me that all would end well.

When the camera reached the bar, one of my regular stops during these types of gatherings, Pancho focused on my compadres Eddie and Miguel, and cousin Mariano. With more than a few cocktails under their belts, they ventured away from the somber and serious tone shared by others.

When together at parties, we Compadres always engaged in frat-boy shenanigans. In the video, they acted like rambunctious schoolboys putting peer pressure on one of their own by teasingly taunting me to “hurry and wake up” so I could join them at the bar for the next celebration.

Watching Pancho’s production during my recovery at home months later, I felt like I was there. I laughed watching the video, comforted by the fact that I wasn’t exempt from their teasing even while in a coma with a bad heart and failing lungs.

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Next Wednesday: Thoughts on my spiritual journey…

Author’s note: The following passage is the beginning of Chapter 8, “Sharks & ‘Cudas,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  This is the 61st excerpt in the blog series.

The text in italics indicates that the passage was from a vivid dream caused by a phenomenon doctors call ICU Psychosis. To learn more about what causes The Dreams, go to Excerpt #53 (https://esereport.com/2016/06/29/summer-in-the-waiting-room-how-faith-family-and-friends-saved-my-life-excerpt-53/)

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Chapter 8

 Sharks & ‘Cudas

 As the morning of July 9^th dawned, it was the beginning of a busy weekend of birthdays for the family. That day, my niece Ximena, Kimberley and Miguel’s daughter, turned 8 years-old. The next day, another niece, Gabby, Valerie and Eddie’s daughter, would be celebrating her quinceñera with a big party. Initially, Val and Eddie wanted to cancel the party due to my dire condition, but Sandra persuaded them that life must go on for everyone, especially the kids.

Ximena, whom I nicknamed “Chimini” (it’s a long story), planned a full day of swimming at home with her cousins, and having pizza and cake later that evening. In a journal she kept that summer, she wrote about her birthday:

Dear tío Eddie,

I hope you feel better & see you soon hopefully. Guess what tomorrows my B-day & I am super Excited.

Sincerely,

Chimini.

She drew little hearts over the “i” in her name in place of the traditional dots.

Ximena and I have always had a close and special relationship. I’ve always admired her exuberance and love of life. Like me, she’s a chatterbox. When she was four or five years-old, she would sit next to me and talk about everything that came to her mind. It was a crack-up watching this little girl speak with so much passion and conviction as her eyes and gestures told as much of the story as her words.

I learned from my dad that children, like adults, had minds of their own and thoughts that they wanted to share. I followed his example by being genuinely interested in what kids have to say. Ximena’s inquisitive mind and animated way of expressing herself always made our conversations interesting. She reminded me of Marisa at the same age. I felt so blessed when she later asked me and Sandra to be her godparents for First Communion.

After a full day of swimming and pizza for dinner, the family headed for the hospital at Ximena’s request. Earlier in the day, she told Kim that she wanted to celebrate her birthday where “Tío Eddie could be nearby,” so Kim decided to have cake and open presents at the hospital cafeteria.

The large crowd, which now included family from out of town that began arriving for Gabby’s quinceñera scheduled for the next day, moved from the waiting room to the cafeteria. There, the usual party of 20, plus some, sang “Happy Birthday” to Ximena, ate cake, chatted, and laughed making the plain hospital cafeteria feel as much like home as the waiting room. For Ximena and the kids, it was no different than being in Nana’s family room or at one of our houses.

The family was together with loyal friends celebrating life. Ximena noted in her journal that, “Today is my birthday & we’re at the hospital. It is fun but it would’ve been funner with Tío Eddie.” I’m sure I felt the energy of their celebration as I slowly showed signs of improving two floors above.

The next day, the celebration of life for family and friends would continue with a traditional Mexican-American quinceñera. Sandra opted to stay with me at the hospital as the girls helped the family prepare for the day. The activities included photos in the morning, a mass at church, and a reception in the evening followed by dinner and dancing.

Miguel recalled that getting ready that day was hard. The adults wanted to have a cheerful celebration for the kids despite heavy hearts. It had been a long summer for everyone. The respite was much needed by all.

As party preparations went as planned that morning, fever became a growing concern for doctors at the hospital. Danger of infection is a major concern for patients staying in the ICU for long periods of time. For the past few days, my body temperature hovered around 100 degrees and test after test couldn’t identify an infection.

My white blood cell count was high as the body tried to fight off the unidentified malady. As the morning wore on, the fever periodically peaked at 103 degrees, prompting the medical team to determine a course of action to address the latest crisis.

When Sandra reported the news to her mom, Mrs. Peralta offered to be with her at the hospital. Sandra asked her not to change plans and not to alarm her sisters or their families. Tía Martha Peralta and cousins Tavito and Ana Peralta, who were in town for the party, decided to join Sandra so she wouldn’t be alone.

Will, Juanita, and Marianne would also be with Sandra that night. With the bulk of the waiting room gone, the usually bustling space was quiet while Sandra and the others chatted and waited to hear news from the doctors.

***

I was sweating profusely. I was terribly uncomfortable. The room was bright as the glare of the large round lights overhead generated even more heat causing my body to feel like I was in an unbearably suffocating steam room. With the exception of the bed, the room was virtually empty. A wide open space led to the hallway where I could see nurses and doctors walking by. I yelled for help, but couldn’t make a sound. Wiggling around on the hospital bed, I tried to free myself from invisible restraints to catch the attention of someone, anyone.

I think I was in maternity ward. I could hear babies crying and see nurses carrying lifeless infants in their arms. The babies were bright red and sweating, obviously suffering from the same heat that consumed my body. All of a sudden, hospital staff started rolling cribs into my room, each filled with a wailing baby red-hot with fever. I wanted to help the babies, but couldn’t attract the attention of the people bringing them into my room.

Despite the scorching environment, the nurses and doctors in the hallway, all dressed in white medical uniforms, looked cool and refreshed. A tall male physician with blonde hair wearing classic black horned-rimmed glasses, a white doctor’s smock, and a smart white shirt and dark tie, walked into the room. After evaluating my condition, he coldly instructed a nurse to find ice to pour over my body. Without emotion, he then began to help the poor babies who were helplessly suffering from fever.

The nurse returned with a warm and assuring smile carrying a silver steel bucket of ice water. Others followed with more pails of relief. I was no longer in bed, but in a small tank that was filled up with the ice and water carried in by the stream of hospital staff. The nurse, a cheerful brunette woman with high cheekbones, big brown eyes, and a soothing bedside manner, told me to relax and get some rest. Soon the fever subsided and I fell asleep in the refreshing tank of ice water.

***

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Next Wednesday: More on The Dreams caused by fever and ICU Psychosis.

Author’s note: The following passage is the final excerpt from Chapter 7, “Sticking With God,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  This is the 60th excerpt in the blog series.

The text in italics indicates that the passage was from a vivid dream caused by a phenomenon doctors call ICU Psychosis. To learn more about what causes The Dreams, go to Excerpt #53 (https://esereport.com/2016/06/29/summer-in-the-waiting-room-how-faith-family-and-friends-saved-my-life-excerpt-53/)

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On the morning of July 8^th, nine days after the oscillator began its work, doctors ordered the respiratory therapist to remove the machine that caused so much angst and fear for my family. The loud thumping sound emitted by the oscillator and the heaving of my chest as air rushed into my lungs with steady precision suddenly stopped.

The pulmonologists had anticipated that I would be connected to the machine for three days at the most to prevent serious lung damage. Miraculously, my lungs and heart survived the constant thrusting of air even though it continued three times longer than expected. Sandra was excited about the rapid progress during the past few days.

Doctors also ordered the gradual discontinuation of the medicines that kept me paralyzed and in a deep sleep. It would be another major step toward overcoming the seemingly impossible. Throughout the day on July 8^th, Sandra returned to her journal to document even the smallest piece of good news with exclamation points on each page. Her excitement couldn’t be restrained as she wrote, “Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, and love extravagantly. And the best of the 3 is LOVE. I love you!!!”

Feeling encouraged and hopeful, she retreated from the ICU and the hospital to have dinner with the girls and her family.

***

            I slowly opened my eyes and found myself in a strange place. Looking around, it appeared as though I was in a college classroom or professor’s office. I must be close to the ocean, I thought, because I could hear the sounds of waves crashing onto the sand. I could see students with backpacks walking about outside the door.  Even more strange, I was in a cartoon! With the exception of the people I could see, everything else was animated like some kind of Disney movie: furniture, walls, floor, and ceiling.

            I was sitting on a fluffy red arm chair with big colorful pillows all around me and on top of me. They were bright pastel hues of pink, blue, green, purple, orange, and red. I could see my hands and feet, but I couldn’t move them because the cartoon pillows were heavy despite looking light and airy. A medical student walked into the classroom wearing a multicolored nurse’s uniform and scribbled something on the whiteboard I couldn’t understand. When I called out to her to ask about my whereabouts, no sound came from my voice. I couldn’t talk!

            When the student left the room, I began to get anxious. Where was I? What was happening to me? I tried to get up from the easy chair, but the heavy pastel-colored pillows prevented me from moving. I looked around to find a way to call for help as my anxiety intensified. I saw my trusty cell phone on one of the pillows near my feet. That phone had been at my side through thick and thin during my professional quest for redemption and success. It wouldn’t fail me now. All I had to do was text Sandra and she would clear everything up.

            After what felt like hundreds of futile attempts, I couldn’t reach the cell. The pillows on my arms and chest were just too heavy. I was paralyzed, sitting alone on a big cartoon chair in a college classroom near the coast of who knows where. Panic began to set in, my heart started beating harder, and my breaths became shallower. I was scared and confused. Then suddenly, to my relief, Sandra walked into the classroom. She approached me with her angelic and reassuring smile to caress my head with her soft hands telling me that everything was going to be okay. Relaxed and feeling safe, I fell into a deep sleep.

 ***

Sandra had a relaxing dinner with her family and the girls. Despite the fact that doctors continued to say that I was still the “sickest man in the hospital,” she started to get a sense that we were at the beginning of the end of this nightmare.

I was still breathing with the help of the ventilator and nitric oxide machine, but the oscillator was now a thing of the past. I even twitched a few times when Sandra or a nurse touched me indicating that the paralytic medicine was wearing off. All of these events were signs that progress, albeit in tiny increments, was being made.

During the 30-plus days of the ongoing nightmare, Sandra worked hard at keeping the girls lives outside the hospital as normal as possible. They settled into a daily summer routine that started the morning with swim practice. Marisa spent the day at her summer job at the cabana. Erica would spend time with her cousins and Nina Shelley. When evening came, the girls would go to the hospital with one of Sandra’s sisters, have dinner with Sandra and the family, and participate in the activities that unfolded in the waiting room.

The girls would always visit my room together before leaving for the night. Following the advice of doctors, Marisa talked to me with an upbeat tone in her voice encouraging me to fight on. An occasional blink of my eyes would bring a short burst of excitement for whoever else was in the room. Erica stood by quietly, but confident that I would be okay. Once they said goodnight, they would walk out together, Marisa usually fighting back tears and Erica silently walking beside her.

Back in the packed waiting room, small groups were huddled together gossiping, telling stories, eating snacks and drinking coffee. The scene looked like family and friends gathering in a large family room. In addition to the stockpile of food and drink, there were blankets and pillows strewn on the chairs and small table tops. Sometimes the room would get loud as someone told a story or made a joke that generated howls of laughter, only to be reminded that they were in an ICU waiting room.

Erica later told me that when visitors of other patients opened the door, they immediately paused, surveyed the scene, and mumbled some sort of apology with an “oops, sorry” look on their faces as if they stumbled into someone’s home. The startled visitors would quickly shut the door and search for another place to quietly and peacefully support their loved ones in the ICU. The rhythm of the waiting room would resume as soon as the door closed.

As evening turned to night, Sandra’s core of support would begin the process of returning to the real world and preparing for another day. Those who wanted to see me came into my room for a brief prayer and to say goodnight to Sandra while others, who couldn’t bear to see me in such a helpless state, patiently sat in the waiting room.

When Sandra returned to my room in the ICU on the night of July 8^th, her mom was with her. They stood staring at me wondering what the future would hold. The man who had an abundance of energy, a tireless work ethic, and a love for parties was in a deep sleep and motionless. Over the hushed chatter between Sandra and her mom, the quiet room echoed with the sound of the machines that kept me alive.

Before leaving for the night, Mrs. Peralta rubbed oil, blessed at the church, on my lifeless legs, arms, and forehead and prayed to St. Jude pleading for his intervention. Sandra’s mom hugged her second daughter tightly in the quiet ICU, made the sign of the cross on her forehead, and kissed her goodnight.

In the waiting room, those who still remained gathered in a circle as Rudy led a prayer. Sandra came out to the waiting room and thanked everyone for visiting before joining the round of ritual goodbye hugs. It was another tearful “see you tomorrow,” another night sleeping on a cot beside the man she loved, another night the girls were away from home, and another night of hope.

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Next Wednesday: Chapter 8, “Sharks and ‘Cudas,” begins!

Author’s note: The following passage is from Chapter 7, “Sticking with God,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  This is the 59th excerpt in the blog series.

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During the dark days of July, Sandra vowed to stay positive and urged the waiting room to do the same so that I could feel the energy around me. Marisa and Erica made posters and decorated the room with photos so I could wake up to a place filled with love. One poster wished me a Happy Father’s Day and another celebrated the 4^th of July.

Colorful drawings of me with my favorite things, like the ever present San Francisco Giants baseball cap on my head, graced yet another poster. Sandra had been by side every day and every night since the awful cardiac arrest incident and her faith grew stronger as my condition worsened. She ended that morning’s entry into her journal by writing,

“You will make steps closer today because I know that you are fighting to get back to us. We love you Babe!! More than you know…”

I spent two decades of working relentlessly to rid myself of self-perceived failure demons and trying to make Sandra proud that she chose me. Now at my most vulnerable, Sandra expressed her love in the most intimate way. She was talking to me through her journal hoping that I could hear her through the whirring din of the ventilator and the thumping boom of the oscillator.

I had always thought that important professional titles and financial security would impress her, yet the prospect of losing me made an impression on her soul more deeply than any professional or material accomplishment ever could. Although I was motionless on the hospital bed, her love and energy provided the fuel for me to fight.

Later on the afternoon of July 5th, my heart started racing again. While Sandra was spending time with family and friends in the waiting room, my heart rate shot up to 140 beats per minute and my blood pressure dipped below 80/40. When she walked into the room to check on me, medical personnel were once again scrambling to prevent another cardiac arrest episode.

Doctors had to make a complex decision in only seconds. As noted in my medical record, I hadn’t been on amiodarone to regulate my heart beat for several days. Nevertheless, the toxin was used again to bring my heart back into rhythm. Until my lung issues were resolved and a defibrillator could be installed, doctors had no other means to stabilize a racing heart.

Despite that scary moment, Sandra’s faith grew stronger. She described the incident in her journal as “just a little bump in the road.” Later that evening, after saying goodnight to the girls, she walked into the room as the song “Here and Now” by Luther Vandross played on the CD the girls recorded for me. We used the tune for our wedding march almost 20 years earlier.

To Sandra, it was a sign from God that I would be back and that we would be able to continue our life together.  In addition to her absolute commitment to God’s will, she was determined to do all she could to ensure that I would survive. She went on to write, “I know you are coming back to me. I will not accept anything less and I promise I will fight with you until I have you back with us.”

With the frightful day coming to end, Sandra’s unwavering resilience gave her hope. Before she prepared for another night on the uncomfortable cot that sat just feet away from her lifeless husband, she turned to Scripture for comfort:

“I’m sticking with God. I say it over and over again – it’s all I’ve got left. He proves to be good to me and to all who passionately wait and diligently seek Him. It’s a good thing to quietly hope from God.” – Lamentations 3:24-26

While the breathing machines and monitors rhythmically hummed, thumped, and beeped in the dark, Sandra laid back on the portable bed in the ICU and closed her eyes with hope in her heart.

Over the next few days, I began showing signs of promise. My lungs were still terribly saturated with fluid and continued to be unrecognizable to an amateur looking at my X-rays. Nonetheless, the oscillator appeared to be doing its job. The puffs of air that the machine was sending into my lungs were opening air sacs enough to stabilize my oxygen levels allowing the other vital organs to function. The numbers weren’t getting any better, but they weren’t getting any worse.

Doctors were encouraged by that and started making plans to consider options for moving forward. On July 6^th, they made the decision to decrease the intensity of air being rushed into my lung sacs by the oscillator. They advised Sandra to be patient and to wait for my body to be completely ready to be weaned off of the breathing machines.

In the meantime, Sandra and the girls continued to support each other with a strength that could only come from their faith and the knowledge that my love for them was without limit. Sandra noted in her journal at the end of the day that “we were getting baby steps closer” to the end of this ordeal and to the moment I would return home.

A couple of days later, as my condition showed signs of improvement, nurses received notification to stop administering Verocounium, the medication that kept me in a paralytic state. Although doctors told Sandra that it would take months of intense physical therapy to completely recover from the muscle memory loss caused by the medicine, she was relieved that the drug wouldn’t do any more damage.

While pleased about the good news regarding minor progress with my lungs, the medical team was becoming concerned about a new problem. A bedsore was forming at the base of my back as a result of laying motionless for more than a week. To keep the sore from further irritation, hospital staff created space between the bed and my body by placing pillows under my shoulders, butt, arms, and legs.

The white pillowcases made it look like I was sleeping on a bed of fluffy clouds, a comforting, yet ominous, metaphor for heaven.

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Next Wednesday: In a major step forward, doctors decide to take me off of the oscillator.

Author’s note: The following passage is from Chapter 7, “Sticking with God,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  This is the 58th excerpt in the blog series.

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The numbers and the answers from the medical team weren’t promising. The most pressing issue was the cause of the lung failure. X-rays showed that my lungs were saturated with fluid. Reviewing the images on the X-ray screen was like looking at a blizzard from the safety of a window.

Only a trained eye could see through the heavy white haze and recognize any resemblance of normal lungs. Fever was constantly present surpassing 100 degrees several times per day indicating the possibility of infection. Despite these tell-tale symptoms, every culture sent to the lab returned negative for infection, pneumonia, or bronchitis.

Nevertheless, my oxygen saturation level fluctuated from 70% to 90%, numbers that were dangerously low especially as I was breathing with the help of the ventilator and oscillator.

While doctors were eliminating causes for the respiratory problems through tests, Sandra became more frustrated and confused. Marianne’s theory that ARDS could be the reason for my lung failure was echoed by one of the ICU nurses who cared for me. The nurse told Sandra that she had treated several ARDS patients before and my oxygen saturation levels and X-rays pointed to the respiratory syndrome as the culprit.

Every time Sandra addressed the issue with doctors, they were reluctant to confirm the diagnosis until all other more common causes were eliminated. Sandra and others were beginning to believe that ARDS could be the problem. The waiting room internet researchers agreed, but continued to be puzzled that I hadn’t experienced any of the conditions that led to the onset of the rare and deadly syndrome.

My medical record sheds some light on what doctors were thinking. Doctor comments about ARDS first show up on the record shortly after the 4^th of July weekend. Using words like “possible” and “feasible,” they developed a course of action that addressed the syndrome. As there is no cure for ARDS or medication that directly addresses the symptoms, doctors took aggressive steps to enhance the probability of survival.

The ventilator, oscillator, induced coma, paralytic medicine, and steroid treatments combined to give me the best chance to overcome what looked like a hopeless situation. What still created the atmosphere of bewilderment was what caused me to be in this state. There was no infection, no blunt trauma, no pneumonia, or any other event that shouted out “ARDS!”

One entry into my medical record on July 1^st indicates that doctors were concerned about the continued use of amiodarone, the medication I was prescribed to keep my heart stable and prevent another episode of cardiac arrest. The entry read:

“recommend stopping amiodarone, as you already have, after getting more details around the circumstances for starting it and weighing risks/benefits of using it.”

Several hours later, the same doctor wrote the following directive:

“Discussed circumstances for amiodarone therapy which was related to arrest during acute event. Would therefore stop amiodarone.”

For almost two decades, the drug has been used to stabilize the heart rate during cardiac arrest episodes. The American Heart Association (AHA) determined that amiodarone improved the survival of cardiac arrest patients and recommended its use in the 2000 AHA Advanced Cardiac Life Support Guidelines.

Since then, the drug has been a staple in hospital rooms where a life-threatening cardiac event unfolds. Ten years later, the 2010 AHA Guidelines for Cardiopulmonary Interventions declared that the first-line remedy to basic life support for cardiac arrest patients is amiodarone.

The drug has many potential side effects due to its toxicity. However, amiodarone use has rarely been associated with the development of ARDS. Some studies have shown that no more than 5% of patients who take the life-saving medicine develop lung poisoning.

The studies further found that a rapid progression to ARDS in cardiac patients could be related to the dysfunction of the left ventricle in the heart, the precise location where my heart was damaged. However, the main theory in recent studies is that that there could be a connection between amiodarone and a high concentration of oxygen delivered to the lungs during a lengthy time on a ventilator and an intubation pipe.

When doctors expressed concern about amiodarone in my medical record n July 1^st, I had been intubated and on mechanical ventilation for a prolonged period of 13 days. Since researchers are still in the hypothesis stage, the diagnosis of ARDS, especially related to amiodarone, is challenging and routinely overlooked.

The damage to my lower right heart muscle allowed nothing more than a weak stream of oxygenated blood to reach my worsening lungs. On July 1^st, it had been three days since the doctors aggressively addressed the situation that was causing my lungs to fail. While ARDS wasn’t the official diagnosis, it was clear to everyone – doctors, nurses, Sandra, the waiting room information gatherers, Marianne – that I was part of that 1 to 5% with full-blown acute respiratory distress syndrome.

The best-case scenario was that I had a 70% chance of survival with some organ and brain damage due to oxygen loss. Worse-case, I would succumb to this rare syndrome like the 30% who don’t live through it.

Despite all of the data that was conspiring against me, Sandra’s entries into her journal were upbeat. On July 5^th she wrote, “Today is a new day and I thank God for one more day with you.” She had endured a long weekend when each hour brought a new concern, another setback, and renewed hope when the last crisis was resolved.

It was a holiday weekend when lots of visitors came to support her and the girls in the waiting room. The few who were allowed to see me tried to give Sandra hope even though their faces expressed hopelessness. Sitting alone looking at my lifeless body and hearing the numbing sounds of the life support machines doing their work, her faith gave her more hope than ever.

That weekend, Mariano snapped a photo of Sandra one morning after breakfast. She sat pensively contemplating an uncertain future. Her eyes reveal enduring faith, steely determination, eternal hope, and unconditional love. Reminiscing about the photo a few years later, Mariano wrote,

“Without her knowing it she reignited something inside of me at that time …and that was to NEVER QUIT! No matter how gloom the situation to never stop believing and to never step down from the fight, to have Faith! She provided an example to me that I could never have learned from reading a million books or going to hundreds of seminars. I felt that for the first time in my life I was looking straight in the eye of Unshakable True Love At Its Finest!”

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Next Wednesday: My heart starts racing and doctors work to stabilize the situation while Sandra, once again, turns to her faith.

Author’s note: The following passage is from Chapter 7, “Sticking with God,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  This is the 57th excerpt in the blog series.

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Mrs. Peralta, too, had a strong faith that guided her through life’s difficulties and triumphs. From her youthful days as the youngest child of a widowed farm worker to the challenges she confronted while raising four daughters, she turned to prayer to ask for guidance and to thank God for His inspiration.

She has deep faith in St. Jude, the Patron Saint of Hope and impossible causes. According to the National Shrine of Saint Jude, the saint was one of Jesus’ original twelve Apostles, preaching the Gospel with great passion in the most difficult circumstances.

During the 4^th of July weekend, my critical condition made for the most difficult of circumstances for my family to that point. If there was ever a time for St. Jude’s intervention, it was the dark days and weeks that followed that long weekend. My survival seemed like an impossible cause and hope seemed like the only remedy.

With that in mind, Mrs. Peralta also began a nightly ritual that would endure throughout the summer. Just before leaving the hospital for the night, she would rub healing oil on my arms, legs, and forehead while reciting a prayer to St. Jude asking for his intercession. When I regained consciousness later that summer, the ritual brought me closer to understanding my own faith.

Two family friends took prayer from the waiting room to cyberspace. Beginning on June 18^th, the long day that began with cardiac arrest, Teresa Gonzales and Vanessa Rios posted Facebook updates throughout the summer asking friends to pray for me and my family. Their pleas carried the messages of hope and faith to anyone who read the posts. God must have been overwhelmed by the prayers for a man many didn’t even know.

I first met Teresa when she was a student at Most Holy Trinity Parochial school and I coached the middle school basketball and baseball teams during the mid 1980s. Over the years, we kept crossing paths as her friendship with Kimberley, which started during the church’s youth group activities, continued to grow. Along with her husband, Tommy, and their four daughters, the Gonzalez family has been part of the larger Peralta circle of friends for over 25 years.

On June 18^th, she posted on Facebook asking friends to “Please say a prayer for Eddie Garcia.” She went on to comment that, “This morning his heart stopped beating and they had to shock it to start again. He was in surgery again and he’s very sick! Right now he has a 50/50 chance. Please say a pray (sic) that he pulls through this.”

With these posts, Teresa started a conversation that described the ups and downs of the ICU while the string of prayers grew and strengthened. Two days later, she posted promising news: “The Power of Prayer…Eddie is doing very good. He continues to fight and I’m pretty sure he’s winning. Until that bell rings, please continue the prayers.” Within the week, when my prognosis took a turn for the worst, Teresa’s post described the downturn. She wrote, “Please keep prayers going for Eddie. It’s an emotional roller coaster.”

The prayers kept coming.

Vanessa began sending pleas for prayer to her network on June 18^th as well. She came to the family via Kimberley when the two of them were great college friends. They grew closer as they married and had families of their own. Vanessa and her two sons have become an integral part of the Peralta clan through the years.

In her first post, she advised her friends that the “next 48 hours are critical and concluded by urging them to, “Please ask your family and friends to pray.” She followed up with posts on June 21^st and June 28th updating readers on the “amazing power of prayer” and encouraging her network of friends to “keep the prayers going” as my condition continued to be “delicate.”

While Sandra made the decision to re-insert the breathing tube and considered introducing the oscillator, Vanessa posted a heartfelt message on June 30^th that read:

“Today was a tough day. Someone reminded me that when we pray, we need to be specific. So please, help us pray that Eddie wins the fight of his life right now. We want Eddie to get better, his heart to be strong enough, the infection to go away and Eddie’s oxygen to be normal. We want Eddie to go home with his family…in God’s name we pray!”

Comments on Vanessa’s post showed that reaching out to God had affected others. Friends of friends and people from parts unknown followed the posts and prayed for me, Sandra, and the girls. The power of the internet and social media was making its presence felt all the way to the gates of God’s heavenly paradise.

The Facebook messages that Teresa and Vanessa shared virtually with their friends captured the spectrum of emotions that enveloped the waiting room through the last days of June and the first days of July. The posts accurately described the medical situation while exposing the raw feelings of hope, faith, and despair that impacted everyone who visited Sandra and the girls at the ICU department on the 2^nd floor at Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center.

As the growing circle of family, friends, and social media banded together in prayer, Sandra sat alone by my side in the ICU hour after hour comforting me, listening to the machines whirl, and watching the multitude of numbers flash across computer screens. Every time nurses and doctors entered the room, Sandra presented a long laundry list of questions to help her help doctors make the right decisions.

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Next Wednesday: Doctors continue to look for answers to my lung failure

Author’s note: The following passage is from Chapter 7, “Sticking with God,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  This is the 56th excerpt in the blog series.

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Chapter 7

Sticking with God

The long and tumultuous days of the 4^th of July weekend were like dark clouds gathering for the stormy month that lay ahead. It was during the month of July that faith, family, and friends, became equal partners with talented and caring doctors, nurses, and hospital staff in the miraculous effort to save my life. Every person who frequented the waiting room that month played a unique role in the unfolding drama that kept people coming back for more.

Rudy brought his own brand of faith to the daily gatherings. Once I graduated from college and started chasing redemption for my failure demons, our friendship began to drift apart. I embarked on a tireless quest for recognition through work and professional accomplishments while Rudy continued his cycle of binge drinking and cavorting despite being in his early thirties and with a growing family.

He left the life of a construction worker for a steady paycheck and good benefits as a driver for Berkeley Farms milk products. Not wanting to jeopardize the stability the job created for him and his family, Rudy would go months without a drink or a night on the town. Every now and then he would go on a months-long binge after a party or a Saturday with the guys. The times that he and I were able to get together always ended in a drunken disaster.

Early in my career, a professional colleague invited me and a guest to a San Francisco 49er football game. Being that Rudy and I are lifetime 49er fans, I invited him to join me at the game at Candlestick Park in San Francisco. The two others who rounded out the group of four were well-respected business and community leaders in east San Jose. When we arrived at the stadium, we each bought a beer and raised our cups in a toast as we headed to our seats.

Rudy bought another round for the foursome just before kick-off. The others hadn’t even finished the first beer by the end of the first quarter and Rudy was ready for yet another round. I had also finished my two brews, but declined having another beer because the negative impact a drunken afternoon would do to my future career opportunities. Looking confused, Rudy sat down and didn’t have another drink for the rest of the first half.

At halftime, Rudy again invited me to join him at the concession stand. Again, I declined. He said he would run up to get refreshments and be back before the start of the second half. I didn’t see him for the remainder of the game. In fact, I didn’t see him for several months. Rudy went on another alcoholic binge as I started on a destructive binge of my own working obsessively to slay my failure demons.

It was my work schedule that prevented us from having any quality time together. Our friendship became a one-way street. Rudy helped on my campaigns for public office and played important roles in my parents’ funerals. He even traveled to Bakersfield to be with me and my family when my sister Patty passed away in 2003.

I called him only when I had a free moment waiting at an airport or driving from one meeting to another, spending the few minutes regaling him with stories about my successful exploits. I couldn’t recognize my selfishness as I marched forward reaching for the next promotion or achievement. Rudy never brought this to my attention during that time, or since. Although I was oblivious to anything other than my next professional move, Rudy’s friendship was rock solid.

While I immersed myself in the intoxicating world of politics and the executive suite, Rudy embarked on a long and successful journey to rid himself of his own demons. With the unconditional support of his wife Melody and his family, he sought refuge and guidance in God. At Melody’s urging he went with her to services at a non-denominational church and allowed himself to welcome the presence of God in his life.

Over time, his binges were less frequent and lasted just a day or two instead of the long months of the past. He ultimately conquered the demons by putting his life in God’s hands. Although he must still fight the urge to return to his old ways, Rudy has a deep and real spiritual faith that has brought him closer to his family and a happy life.

That unconditional faith came with him to the waiting room every day. Wearing navy blue work pants, boots, and a white-collared shirt with a Berkeley Farms logo over one shirt pocket and his name over the other, Rudy would show up at the hospital around 3:00 in the afternoon after a long day of delivering milk. Most days he would bring something from the shop to add to the other offerings of food and drink for the waiting room dwellers: chocolate milk, orange juice, ice cream or yogurt.

Some days he would just sit and meditate and exchange in whispered banter. Other days, he would fill the waiting room with life and laughter by sharing colorful stories of our youthful shenanigans. He could also bring tears to tired eyes with anecdotes about how we stood together like brothers in difficult times.

After spending several hours eating junk food, sharing stories, and being one with my family Rudy would call it a night to rest at home and prepare for his route that began before dawn the next day. Like clockwork, between 7:30 and 8:00 PM, he would ask everyone in the waiting room to stand up and hold hands. Closing his eyes and allowing God to give him inspiration, Rudy would say a heartfelt prayer before leaving for the night.

Those that made the waiting room part of their daily lives would make sure to be in the room by 7:30 so they could take part in the evening prayer. The energy created by Rudy’s love for me and his unwavering faith transferred from hand to hand as he recited pleas to God. The surge of energy generated by the prayer circle gave a boost to those who would stay through the night.

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Next Wednesday: Friends start a virtual prayer circle…

Author’s note: The following passage is from Chapter 6, “The Dreams,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  This is the 55th excerpt in the blog series.

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As rumors circulated in the community about my condition, Sandra was very protective about who could see me.  With her strong faith in God, she knew I would survive and didn’t want anybody but our most trusted family and friends to visit the ICU room.  Working with ICU nurses and staff, she gave strict orders that no one was allowed in the room without her approval.

Barbara, my in-laws, the Peralta sisters, Miguel, Pancho, Steve, and Rudy were daily visitors. Eddie Velez had a difficult time seeing me in that condition, so his visits into the ICU were less frequent. He would later tell me that seeing me was traumatic as if his actual brother had been on that bed connected to all those machines.

When the Peraltas from Mendota arrived, they asked to see me and Sandra quickly agreed. They entered the room in pairs, each person stunned by what they saw.  They knew me as someone full of life always ready for conversation and a party. What they saw was a lifeless body oblivious to what was happening.

Mariano, who is 15 years younger than I am, thinks of me as an older brother and mentor giving advice on an array of topics like relationships, work ethic, and life in general.  He enjoys my irreverent nuggets of wisdom like “we’re here for a good time not a long time,” “don’t threaten me with a good time,” and his all-time favorite, “you gotta play like a champ.”  Mariano later said that he knew I would survive this setback, although he was devastated to see me hanging on to life.

For Tio Tavo, the prognosis didn’t look good.  Never one to sugar-coat a situation, he thought that they would be returning to San Jose soon for my funeral.  He’s a tall, imposing figure with a thick mustache and a hook for a left hand caused by a farming accident many years before.  A foreman at a working ranch outside of Fresno, he always wears jeans, work boots, a plaid western work shirt, and a baseball cap.

When he saw me, he stood over my bed weeping.  Tía Marta, a woman of faith, had her doubts as well. She prayed asking God to do what was best for my family.  When they emerged from the ICU, he shared his thoughts about an impending funeral. With an emotional tone, Tio Tavo’s older brother immediately scolded him,“¡Eddie no se va a morir!”  (Eddie isn’t going to die!). It was the first time my father-in-law vocalized what he was feeling.

As morning turned into afternoon, the doctor finally arrived and summoned Sandra to a small, windowless consultation room just down the hall from the ICU.  Apprehension filled the waiting room as Sandra, her mom, sisters, Barbara and George quietly followed.  Once in the little room, the doctor wasted no time getting down to business.  He began by saying that I was the “sickest man in the hospital.”

Sandra immediately asked if I had ARDS, and he responded that that was a probability as X-rays showed the classic image of cloudy lungs. The only way my body was receiving oxygen was through the respirator and oscillator, a full life-support situation.  My weak heart only complicated matters. The doctor went on explain that there is no known cure for ARDS, but he described a couple of treatment options.

The first, he said, was the traditional approach of keeping the patient sedated and relaxed with a small dose of vecuronium bromide, a medication classified as a paralyzing agent. This allows the patient’s body to rest while the lung congestion clears out on its own.  If the strategy works, the patient could be weaned off of the medication and breathing machines within 10 days.  If it doesn’t work, the steady use of ventilation could cause serious lung damage and lead to death.

The second option, steroid treatments, was more aggressive and could result in further complication to other organs, especially the kidneys. The research on using steroids to treat ARDS is mixed in the pulmonary medicine world. One school of thought is that it doesn’t enhance survival rates, but causes irreparable damage to vital organs for survivors. Other doctors believe that steroids significantly decrease lung inflammation, allowing the lungs to receive oxygen on their own faster than doing nothing.

Sandra rapidly peppered the doctor with questions. “How will you know it’s working?”  “How long will it take to see results?”  “What are other risks?”  “Do benefits outweigh the risks?”  He responded that regular x-rays of the lungs will tell him if the congestion is clearing out.  The major risk is losing kidney function which has its own set of problems.

Other than my delicate heart, I was otherwise healthy, he counseled. There was a good chance that this treatment would help.  The doctor said that the next 72 hours would be critical and could determine the possibility of my survival. He assured Sandra that he “wasn’t ready to give up” on me.

Sandra told the doctor that she needed a little time to think about the steroid option and asked how the family could help me while I was in a deep sleep. He explained that research showed that constant stimulation is essential for heavily sedated patients. Visitors whose voices are recognizable keeps the brain stimulated with sounds of familiarity.

Family members talking to me would put me at ease, he explained. He also recommended that we play my favorite music and place photos in my line of sight in the event my eyes briefly opened.  Keeping my brain active would make emerging from the induced coma less stressful and confusing.

Emotions were intense, the small group was scared, and it started dawning on them in that  cramped room that I might die. Everyone wanted the same thing, to do everything in their power to help me survive this unknown illness that had left me clinging to life in the ICU. Sandra vaguely remembers the sense of doom that day as her attention was completely focused on the doctor and his advice on how to best ensure my survival.

In her journal entry about the meeting she wrote, “I just want you to know that I have tried everything I know to get answers for you. I know you are fighting. I can see it in your eyes. So, you keep fighting and I will fight on this end.” The tone of this passage clearly displays Sandra’s resolve and tenacity. In true Sandra fashion, she also expected me to do my part.

Back in the waiting room, Sandra broke the news about the doctor’s assessment to the somber gathering. Electronic devices booted up and the information hunters were again scouring the internet to make sense of the diagnosis and the possible treatments.

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Next Wednesday: Chapter 7: “Sticking with God”

Author’s note: The following passage is from Chapter 6, “The Dreams,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  This is the 54th excerpt in the blog series.

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Visitors continued to stream in and out of the waiting room that evening chatting with the regulars: Marisa, Erica, the Peraltas, Velez, Rochas, Leyvas, Barbara and Jackie, my brother Steve, Rudy and Melody, and the Medinas.  Sandra stood guard in the ICU with me watching the monitors and discussing the numbers with the nurses.

That night at 11:45 PM, she wrote to me in her journal, “You have been on this new machine most of the day and the numbers are looking positive and I am keeping a good eye on you as you sleep.”  She also mentioned that “Father Rios came by to visit you today,” and she went on to write, “He told you that the kids at SJV (St. John Vianney) need you and that they all love you. He blessed you and prayed for your healing.”

That’s exactly what Fr. Rios said in the dream where I was in a straightjacket and shackled to a chair in a navy ship office!  Thinking about that dream and others like it months later, I realized that I could feel when Sandra wasn’t in the ICU room with me, which caused my anxiety, sense of loneliness and feelings of desperation.  This must have been when she left the ICU for extended periods of time to join the family for dinner or consult with doctors.

Most of the dreams that I remember included frantic searches for Sandra. In others, I was in an unknown isolated place unable to move or talk to find help.  The dreams usually ended with Sandra finding me or vice versa. I would then fall into a relaxing and peaceful sleep. I’m sure those were the real-life moments when she returned to my side.

Throughout the day, Sandra made short and periodic visits to the waiting room to be with the girls and spend a little time with family and friends who were visiting.  Juanita’s sister, Marianne, an ICU nurse at another hospital, stopped by that day to support Sandra and the girls.

Since Marianne had experience with critical care patients, Sandra described my symptoms to her and asked if she had any ideas on what could be causing my lung failure. Upon hearing the symptoms, she introduced a term to the waiting room that immediately set the iPads and i-Phones into action: Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome, better known as ARDS to health professionals.

According to the American Lung Association, ARDS is “the sudden failure of the respiratory system.”  To understand ARDS, a quick refresher of high school biology is a good start.  When we inhale, oxygen travels to air sacs in the lungs that have small blood vessels running through its walls.  Oxygen goes into the blood vessels which deliver the oxygen through the bloodstream to the body’s organs.

With ARDS patients, the blood vessels leak fluid into the air sacs.  Once the air sacs are filled with fluid, oxygen can no longer get to the blood vessels to deliver oxygen to the body.  When the organs stop getting oxygen, they start to shut down. Experts believe that about 190,000 Americans develop ARDS each year, of which 30% die from the condition.

This is a significant improvement from just 20 years ago when almost 70% of ARDS patients didn’t survive.  Doctors and researchers have developed a long list of causes for ARDS – bacterial infection of the blood, trauma, pneumonia or other lung infection, multiple blood transfusions, breathing in salt water, breathing in harmful smoke or fumes, breathing vomit into the lungs, narcotics, overdoses of antidepressants, and shock. However, they haven’t found a cure.

Although my symptoms appeared to be related to ARDS, the electronic info gatherers in the waiting room were scratching their heads because I hadn’t experienced any of the situations that cause the syndrome.  Nonetheless, Marianne’s diagnosis was plausible.  Fear and worry enveloped the waiting room knowing that 3 out of 10 ARDS patients die of the condition.

Heightening concerns was the fact that my heart was extremely weak and subject to failure if the lungs couldn’t deliver the necessary oxygen through the bloodstream.  The waiting room prayed asking God to allow the oscillator to keep the airways open and the ventilator to deliver oxygen to the body while the doctors tried to figure out what was going wrong.

The next day was the Friday that started the 4^th of July weekend.  In addition to cousins on my side of the family, Sandra’s relatives from the Central Valley farming town of Mendota came into town to be with Sandra, the girls, and our families.  The patriarch of the Mendota clan was my father-in-law’s brother Octavio, whom I respectfully and warmly call Tío Tavo.

I met him shortly after Sandra and I started to date on a regular basis.  He’s blunt with his opinions and has a great sense of humor that keeps everyone in stitches the minute he walks into a room.  Together, Tío Tavo and Tía Marta, and their children, Tavito, Mariano, and Veronica are family to me.  I saw the Peralta kids from “Mendo” grow up from preteens and teens to adults, and now watch their children doing the same.

While people continued to visit the waiting room throughout the day, Sandra kept watch over me in the ICU and anxiously awaited the meeting with doctors.  I was in the most vulnerable state of the summer, lifeless on the bed connected to machines whirring and thumping as the oscillator made a booming sound every time it sent a puff of air into my lungs.

Pancho later said it was scary to watch and hear each gust of air from the oscillator make my chest expand as the machine made a thundering sound. On both sides of the bed stood a forest of IV stands with clear plastic bags hanging from hooks. The clear plastic bags held the medicine and liquid nourishment that worked in tandem with the breathing machines to keep me alive.

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Next Wednesday: Sandra’s meeting with doctors creates tension in the waiting room