What November 11th Means To Me
November 11th “Remembrance Day” is a day I remember well—not because of the end of wars, the veterans who fought in them, or the memories of innocent lives that were lost (all important parts of our past that we cannot forget). No, my November 11th, my Remembrance Day, ended in the middle of the night in an ICU when I stopped breathing. So the poppy has meant a lot more to me from that moment on.
That day, my November 11th started as any other day. I was working too hard and I had a lot of stress. I remember it was cold out. I wore a long black coat over my suit. I drove to the office, navigating the traffic on the Expressway, then on Lakeshore Boulevard to gain some time. If I left from my home at 7:30am, it took me 45 minutes, or maybe 30, to get to work. Working in a family business is different. Not only do you have clients, competitors, and staff, you have a whole other layer of intrigue, the one between parents and siblings. My business life was made up of innovation, education, direction, and negotiation.
I arrived at the office feeling a little weak; I had not been feeling well and thought I had a cold. I worked as usual during the day, blew through lunch, and kept focusing on what I thought was important: that bit of paperwork, the big sale, the issue a staff member had with a manager, and the unruly customer. It was just a normal day. I was young, strong, focused. I had a wife and children. My thoughts were on life, my family, and work.
During the afternoon, I started having problems breathing. When I was little, I had asthma. I learned that when it was difficult to get air, I should breathe with shallow breaths, using only a little of my lung capacity. It was instinctual. So I didn’t think about it as my breathing slowed during the day. By 5:00pm, my chest was sore from the strength I had to put in to get just a small amount of oxygen. I phoned our family physician Chris and asked him if he would wait for me at the office so I could get a check-up. I phoned home and told my wife that I was going to see Chris after I finished work. I stayed to complete some contracts, talk to staff, and then at 6:30pm, drove to see my ever-patient doctor.
I arrived just before 7:00pm, parked the car outside his office, and walked up the stairs. The office was empty; the lights were off in many of the rooms, but he was still there. As I walked into his office, I was shocked by the look on his face. He was staring at me with his mouth open. I asked what was wrong. In a panicked voice, he said “Have you seen yourself? You’re white… you’re barely breathing.” He pulled out his stethoscope, listened to my heart, took my pulse, checked my blood pressure, and in disbelief, started dialing 911.
“What are you doing, Chris?” I remember asking.
“You need an ambulance now.”
“Why?”
“Your heart is racing and dropping. It’s erratic. You will have a heart attack… you need to get to the hospital now!”
I stopped him and said I would drive. Yes, I said I would drive—one of the dumbest things I have ever done (and I have done some dumb things).
I drove to the hospital closest to my home. Chris phoned ahead so they would be prepared for me. In the car, I phoned my wife and explained that something bad was happening, where I was going, and that she should meet me there.
I can’t remember the drive, but when I got there, there was no parking so I pulled into the emergency (ambulance parking), locked my car, and walked through the emergency room doors. I headed towards the admissions desk and, just like in a movie, the room immediately filled with medical personnel. They ripped open my shirt, took my jackets, threw me on a gurney (stretcher,) and wheeled me into a room, attaching electrodes as we went. The oxygen mask went on and the monitors started beeping around me.
My wife came through the curtain. I saw her worried face, and all I could think of is that I didn’t have a will or proper estate planning. If I didn’t make it, what would my family do without information on the businesses, bank accounts, shares, and assets? Through the noise of the machines that were keeping me alive, I explained to her about my business world. I was very rational and focused, but it was creating an even more panicked look on her face.
My heart was going from up to 270 beats per minute down to 20 beats per minute; I felt butterflies and a fluttering in my chest. I was lightheaded. They took me to the ICU and a team of cardiac specialists started trying to figure out what to do. I am a fighter and I am tough, but I started to float away. Your body and mind have a way to move you from the pain, from the damaged tissue. It’s a way of helping you leave it all behind. My heart stopped. I stopped breathing. And then they brought me back. I didn’t see a light or hear dead relatives guiding me, but I did feel far away and not part of the living during that long night.
In the morning, I stabilized. They wanted to put a pacemaker in, but I refused and did some research. It could not have been my heart. If they gave me a pacemaker, I would have it in for life. It didn’t make sense. One minute healthy, the next I was practically gone. Why? Six months later, after a lot of rest and rehabilitation, I was told by a pulmonologist that I must have had a rare form of pneumonia. I had no fluid on the lungs, no enlarged heart, but it had affected my sinus nodes (electrical system of the heart). I haven’t had a cardiac problem since.
I learned a lot from that near-death experience, but not enough to reach enlightenment. I still work too hard, but I do try to focus my work on helping others. I know intimately what they are going through, how they feel, and how their families feel. I have a skill I will never lose: talking to the sick and injured.
Is there a lesson to be learned? Always. Enjoy life. Keep your house and your finances in order. Don’t leave life to a bucket list or for your retirement. Learn to love completely. Say what you mean without fear. Be fair, and be motivated about living. Be authentic. Laugh lots. Have fun with life. Push yourself. Remember you have not reached your limits; we never do. There is always more to do.
It’s your life, and it can be gone in a blink of an eye. So live it well.
Postscript:
I have, during my working life, tried to motivate those I work with to do more than they thought possible, to open their minds to produce excellence. To that end, I would tell my staff “excuses are lies” when they made up a story for being late for work, were unable to do a task that they knew well, or would not step up to apply that extra bit of inspiration that would make the results of a project amazing. As I was lying in bed in the cardiac care ward of the hospital, my family brought a card in from my staff. Inside it said, in big letters, “EXCUSES ARE LIES” and it made me laugh. Humour is the best way to heal.