Right Place, Right Time

 

I was unemployed for six months, from September '99 until the spring of 2000. It’d been over 15 years since the last time I’d fallen into that predicament; but I was 15 years younger then, too, so the thought I’d never get out of it wasn’t an issue. But prospects seemed a lot dimmer at 44 than they did at 29 and it wasn’t very long before those maddening six months started feeling like forever until I’d work again.

But it was also during this time of idleness that my friend Dale Tibbs and I began playing racquetball. We’d get together in the early afternoons and, once the rust wore off from several years mostly sitting on my ass, Dale and I could play for hours and usually did. It felt great being quick and active again. Not only was I getting back in shape, these 3-4 times a week workouts helped work off the frustration of not working; some of it, anyway. It certainly beat waiting for Amy to come home from her job and feeling sorry for myself.  Though the fruitless-so-far job search felt lousy, I felt better physically than I had in years.

However nearing the end of this exile from employment, while I didn’t wish it, I almost became acclimated to it. All the free time I hadn’t had in years, plus the hours of fun and fellowship with Dale had me semi- half-way hoping life could stay that way; provided I could also find a way to get paid, too. But God, as usual, had other plans that didn't necessarily jell with my lazy daydreams, and in April of 2000 He created an opening for me at EMF Broadcasting. And nearly twelve years later I'm still there. But even though the long hours and commute cut racquetball time to just a couple hours on Saturdays, Dale and I kept it up; at least until July 14, 2001.

It was a typically toasty day and we’d just finished a grueling two hour set. As usual, Dale and I had taken turns beating each other and were cooling off in the hallway outside the court, yakking about the great shots made, easy ones missed, and other random odds and ends before heading out to meet the wives for a quick fast food lunch. Dale was part way into one of his amusing tangents, a story he'd told before and one I was only half-way paying attention to, when he started acting differently.

Very much out of character, particularly for this well-worn tale, he suddenly stopped cracking wise and, apparently distracted began nervously pacing the hall, occasionally belching. After about five minutes, he sat down in a plastic chair and glanced at me with a troubled expression, but said nothing. He looked exhausted, but we'd just finished playing two hours of racquetball, so that wasn't so odd. In the year and a half that we’d been playing we were always tired when our two hours were up. But it was a good tired, one we generally recovered from within a couple of minutes of coming off the court.

I’d already recuperated, but Dale hadn’t. He wasn’t presenting the look of a ‘good tired’, either. He was pale and working to breathe and perspiring as if we were still playing. “I don't think I feel well… I think we should forget about lunch.” Dale's speech was labored, and I began to wonder why one of the most verbal people I knew was having such a hard time getting out two simple sentences. And having such a hard time getting his wind.

I could see he was in distress of some kind. However, generally speaking, he was able to converse, and though seated, apparently still able to get around. So I kept probing, hoping he’d recover, or tell me what was wrong. I asked if he was in pain; he said he didn’t know. I even asked does your chest hurt?  He shook his head ‘no’.  But I should’ve known better. For at least a quarter of an hour I'd observed him clearly short of breath, and having difficulty talking.

Sweating and confused, too, with his body under-going enormous stress and mind probably going in a million directions, it was understandable why Dale didn’t appreciate what was going on. However, not presently in the midst of a massive coronary, of the two of us I should have. Yet as precious minutes kept ticking off clock in the racquetball club hallway, I persisted as if he’d merely swallowed a bad clam.  Anyone else would've had the good sense to make him stay in the chair and go for help; but as the crisis continued to unfold right before my eyes, my brain remained parked in neutral.

Damn good thing Dale's life didn't depend on me, yeah?

He said he wanted to go home so, following his lead, I let him get up and accompanied him to the parking lot. By being ambulatory I think he way trying to convince himself that nothing was really wrong. But it was like he was walking in quicksand. Perspiring and shaky, each step was labor intensive, though he made it outside without attracting attention. However, we were in a gym; almost everybody looks that way after a demanding work out. But as soon as we got out the door, still breathing hard, Dale conceded the obvious. “I think we need to get to the hospital”.

Only then did I finally get it, and the gravity of the situation came into full focus. Dale was in trouble.

"You better drive” he heaved, as if there was any other option. Fortunately my truck was considerably closer to the racquetball club's entrance than Dale's was. He managed to open the door for himself, too, but then settles into the passenger side like a sack of soggy potatoes, totally worn out. Putting the car in gear, I bolted from the parking lot and out to the intersection with East Main Street. Fortunately the hospital was just a couple blocks away. But stopped for cross traffic, I was afraid we might not get there quick enough. I got antsy waiting for it to clear and began cursing under my breath, which didn’t really help. But I couldn't help Dale until I got across the damn street. Of all days to leave my fake police siren at home.

It's difficult enough making a left turn at West Berryhill and East Main under most circumstances. But at lunch hour, on a Saturday, on a summer day; it was darn near impossible. Glancing back and forth, left to right, then left again to the point of neck strain, it looked like everybody and their brother- and their other brother- had all chosen that day and hour to all be going someplace. And they were all in my way. I tried a quick probe, nudging into the busy cross street, but quickly stopped and pulled back when the perceived opening closed quicker than I judged.

“Damn!" I cursed again at the windshield. But even in the midst of the storm, Dale had the presence of mind to be the voice of reason and a calming influence. "Rocket, it's okay. Just take your time. We'll get there okay. It's going to be fine. Take it easy, okay?" Taking a deep breath to refocus and reset I was finally able to make the turn and two minutes later were in front of the ER at Sierra Nevada Memorial Hospital. I stopped the engine and headed to the passenger side.

Dale had the door open but hadn’t made an attempt to get out yet. Sitting and not moving for a few minutes had given him a false sense of recovery. His breathing had calmed down and his color had returned. ”Let's wait a minute before going in. Let me see what happens when I walk. I think I'm feeling better.” He slowly extracted himself from the car and took two steps before his symptoms returned with a vengeance. ”No, I'm not well. Not at all. Whatever it is, it’s back. We better go in.”  I asked if he wanted me to get a medic or a wheelchair, but Dale insisted on making it in under his own power. Amazingly, he did, plodding lethargically as he had back at the gym. But it’d be the last time he'd be on his feet for awhile. 

Inside, the admissions lady seemed kind of lethargic, too. Or terribly methodical. She proceeded through the initial battery of questions without much urgency, even though Dale said he was feeling lousy. And we were in urgent care. I suppose they hear that in the ER all the time, but the man looked considerably worse than just 'feeling lousy'.  But the inquisition at the check-in continued routinely, as if he just had a cold: name, date of birth, address, insurance, blah , blah, blah… Dale and Eva had recently moved but, when asked, gave the lady the wrong one. I quietly reminded him. He sighed, wearily. “Oh, yeah, that’s right…” then recited the new Nevada City house number.

By now, though, Dale appeared quite spent; just having to talk seemed to be grinding him down. Wanting to speed things up, I did something out of character and butted into the conversation. ”He's been having chest pains.”  Instantly, the lady looked away from the monitor and directly at Dale. Though he denied it back at the gym, this time he nodded in the affirmative. Now clearly exhibiting signs of being very ill, she stopped the interview, called for a wheel-chair and rushed him into the ER.

With Dale now getting looked at, I escaped the chaos and cacophony of the waiting room and went back outside. It was much quieter. What now? What should I do? Trying to find the mental re-set button, it occurred to me somebody needed to call Eva. Expecting Dale voice to be telling her where we were meeting for lunch, she didn't sound terribly concerned when she heard it was me. But when I delivered the news, telling her everything I knew (and nothing I suspected), Eva's tone instantly shifted from light hearted to concern.”I'm on my way” she said, getting straight to the point then quickly hung up.

 

I'd never had to make that type of a phone call before, either. It was unsettling and kind of surreal. Umm, I think your husband' may be gravely ill. I didn't say that, but didn't have to. Eva just knew.  Shoving the cell phone back in my pocket, I nervously checked my watch. It was 12:15. Dale began feeling ill around 11:50. Not long, but seemed a lot longer and I began lamenting those lost 25 minutes wondering if he’d only been having indigestion, and those extra 30 seconds waiting to safely cross busy East Main Street. I worried whether all that missed time was going to add up to something I'd regret for the rest of my life.

Scared to death for my friend, I paced the parking lot and prayed for him. Then I called Amy. It was really hot, though, and after hanging up I went back inside. It sucked inside (I hate hospitals) but at least the AC was working hard. Almost as soon as I walked in, though, the nurse who’d taken Dale into the ER spotted me took me back outside.  

 

"I need to tell you his. Your friend has suffered a major heart attack. It's very bad." The symptoms Dale exhibited at the racquetball club were just a precursor to the big one he’d just had while being attended to in the emergency room. She said it came on with a vengeance.  "But you got him here in time" she said, walking with me back into the hospital corridor. "We got him stable, he’s resting now and I think he's going to be okay." I breathed a prayer of thanks. But Good God, I thought, looking at the nurse as she walked away, why didn't you tell me that first??!! 

 

But casting my eyes again heavenward, I cut her some slack. Believing for the last hour they were going to tell me Dale had died and it was my fault and finding out he wasn’t, was like having a 500 pound boulder gently removed off my shoulders. As it symbolically rolled away, with the weight of the world gone, my breathing returned to normal again.

And I guess, if you're going to suffer a major heart attack, being in the hospital ER is probably the best place on Earth to have one. When Dale’s hit, he was already surrounded by doctors, medication and machines and was given immediate care. And when Eva, Amy and I were allowed to see him a little later after the crisis had passed, pumped full of 'some really good drugs he was acting like nothing happened. Still a trifle loopy, nevertheless Dale laughed and pronounced himself well enough to get up and go to lunch. We all laughed. The doctor chuckled too, but decided it was probably best Dale remain a guest of the hospital at least for the rest of the weekend. What a buzz kill. 

But the doc's call was correct. Dale wasn’t out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.  An angiogram later Saturday afternoon indicated his arteries were almost completely clogged. And after several consultations on the best course of action, he was transferred to Mercy Sacramento on Monday where he underwent a 5-way bypass on Tuesday. But just 4 days later- and exactly a week after his heart attack- Dale was resting at home. I’d call it a miracle. God was sure looking out for him anyway. And two months later, Dale and I were back on the racquetball court.

Of course, I couldn’t help thinking about the last time we’d been there and it was eerie, at least for me, to go in there and play again. I’m sure it was for Dale, too. But we played two hours and nobody had to call an ambulance. Eight weeks after almost losing him, I found it totally remarkable to be playing and laughing with my friend as if nothing had happened. Well almost nothing. (Before first serve, he showed me the gnarly scar from the operation). It is amazing, though, what they can do to keep you going these days. Twenty years before that scary afternoon in '01- maybe even only ten years- Dale probably would've died right there in the ER. He was very lucky.

But since July 14, 2001, Dale has often tried to give me credit for “saving his life”. Not long before then, he and Eva had moved to a house a long way from town, and if the attack had happened there, he says he's not sure they would've made it in time. Of course, nobody knows that for sure though. But I know one thing- I can’t take credit for something he and I both know that God did. Well, God, the doctors and modern medicine. I had nothing to do with it. I didn't even know how sick he was. All I did was drive him to the hospital- after stalling around and wondering what the hell was going on. No, God saved Dale that day, not me.

The Lord works in mysterious ways, the Bible says, and if my minor role in this critical event in my friend's life remains a mystery to me, it isn't to Him. God knows what He’s doing. If He wanted me to be the one with Dale when he took ill that summer afternoon ten years ago, then I’m glad I was and He used me that way. If He wanted me to be in the right place at the right time that day, I thank Him I was, too. 

 

And though he's a little goofy, obnoxious and tells long winded stories, I thank Him for keeping Dale around, too.