“Garage walls, grafts, and gratitude”

By Chris DT Gordon

My garage wall almost killed me.

To be fair, I did throw the first punch, so it was really acting in self-defense.

Truth to tell, I accepted what happened to me soon after waking up in the hospital. What occurred, while at the time was terrifying for my family and friends, has offered me a plethora of opportunities to better myself and others around me.

What happened? Well, to grasp the magnitude of my tale, we need to step back and look at my life before the wall and I had our fateful encounter.

I grew up in a small town 10 miles north of Flint, Michigan called Clio (named after the County Line 10 train line). For as long as I could remember, I was a member of Messiah Lutheran Church in Clio. Even through college, where I attended a satellite campus of the University of Michigan in Flint and earned a bachelor’s degree in Elementary Education, I (more-or-less) stayed consistent with my worship.

Towards the end of my college career, I became friends with John, a vicar at Messiah who hailed from Minnesota. Long story short, our mutual love of most things geeky strengthened our friendship, and he asked me to be in his wedding a few years later. Since he was a pastor, his fiancée Jill was a Christian schoolteacher, and they had many mutual friends in the wedding party, they decided to have a joint bachelor-bachelorette party. I happily accepted and flew out of the Twin Cities to join the festivities in early June 2002. John and Jill picked me up from the airport and brought me to the hotel where the soiree would commence.

As I reconnected with John and met his brother Mark and a few of his friends, a vision of beauty burst into our hotel room and yelled, “Let’s go!”

It was his sister, Becky.

Skipping ahead past the parts where I moved to New Ulm, Minnesota later that summer, married Becky in 2005, and had three fantastic kids, I accepted a teaching position with Minnesota Virtual Academy, a public, online school as a middle school special education teacher. My previous position was 50 miles away, and it was tough enough with one small child. Once the twins were born, I started looking for something closer. Eventually, I traded 50 miles for roughly 50 steps (the distance from my bed to my office, tossing in a side trip to the bathroom or to let the dog out).

So, back to the interaction with the garage wall. While Becky and the kids were preparing to leave for school/daycare, I picked up two-year-old Seth (one of a pair of twins) and flew him to the garage, swaying him back and forth. I misjudged my distance from the garage wall and accidentally scraped the back of my right hand against it. It bled a little, but it wasn’t a steady stream, so I put Seth into the van, kissed everyone goodbye, waved them off, and went into the house. I washed my wound as well as I could, put antibiotic cream and a bandage on it, and started my workday as an online middle school special education teacher.

Three days later, I woke up to discover a red, lacrosse ball-sized bump on my right elbow. Becky and I had gone bowling the night before with her teaching colleagues; did I torque my elbow in a weird way trying to get that 5-10 split? Regardless of its cause, I drove myself to the walk-in clinic at the local hospital. The attending doctor replied that it could have been bursitis, and that I should keep an eye on it and come back if the situation changes.

Ten hours later, I came back.

The red bump on my elbow had spread throughout my arm, shoulder, chest, and back. I basically looked like the Incredible Hulk in mid-transformation. Additionally, I was extremely lethargic and slightly nauseous. I did still have my quirky sense of humor intact, as evidenced by the picture I asked Becky to take that showed both my puny Banner arm (the left one) and the Hulk Smash arm (right).

What was less humorous was the sepsis that my body was experiencing.

The nurse couldn’t obtain an accurate blood pressure reading on me. At the time, I didn’t think too much of it as I was overly occupied with my ginormous right arm. Later, I researched the effects of sepsis…I’m happy I was ignorant.

Put simply, sepsis is the body’s overreaction to an infection. Imagine that you ask your child to pick up a toy off the floor, and the child burns the house down; that’s sepsis. It essentially could kill you as it tries to save you.

The medical staff kept me overnight for obvious reasons; in the morning the attending doctor approached me and said that they could not do anything else for me; my problem was beyond them. She followed up by asking me where I wanted to go. Immediately I said, “Mayo (Clinic in Rochester, MN).”

Few hospitals exist where you can identify them by one or two words alone. Mayo is the Beyoncé of health care providers; you could add in “Clinic,” but to most people, it’s superfluous. The Rochester, MN health care giant is world-renowned for their expertise and list of high-profile patients. Saudi Arabian royalty have made their presence known in Rochester beginning in 2009 when seeking medical assistance. So, telling the doctor that I wanted to go there was a no-brainer. Plus, my in-laws Bill and Dea lived 10 minutes from the hospital, and Bill was one of the hospital’s chaplains. That way, Becky and the kids could stay someplace safe and familiar (and free) for the few days I would be there. Certainly, this would only take a few days.

Right?

They soon wheeled my gurney to an ambulance, whisked me away to the municipal airport, and strapped me tightly into the gurney which was then latched to the inside of the cabin of a Cessna-style airplane (they would’ve used a helicopter, but a snowstorm was quickly approaching). After 20 minutes of practically kissing the cabin wall, we landed, and I was wheeled to another ambulance and taken to St. Mary’s Hospital, the largest hospital within Mayo Clinic.

Once there, things start to get fuzzy. I vaguely remember seeing Becky and Bill as I entered the hospital, and the next thing I remember is having a surreal conversation with the surgeon who would end up performing my first operation. I was seated in a wheelchair, and I felt my head listing back and forth. Apparently, the surgeon informed me that I had contracted necrotizing fasciitis (flesh-eating bacteria), and they would start removing the infected skin and underlying tissue; again, my memory of the conversation is not lucid. I do recall being rather gung-ho and “jokey” about the whole situation. This weirded out the surgeon a bit; he was used to people in my situation being scared, weepy, and more concerned for their lives, not cocky and jovial while in a drugged stupor.

That’s the last thing I remember for about five days. Comas, amirite?

At the time of my first surgery, the infection had encompassed my right arm, shoulder, chest, and back. Doctors used a red marker to track its progress as they were preparing me for the procedures. The employed a similar technique to how firefighters battle a forest fire: They marked spots ahead of the trouble spots so they would be sure to completely remove the infection. When the red marker line touched the base of my neck, Becky left the room.

I was fortunate to have a world-class team of surgeons and medical professionals save my life and body parts. Becky was told before my second surgery that they were going to amputate my right arm, no question. The infection had progressed so deep into my forearm that they thought that it couldn’t be saved. However, the occupational therapist in attendance noticed that I still had hand function, so they removed a 15” by 4” flap of skin from my left thigh (that included part of an artery) and attached it to the back of my hand and forearm. Since it’s my thigh on my hand, I call that flap my “thand”; I might copyright that term.

Since I had a 60-square inch section of skin extracted from my left thigh (and I have large, runner/soccer player thighs), doctors could not close the wound without making physical alterations. So, they removed the vastus lateralis (the exterior thigh muscle) from my left thigh. Then they attached a double knob/shoestring-type contraption to my thigh, where doctors gradually tightened the knobs, which activated the “shoestrings” to close the wound. The process lasted a couple weeks and ultimately left a 15-inch scar. I look like the first victim of the landshark.

When a significant portion of your torso is filleted, you need numerous skin grafts to cover that area. Thankfully, my thighs and back were ready to serve! The surgeons used a skin graft harvester (imagine a Hulked-out cheese slicer) to remove over two dozen slices of my sweet, sweet ivory goodness and placed them all over the infected areas, which were already covered with foundation material that helped the skin grafts take hold more securely. Fun fact about skin graft harvesting sites: They do not fully heal, so it looks like I had a horrendous waxing mishap. Being a ginger isn’t the only reason why I don’t tan now.

When I awoke from the coma, I was at the bottom of a water slide, engulfed in a huge cast, immobilized by a thigh brace, and being pummeled by gallons of green water. You likely have two questions after reading that last sentence:

1)      When did they start installing water slides in hospitals?

Answer: Never. I was hallucinating while throwing up after waking from a four-night coma.

2)      Why was the water green?

Answer: It was the fluid that doctors used to take CT scans of my body as I was out.

I was, to say the least, not pleased to find myself in that scenario. My brother Jeff, who had traveled from Michigan to help Becky and the kids, almost jumped back on the plane after seeing my tirade. I also scared a nurse; I should have apologized to her. Thankfully, Jeff did not leave. Instead, he called Becky and Bill to let them know I was awake. He also gave me an iPad; I’ve since forgiven him for the jerky things he had done to me over the years.

Over the next few weeks, I experienced several hallucinations that freaked me out on many levels (case in point: the water slide). As my numerous surgeries caused me severe, debilitating pain, doctors prescribed me painkillers to deal with the agony. One of those was Ketamine, a powerful antidepressant and painkiller; it, however, can cause severe hallucinations. I had never taken or been prescribed “hardcore” drugs before, so I was not ready for what I would face. Some of the more vivid mindfreaks include:

●        The room flipping upside down

●        Seeing bugs and open windows inside my ICU room…in March

●        Hearing the “Macarena” ad nauseum (Note: ICU rooms do not come with radios.)

●        Imagining that Becky had brought me a bag full of comic books and a Tesseract-shaped hologram projector that displayed several famous Marvel Cinematic Universe scenes

●        Seeing a picture of the Disney movie Mulan in a ceiling tile directly above me (it even included the line “The greatest honor is having you as a daughter” written on a scroll

I consider myself a reasonably intelligent and even-keeled person (weird and awkward, but still even-keeled). So, when I experienced those hallucinations, it REALLY messed with me. I thankfully did not suffer any post-traumatic stress disorder, but those instances have really stuck with me, even though I know they weren’t real.

That said, I’m still convinced there was a leaky swimming pool above my ICU room.

The rest of my two-month hospital stay (yeah, a little longer than a few days) improved as the weeks passed. As I strengthened, my recovery procedures also evolved. For instance, shortly after losing my catheter (I won’t go into that), I started walking. My first jaunt was from my hospital bed to the nearest nurses’ station; after that 30-foot trip (that’s counting from my bed), I was wiped! A week before I fell ill, I had run a Pi Day race (3.14 miles) in 19:29. That isn’t a shabby time, so to go from that to needing a nap after shuffling 10 yards could’ve been a devastating blow to my ego. However, I kept something firmly in mind that protected my fragile self-image…but more on that later. I kept up the walks, advancing farther from my bed each time until I could walk the length of the two-block hallway unaided. Then I added stairs to the mix and continued to progress.

I also experienced 15 trips to nearby Methodist Hospital via ambulance where I participated in 90-minute doses of pure oxygen in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber. They would wheel me into the center, take my vitals, place me in a leather recliner within the bus-sized chamber, slip a Family Dollar Mr. Freeze cosplay helmet over my head, and let me nap for a pair of 45-minute stints, taking a five-minute break to return the complimentary cranberry juice I downed before I started the procedure (in other words, I used the restroom).

Additionally, I lost the enormous cast that cocooned my right arm, trading it in for a pulley system and sponges. My muscles atrophied from lack of use, so I needed to rebuild them. I wasn’t a bulky guy by any means before the incident, but my forced sedation caused my right arm to look almost surreal. Tanya, my wonderful physical therapist, would come into my room every other day or so to make sure I was working out the right way. Initially, she helped me sit down on the floor of my room with my back against my bathroom door and fastened the pulley system to the top of it (the door, not my back). At first, my poor deltoids struggled with the weight of my stick-like arms; but with persistence (and ALL of the protein shakes), my strength quickly returned. Cara, Bridget, and Stephanie (a trio of fantastic hand specialists) helped me regain grip strength and dexterity with the use of sponges, foam grippers, and hand squeezers. Stephanie was also the one who basically saved my arm in that second surgery, so I really need to hand it to her.

At this point in my story, many people wonder how I could have stayed so positive during this entire ordeal. I made that conscious decision a couple days after I awoke from my medically induced coma. Becky sat down next to my hospital bed and explained how so many people stepped up to help us out. From reflecting on my faith, to family and friends visiting us and watching over our house, to colleagues buying toys for the kids, to complete strangers donating hundreds of dollars to a GoFundMe account established by a high school friend of Becky’s, I was overwhelmed by the love and generosity that we were shown.

At that moment, I decided to adopt what I now call The Attitude of Gratitude (remember what I mentioned earlier?). I knew that I would have bad days, but I would not become pessimistic or overly negative. Doing so, in my opinion, would be a slap in the face to everyone who helped us out.

That mindset kept me positive and optimistic for the duration of my stay at Mayo and helped me make several friends among the staff, especially the nurses (including Kris, who bought me a DVD of my favorite movie while at a weekend garage sale). It also fueled me with a passion and a fire to not merely return to form, but to surpass my previous bests.

Since my discharge in May 2015, I’ve:

●        Set or tied four personal running records

●        Won a half-dozen races and finished in the top 10% of virtually every race I’ve run

●        Run in three Ragnar long distance relay running events, including an Ultra (where I ran 33.5 miles in about 24 hours)

●        Set a goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon before 2030 (Note: I do NOT run marathons well.)

●        Earned my recommended Black Belt in Tae Kwon Do

●        Secured my Autism Spectrum Disorder teaching license

In January 2020 I also decided to pursue public speaking. I had performed a few speaking engagements before that time, mostly for high school health classes to show off my Deadpoolesque physique to future medical students. When January 1st rolled around, though, I felt driven to share my story and message to a much larger audience. After a couple months of soul searching, I decided that middle and high school students would be my target audience. Like I was in the hospital, they are facing tribulations that will test them physically and mentally. However, they lack my life experience and may need a solid foundation on which to anchor themselves when times get tough. By seeing that they have so much more going for them than they first realize, they too can more than rise above their struggles; they can forge their futures and become the leaders we need them to be. In the past month alone I’ve spoken at a school, my home fraternity chapter, a running expo, and a comic book convention.

I’ve also started a podcast called Scar Bearers that I’ve used to sharpen my speaking skills amidst the pandemic and offer other survivors a platform on which they can share their own tales of trial and triumph. My YouTube channel Chris DT Gordon mirrors the podcast (but in video form, obviously).

Life is crazy. One week you’re outrunning kids less than half your age; the next, you’re almost dying while experiencing an origin story worthy of a comic book superhero. We don’t really know what tomorrow has in store for us. The best we can do is to be thankful for all we have, acknowledging those whom we appreciate, give others a chance to be thankful, pass on perfection, and go for greatness!

We can also score a legitimate daily beer prescription, but that’s a story for another time.