Opinion & Comment

Don't Askance At A Second Chance

APPALACHIAN NOTEBOOK - Steve Oden

I am two weeks old at this writing.

Two weeks ago was when God gave me a pass. Of all the blessings He has granted me in my life, this is among the most amazing. He brought me back.

“You have been given a second chance. The Lord has something He wants you to do,” said the emergency room physician as she prepped me for helicopter transport to a cardiac critical care unit.

So many things happened the evening of my massive, unexpected heart attack that it had to involve divine intervention. You will never convince me otherwise.

Had the “event,” in medical parlance, occurred at my rural farm, where I was living alone while awaiting the relocation of family, I probably would not have survived. Fortunately, I was not behind the steering wheel of my truck when the giant vice clamped my chest and rendered my arm limp and powerless. Not only would I have wrecked, I might have injured or killed another motorist.

My myocardial infarction occurred in the workplace parking lot as I prepared to drive home at the end of the day. I remember asking God what was happening to me, but I don’t recall how I unlocked the office lobby door and re-entered the building.

The first intervention was in the form of three employees who, on most evenings, would have left after clocking out. Instead, two of them, Diana Somerville and Holly Haner, were chatting at their desks. They immediately called 911 when I staggered in the front doors.

All of the employees of our business must pass first aid and CPR training on an annual basis. Diana and Holly put their knowledge to work. They gave me aspirin and strapped on an oxygen mask. Diana also called her husband, a trained EMT, on the phone, and he helped monitor my condition. Meanwhile, a third employee, Margaret Durst, arrived. She had worked as a paramedic, and she took over until the ambulance arrived.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the medical center emergency room, where the attending physician and nursing staff stabilized me for the helicopter flight to one of the state’s top three cardiac care hospitals.

Within 90 minutes of the onset of my heart attack, I had received medical intervention, stabilization and admission to a high-tech heart center. I cannot chalk this up to simple luck.

Later, my wife and oldest son flew in to be with me during the tests, arterial cleaning work, and catheterizations for placement of three stints.

The day before my 52nd birthday, I walked out of the hospital with an excellent prognosis for recovery . . . contingent, of course, upon diet, exercise and maintenance medicines. I was grateful to all who helped during this period, whether they attended my medical needs, assisted in any way, prayed for me, or sent kind messages of support to me and my family.

To my friends and neighbors in Henderson; the faculty, staff and students at Chester County High School, the gang at the Chester County Independent, the folks in Oneida and at the Independent Herald, and the great people with whom I work, I say heart-felt thanks.

My heart problem, it appears, is a genetic one. My blood pressure was fine; I had no prior symptoms to indicate the onset of an “event.” In fact, I had climbed hills in Middle Tennessee the week before while turkey hunting with Charles McEarl and later during a visit on the Cumberland Plateau with Jerry Lay and Ben Garrett. Being overweight didn’t help, of course, but the cardiac specialists say the attack was bound to happen due to the type of arteries with which I was born and a family history that I had pushed to the back of my mind.

You see, my paternal grandfather died at age 52 of a massive heart attack; my father’s oldest brother (the favorite uncle about whom I have written in this column several times) succumbed at age 52 to a stroke; and another of my uncles has undergone by-pass surgery at an early age.

It seems age 52 holds significance among the males of my family. However, I have the discretion at this point to choose my age, and I chose to be two weeks old.

Henceforth, I will date my mortal age to the time when the Lord gave me a second chance. I am not sure what plan he has for me, what task He wants me to complete. I have faith that it all will be revealed . . . in His good time.

And, to all of you couch potatoes reading this, who might have felt just the slightest tinge of angina, shortness of breath, tightness across the chest, or a tiny palpitation of the heart, by all means get a checkup. The time to prevent an “event” is before you’re laying flat on your back, hooked up to tubes and wires and glimpsing the worried faces of your family members over the shoulders of grim-faced doctors and nurses.

I was blessed and given a second chance; not everyone has the same outcome.

Be well; be happy; be healthy; be with friends and family; be with God. This is my hope for all who read this column.