It‘s Saturday July 4, 1964, my 41st year. Despite the fact I swam two lengths of a motel pool the weekend before, I couldn’t lift myself out of bed. Since it's a holiday, I phone a physician friend. He comes over, looks at my hands, says, “I’ll arrange for you to be admitted to the hospital Monday morning.” I was cyanotic, turning blue, not getting enough oxygen to keep moving.
Three weeks later, I left the hospital in a wheel chair with a deadly diagnosis: emphysema. Before I was dismissed, I asked a doctor: “How long have I got?”
He said, “Maybe five years of useful life.” With three kids under five, I was in trouble. One dark hospital night, I sat, propped up in my hospital bed, writing on a yellow pad. It was a “Position Report” on my life. The night nurse offered sleeping pills, warm milk, anything to get me to go to sleep. But I kept at it.
My report outlined what had happened to me, where I was, what my health would be when I got out, what I had to do in the future to care for my family and stay alive. Once my acute symptoms abated and I could walk again, I spent hours in the hospital library reading about pulmonary disease and the drugs I was taking– particularly prednisone. The more I knew, the better I'd manage my future.
The emphysema diagnosis was wrong--but it changed my life. As he sent me home, the chief pulmonologist gave me some advice:
1. Interview your doctor–you must trust him; he must trust you.
2. Be sure you understand your medication; take it as directed.
3. Don’t give up. Trust yourself.
That advice has kept me going another 44years--it should keep me on my feet a few more.
Once out of the hospital, I phoned a shrink I knew. He sat silent at my bed. I told him my sad story. He replied in one sentence. I’ll never forget it: “The only difference, Ted, is now you know.” Like a shark in the water I had no choice but to move forward.
The next 13 years, I was constantly in and out of hospitals. Prednisone kept me going. One day, I looked in the bathroom mirror; a “moon face” stared back at me. I knew steroids can kill–this was a warning. I called my doctor. He said, “Ted, you tolerate the drug very well, keep taking it.” But I had the mirror in front of me. I didn’t tolerate the drug well. I had to kick my prednisone habit. A full year of troubles, physical and mental, followed--one of the toughest in my life. I told the doc, “It’s not just my lungs. Everything hurts!” He replied: “I know.” A lot of help, that!
After an irrational, unforgettable year of hard life, I was “clean,” off prednisone. I wouldn’t be writing this today had I continued to take it. I kicked my habit. But I still take the drug in brief doses when my doctor and I agree I must. As mother used to told me, “Moderation in all things.”
A few years later, walking with a lady friend in London between the William and Mary and The British Museum, my friend turned to me and asked, “Am I walking too fast for you?” I said, “No.” Of course, she was. When we reached my hotel room, I fell asleep. That wasn’t what we’d planned. My pulmonary function had deteriorated. Again, I had to act. Remembering my Army days, I decided to get back in shape.
At home, I began a new routine. Each morning, wherever I was, I did a full hour of calisthenics. I began to walk three miles a day.
One day, a young couple jogged in from a side street in front of me. It looked so easy; I said, “I can do that.” I couldn’t.
The best I could do was jog about a quarter block before I couldn’t jog anymore.
I decided to alternate walking and jogging from then on. And I set a goal: at the end of three months I'd jog the entire three miles, uphill and down. I did it-–a Christmas present to myself. Gradually, I increased my jogging until I could jog about six miles a day.
One day, running from Poipu to Koloa and back, I overdid it. Something went haywire in my hip. I could no longer run. But I could still walk. This year, 44 years after my diagnosis, 39 years after I was supposed to die, in my 85th year, I’m still walking into the future.
