Dave Foulk

Chapter One:  Wake Up

The world came back in a haze of narcotics and beeping. I was in a darkened room, and the first thing I heard was “David, are you awake? You’re on a ventilator. Don’t pull on the tube, just relax…it’s helping you breathe”.

How did I wind up like this? Was I dying? It hurt.

And even through my narcotized brain fog I knew that I was in deep trouble.

It’s been more than a year since that afternoon, and I still don’t like to think about it. I am not a fearful man, but I was afraid that day…very afraid that I made a decision that would end my life. But according to what the doctors were telling me, I was about to die soon anyway.

I always managed to crawl out of whatever hole  I dug with a fork and spoon.

I have a bad back from slamming into the ground in a helicopter that, at the time, had all of the flight characteristics of a grand piano. Once, I managed to run over myself after trying to un-stick an emergency break on my truck. It was a freak accident that nearly cost me my right leg. I’m a little gimpy, but thanks to some excellent medical care I still have both legs.

One of the last photos of me before surgery

My street reporting got me close to a couple of gun battles. One time, my wife listened to my reports on-the-air while I was pinned down behind a police car. Another time, I happened to be far too close to a police officer and a bad guy exchanging shots. Other times, I reported from inside burning buildings and went right behind police in places so dangerous I wore a ballistic vest- just in case. I’m not a thrill seeker. Thrill just happened to occasionally find me. Circumstances, luck, karma…whatever you want to call it, I have seen my share of excitement.

But this was different.

I woke up a changed man in more ways than I expected. First, Dr. Michael Hodge had re-plumbed my digestive system. The surgery is commonly called gastric by-pass, or less-commonly Rou-En-Y surgery. The surgeon had taken a section of my small intestine and pulled it up to the top of my stomach. There, he created a small pouch, smaller than an egg. It would be my new stomach. The lower part of my stomach was left alone to continue working, while the new small pouch emptied into the small bowel. It essentially created two stomachs, but only one holds the food and it is drastically smaller than the one I used to have.

Hurt much? No more than if someone had rammed a couple of stainless steel rods into your innards, pumped your body cavity full of carbon dioxide gas, and re-worked your pipes…that’s all. You betch’um it was painful. I expected it would hurt…but it really hurt.

There I was on a small cot in The Intensive Care Unit of Johnson City Medical Center, in upper east-Tennessee. I was draped in a pup tent sized hospital gown, but mostly laid bare for all to see. There was that tube down my throat and a ventilator helping me breathe, I was connected to an IV line pumping fluids and medication into my veins, and I had a catheter bag. I had more wires than a New Delhi utility pole. It was rough sledding in a world I had never experienced.

I thought once or twice, “How the hell did I get here?”

I went into the hospital weighing a little more than 360 pounds. In the past year I had experienced shortness of breath, bouts of pneumonia, and other infections. The pharmacy people named me “Customer Of The Month” four months’ running because of my insulin dependency. I was doing from 500-600 units of insulin a day and still experiencing wild swings in my blood glucose levels. Other aspects of my blood chemistry were also way out of whack. There was even talk of canceling the surgery because of it, but the doctor made the decision to go ahead with it.

That afternoon, I got a taste of what it’s like really close to death.

I could tell in the expression on the faces of my family that this time, it was close.

Now, I knew what was likely going through the minds of the people I had been near…both family and strangers… when they were sick and helpless.

Until now, no matter what kind of medical crisis I caused by being morbidly obese, I had managed to get by.  I always managed to crawl out of whatever hole  I dug with a fork and spoon.

Not this time.

Chapter Two

There was only so much room in there.  And my belly fat was chasing the other parts out of the neighborhood.  I never had a particularly large rear-end, at least not that I had observed.  All of my body fat was in two places:  My cheeks (as in the place on either side of my gums), and my belly.  While having chubby cheeks and more chins than a Chinese telephone directory didn’t bother my self esteem, having a huge gut that pressed against my lungs and diaphragm made it hard to breathe.  And I had grown particularly fond of exchanging air from time-to-time.  Think of it as trying to inflate a beach ball while a small child is sitting on it.

The summer before my gastric bypass was rough.  I had a fight with pneumonia, and was the heaviest I had been in my life.  At one point, I tried to weed-eat around the fence in our back yard.  I wound up staggering into the house, gasping for air.  I was too proud to call 9-1-1 like I knew to do, and would have insisted for anybody else.  Instead, I took an asperin like the commercial says to do… and then went to the bedroom, not to lie down, but to turn on my sleeping machine, a CPAP device that would, hopefully help force more air into my lungs than I was able to do on my own … I could not get a good breath of air.  It took thirty minutes or so, and finally the crisis eased.  It was just like the close calls I had experienced when I was flying.  Once the danger was over, the problem was solved- don’t look back, press on.

A few months earlier, I had an excursion of blood sugar where my index soared to more than 500.  Most people are not able to function at that level, but I had been so sensitized to being near diabetic crisis, I calmly called the doctor to see how much extra insulin I should shoot.  The nurse told me my meter must be broken because I shouldn’t be conscious.  I would have thought the same thing, but I had used a second meter that showed the numbers were accurate.  My wife called the medics and  I refused to go.  It was another close one that ended  “no foul, play-on.”

Don’t you be stupid like me.  That kind of thinking will get you dead.  The first part of solving a crisis is confession- you have to admit that you’re in trouble.   I was in trouble, I knew it deep inside, but I would not allow myself to consider any possibility that I could be on the city limits of Croakville.

The ever-increasing clothing sizes didn’t phase me.

The dopey feeling of high blood sugar was simply a cost of doing business with the foods I liked.

A diuretic- downing dirigible of doom headed for a crash.

And shortness of breath and wheezing wasn’t a problem…so long as  I didn’t do anything physical…such as walk more than twenty feet.

My wonderfully compassionate family physician, Dr. Dean Mire, had suggested that I consider weight loss surgery.  He knew my history, and had seen the same thing in many other  patients.

Diets and I go back many years.  There was the grapefruit diet, and the diet where you eat bacon slathered with butter, and diuretics that made me pee, and all kinds of nostrums and fat remedies.

I did a lot of “diet plans” … Drink a couple of delicious cans of this stuff a day, and a healthy meal at night.  My idea of a healthy meal was a French-fried Shetland Pony with a side of fries. Weight loss surgery wouldn’t end the love affair.  But it was about to make the motel a lot smaller.

There were clubs where you weighed-in at the beginning of the meeting, and diet plans where you ate the meals provided to you.  Those meals are also provided to prisoners when they want them to talk.

The bottom line for me was I was incorrigible.

A hopeless eater.

A dietary dropout.

A diuretic downing dirigible of doom headed for a crash.

I told Colonel Norma Jean Wilson, another medical professional who cares, that I wasn’t afraid to die, but if they were making up a load that day, I would just as soon not go.

She said, “You’re about to get on that bus, Mr. Dave.”

And she was not smiling.

Here’s a video you can watch to see how the deed was done:

Chapter Three

Most of my time spent in the intensive care unit is a blur of beeps, and darkened room, and people coming in and out.  I clearly remember the first time I was hoisted on top of a bed pan.   Wonder what it’s like?  Think of it as lying on your back, your butt sitting on top of a mixing bowl.  You are trying to do what comes naturally, with three or four people around…male…female…doctors.. it doesn’t matter.  You see, they think you are so out of it that you can easily take a noisy, stinky poo while they stand around.

It’s a tough situation.  During the surgery, they pump your belly full of gas to spread things out…give the docs some working room.  They need to get that fatty liver away from that overworked pancreas, and your digestive system. Afterward, that gas needs to go somewhere.  Finally, I just let the drugs do their job, forgot any dignity, and opened the gates.   The relief trumped any embarrassment at issuing what I am sure sounded like a tuba concerto played by a crack addict.

The most frightening moment came when my cardiac monitor went off and three or four doctors came charging into my little room.  The monitor made a “deedle-deedle” noise beside my bed and also set off an alarm at the ICU station desk.  The people standing over me were intently watching my monitor and I can remember one doctor said “Yeah, we saw it on the monitor out there, too.”  It was ventiri..well..it was some kind of abnormal heartbeat for just a fleeting few seconds.   The fear I felt was oddly similar to the emotions that went through my mind during the moments after a mechanical failure sent our traffic helicopter plummeting in an auto rotation into a small parking lot in Hapeville, Georgia, just blocks from the huge international airport.  When the docs came sprinting into the room, I had the same question- “Is this how it feels to die?” Fortunately, it was just a passing irregularity that never happened again.  The only consequence was that I was constantly monitored in the hospital, and later when I was able to get up to pee, the nurses would always come a runnin’ when I unhooked myself.

I have clear memories of the people I cared about being with me those days.

The lower lobes of my lungs were sticking together, and I would have to stay on the respirator until the doctors were satisfied I could sufficiently move enough air.  And then there was the “leak test”.   From my ICU bed, I was wheeled into the radiation imagery lab.  While technicians filmed the action, I had to drink several swallows of what can best be described a Spit Of Satan- an imaging fluid that went over the teeth and over the gums, lookout pouch, here it comes.  The fluid, which I am convinced was manufactured from left over Cesium from a nuclear weapons plant,  showed if all the connections were solid.  Much like a drain pipe in your house, leaks in that part of your innards can be costly.  Fortunately, I didn’t leak.

I have clear memories of the people I cared about being with me those days.  The first friend I saw was Chris Marion, the producer of the Hallerin Hilton Hill Morning show.  The second friend was Darryl Kerley,  Oak Ridge Deputy Fire Chief and all-around nice guy.   While on a respirator, I could only write notes to communicate.  And that brought about one of the best practical jokes ever played on me.

While the nurse was doing something…taking blood pressure or something… Darryl took my pen and wrote on my pad, “My nurse sure is hot!”  As she was leaving, Darryl exclaimed “Dave…what did you just write?”  The nurse returned to take a look at the pad.  I could say nothing.  Nearly two years later, my youngest daughter had a chance to meet that nurse — and the explanation of the pay back for all of the jokes I have played on Darryl through the years.

Eventually the decision was made to remove the ventilator tube.   I thought it would be horrible.  I was right.  It was horrible, but just for a second, then it was out and I was breathing without help.   It is not as easy as it sounds.  Breathing can be hard work, especially if you have been hooked to a bicycle pump that helped you for three days.  The nurses closely monitored my oxygen level, and since I was still having lung problems, a lung specialist was added to the platoon of doctors I would see during my stay.  I was more than willing to cooperate and do the breathing exercises, take the treatments, and even recite the alphabet backwards if it would keep me from having another tube inserted down my gullet.

Almost as soon as the breathing tube was removed, I was helped to a sitting position, and then up to stand, and then to walk a bit.  It seemed like the commode was a block away, when it was actually in the corner of the ICU room.  It had no privacy.  It was like going to the toilet in your front yard, while the Fourth Of July parade is passing by.  But by that time, any sense of modesty, shame, propriety, or anything else had left.

And I was only three days into the journey.  There was a lot of weirdness just around the corner

Chapter Four: “Mista Dave”

Just before I was released from intensive care into a regular room, the doctors performed what I call a “leak test”.   It’s very similar to what you do when you fix a radiator hose in your car.  You want o make sure the doggone thing doesn’t leak or break when you get out on the road.  The surgeon doesn’t want you to spring a leak in the plumbing they’ve just re-worked.

I was wheeled into the radiography lab.  There are two things you can be sure of if you are wheeled into a radiography lab.  The docs are about to either make you drink something that tastes bad, or they’re going to insert something that would make a watch dial glow into an orifice or a vein.  This time, I had to sip a substance I named “Spit Of Satan”.  If you think it sounds bad, you  ought to taste it.   Several folks were watching and taking radiographic photos while somebody held a plastic foam cup and a straw of this liquid.  They had tried to make “Spit Of Satan” taste a little less offensive by adding a little whale vomit, and some drippings from a diesel engine oil pan.

As this vile stuff went down, on its way through my guts and out… the docs took photos.  I can’t say how long this took because I was still pretty dopey.   Good thing.  If I had not been dopey, I might have protested “Spit Of Satam” a little more.   Oh, and the techs did one thing that did help.  The stuff was cold.  Had it been room temperature, it would have tasted like the lickings from a rendering plant’s vat.  Be thankful for small things.

No leaks- and off to the regular floor.

No more than a minute after I was wheeled into my regular room and settled in with all the IV’s and monitoring equipment, I heard this voice outside… in a clear, southern, African-American dialect….

“Oh missa Dave… Phleasseee Ged’up missa Dave.  Oh Lawd… they cut up missa Dave” , and the voice kept on, outside the room.

It was my friend and long-time colleague Hallerin Hilton Hill.  He happens to be black.  And he also happens to have a devious sense of payback for my practical jokes.  Hallerin knew nobody knew who he was, since I was in an out-of-town hospital.  So he played it for all it was worth, getting odd looks from the medical staff as he loudly bemoaned my fate.   Over-and-over, I tried to get him to hush, but I couldn’t override his voice.  I could only squeak out a whisper because of the days I had a tube down my throat.

Hallerin, like producer Chris Marion, had both driven more than two hundred miles, to spend five minutes with me.  That is friendship.  Those visits, like that of my friend Darryl Kerley played a great part in encouraging me through recovery.  I have told the tale of Darryl’s sneaking writing on my pad.  Now, add Hallerin Hilton Hill’s singing of  “Buleah Land” in the hallway of the hospital.

Now, for me, the real recovery started.  When you are on a vent, and in an intensive care bed, there are very limited things you can do for yourself.  Even if you are off a vent and in an intensive care unit, the only thing you might be able to do is get up and walk to the not-so-private toilet.

In a private room, you have to do for yourself.  Most hospitals have down-sized staff.  This means there are thing you need to do, and you will also need help doing.  This is VERY important.  You have to have somebody in your room for at least a couple of days.   They will be important partners in a crucial time.  You’ll need help in tracking your fluid intake.  You will need assistance in getting in-and-out of the bed, and in the highly important phase of your recovery called “Getting Up, and Walking Down The Hall So Everyone Can See Your Boo-Tay”  or the shortcut term, exposure while walking.  Next chapter, some facts and figures.

Chapter Four: Strange Things

The next four days were the most uncomfortable I have spent in my life.  Keep in mind, this is from a man who has had major back problems, knee surgery, cancer surgery, sinus surgery, a gall bladder removed the old-fashioned way, and last but not least, run over myself.

There was no way I could get comfortable.  There were IV lines in both arms, a pulse-oxymeter clipped to my finger, and about eight dozen little sticky things stuck to me, then hooked to a cardiac monitor.  And there was one last indignity, the catheter.  I had never experienced a Foley catheter before.  Imagine having something up your woo-woo that is hooked to a plastic sack.  Wherever you go, Mr. Sack has to also travel.  Whenever you waddle up and down the hallway, you carry Mr. Sack, and everybody knows how much you have pee’d.

The hospital did lack one thing I have seen in another facility: bariatric beds… beds for fat people.  The bed I was in was meant for an elf.  And they had one of those poofy inflatable things beneath me.  At my pre-surgery weight of around 365 pounds, moving myself was hard enough.  Now, in order to get out of bed, I had to unhook the multiple wire cardiac plug, the oxygen saturation thing on my finger, then negotiate the IV machine, and finally.. last but not least, Mister Sack.  My wife and son did most of the help.  They were wonderful soldiers who helped me un-wind myself from the various wires and tubes, then try to help me raise up, and scoot over the steel rail that lined the frame of the bed.  It was like getting out of the floor of a car…