Rob Harris

Today, Rob concludes his first person account of caregiving under crisis. Good news is his wife is strong and well and they are still happily married.

Welcome back, Rob.

The cardiac room was cramped, even without the medical team working over her. I was relegated to the hallway with a nurse that had accompanied us from our oncology floor. She had been on break and was friendly with my wife and me. She was there to make sure I was okay – or was she there to ensure I would not get in the way?

A nurse who was unknown to me walked past with a large syringe.

“Atropine?” I asked as I turned to the nurse who escorted me to the cardiac floor. She nodded in affirmation.

“Just precautionary,” she advised.

In the room, I heard my wife state to the doctors, “I can’t see. Everything is getting dark.”

That’s when I stuck my head into the room and saw it. By the way in which her head fell to her chest, there was no doubt in my mind that her heart had stopped beating.

For the first time, a doctor acknowledged my presence. “Nurse, please remove him from the room.”

A tug on my elbow instructed me to follow. I comprehended the message.

Though I had no intention of getting in their way or interfering with their efforts to restart my wife’s heart, I was her husband. I had to give it one try.

I pulled away from the nurse’s grasp. “CINDY, WAKE UP!” I screamed at her.

And that is exactly what she did! She came back to life. That is when I agreed to leave the room. Second later, the syringe was dispensed and, after careful and extended monitoring, my wife was relocated to her new home, the Intensive Care Unit of the hospital.

It was 24-hours later before I was spoken to by a cardiologist. Terms that had up to that point been foreign to me were introduced, soon to become a regular part of my ever-expanding medical vocabulary. “Your wife had an episode of what’s known as QT prolongation. Her electrocardiogram indicated she had a rather unusual occurrence, known as ventricular tachycardia, more formally called Torsades de pointes.”

He then turned to my wife. “You’re very lucky,” he began. “Not many people survive an event of this nature. I’m curious. What did you see, what did you feel when your heart stopped beating?”

My wife smiled, though still extremely groggy. “I was shopping in a mall. I was buying all the purses I wanted and I didn’t need a credit card to pay for them. They were free. I loved it there.”

“What brought you back?” he asked.

“I heard my husband shout my name. It sounded like he needed me badly.”

The cardiologist turned to me and smiled.

In hindsight, I understand why I had been ignored. There was no way I wanted to distract or interfere with the doctors whose mission it was to keep my wife alive.

That said, I would have liked the doctors and nurses who had been working all around me to understand that although I appeared composed, mentally, I was in critical condition. If my wife was dying, so was I. If she was suffering, I was in distress right alongside her.

Keep in mind; we are all human beings, with all-too-real emotions. Any form of communication, even if it’s a nanosecond of recognition is invaluable to someone whose most valuable gift, the life of a loved one, is in life-threatening distress.

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Rob Harris is a seasoned/accredited Human Resources professional. He is the author of two books. The first, “We’re In This Together, A Caregiver’s Story” is scheduled for release in the Spring of 2012. The sequel, “We’re In This Together, A Caregiver’s Guide” will follow shortly thereafter. More importantly, he is a seasoned Caregiver. His wife is a two-time cancer survivor (Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and a radiation-induced leiomyosarcoma). He and his wife are the proud parents of two U.S. Army officers. Presently, his youngest son is protecting our country’s freedom in Afghanistan after previously being stationed in Iraq. His brother recently returned from his first deployment in Afghanistan.

I’m very honored to have Rob Harris here at Redwood’s Medical Edge today. He’s giving a first hand account of what it’s like when your loved one nearly meets death. Part 2 will be posted Wednesday.

Welcome, Rob.

7:24 a.m. The nurse tech entered our hospital room and took my wife’s vital signs. I was awake, dressed and ready to record her findings on my Excel spreadsheet. “Temp: 97.5; BP: 122/61, Pulse: 32,” she said as she turned to depart our room.

I looked up from my laptop, my fingers frozen over the keypad. “Excuse me,” I stopped her in her tracks. “You gave me an incorrect number. You said her heart rate is 32? Is the machine working properly?”

She returned and took my wife’s pulse manually. “It’s 45,” she announced. Again, she turned to leave.

“Could you please ask our nurse to come into the room,” I requested calmly, so as not to alarm my wife. My wife’s pulse rate under normal conditions is high, typically in the mid-to-upper 70’s. Being in the 30’s or even the 40’s was cause for alarm.

She didn’t move quickly enough for my liking. I strode past her and turned the corner. Once out of eyesight I raced to the nurses’ station and interrupted the nurse assigned to our room. She was debriefing the attending physician prior to beginning his rounds. I apologized for the intrusion and explained my concern. They followed me and went straight to my wife.

Thus began a day I will never forget. My wife had received her sixth cycle of chemotherapy for a leiomyosarcoma, a 4-hour dose of methotrexate administered via an IV-drip into her port the previous night. Up to that moment, no unusual symptoms appeared.

My caregiver role began and ended at that moment. It commenced by my alerting the doctor and nurse that I was gravely concerned about my wife’s medical condition. It ended as soon as the medical teams descended upon our room.

To use a sports vernacular, I was “benched.” I was immediately transitioned from caregiver to spectator. As anyone who has ever attended a sporting event in which they are loyal to the home team can attest, a spectator, or fan, can yell, scream, cheer and even insult. Much as they may beg to differ, they have no bearing on the final outcome of the game. In other words, they are powerless.

And so was I. Worse, I was alone. I was ignored. I was invisible.

A crash cart suddenly appeared in our doorway.

“Would someone please tell me what’s going on here? Why is this happening?” I inquired to no one individual in particular.

I didn’t want to bother the medical team, but as low as my wife’s pulse was at that moment, mine was definitely heading in the direct opposite direction. Externally, I remained calm. Internally…Jell-O!

“We need to move your wife to the cardiac care floor, the nurse informed me. “Pack your things. We’ll be going as soon as transportation arrives.”

I obeyed. I didn’t exactly feel useful, but I felt, in some small way, engaged in the process. Someone had acknowledged me. Someone gave me direction.

The doctors, three of them, exhibited a calm demeanor. This comforted me to some extent.

I wish someone would look my way and reassure me; talk to me, provide a morsel of encouragement, I thought to myself. Nothing came, not a nod, a wink, a slight smile or even a glance in my direction. I guess I was invisible after all.

Finally, the nurse spoke. “We’re taking your wife now. You can go with us if you’re all packed.”

“Can you tell me anything?” I begged. Nobody, including the nurse responded.

I understood. I felt like a child in a room full of adults. Caregivers and children are to be seen and not heard. The memories came flooding back. I knew my place. My wife is their only focus, as it should be. Again, I remained composed on the outside, but I was combusting internally as we passed another waiting crash cart in the hallway just outside her newly assigned room.

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