My Next Step (15 page)

“Dave, you’re not part of the team here. You don’t play on the softball team. You don’t come to the Friday afternoon cocktail hour for a beer and you show no interest in being around the other guys in your troop.”

I was stunned by his response because in addition to being in the service, I was taking college courses and was holding down three part-time jobs so I could buy and sell real estate on the side. I worked at a gas station, a movie theater and delivered newspapers to 7-11 and Circle K every morning between 2:00 and 6:00 AM. I wasn’t like the other twenty year olds who were partying and having a good time. I was trying to build something with my life.

When I explained this to the Major, he said “You’re trying to build it on your own, with no team. If you’re always standoffish or never have the time to enjoy a drink with your comrades or attend a company picnic, people will assume you don’t want to be around the rest of us. Either you think you’re too important or too good. Whatever your reasons, it doesn’t work here. We’re the military, son. We live and die together.”

Here I was, thinking I was sending a message that I was an extremely ambitious and hardworking young airman who was really going places in his life, and the message they were receiving was that I was a standoffish, snobby son of a bitch who didn’t want to be around the rest of the guys. You can bet I never missed another gathering, and was never passed over for another promotion. The truth stung a bit, but it was exactly what I needed to hear.

So as I prepared myself to hear what my physical therapist was about to say, I realized I might not like it, but I needed to hear it, just as I needed to hear the Major years ago.

“Dave, just bust your butt. With hard work and your same level of perseverance, we hope you’ll be able to walk by Christmas. You still have a lot of muscle you need to replace and you don’t have a great sense of balance yet, but you’ll get there. It takes time and patience. I’m not stupid. I know you’re going to go home and try to get up and walk. But if you come back here with a brain injury caused by a fall, I’m going to be very disappointed in you.”

Trying to lighten the mood, I looked at her and said, “I have thick cushioned carpeting.”

She wasn’t amused.

I went home that night extremely disappointed. I was deeply discouraged by her Christmas prediction because I wanted to be on my feet much sooner than that. But at the same time I respected her for telling me her honest opinion.

The relationships I forged with my nurses, therapists and technicians at Craig were second to none. I loved the guys like they were my brothers in combat and the women were all lovely, beautifully spirited ladies. The techs assigned to me had to do the dirty work no one else would ever choose to do, and yet they were there with a smile every day as they happily changed my sometimes soiled bed sheets, helped with my bathroom needs, cleaning, bathing, showering and anything else I need assistance with along the way. They were all amazing people, doing their best on behalf of others. In many respects, they were exactly the type of individuals I have always sought to be around.

The RE/MAX attitude has always been that you play better golf with better golfers. When the competition is intense, you can’t be a slacker. You try to play up to the best in the game you’re playing. It’s part of my DNA to surround myself with the very best people in everything I do. Successful companies like Apple, Microsoft and RE/MAX aren’t built by one man or woman; they’re built by a team of incredibly talented people who have a shared passion for a cause they believe in. Simply stated, I couldn’t have recovered to the extent I did without each and every one of my caregivers, who all kept me competitive and committed. It would be a huge understatement to say that these relationships are close; they’re intimate. These fine people become extremely involved in your life, and as a result, you become involved in theirs too. I feel as if I’ve forged world-class friendships as a result. I will never forget the work we did together—and their patience, kindness, understanding and willingness to put up with me even when I was a pain the ass. I’ll never forget the support they extended to help get me through the worst period of my life. There was no way to predict that I would emerge as the lucky one, with enough strength and determination to someday recover most of my body functions. No one can heal for you, but these professionals do their best to help you get as far as you can. It was much better having a support team cheering me on in this way than a group just saying, “We hope you will be ok.” Every day I heard encouraging words such as, “You’re looking good,” “You’re getting stronger,” and “Keep working hard and you’ll be perfect again.” Those words certainly got me closer to my goal. Without those fine men and women, I would not have recovered as I have.

On July 17
^th
, my first day home after being released from the hospital, Gail had invited fifty or so of our friends and their spouses to a Welcome Home party celebrating my progress. By the time I got there, I had already put in a long day of physical therapy and exercise at the hospital. I was exhausted. It was seven o’clock when the first guests began to arrive. It was also around the time that the special hospital bed I had ordered arrived. I needed a bed with sides because I still couldn’t turn over on my own if I didn’t have something to grab onto, and I didn’t want to worry about falling out of bed at night either. Unfortunately, they delivered a bed that didn’t have sides. Next, the oxygen tank I ordered showed up, but the machine they brought was broken. The one that worked was unfamiliar to me, so I had to learn how to use it. And then the nurse came to teach me how to clean and change my IV three times a day. I had to flush it with saline solution and then sanitize it with alcohol before putting it back in within ten minutes of taking it out. Once I did that I had to flush the line again, tighten everything and make sure the connections were made. I was trying to learn all of this while a party in my honor was going on.

Before I got sick, I could multitask anything. I could give a speech to thousands of people and solve large-scale business problems before breakfast on most days. But my first night home proved to be too mentally taxing for me. I was completely overwhelmed. I had never felt like that in my life. I couldn’t see anybody after that. I decided to put myself to bed and just rest. It was strange to be home. It’s the one place you’re supposed to feel safe, secure and worry-free, yet on this occassion it made me anxious, worried and stressed. I didn’t want to admit it, but the doctors were right. I wasn’t physically ready to be home yet. I actually looked forward to getting back to Craig and starting my outpatient work.

CHAPTER 10

My Next Step

U
nfortunately, I didn’t
walk
out of the hospital on July 17
^th
. But I did spend the next two months working as hard as ever, continuing my physical therapy sessions as an outpatient five days a week to help me get stronger every day. By August, I was able to walk four feet using a walker. That gave me the freedom to go from my power chair to the toilet, shower and my favorite comfortable chair in our family room. I will admit, there are a few dings and scratches around the house from my attempts to move around. In fact, just as my nurse suspected, I even took a few falls along the way. Thankfully, I didn’t hurt myself too badly or I think she might have killed me. The positive outcome of falling was that I discovered I had the ability to get myself back up all on my own.

By late August I had a real handle on using the walker and was able to transition to crutches. I once had beautiful, muscular calves, but now they just didn’t have the strength to hold up my body mass. My therapists were very cautious when I began using the crutches, for fear I might fall again. They placed a safety belt around my waist, flanked me on both sides and held me up until I got the hang of using them by myself. It didn’t take me long.

On September 6
^th
, I hosted a party at Del Frisco’s Steakhouse in Denver to say thank you to my family, friends, colleagues, and the primary doctors, nurses and therapists who helped me get back on my feet. There were a hundred or so people there, which was amazing for me to see. Over the course of eight months, so many new faces had become critical in saving my life. Some I remembered; others, especially those from Sky Ridge, I didn’t. I was unconscious for most of my stay there, so I couldn’t possibly recognize those nurses. But that lack of recognition didn’t diminish my utter appreciation for the work, time, energy and effort they put in on my behalf.

I told the hostess of the restaurant that after everyone was seated, I wanted to make a speech. I was looking forward to having my first drink in eight months that night—my favorite, a rum and Coke. But I also had something else planned. I whispered in her ear, “When I’m done speaking, I’m going to use my cane and not my crutches to turn and walk to every table in the room.” The only other people who knew my plan were Junior and Adam. We practiced my moves for two weeks in the privacy of my basement at home. I started off by using one crutch at a time, walking around and around until I felt comfortable enough to use just my cane. It was a covert operation, as I wanted to surprise Gail with my progress. We always practiced whenever she wasn’t home. I knew she would be blown away when she saw me walk. I couldn’t think of a better way to let her know what an inspiration she had been to me.

I sat while making my speech and naturally got very emotional. I thanked everyone in the room for being there that night and throughout my illness, and expressed my deepest appreciation for their patience along the way.

“For everyone’s information, I have my big boy panties on for the first time since January 29
^th
—and if you haven’t noticed, I’m wearing slacks and a shirt!” I smiled, thinking about the day one of my therapists––a female ex-Marine––yelled at me and said, “C’mon, boy. Man up and put your big girl panties on!” I’d never heard that expression before, but I loved it and haven’t stopped using it ever since. I’d spent eight months in a hospital gown, robe and sweats. It felt good to be dressed and even better to be out with my family and friends like old times.

When I finished speaking, I handed the microphone over to the hostess, stood up, took my cane and began to walk. Everyone gasped and then began to applaud. Some even cried tears of joy as I slowly made my way across the room. I kept my eyes on one of my therapists, who had a hunch I was up to something before this. For several weeks leading up to this moment, she kept warning me not to do anything crazy. I promised her that I wouldn’t try to walk with a cane before she said it was ok. Oops. I lied. I had never broken my word to her in the past, but I felt it was important to show everyone who was there that I defied all odds—that I could walk. She was watching me like a hawk. When I got to her table, I sat down next to her and asked, “Are we ok? Will you still be my therapist?”

“Don’t try that again for a while, Dave, ok?”

“You have my word. I promise I won’t do it again. But just remember, if I fall down, we now know I won’t break.”

She hugged me and said that even though she was proud of my accomplishment, we ought to go back to the crutches for a while. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had started driving too. No one gave me permission, but then again, no one ever took my license away from me. As long as I have braces on my legs, I’ve got the strength and ability to press down on the gas and brakes. I’ve got the mobility in my arms to steer, and the mentality of a professional racecar driver who isn’t afraid to be behind the wheel. I would never do anything that would endanger others—I may endanger myself along the way, though. After all, I’m still a guy who needs a little adrenaline in my life, and I have a lot of adventure left in me.

When people hear my story of survival and healing, many ask how this experience has changed me. It’s reasonable to think that going through this kind of life-threatening challenge would bring even the most macho guy to his knees. But for me, it didn’t. Aside from the physical manifestations, I am pretty much the same man I was before I became ill. While I might concede that I’m more aware of the needs of others as a result of this experience, I came into it as a practiced caregiver, making sure my wife had everything she needed to make her life comfortable and safe throughout the years, and helping so many of my close friends face challenges of their own.

A lot of people talk about the moment they face their maker and begin to barter, plead, and wheel and deal for more time.

“If you let me live, I will be a better person.

I’ll give more to charity.

I’ll spend more time with my family.

I’ll be a better spouse.

I won’t work as hard.

I’ll take time to smell the roses.

I’ll go to church more.”

And so on.…

I never had that conversation with God. I never once thought about how I would live my life any differently than I was already living it. Mostly because I was living exactly the way I wanted to, already doing those things as part of my daily existence. I don’t look back on my life with a single moment of regret or remorse for things I didn’t do, should have done or might have done differently.