Now that my disease had a name, everyone was trying to figure out how I might have contracted my sepsis in the first place. As I mentioned, I traveled all of the time and slept in various hotel rooms, so it was possible that I picked it up sometime during my travels. One of the doctors also talked about several studies linking MRSA to Vietnam vets, especially those who may have been exposed to Agent Orange during the war, as I was. But then, someone in my family recalled that I had a cut on my arm that wouldn’t heal for weeks. I collect cars and had recently acquired an electric car called a Tesla. It’s a two-seat sports car that can go from 0-60 mph in 3.2 seconds. Even with that power, it’s really like a souped up golf cart because there are no gears, and when you step on the accelerator, it makes very little noise. It’s so quiet that you feel like you’re driving a stealth vehicle. Like a golf cart, the Tesla has to be plugged in to be charged. I had put an extension cord on the ground of our garage, and made it a point to tell everyone to be careful not to trip over it. I meant to tape it to the floor but before I could, I forgot it was there and tripped over it myself. I landed pretty hard and though I managed to roll out of my fall, I cut my arm from my elbow down toward my wrist. The wound wasn’t deep enough to need stitches but it took quite a while for it to mend completely. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but looking back, that was the most likely source of my infection—a simple slip and fall in my garage!
In just a little over three days, I had gone from being a pretty healthy guy in his sixties, able to endure speeds of 218 mph with the best of them, to a quickly deteriorating old man struggling to stay alive.
“Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country.”
The Ranger Creed
5th Stanza
F
or as long as I can remember, we’ve had a family rule to never leave a loved one alone in the hospital. I suppose I’ve been that way ever since I served in Vietnam, but I really became committed to that type of support after my wife, Gail, who was then my fiancée, was in a horrific plane crash back in 1983. From that time on, whenever a family member, friend or colleague was in the hospital, I always made it a point to be there, right by their side. We’ve all heard horror stories about what can happen when you’re alone—from being given the wrong medication to needing a nurse when one isn’t around because they are busy helping other patients. There is a gift your presence provides to the person who is not in control. When you’re lying in a hospital bed, thoughts of the worst-case scenarios are the hardest to wipe from your mind. That’s when fear creeps in. Having the presence of a friend or relative takes away the panic. No strings, no expectations—this simple offering of comfort, assuring them that they aren’t alone, helps in ways that cannot be measured.
In October 1983, Gail and I were in Canada for a RE/MAX International conference. RE/MAX was only ten years old and growing fast. We were quickly becoming one of the most powerful real estate brands in the world. Gail and I were fully committed to our company, making sacrifices to realize our dreams. We were on the road five days a week, sometimes longer, selling new franchises while strengthening and expanding our relationships with existing territories. We were both workaholics who found more satisfaction in helping others reach their career goals than we did most anything else—except each other. Gail and I were engaged to be married the following month. We were on top of the world, approaching the top of the real estate game and about to start our new life together, when the unthinkable happened.
We were at the Deerhurst Resort in Huntsville, Ontario, not far from Toronto. During our stay, Frank Polzler, who co-owned RE/MAX for all of Eastern Canada, invited Gail, myself, and a mutual friend, Randy Lerum, to visit his cabin on a nearby lake. We’d have to travel by seaplane to get there. Although Gail and I were both trained pilots (Randy had helped us get our licenses!), Gail had never been on a seaplane before, so she was very excited to make the quick fifteen-minute trip from our resort to Frank’s vacation home. I decided not to go because I had some business dealings I wanted to tend to with some colleagues who were waiting for me inside the resort.
It wasn’t the clearest day, nor was it perfect conditions for flying, I thought to myself as I stood on the dock to watch their plane take off. To my trained eye, something seemed off as the seaplane struggled to ascend into the air. It appeared heavy and climbed a little too slow for my comfort. As it cleared the trees in the distance, I turned to walk back to the resort but had a bad feeling as I made my way up the path.
The plane had landed safely at the lake, where Gail and Frank took a quick tour before boarding for their return trip. This time however, as the plane began to accelerate for takeoff, it simply couldn’t get off the ground fast enough. They were quickly headed toward the edge of the lake, where they surely wouldn’t clear the trees and power lines in front of them.
Enough time had passed without Frank’s plane returning to the resort that I began to worry. I called the local police stations to see if anyone had heard about a small plane crash. In my gut, I already knew the answer, but it didn’t hit me until someone confirmed the worst.
“There
has
been a plane crash, sir. Some of the passengers are dead. We don’t have any more information at this time.”
The pilot was killed on impact, but rescue workers and Good Samaritans from the lakeside community who saw the crash were able to pull Gail, Randy and Frank from the wreckage. Frank and Randy were badly hurt, but they weren’t in critical condition. Gail wasn’t as lucky. Her injuries were so severe that the paramedics wanted her immediately transported to Sunnybrook Hospital in Toronto, a facility that specialized in severe trauma cases.
I raced to be by her side. By the time I got to Sunnybrook, Gail was in a coma. The doctors told me that she was not likely to survive and if she did, she might never walk again due to her brain injury. I’ve never been the kind of man who accepts defeat with grace and I surely wasn’t about to then. That kind of dire prognosis was simply not an option. I knew Gail had the strength to not only survive this ordeal, but to find a way to walk again someday.
I had never left a man behind, and I wasn’t about to start now. This is the kind of philosophy taught in the military and it has become a part of my vernacular ever since I served in the Air Force. Soldiers are trained to move hell and high water to make this statement true to the extent that it’s within their power. But the truth is, sometimes people do get left behind—not on my watch however, and certainly not now.
Although Gail suffered a severe and traumatic head injury, partial paralysis on the left side of her body and several shattered bones, I was committed to doing whatever it would take to help get her through this, to keep her strength up, her motivation high and her morale bolstered so she would never think about giving up her fight.
I’ve always been a voracious reader, especially of motivational business books, so I spent hours, then days that ultimately turned into weeks, reading inspiring books to Gail while she lay in her hospital bed. I stayed with her twenty hours a day making sure no one spoke about the possibility of her never walking again or used any other discouraging language in her midst. Only positive messages of hope could be offered to keep her determination from wavering. When my voice became gravelly from reading, I played motivational tapes at her bedside. I constantly reassured Gail that she could beat her challenges—that she was stronger than her injuries.
Once Gail was able to, we made arrangements to transfer her back to Denver, where she would start her long and tough road to recovery. I called my closest confidants back home and asked them to help me find the very best rehabilitation hospital in the country for head injuries. I was emphatic in my desire to find the
BEST
for Gail. Even though I didn’t have a lot of money back then I didn’t care about the cost of her care. I would make whatever personal sacrifices necessary to ensure that Gail got the help she needed to come back from the brink of death and live a good and healthy life.
Word came back that Craig Hospital in Denver seemed to be the best place for Gail to be. This news made me angry at first because I thought everyone was simply trying to make things easier for me by picking a
local
hospital instead of actually finding her the
best
facility for her circumstances.
I was wrong.
As it turns out, Craig Hospital ranked in the top five on every list. They had a long waiting list for people to get in, but were willing to take Gail if I was willing to bring her there. I agreed to fly back with her to check it out.
We boarded a special plane equipped to transport patients who are in a lot of pain. It was a horribly bumpy flight, making the already agonizing trip nearly impossible for Gail. Her left arm was in a cast and no matter how insulated it was, every bump hurt like hell.
When we landed, an ambulance took us right to Craig, where Gail was immediately admitted as a patient. While the staff was tending to her needs, I started looking around and realized it was unlike any hospital I had ever seen before. It certainly wasn’t like the hospital we had just left, where Gail spent most of her time in the intensive care unit with doctors and nurses in scrubs and wearing stethoscopes around their necks.
As I wandered around the facility, it was hard to tell who the doctors and nurses were. Everyone was dressed very casually, wearing mostly jeans and t-shirts.
“We’re screwed,” I thought. “Get me the hell out of this place.” I was really furious. I went home that night to figure out my next step. Surely I’d have to move her to someplace better equipped with more experienced professionals. The only question was: Where?
When I returned to Craig the next morning, I stood off to the side and observed how the physical therapists and doctors were working with Gail. One of the nurses noticed me in the background.
“Everything ok, Mr. Liniger?” she asked.
“I find it strange that nobody is in scrubs or even remotely appears like they’re working in a hospital.” I was being candid, if not somewhat gruff and protective.
“We try everything we can to convince our patients that they are on a college campus. Most of the patients who come here are young, and they’re used to wearing jeans. The majority of our nurses, therapists and technicians are young too. They spend the bulk of their days working on the floor or mats, picking people up or helping them learn to do something they once took for granted in a whole new way. We may appear casual, but the people who work here are the very best in the world. Don’t judge us by the way we look. Judge us by the results we get.”
Pow.
Her explanation hit me right between the eyes. It was a valuable lesson learned, one I would never forget.
A few days after arriving at Craig, the doctors told me that they needed to redo the surgery on Gail’s left arm to aid in her recovery because her wrist still wasn’t stabilizing. Since Craig is a rehab hospital, they sent us to another hospital in Denver to have that procedure done. Essentially, they would need to break her wrist, remove the plate that was put in at the hospital in Toronto and put a new plate in its place. Wanting the best for her, I agreed to let them do it.
Gail was taken to a nearby hospital, where a very good doctor would do the surgery. As always, I stayed right by her side. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t in any unnecessary pain and didn’t feel alone. I stayed in the room all night in a chair that was right behind the door. I placed a bath towel over a small clip-on book light I used to read while Gail rested. I’d go over to check on her from time to time or push the button on her morphine drip to make sure she wasn’t uncomfortable and then I’d sit back down to read some more. I didn’t sleep a wink that night—I couldn’t.
Just before daylight broke the next morning, a doctor came into Gail’s room with a nurse.
“How is she doing?” he asked the nurse.
“She’s doing fine, doctor. I checked on her once an hour throughout the night,” the nurse responded.
I was seeing red.
“You’re a liar!” I bellowed from behind the door.
The doctor and nurse physically jumped, as they didn’t know I was sitting there.
“I’ve sat here all night, and not one nurse has come through that door. I never left the room or fell asleep. Nobody has been in here to check on that woman since ten o’clock last night until you two just walked in.” There was no hiding how mad I was and from that point on, I was on the doctors and nurses like white on rice because I suddenly realized that if I hadn’t been there that night, the nurse would have told the doctor the same story but no one would have been there to be Gail’s advocate. You see, when a patient is kept drugged up for pain, they have no idea what is happening to them or when it’s happening. They are often unable to speak for themselves. There was absolutely no chance I’d ever potentially leave Gail or anyone I care about in that vulnerable position again.
Even though I’d adhered to the “leave no man behind” philosophy since I was in the military, this was the seminal moment when I vowed to myself that it would be my policy for life. No one deserves to be alone when they are sick, helpless and unable to care for themselves.
This point was driven home a few days later when one of Gail’s doctors stopped me in the hallway.
“I hear you’ve been giving Gail her showers instead of letting our nursing staff do it,” he said.
It’s true that I had started giving Gail her showers because her room didn’t have a wheelchair-accessible shower stall in it, so Gail had to be taken to another room that had the right kind of shower. I’d get her bundled up in a warm blanket and take her there myself. I lifted her out of her wheelchair and placed her into a shower chair—a special chair designed to be used by patients who cannot stand on their own. I’d get her washed, take her out, dry her hair and then wheel her back to her room, where I’d lift her into bed again. I did the same thing when she needed to go to the bathroom, too. I’d carry her from the bed to the toilet and then back again. Frankly, after the run-in with that nurse, I didn’t trust Gail in anyone’s hands but mine.