With that resolved, I turned to Sandra as she sat next to me holding my hand.  Breathlessly, I told her that everything would be fine and that we would get through this crisis, even though I kept the doubts to myself.  She agreed with my assessment citing her absolute faith in God.

If for some reason I were not to survive, I asked her between breaths to please make sure that the girls never stop dreaming about their future.  They should remember that they had the ability to accomplish anything.

I also told her how I wanted to celebrate my funeral: a conjunto norteño serenading family and friends with my favorite songs (especially the upbeat happy tunes), Barbara would give a eulogy about my childhood, George would address my professional life, and Marisa and Erica would share stories about their daddy.

With tears streaming down her cheeks, Sandra told me not to think like that.  I held her tighter and assured her that I was sharing my thoughts “just in case.”

Doctors soon arrived to take me to perform the intubation procedure.  The girls came into the ICU to pray with me and wish me luck.  The procedure was standard stuff.  A nurse would give me a small dose of LORazepam to keep me lightly sedated and Vecuronium to relax my muscles so the tube wouldn’t be so uncomfortable.

Once my oxygen stabilized, I would be able to undergo the CT scan. In the meantime, my lungs and body could rest. The doctor said that I would be alert enough to receive visitors, watch TV, and communicate with doctors once the procedure was complete.

In a semi-conscious state in the operating room, I resisted the doctors and struggled to prevent the insertion of the tube. With the pipe securely in place, I continued to twist and turn trying to free my hands to take the tube out. Doctors made a critical decision to sedate me heavily and medically paralyze my body to prevent movement.

Even with the ventilator sending air to my lungs, oxygen saturation levels dipped every time I moved. It was clear to the doctors that the ventilator would be useless if I continued to fight the equipment that was keeping me alive.

The higher dose of sedatives put me into a deep sleep. Until the cause of my lung failure could be identified and resolved, I would have to remain in a medically induced coma.

The administration of strong muscle-relaxing medication would keep my body still, ensuring that the mechanical ventilator breathing for me could effectively deliver badly needed oxygen to my vital organs.

Both actions came with potential for long-term side effects to my brain and body. Research has demonstrated that patients remaining in a medically induced coma for an extended period of time could suffer a loss of cognitive skills, permanent brain damage, or worse. Every day I remained paralyzed, muscle memory would deteriorate and my ability to physically function would be compromised.

When the lead doctor emerged from the operating room, he explained to Sandra what steps were taken to stabilize my situation. Without emotion and with strength of character that could only be sustained by unconditional faith, Sandra intently listened to the report.

My medical condition took another turn toward the unknown, to a place that even the doctors admitted was new territory. Although my heart was in a critically fragile state, it was secondary to the inexplicable virtual shutdown of my lungs.

Despite everything that my body had endured during the past three weeks – heart attack, cardiac arrest, and dangerously low oxygen levels – there could still be more complications and surprises to come. The cardiac team had been relieved of its duties for the time being and the pulmonologists and critical care staff would work around the clock to address the lung issues. The next 72 hours would prove crucial to my survival.

I was back in the ICU resting while connected to the machines that kept me breathing and a myriad of IV tubes that fed, medicated, and monitored me. Numbers across a computer screen provided minute-to-minute updates of my heart rate, temperature, blood pressure, and oxygen saturation.

The beeping and whirring sounds of the machines musically accompanied the sharp green lines and flashing LED lights that danced on monitors in a mesmerizing ballet displaying even more information for the medical team. A nurse was stationed in my room with one eye on me and the other on the devices surrounding my bed.

With hospital personnel moving about the room, the scene looked like a war room preparing for the battle of a lifetime.

Just yards away outside of the plain white double doors and inside the single door that led to the white and avocado green ICU waiting room in Department 2300 at Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center, everyone gathered – the extended Peralta family, my sister Barbara and her family, Rudy and Melody, Will and Juantita, and many others – to wait for news from the operating room.

They were once again stunned when the doctor provided an update on the situation. In the eerie quiet that followed, the group instinctively formed a prayer circle, held hands, and silently urged God to intervene.

The entry in my medical record at the end of the day on June 29, 2010, simply read, “Intubated, sedated, and paralyzed.”

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Author’s note: This passage is the conclusion of Chapter 5, “Buen Corazón,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  

THIS IS THE FINAL EXCERPT IN THE BLOG SERIES! You can catch up on what you missed by clicking on the image above.

The rest of the story will be published in the book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life. Make sure to get your copy when the book is available later this summer.

FEEL FREE TO SHARE THIS STORY WITH YOUR FRIENDS!

With heartfelt gratitude, thank you for reading.

Eddie García

San Jose, California

February 11, 2015

Author’s note: The following passage is from Chapter 5, “Buen Corazón,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  This is the 49th excerpt in the series.

THERE ARE ONLY TWO MORE EXCERPTS LEFT!

The conclusion of Chapter 5 and the final excerpt in this blog series will post on February 11, 2015. The book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life, is scheduled to be published and available later this summer. Stay tuned!!

To catch up on what you missed, click on the image above to read ALL excerpts.

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On the morning of June 26^th, two days after my transfer to the ICU, the cardiac team of doctors came into my room with encouraging news.  Although my heart was badly damaged by the June 7^th heart attack, the complex concoction of heart, blood pressure, blood-thinning, cholesterol, and diuretic medicine appeared to be working.  The ejection fraction measurement of heart function was well-below the normal range, but stabilizing, and other organs, minus the lungs, were functioning well.

As a result, the cardiologists concluded, there wasn’t a need for a heart transplant, and once the lung issues were resolved, I could lead a slower, but somewhat normal life after the ICU. One of the cardiologists working on my case was a smart, petite, soft-spoken woman who was born and educated in India.  Her engaging smile and the optimistic look in her eyes exuded the seemingly conflicting qualities of confidence and humility which provided a sense of hope and comfort to me and Sandra.

As a self-proclaimed information hog, I peppered her with questions about heart function and the pros and cons of a heart transplant.  The doctor addressed each inquiry with patience and clarity.  Sandra and I later asked her if she was available to be my cardiologist, to which she readily accepted. Just as the cardiologist and her colleagues were summarizing their conclusions, I suddenly began having more difficulty breathing.

For the past few days, my oxygen saturation percentage had been hovering around the high 80s to low 90s, which wasn’t good, yet not alarming.  When oxygen levels dipped below 90%, the monitors emitted a high-pitched sound that beeped every second or so.  Immediately nurses and respiratory technicians would come into the room to determine if any adjustments were needed to the airflow.  My breathing became more labored by the minute and the high-pitched beep became a steady ring.

The cardiac team left to make room for a team of respiratory therapists and pulmonologists. Doctors struggled to understand what was causing the low oxygen levels for the next two days. Respiratory technicians replaced the high-flow tubes that sent oxygen through my nostrils with a non-breather mask that covered my nose and mouth to generate a more concentrated flow of oxygen into my lungs.

The clear mask uses elastic straps around the ears and head to keep it in place and a rubber strip around the edges to prevent patients from inhaling any room air.  When patients inhale, a valve opens up to allow 60-80% concentration of oxygen to be delivered. For about a day, the mask seemed to do the trick as my saturation levels stabilized in the low 90s.  Each movement of my body or a sudden cough would send oxygen levels plummeting into the 70s.

I remember breathing heavily trying to catch my breath and looking at the monitors to see my oxygen level at 73%.  I labored with each breath while doctors and nurses adjusted the inflow of air and drew blood to do more tests to find answers to my lung problems.  Pneumonia and infection were ruled out with each returning test result.  Although Sandra tried to maintain hope and faith, I could see concern and worry seeping into her face.

On the night of June 28^th, the pulmonologist directed the nurse to remove the clear non-breather mask and place me on a Bi-Level Positive Air Pressure (BIPAP) machine to help me get through the night.  The BIPAP machine is a small bedside respiratory machine connected to tubing and a facemask that helps patients breathe by completely sealing off outside air.  It pushes air into the lungs and holds open the air sacs in the lungs to allow more oxygen to enter.

When the nurse strapped the facemask to my head, it felt like a very tight football helmet that covered my entire face and head.  With the mask in place, I felt isolated and scared as I could feel and hear the air rushing into my face with an echoing swishing sound. Suddenly panic began to set in and my mind swirled thinking about dying.

I was in a completely helpless situation. I couldn’t breathe. I had this contraption wrapped around my head and face. I had no control of anything at this point in my life. If death was my ultimate destiny that night, I thought, I hoped that it would come sooner than later.

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Next Wednesday: Oxygen saturation levels continue to plummet as doctors try to find a solution…

Author’s note: The following passage is from Chapter 5, “Buen Corazón,” of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life.  This is the 48th excerpt in the series. Click on the image to read ALL excerpts.

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The next week in the coronary care unit was a blur for me. While cardiologists closely monitored my heart to determine a plan forward, pulmonologists remained concerned that my oxygen levels wouldn’t stay consistent fluctuating from a normal 97% to a dangerous mid-80%.

There was a steady flow of visitors: Marisa and Erica, the Peralta clan, my brothers David and Stevie, my sisters Barbara and Sisi, Rudy, Will, Melody, Juanita, and other family friends. I don’t recall much about what was said during that time, I just knew they were there and their presence gave me hope, comfort, and the courage to fight on.

One brief visit and conversation has stayed with me since that time. My college friend Damian Trujillo had stopped in to see how I was doing to find me connected to heart and oxygen monitors that were beeping and purring behind the bed. I was also connected to a high-flow oxygen system that delivered air through narrow tubes placed in the nostrils. The pulmonologists wanted accurate and ongoing oxygen saturation readings to ensure that my body was getting the oxygen it needed.

To get an accurate reading, the oxygen monitor was placed on my forehead kept in place by a headband.  I’ll never forget how the ball-shaped monitor hurt as it dug into my forehead.  Damian joked, “Míralo, you look all bad like a cholo with that headband.” That’s one of the few times I remember laughing during the ordeal. I later learned that he brought tamales to add to the growing stock of food in the waiting room.

In the cardiac ICU, I had a hard time sleeping and my anxiety increased as sedative medicine wore off.  Sandra stayed in the room with me each night only to lose sleep herself because I would be awake all night and sleep just a little during the day.  Bedridden and weak, I increasingly became frustrated.  My anxious mind conjured up worse case scenarios and I felt scared, especially when Sandra was out of the room.

Throughout our life together, she had been the solid foundation to my workaholic dream-building ambitions. Lying in a state of uncertainty while doctors tried to stabilize my heart and figure out what was wrong with my lungs, the loneliness and helplessness without Sandra sitting next to me was demoralizing.

Marisa and Erica would visit briefly to say good morning and good night.  Sandra wanted to make sure that their daily routine continued as the medical crisis entered its third week.  Without the sedatives, I started to understand the grave situation I was in and my spirits continued to dive.  The girls would come into the room with a smile and “hi daddy,” but I could see the sadness in their eyes.

One evening just before bedtime, they came in to say good night with a gift in hand, a Build-a-Bear in green surgical scrubs and hat. They named him Buen Corazon and sat him on the headboard to watch over me.  He held an X-ray of a healthy heart in his left paw.  They asked me to squeeze his right paw, and Marisa’s voice came out of him saying, “Get well soon daddy.  We love you!  Love Marisa and Erica.”  Sandra’s eyes welled up with tears, and with a huge lump in my throat, I held mine back.

At that moment, a range of emotions washed over me: unconditional love, sadness, fear, and a steely resolve.  I smiled, thanked the girls, and told them that I would be fine.  After hugs and kisses, they said good night and left the room as Sandra and I silently held hands.  With unconditional love for Sandra and the girls and Buen Corazon watching my back, I felt a sense of confidence that all would end well.

My heart, although seriously weak, stabilized after a few days in the CCU.  Nurses prepared me and all of the monitors for a quick ride to the ICU just down the hall so doctors could concentrate on my oxygen and lung issues.  That day, and the next three or four days, would be the clearest for me in some time.

Leaving the cardiac ICU, I high-fived nurses and staff as my bed rolled through the unit.  I got to know the people caring for me and made sure that I thanked them as I left, even if I was lying on a bed.  Once in the ICU, I was reconnected to the monitors and oxygen in the room that was to be my home for the better part of that summer.

In the ICU, my room was buzzing with activity.  Nurses walked in regularly to check on the growing forest of IV stands holding the various medications that were keeping me going and monitor the machines and gauges that were tracking my minute-by-minute progress. Watching the LED lights blinking and rising and falling on the monitors was like looking through a kaleidoscope filled with red, green, and orange glass.

Like clockwork, nurses came in to draw blood, add medication to the clear plastic bags hanging from the IV stands, and take my temperature.  Cardiologists, pulmonologists, and critical care physicians checked in three times a day to report on my condition.  It was an intense experience, but it was clear that the doctors, nurses, and staff were working hard to help me get better.

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Next Wednesday: After a couple of days of progress, my oxygen levels suddenly plummeted as I struggled to breathe…

Author’s note: The manuscript of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life, is divided into three parts. The title of Part 2 is The Waiting Room. Excerpt #44 is the third installment of  The Waiting Room.

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Once again, God entered the fray and intervened to calm me as my life hung in the balance. On June 7^th, He sent Stacey Cook to the emergency room to strengthen my faith in Him, and on the morning of June 18^th, my sister Patty was in the ICU as His messenger of hope and deliverance.

On both occasions, my medical condition was dire. On both occasions, I was at the right place at the right time. If I was anywhere else other than a hospital, I wouldn’t have survived.  My relationship with God had reached another plateau. My faith was moving from being a loyal member of the Catholic Church to a true believer in God’s will.

At the moment I thought I had fallen asleep, my heart had actually come to a complete stop after racing to that stratospheric 280 beats per minute. The medical team immediately went into action to get my heart beating again. Nurses started CPR as technicians quickly prepared the AED paddles needed to shock my heart back to life.

Seconds were rapidly ticking away as the heart monitor standing behind the bed stopped beeping with the familiar peaks and valleys of the LED lights bouncing across the screen, and began to emit a high-pitched steady sound with a solid flat line indicating that the heart was no longer beating.

With AED paddles securely in place on my chest, Dr. Fisk prepared to activate the shockwaves that would send electronic signals to reactivate my heart. In most cases, the doctor would need to send several signals to the heart to regain a normal heartbeat. When Dr. Fisk administered the first shock, my back arched, my chest heaved forward, I sat up, and the heart monitor began beeping again. The procedure had worked.

Two months later, while I continued to heal in a regular hospital room, a nurse named Cat walked in with a wide grin and sincere joy in her eyes. She told me that she was on duty the morning of June 18th and she had heard that I was still in the hospital so she came to see me to share an anecdote about that hectic morning.

She told me about rushing to my room after hearing the public address system announce a “code blue” indicating that an emergency life-or-death situation was unfolding in the hospital.  With a broad smile, she recounted how Dr. Fisk shocked me with the AED paddles and I instantly sat up with a grimace on my face. With eyes wide open, I shouted “oh shit”! Everyone stopped what they were doing and, for a few seconds, the room became quiet and still.

With a thin deadpan smile, Dr. Fisk calmly said, “I think we have a heartbeat.” The room erupted in laughter and relief. Nurse Cat had never experienced something like that in ten years as a cardiac nurse. She wished me the best and urged me to “keep up that fighting spirit” before saying good bye and walking out of the room.

When Sandra and Marisa arrived at the hospital on the morning of June 18^th, they hurried to the surgery department while doctors were preparing me for a procedure to dissolve another blockage that completely obstructed the same artery doctors repaired after the first heart episode.

Valerie, who worked just a short drive from the hospital, was already there and had seen me. She sobbed uncontrollably, with tears streaming down her cheeks, as she tightly embraced Sandra and Marisa before the two of them were escorted into the surgery prep room.

The nurse advised Sandra and Marisa to be upbeat and positive when they saw me. I was on a gurney with a clear oxygen mask strapped over my nose and mouth, and I looked scared with the “deer in the headlights” stare. They both assured me that I was going to be fine. I tried to assure them by weakly raising my arms in a two-handed thumbs-up. They both kissed me before my gurney rolled into surgery.

Back in the waiting room, Sandra’s parents, sisters, and their families began to arrive. It had been a surreal week and a half that was difficult for everyone to comprehend. I went from 18-hour workdays to surviving a heart attack to once again fighting for my life in an operating room while my family anxiously waited for the surgeon to walk through the door to deliver the news.

Within an hour, others began to arrive: Melody and Juanita, with Rudy and Will following later in the day, relatives from Sandra’s side of the family, and friends from work. The waiting room was in a state of shock. Eddie Velez stood silently in the waiting room confused, saying to himself, “this is not good.”

As people continued to arrive, there was a collective sense of, “what else can happen”?  George, who arrived in the early afternoon, would later call June 18^th, “the longest day.” In the operating room, the heart surgeon performed the same procedure I underwent 11 days earlier.

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To read excerpts #43 click here: https://esereport.com/2014/11/24/summer-in-the-waiting-room-how-faith-family-and-friends-saved-my-life-excerpt-43/

Next Wednesday: The aftermath of cardiac arrest…

Author’s note: The manuscript of my book, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life, is divided into three parts. The title of Part 2 is The Waiting Room. Excerpt #43 is the second installment of  The Waiting Room.

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Sandra started the morning on Friday, June 18, 2010, feeling good about my prognosis. I was still in the ICU, but I slept through the night breathing well, and it seemed like I was on the proper regimen of medication to manage my congestive heart failure. Erica was in Washington, D.C. with her class for the school’s annual trip for incoming 8^th graders, so it was just Sandra and Marisa at home. They slept together in the master bedroom to comfort and support each other.

In addition to managing my health crisis, Sandra was preparing to close school for the summer and planning for the new school year. She was exhausted as she stepped into the shower and absorbed the soothing water raining down on her. She felt uneasy about going home for the night and leaving me in the hospital alone, but did so at the urging of family, friends, and doctors.  As a woman of faith, Sandra was confident that I would be just fine in God’s hands.

When Sandra got out of the shower, the phone started ringing and Marisa, recognizing the caller ID, told her that someone from Kaiser was calling. Sandra said “it’s probably daddy calling to say good morning” and quickly answered the phone as Marisa watched nervously assuming the worst had happened.

Sandra ended the call after a few minutes of intently listening and responding with one word answers. She told Marisa that something had happened earlier in the morning. The doctors had stabilized the situation, but she and Marisa needed go to the hospital right away.

They were soon on the familiar route to the Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center – Highway 101 to Interstate 280 to Lawrence Expressway – when the hospital called again. Activating the cell phone’s hands-free device, Sandra placed the call on speaker phone so both she and Marisa could hear the caller. Again, it was a doctor from the hospital providing more information about that morning’s episode.

Another blood clot formed on an artery and I had gone into cardiac arrest. Once stabilized, doctors were getting me ready for another angioplasty procedure. The doctor told Sandra and Marisa that they would be able to see me before I went into surgery. While Sandra called her mom to let her know what was going on, Marisa anxiously sat through the long ride to the hospital.

My body had a negative reaction to Plavix, a common blood-thinning medication prescribed after the first surgery. It wasn’t working, so a blood clot formed on the metal stent doctors placed in my heart almost immediately. This is a rare occurrence caused by the body’s rejection of the medication.

By the early morning of June 18^th, the clot had closed off the blood flow to the heart’s lower left chamber causing my heart to pump furiously in its efforts to deliver oxygenated blood to the body. Within seconds of the closure in the artery, my heart raced to 280 beats per minute, alarmingly above the average heart beat of 65 beats. In less than a minute, I went into cardiac arrest.

Cardiac arrest is a medical way of saying that the heart stops beating. Without blood circulation and delivery of oxygen to the body and brain, the patient loses consciousness.  On a heart monitor, the normal peaks and valleys of a heartbeat suddenly turn into a flat line. If cardiac arrest goes untreated for more than five minutes, the lack of oxygen could cause death or, if the patient survives, severe brain damage.

The best chance of survival requires immediate cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) and the use of an automated external defibrillator (AED), the electronic paddles that shock the heart so it could start beating. Unless someone nearby is trained in CPR and an AED is readily available, the chance of survival for someone who suffers from cardiac arrest is remote.

I was fortunate to be in the hospital ICU when my heart began to race uncontrollably then suddenly stopped. My memory of that episode is brief, but harrowing. It seemed like one minute I was watching the NBA Finals with George, and the next minute I was sitting up in the bed violently screaming for help because I couldn’t catch my breath.

For me, the whole scene was hazy and chaotic as doctors and nurses appeared to be moving in fast motion, then slow motion, as they worked to save my life. According to my medical record, I repeatedly shouted, “I can’t get enough air.”

Dr. Stephen Fisk, a short and slender pulmonary doctor in his late 60s with gray thinning hair and a trimmed white beard, was trying to calm me down by telling me to relax so he could help me. The fear of dying entered my mind for the first time as the doctors and nurses hovering around me looked concerned and even scared themselves.

As Dr. Fisk urged me to relax, I noticed a nurse standing calmly at the foot of the bed with a soothing smile telling me, in a soft but audible voice that could be heard above the bedlam, that everything was going to be okay and that I would be fine.

The nurse looked exactly like my sister Patty who had died of a heart condition seven years earlier. A sudden warmth and comfort came over me as the madness around me disappeared and I peacefully fell asleep.

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SPECIAL NOTE: To accommodate your Thanksgiving Week schedule, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life is posted today instead of Wednesday.

Next Wednesday: Doctors scramble to save my life a second time after cardiac arrest…