It was 1:05 am the morning of Nov 12, 1996. I had been asleep for about 2 hours and was dreaming of chasing girls in the 1st grade. About the time I grabbed one of the little beauties, my telephone awakened me to the cold truth that I couldn't chase 1st graders if I wanted to. When the phone rings in the middle of the night, it always scares me. I turned my oxygen up to 4 liters and listened as my wife said "We'll be right there. It'll take about an hour and a half." Then she jumped up and got our 2 kids ready while I stumbled around, trying to find my clothes. I didn't know if I wanted to do this now or not. I couldn't believe that it was happening. What if I didn't make it through the surgery? Was there any tidbits of wisdom at the last minute that I should impart to my boy and little girl just in case I didn't? I couldn't think of anything. Nothing.

The 90 mile drive to Birmingham from the Tennessee line, where we live, began very quietly with none of us talking. I think we were all still half asleep and half in shock, worrying about the operation. There was hardly any traffic through town and very little down Interstate 65, which seemed to make it even more lonely. My teenage son, Weston, broke the ice, trying to tell us all that it would work out just fine and that I would be like new. I just agreed and put a smile on everything for the benefit of my wife and kids, and myself. No worries, mate. I've been through 2 other surgeries; I was in Vietnam in '69; I even ate broccoli once--surely, I could get through this.

There was a lady with a wheelchair waiting in the door at UAB when we drove up to the hospital. I got out of the car and she rushed me to the elevator with Weston and my little girl Scarlet following. My wife Faye had to park the car. When the elevator doors opened on the 6th floor, they put me on a gurney and began to take off my shoes and socks, and all my clothes. Big mean looking, ugly people were disrobing me. Then they sent in Miss Alabama to shave me; and it was cold in there too. Man, I wanted to be back in my bed asleep, and pretend this wasn't happening. Then they scrubbed me with that brown stuff, put IVs in both arms, and rushed me to another elevator--but not until I got hold of my kids' hands and my wife's arm. I was hollering bye to them as they half-ran with me.

After we got in the elevator, I don't remember getting off . The very next second ( IT SEEMED) I was looking at a clock with a male nurse sitting by me. I tried to ask him if they were about ready to operate but I couldn't talk. I felt of my mouth and there was a respirator coming out of it. I couldn't make a sound. I watched that clock for 40 hours off and on. I would sleep a while, and wake a while, but I know I watched it that long. And every time that I'd wake up and realize that something had gone wrong, the madder I got. I thought that if I could just get my britches on and unhook myself from all these tubes, pipes, and lines, I'd just go on back home and forget about the surgery. I couldn't make sign language well enough for the nurse to understand me. I grabbed his pen from his pocket when he got close enough and pointed for a piece of paper. I wrote, "When are they going to do my surgery??" He looked at it and then looked in my chart. "You've been out of surgery over 2 days ago." he said. I was shocked. If I could have reached him, I would have kissed him right on the mouth. I looked down at my chest, and sure enough, I had a cut all the way across my chest. I was so happy. It happened, and I didn't even realize it. I had new lungs in me. Well, I wasn't angry any more. That'll teach 'em .

Well, it seems that I've written too much already and haven’t gotten past the 3rd day. If you'd like me to finish this, just let me know. You may not be interested. But it was only 8 weeks ago, and I remember everything vividly. I promise you'll like the way things have turned out--How I went from a 98 pound weakling (I Lost my job as the Before picture in the muscle magazine ads.) to a hard as a toasted marshmallow 145 pounds. They’ve put me on a diet. Can you believe that? 6'1" and 145, and I'm on a diet. I'm STILL skinny. I was in a mess before. I looked like Sally Struthers was about to back up to me while flies swarmed around my face. So I guess I Look fat to the doctors--I don't know. If I ever get as big as my dear Mother-in-Law, then I'll worry. She put on a Malcolm X tee shirt and laid out in the back yard last summer and helicopters started to land.

Anyway, let me know, and I'll get my fingers loosened up to talk some more.

BYE Jack.

Second Installment

Dear folks,
I can't believe how many of you actually enjoyed my ramblings about the night of my surgery and afterwards. But it makes me feel good that you did, and if it helps anyone, that'll mean a lot to me. In telling this story, I intended in the beginning to leave out the painful and really bad parts. I was afraid that it might discourage many of you from keeping that positive attitude that is so important. But after reading your replies, I think that you want to hear it like it is. (AND RIGHT HERE, I WANT TO MAKE SURE YOU KNOW ONE THING: THE FIRST BREATH OF AIR THAT I TOOK WAS WORTH ALL THE PAIN AND DISCOMFORT PUT TOGETHER. DON'T FORGET THAT) And I think that Mike Magro in Jackson Mississippi and his wife helped me to make the decision to grab the bull by the tail and look the situation square in the face. He and she told me what all to expect before and after--the good and the bad--and it helped me tremendously. So maybe I can pass along the favor.

The first 3 days with the respirator down my throat was the worst discomfort, because it was pressing against the back of my throat and tended to gag me every once in a while. Every time I tried to pull it away from the back of my throat, 2 nurses would grab my arm and threaten to tie me down. And I couldn't get them to understand what was wrong. I became very irritated about that. They said later that they had told me several times that my surgery was over, but I wouldn't pay attention. They said that was common though. And laying there that long thinking that something had gone wrong with the donor lungs or something and my operation had been canceled just made me angrier. So don't get angry when you wake up. It's probably YOUR fault - not theirs. It's caused from the anesthesia. My son walked into the room one day with a Mountain Dew in his hand, and my mouth was as dry as a powder house. Without thinking, I reached up and got his Mountain Dew from his hand ( He let go of it before he realized) and I had it turned up to drink when the nurses grabbed it away just as the first sips were about to come out of the can. I thought they were gonna have a cow. Another threat to tie me down.

I loved my surgeons, Dr. Zorn and Dr. McGiffin. But I had a new pulmonologist named Dr. LePort that was very abrasive. He was a short, balding little feller who would talk too loud and try to anticipate your question before you got through asking it. And he would answer a question that I didn't ever intend to ask. So when he would get through, I'd ask him again. Then he'd try to get ill about having to answer another question. Anyway, he's the one who took out my respirator. And when he did, it was like all that talk was dammed up in there, and just flooded out of my mouth all at once. I talked to my wife, my kids, my Mama, my brothers, about anything that I could think of. The cleaning lady and me discussed religion and politics. (She didn't know who Al Gore was, but she knew who Jesus Christ was.) So I taught her what I knew , and she taught me what she knew.

My poor wife Faye was with me every day and night that first week. She was happier than she'd been in a long time even with all the work it took helping me. She washed my hair and gave me sponge baths even though the nurses wanted to. I believe that being with my family and them being with me helped more than anything. I know some patients only saw their kinfolks a little at night, and they depended on the nurses to do everything for them. They didn’t seem to do as well. And my son and daughter helped me also. It is better for them to be a part of this, be useful, and know exactly what's going on than being home trying to go to school and worrying. It's also better for me. I found out since I got home that they did cry after I was taken away for surgery, and that made me feel awful. On top of that, it was a 9 hour operation which is an awful long time to wait. The surgeons had the nurses to keep my family updated as the surgery went along, however. For example, my wife said one would come to them and say that they had completed removing the left lung, and was installing the donor; and everything is going well. This helped everyone who was waiting for me to feel a lot more comfortable.

The next 2 weeks on the transplant floor was not easy. I'm not going to lie about it. My back hurt really bad right between my shoulder blades. The spaces near my incision under my arms and down my sides especially were swollen real bad. There was no way that they would let me sleep for over an hour or two at a time. There was x-ray, lab, respiratory therapy, physical therapy, vital signs, all about 3 times a day. And the food wasn't that great either. And I worried about myself. All I could do is watch that monitor above my bed with my heart rate, saturation O2, EKG, etc. I became obsessed with watching that thing. Faye and the nurses told me to quit looking at it and think about feeling good again. But every little pain or twinge, I'd have to look at the monitor to see if anybody needed to call the florist yet.

The sad fact of the matter is that I wasn't that way without good reason. There were people who didn't make it on both sides my room, and I could hear the life-saving noises so clearly. Then I could hear them stop, when they gave up, and when the rooms were cleared out. These happened in the middle of the night my first week out of surgery, and I could only lay there tied to my lines and tubes, and feel like my stomach was turning into a knotty bundle of nerves. It brought back memories that I hadn't thought of in years when I was in Vietnam. I was scared then too; maybe that mess helped me prepare for this one--I don't know.

I'm sorry to leave you today on such a bad note, but I have to go. It does get better and better now though. And I'd like y’all to know also that I didn't make it through the bad times in my life without believing that I had divine help. I'm certain of it. On some people, the Lord looks down and smiles. On me, He looks down and laughs.

******JACK*****