Twenty years ago this Valentine’s Day will commemorate the day I almost died. Ever since that day, I no longer dread what I will buy, or do, for my significant other by that February 14^th deadline. At the end of the day, on each and every February 14^th, I pause and thank God I’m still alive.

 

Let’s rewind to February 14, 1989. It was a normal day; I woke up with my wife and made breakfast. She rushed off to work and I stayed home doing chores. The entire Puget Sound was just recovering from a massive Arctic freeze that impacted almost everyone. My landscaping business halted to a complete standstill because I could hardly do any digging in the near 0°temperatures. It got so cold that our pipes froze in the basement. But on this February 14^th, I was optimistic. The days were getting longer and warmer, so I knew it wouldn’t be long before I could get back to work.

 

It was a Tuesday, and if I wasn’t working outside, I needed to “work out” inside. I had a basic routine: five sets of sit-ups and five sets up push-ups followed by a 30-minute workout on the stationary bike. Under normal conditions I would go for my traditional three mile run, but at this time I had a nagging case of shin splints that proved rather difficult to cure. To save myself from boredom, I would alternate between sit-ups and push-ups. About half way through the workout I noticed some cramping coming from what I thought was my stomach. I had eaten some bacon that morning and was wondering if it was a bad batch. I also noticed my flesh seemed cold and clammy. I managed to stand up to take a look at myself in the vertical mirror. I thought I was looking at a ghost.

 

Now I knew I was Caucasian, but when I looked into the mirror, I never thought anyone could be that white. It was scary! I knew something was horribly wrong. I figured if I tried to do some more sit-ups it would just go way. I did two and rolled over on my side in a fetal position. I don’t remember exactly how long I stayed there curled up like that, but I do remember my wife walking through the front door and saying, “Oh my God, what happen to you, your face is so white.” By that time I had broken out in a cold sweat. Luckily, Group Health Hospital, which I was a member of, was only about a mile away. “Get me to Group Health, NOW!” I told my wife.

 

With each passing moment I could feel all the life being sucked out of me. This was strange coming from someone who thought he was invincible. I was twenty-seven years old. I worked out almost every day and quit smoking almost seven years before that day. I was 6-feet tall and 180 pounds and very proud of my youth and strength. I remained in the fetal position in my wife’s car all the way to a hospital. I couldn’t seem to get out of it. Even when I arrived and they put me on a stretcher, I immediately went back to the same position I had been in while in my mother’s womb so long ago. Why? Was it because I was dying and now I was going back to the same position as before I was born?

 

They rushed me into the emergency room. I could tell by the look on the nurses faces that I was very sick. Then a doctor arrived and started to ask me questions as they were transporting me to a room. Apparently, I wasn’t in the mood to answer any questions and told him to get my regular doctor. They put me in my own room and proceeded to prick and prod and ask more questions. Did they think I knew what was wrong with me? Finally my doctor showed up and told me he had no idea what was going on, but had every intention of finding out.

 

The day turned into night and I was becoming weaker. I actually chuckled a little bit at the irony of dying on Valentine’s Day. I thought that wouldn’t quite be the gift my wife wanted. I had never felt more helpless in my life before or since that day. My wife got on the horn and informed my family. But I was allowed no visitors so they assumed the worst.

 

Suddenly, the nurse came in with a doctor. They proceeded to shove a tube in my left nostril that was designed to pump my stomach. That hurt! They also were pricking me with needles in my rear end with morphine that made me feel like I was flying above the trees. It seemed pleasant until I’d told the nurse it was giving me a painful headache. My doctor soon arrived and told them to switch me over to Demerol. The nurse told me to roll over on my side and then jabbed me hard with the needle. I rolled back over and she asked me if I felt anything. “I don’t feel anything but pain, maybe you should try something else.” Just as I said that I noticed the pictures in the room. They were just normal pictures, I mean, nothing special. Then I noticed the pictures within the frames disappearing until there were nothing left but the frames. “Do you feel anything now?” The nurse asked. Unwilling to admit to her what I was actually seeing I’d told her I felt fine. Actually, I felt more than fine, I felt good! That is, until the Demerol started to wear off.

 

I arrived at the hospital around 5:00 PM. It was now 10:00 PM and my Doctor paid me one more visit for the night. It was then he told me the news. My blood test revealed my triglyceride count at 7900. My response was: “Is that normal?” His response, “Well Mike, the normal rate is around 150.” So I was about 7700 off the mark. He informed me my pancreas was inflamed and producing unbelievable amounts triglycerides. To make matters worse, he told me they had no idea why. Since I was not a diabetic, he said an acute problem like this usually happens to people who drink too much or someone exposed to high levels of pesticides. Since I didn’t fall in to either of those categories, he told me they were researching frantically to find out what was causing this. Not knowing the cause created anxiety for everyone.

“And if they don’t find out, what will happen to me.”

“Let’s not talk about that right now Mike, you’re young and strong. You’re going to need that to fight this thing and I know you will.”

“Thanks for giving it to me straight, doc, I really appreciate it.”

 

The nurse gave me another shot of Demerol. I fell asleep. I woke up in the night feeling the stench of death in the air. I was waiting for the white light that everyone talks about. Instead, it was dark and I was cold and scared. I didn’t bother to turn on the light above my head. It was then that I noticed my wife in the corner of the room sitting in a chair in the dark, crying. She didn’t realize I was awake. I laid there in the dark staring at her. I prayed. It was weird. I hadn’t really prayed in a long time. I felt embarrassed, here I was dying and that was the only time I bothered to talk to God. I was desperate but instead of begging or complaining about my life, I thanked him for it. I said, “God, I’ve had a good life, really I have. But I don’t think I’m yet ready to die. I’m not asking you to save me. I’m just asking for the strength to fight this, for my wife and my family. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep wondering if I would ever wake up again.

 

I did wake up and gradually I began to feel better. I stayed in the hospital for nine days. I lost 14 pounds with my steady diet of ice chips. I had family and friends visit me giving me the hope I needed for a full recovery. When I finally arrived home I noticed a variety of bruises on both sides of my buttocks from the prickly needles of Demerol. I felt like a junkie. But I was home and alive.

 

With all the advancements in medical science the doctors could not find out what caused my pancreas to go haywire. It happened again almost one year later, but they still could not diagnose the problem. I was labeled as having idiosyncratic pancreatitis. Sounds pretty bad doesn’t? The good news is I have not had a problem since that second time.

 

My wife asked me for a divorce a little over seven years after that February 14^th of 1989. At the time it was the hardest thing I had ever been through. Now, I realize it was for the best. I have been through many Valentine days since that life-altering one in 1989. I have spent most of them alone. Every time I catch myself feeling sad or sorry for myself I think back to that fateful day. I think about the promise I made to myself and God. Then I feel better and not so alone.