Everything Happens for a Reason
“If you don’t have a reason for your heart to keep beating . . . it won’t.”
Dr. Mehmet Oz
As Ricochet continued to ride the waves and fund-raise for many different causes, my life took an unexpected and terrifying turn. At the time, I was undergoing infusion therapy for common variable immune deficiency. The therapy for this autoimmune disorder involves using an IV to administer immunoglobulins, which are antibodies normally produced by red blood cells. While I was supposed to be treated with the infusions for the next several months, I started suffering from severe headaches, nausea, and high blood pressure, and I couldn’t see how I would be able to continue.
One night in bed I felt the slightest bit of pressure in my chest. Since I was recording every possible side effect of the treatment, I called the doctor the following day to report it. Apparently it was enough to alarm him because he suggested I come in for an EKG the very next day. When the EKG came back abnormal, I was sent for an echocardiogram. I’d always known I had a mitral valve prolapse, a heart problem in which the valve that separates the upper and lower chambers of the left side of the heart doesn’t close properly. But when the results of the echo came back, they indicated that my condition had become much worse. Yet never could I have expected the cardiologist’s words: “You’ll need a valve replacement in about a year or two.”
I was shocked.
The cardiologist suggested I see a cardiac-thoracic surgeon. The surgeon performed an esophageal echocardiogram that revealed the valve was flailing and had severe regurgitation. He suggested robotic surgery in the next six months.
My mind went into overdrive, and I sought a second opinion. Bad news went to worse news. This time, the doctor recommended a cardiac catheterization, which involves passing a thin catheter tube into the side of the heart, usually from the groin or the arm, allowing him to take live images to monitor my heart. The procedure itself was daunting, let alone what it revealed. The images showed that I had four blocked arteries. Not only did I need a valve replacement, but I also needed a quadruple bypass, which couldn’t be done robotically. And I needed it . . . immediately, even though I didn’t have any symptoms. The doctor told me it was critical and highly recommended I schedule surgery within two to three weeks.
Open-heart surgery. No! I couldn’t even think about it. A doctor cracking open my chest on an operating table? The thought was petrifying.
I felt like a walking time bomb. I was fifty-two; my mother had died of a heart attack at age fifty-four. It seemed like I was on the same exact crash course. The thought of developing heart disease just like she did had never occurred to me. Even though it’s a hereditary condition, for some reason—perhaps denial—I hadn’t added it to my list of worries. Now it topped my list. I had so much to process and absorb. My head felt like it was going to explode as I tried to wrap my brain around this new reality. I knew heart surgery was common, but it wasn’t common for me. I was completely overwhelmed.
The stress of contemplating surgery within a year turned to extreme fear and panic of going under the knife in fourteen days. With the exception of the year both of my parents died, never had I felt such stress. Never before had I taken pills to relieve anxiety, but my doctor prescribed Xanax to help me. I needed something just to cope. Panicked thoughts consumed me and I couldn’t fall asleep at night. I lay awake thinking about all of the possible complications of quadruple bypass surgery. What if I didn’t wake up from the anesthesia? Who would care for Ricochet and Rina while I was in the hospital? And what if I never came home? If worry and fear were not enough, anger surged through me. I felt the bitter truth of John Lennon’s words: “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” I was busy supporting Ricochet’s work, and she was making a difference in so many lives. Why this now?
I couldn’t figure out why something so bad would be happening when Ricochet was doing so much good. It just didn’t seem fair. It was like the brakes were being put on a rapidly moving train on the road to goodwill.
Because I’d grown up thinking negatively, I could feel myself slipping back into negativity even when I tried to remain positive. I’ve always thought everything happens for a reason, from the seemingly inconsequential small coincidence to the monumental events of life. But I never figured out the reasons. And here I was again facing adversity, trying to understand why this was happening.
I finally decided on a surgeon in L.A. who had an impeccable reputation. Even so, my anxiety continued to mount. I made arrangements for Ricochet and Rina in case I didn’t make it. I cried just thinking about it, but I had to be sure they were taken care of. I was at my breaking point trying to cope, and one of the only things that helped me was to focus on Ricochet and the causes she was helping—people and animals who, in many cases, were worse off than I was. I thought about all those Ricochet had helped and how they had made it through difficult circumstances. And for moments at a time, when I focused on others, my attention diverted away from myself and my fears, I’d be okay. But then the relentless reality of what I was about to endure would return, and I’d feel the anxiety cracking through my exterior shell just like the saw would be cracking through my sternum. The only surgery I could think of that could be worse was brain surgery.
On March 1, 2011, my heart stopped beating and a heart/lung machine pumped my blood for me during several hours of open-heart surgery. My brother had flown out the night before, and he was the last person I saw before they wheeled me into surgery. I told myself before going under to remember what Ricochet had taught me—to focus on what I could do. I would wake up from surgery, and when I did, I’d be able to blink. Focus on that and not on what you can’t do.
Before going under, I spoke at length with the anesthesiologist. I explained that I had a tendency to wake up under anesthesia; that it had happened to me before, and I couldn’t imagine the thought of waking up while the doctors were sawing open my chest, or while a machine pumped blood for me instead of my own heart. I closed my eyes tight each time the horrible thoughts came into my brain, trying to rid the vision. I also explained that due to degeneration in my neck from years of joint disease, I couldn’t have pillows under my head. My neck had to be completely flat in the recovery room to avoid causing me severe neck pain. But when I came to from surgery, that’s just what happened: I awoke with intense pain in my neck and back. I still had a breathing tube down my throat. And there was a pillow under my head.
In that place between waking and sleeping, sort of a twilight zone, it was difficult to tell what was real and what was imaginary. But it was real. I was alive. I could blink, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open, nor could I speak to the two nurses fluttering about the ICU. There was a clock on the wall, and I wondered whether time had stopped. Every time I opened my eyes, I saw that the hands of the clock had not moved.
I heard every word the nurses were saying. They were talking about Dunkin’ Donuts. The newscasters on the television were talking about Charlie Sheen. And still that clock didn’t move. I was trying to get the nurses’ attention. Why won’t they look my way? I wondered. Why won’t they shut up about the doughnuts? My hands were taped up and attached to tubes, but I tried to raise my arm anyway. That got their attention.
“You’re fine,” the nurse said, pushing my hand down. “You’re fine.”
I tried to motion for a pad and paper so I could ask her to remove the pillows from under my head, but her charades skills were sorely lacking.
“You’re fine,” she repeated. “Shhh. Don’t try to speak.”
One of the cardiac residents approached my bedside and explained that they couldn’t take out my breathing tube because my throat had swelled. He further explained that taking it out might result in my throat swelling shut, and I wouldn’t be able to breathe. In my anesthetized stupor, I panicked that they would have to do a tracheotomy.
I was desperate, waving my thumb and forefinger together like I was holding an imaginary pen and paper. They didn’t get it. But I was frantic to know if I needed a tracheotomy. I was terrified, but the nurses couldn’t understand anything I was asking.
I couldn’t understand why they had no protocols in place to help intubated patients communicate—something as simple as picture cards or just a pad and pen by the bedside. Tears of pain and frustration were streaming down my cheeks when my brother got to the ICU. He knew at once what I wanted. He grabbed a pen and paper for me and removed the pillow from under my neck—taking charge and saving the day. He knew what I needed. Relief washed over me.
Later, I noticed that the clock on the wall was, in fact, operational. It had only seemed to stop moving during that interminable time in my semiconscious state. I had been neither completely awake nor completely asleep. I’d been in a sort of purgatory.
At one point, one of the residents told me that I was doing well, and I was so angered by her misreading of my situation that I pushed her away. Even though I’d just undergone open-heart surgery and had numerous tubes and IVs taped to me, not to mention a ten-inch incision down my chest, I’d somehow found the energy to push her! (Of course this resulted in being labeled as a “problem patient.”) My brother laughed at my spunk—a heart patient in fragile condition pushing a cardiac resident—but he agreed that they lacked compassion.
Although the surgeon who performed my operation had an excellent reputation, it was mostly residents who looked in on me. I found their mannerisms anxiety-provoking. I suffered from extreme nausea and had to take Xanax to even communicate with the doctors.
The first time I looked in a full-length mirror, I was completely taken aback by the ten-inch incision that ran down the center of my chest. It was much longer than I’d expected. I remember seeing Barbara Walters on television after her open-heart surgery. Even with a V-neck sweater her incision wasn’t at all noticeable. But mine was. My legs also had incisions along them where my veins were stripped for the bypass, and to this day they’re still numb because they had to cut through nerves. Because of my arthritis, my bones were too soft and the doctors thought the normal wires would not work to hold my chest together, so they used plates instead.
While I was recuperating in the hospital, Ricochet and Rina stayed at my friend Jessica’s house. I received daily reports on how they were doing, and, while Jessica said she could tell they missed me, she assured me that they were acclimated to their new surroundings and behaving normally.
My brother put his life on hold for a week to be with me, leaving his wife and young daughter back in Chicago. He brought his laptop with him and worked from my hospital room. I wasn’t much of a companion, as I was still too loopy on medications to hold a normal conversation. I appreciated all of the sacrifices Bobby made on my behalf. Sometimes he’d run out to get me more sherbet, since it was the only thing I felt like eating. After the episode in the ICU, he stayed on top of the doctors and nurses, making sure they were paying enough attention to my needs and my requests. His attentiveness made me wonder about people who had no one to advocate for them.
One of the people who came to see me during my hospital stay was Julie Carruthers, or Jo, as she prefers to be called. Jo is a beautiful, vibrant young woman whose life, like so many, took a different turn. One day while skiing, she fell on a ski run and had to be rushed to the hospital. The doctors told her she fractured her pelvis. However, that was not the difficult part; rather, it was what the doctors discovered when she had a CT scan. Jo had bone cancer. For a chance of survival, she had to have a hemipelvectomy or, in lay terms, she had to have her right leg amputated up to her pelvis and part of her hip. Despite her challenges, Jo has a beautiful spirit, and I’d been fortunate enough to be able to watch her surf with Ricochet. She held on to Ricochet’s back and used her to balance in the way Jo once relied on her own two legs. It was freeing and beautiful to watch. Jo told me that being out in the water was the great “equalizer.”
“I am free,” she said. “I forget about my physical and emotional pain when I’m out there on the waves. To surf with Ricochet was absolutely magical. It was actually spiritual. I felt totally connected to her and could feel her love to serve someone who needed a little extra help. Her compassion resonated through me,” she explained.
Jo had the love and compassion for me that so many of the doctors I consulted lacked. She had been through several painful surgeries for her cancer. She told me how scared she had been when she’d had her surgeries and she knew what it would be like for me. I was touched by her ability to feel another’s pain. I was touched by her compassion. And I was touched by the words she said to me: “You look very tired but also, as is your character, you seem very determined to get better and carry on Ricochet’s good work. I am so deeply proud of you, Judy.”
Her words of encouragement inspired me to look at my situation differently. As I lay in bed, I began to question what truly mattered in life. I’d always been a somewhat anal person. I didn’t like dirt on the driveway. Or Ricochet digging holes in my lawn. If a picture was crooked, I felt compelled to straighten it. I liked things in order—just so. But when my life hung in the balance, the last thing on my mind was whether the laundry was done or if the house was clean. While recovering, all I could think about were Ricochet and Rina. Their lives mattered; little else did.
As soon as I got out of the ICU, I was posting to Facebook, asking for donations to Ricochet’s fund-raiser for the Reality Rally, which benefited Michelle’s Place, a resource center for breast cancer. I couldn’t type very well because I was weak and in pain, but putting my effort into helping others soothed my psyche and took my focus away from my own battered body.
And then the day came when I could return home. My brother drove me home and a close friend had lined up people to help me round the clock. I’d need people to do the shopping and cook meals, people to walk Rina and Ricochet, and people simply to help me get by. I couldn’t wait to take a shower after being in the hospital, and I relished the small pleasures of the hot water against my skin and the clean scent of the soap. My brother was with me the first night I was home, and I realized then that, even though I didn’t have the large family I’d always wanted, my brother was there for me, as was a solid support network of friends. For that I felt extremely grateful.
I was anxious to see Rina and Ricochet, but I was also worried they’d jump on me in their exuberance. This couldn’t happen under any circumstances. I could easily get knocked down, and as fragile as I was, I could be badly injured, or the incision could rip open. Just to be safe, Jessica and I decided she should bring the dogs in one at a time to greet me. For added caution, we placed a baby gate across the bedroom doorway to keep their enthusiasm at bay. I’d stand on one side, and the dog would stand on the other.
Jessica brought in Ricochet first. I’ve always said that Rina is my dog whereas Ricochet belongs to everyone. Ricochet has never helped me the way she does the kids and people with whom she works, and it wasn’t until after my surgery that, for the very first time, I got to experience what everyone else does with her . . . her soul-to-soul magic.
As excited as she was to see me, Ricochet walked in slowly. She kept her head lowered and came over to me, ever so gently. I saw at once she understood something was different, and I noticed, too, that she had absolutely no intention of jumping up on me. She acted nothing like a dog who hadn’t seen her person in a week. Incredibly gentle, she sort of lowered her body as I was petting her. She just knew. She acted from her heart. I was fragile and she understood what I needed without being told. It was how she operated and I knew it—I’d watched it many times before—but still I was moved. I’d seen her interact with so many people, offering them exactly what they needed, but I’d never before experienced it for myself—until that day. And I never have since. Ricochet’s interaction was intensely soft and loving, but at the same time, powerful and moving. She touched me deep within my soul, and we connected on a completely different level.
After my reunion with Ricochet, we let Rina in. She, too, was very concerned about me and very gentle. They both licked my hands over and over. They sniffed me, and with every whiff, they could discern strange scents: the smell of the hospital and the smell of surgery. The smell of a power saw, dried blood, and stitches. Lots of stitches. They wanted to know all about it and, by way of their noses, they could. But most of all, what they both knew was that something was really different and very wrong. I found their reactions fascinating, to see them trying to understand through their noses what had happened in those last five days.
As the days passed and people came and went, helping me with daily life, the dogs tried to adapt. Ricochet was more of a housedog, preferring to be inside, but Rina had always loved to be outside. I’d leave the door open from the time we awoke in the morning until the time I called her in at night. And there she would be, out enjoying the sunlight and outdoor breezes and scents, waiting for her daily treat from our neighbors and barking at their window if they were late. But now, while I lay inside recovering, I would find Rina popping inside frequently to check up on me. I was touched by her concern, and I’d intentionally drop things onto the floor so that Rina would feel there was indeed a reason to help.
Not letting them sleep with me was hard, as I needed to sleep on a power recliner that lifted me, like a crane, up and down to avoid putting pressure on my incisions.
One day, I wanted to hug Rina so much that I invited her up to sit beside me on the couch. “Up, Rina!” I coaxed.
Normally she would’ve leaped right up, but now she was hesitant. She walked in a large circle around me.
“Come on, Rina!”
She placed her front paws on the edge of the couch but still didn’t jump up.
“What is it?” I asked her.
I really wanted her up beside me. She just wouldn’t do it. Finally I stood up slowly. And it was then that she hopped up easily to the exact spot I’d patted and laid down. I sat back down beside her, and with that arrangement, she seemed content. Only then did I understand: My beautiful, kind Rina was telling me that I was too fragile. My once-in-a-lifetime-dog was trying to protect me. She’d been afraid to jump up while I sat there, and she waited until I stood. The nurses in ICU couldn’t figure out what I wanted, but this dog understood what I needed in an instant. I leaned over and gave her the hug I’d been longing to give.
Two weeks after my surgery, there was an event at the hospital at which they were showcasing Ian’s story. The sponsors asked that Ricochet be there. I realized the importance of her attendance at the event and knew we had to go. A good friend accompanied me to help handle Ricochet.
Then three weeks after surgery, I received word that Guideposts magazine wanted to do a story about Ricochet and Patrick. Despite still being very fragile, I wasn’t going to stand in the way of Ricochet’s mission. I was eager to take the focus off of me and put it on those whom Ricochet was helping.
Six weeks postsurgery, there was the Reality Rally, a road rally for breast cancer. Although it took considerable effort, I attended because Ricochet was a spokesdog for the event and my place was with her . . . and helping others. Throughout my recovery, I found that focusing on others helped me get through. When my team finished in tenth place, I knew I’d finally made it through to the other side of this long and painful ordeal. I have to say, I was pretty impressed with myself, but I was even more impressed with Ricochet. She was the top fund-raiser for the event, beating out all of the celebrity reality stars by far!
I was unable to drive for twelve weeks. People drove me and took the dogs for walks because I couldn’t risk a tug on the leash jarring my chest. My friends all rallied around me to help in various ways, and I felt so thankful. Sometimes the amount of support overwhelmed me.
The months that followed my surgery and recovery were the busiest and most productive in Ricochet’s quest to help others. Ricochet won several awards, including the American Humane Association’s Hero Dog Award in the emerging hero category. Seven months post-op, Ricochet and I attended the star-studded gala event in Beverly Hills, complete with a walk down the red carpet and awards presented by celebrities. As I stood onstage to accept Ricochet’s award from Joey Lawrence, I knew I’d conquered many obstacles in my life to get to this place.
When the cardiologist first told me I needed open-heart surgery, I considered it a very bad thing. I questioned why it was interfering with the good that Ricochet was doing. Even though I knew everything happens for a reason, I couldn’t understand it, and I didn’t know why. But, after I persevered through to the other side of my recovery, I knew this truth so completely. Now when I say, “Everything happens for a reason,” I no longer just believe it; I know it.
At the time I felt that the surgery was barbaric, but I was thankful because I realized the surgery saved my life. What this life-threatening experience taught me was invaluable—for afterward, not only did I know, unequivocally, that everything happens for a reason, but I now saw clearly why. If my rheumatologist hadn’t been so thorough, I probably would’ve died without warning. But it wasn’t my time to die because Ricochet wasn’t finished fulfilling her destiny. Many people still needed her help, and she needed me to continue facilitating her journey, wherever it would lead. There was still much more to be done.