New Developments

Basilar Migraine Syncope

The "Shark Attacks" have a proper medical characterization that has been observed and diagnosed clinically in other patients. NOT necessarily all dismissed as mental cases!

This from Dr. Digre at the Moran Eye Center at University of Utah Hospital Clinics. She is a Neuro-opthamologist specialialist of long standing and experience. After an examination of some hours, and help from a couplof assistants, this was the initial diagnosis.

Her recommendation was drug therapy that further relax cerebrovascular elements that are spasming to cause the "Shark Attacks". Relaxing the basilar artery will result in an overall increase of blood flow to the brain stem in general, hopefully resulting in reduction and eventual elimination of the condition that results in syncope and spasms. This is the first good news.

In addition, initial eye testing revealed other problems that may exacerbate trigger points for migraine. Special eyeglasses with filters and corrective lenses were ordered.

Next instalment:  Letter from Dr. Digre

Miracles VII: Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

One November afternoon I decided I was going to hook the little utility trailer to my ATV. It is a fairly simple operation using a sort of pin-type hitch. I anticipated no problems. Except the trailer was buried deep in snow. That wasn't a problem in itself either -- the ATV was fully capable of plowing through the deep snow and extricating the buried trailer. The problem was, I would have to flounder through the knee-deep snow to perform the hitching up, which normally I could do almost without thinking about it, but just out from rehab after Thanksgiving, and starting over again at PT, I wasn't feeling especially confident.

I remember hitching up the trailer okay, but something happened after that that I cannot remember at all, and I just remember laying alongside the ATV on the snow, seems like a long time later, listening to the exhaust of the ATV motor. I don't remember why I was laying on the snow, or how long I was there. It could have been as much as an hour. People in the house could not see me in the position I was in. They did not know I was running the ATV or hitching the trailer, and had no reason to be looking. But I knew something was wrong, and I tried getting up. I had a pretty hard time, because I felt sick and weak, but I got on the ATV and drove it with trailer near my bedroom and went to bed. Note that my private bedroom is in the garage separate from the house, so I still talked to no one, asked no one for help, just went in to my bed and started the nightmare of lone, private suffering.

At this point, I started having a series of "shark attacks", pretty much alone, and convinced that they were going to kill me.  After a few of them, I honestly wanted to die, and I prayed between attacks that I would die. I implored Heavenly Father to release me from this anguish, because I feared the attacks and the pain, and could not stand another minute of hurting so badly. I just wanted it to end.  But it continued.  My body was racked with spasms. I cried out, and I think I fainted many times because I could not tolerate such agony. Passing out was surcease and relief. I hoped I would never wake up. But each time, eventually, the gray would begin to clear a bit, and I would begin to realize the pain anew.

I vaguely remember trying to talk to my dad Friday night. We had a discussion about hospitals. I resisted. I implored him to let me wait until after the weekend, convinced that I would die before then, and that it would spare me the indignity of doctors again telling me there was nothing wrong with me, or that I am too young to be having strokes, or something equally useless and offensive to me. I ended up convincing my dad, and I turned my face to the wall, and again made my most honest effort to make my life stop. I willed my breath to stop, my heart to stop beating, and my lungs to stop taking breath, but beneath it all, my God-given will to live continued to burn, in spite of the agony of the attacks of pain that continued to rack my body with uncontrollable spasms, leading to blackouts and blissful unconsciousness, and long periods of unawareness. Every time, lucid thought would come floating back, with the miserable realization that I was still alive.

I whimpered. I panted. I moaned. I groaned. I breathed heavy, and light. I held my breath. I screamed and shouted. I whispered prayers. I demanded from nobody. I implored. I surrendered. I made bargains. I tried rationales. I tried everything.

Nothing helped. The attacks continued, seemingly without mercy,through Wednesday, into Thursday and Friday and Saturday, and I was exhausted.

Finally, Sunday.

The attacks mostly stopped. A few occasionally, but not fast and furious like through Wednesday and Thursday.

People were scheming secret things. I lay in my bed, none the wiser. I thought we were going back to UVMC on Monday. My sister Ruth and her family were coming for Sunday dinner. I should have been suspicious then, but was too tired.

Ruth and Darrin arrived, Ruth cooked a great meal for all of us, and all had lots of fun.

Then they started springing the conspiracy.

Darrin and dad administered a priesthood blessing. In his blessing, Darrin stated clearly, and by the authority of Jesus Christ, that I would live for a number of YEARS to complete my mission here on earth. This was significant because it was rather a dramatic contrast to what I had been asking for from similar sources. I think the latter answer has proven to be more definitive, given other compelling evidence.

The next development of the secret conspiracy was Ruth's announcement that I was accompanying her to the U of U hospital NOW, so go pack a suitcase. It was not presented as an arguable option. I packed a suitcase, and we prepared to drive away.

Thus began Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

Snail Hollow, where I reside, is on US 89 south of the junction with U6. We travelled north toward the junction of US 89 with US 6, but unbeknownst to us, there had been a serious traffic accident at the bottom of Spanish Fork Canyon, where the highway runs down out of the mountains, and traffic had been backing up in the canyon for more than two hours.

We got to the junction prepared to make the westward turn, and found a solid line of cars, lined up all the way down the canyon, as far as you could see, over five miles long. And not moving an inch.

I wanted to just turn around and go home, but Ruth had other notions. She drove up next to a big rig truck driver and climbed out to talk to him. I heard none of the conversation, but when she got back in the car, she had a look of steel determination. She said the truck driver told her there was a fatal accident blocking traffic at the mouth of the canyon, but if she needed to get her brother with a stroke to the hospital right away, just drive down the wrong side lanes, and get through any way she could.

She took him at his word, and started down the wrong side of US 89. I wanted to crawl under the seat. People were screaming obscenities and trying to step in front of the car as we weaved through the obstacle course on that wild ride down the canyon. They waved at us, they yelled, they made every rude and obscene gesture. Mind, most of them had been waiting for hours for the line of cars to start moving, and many of them were growing furiously angry. They took license to express every frustration at us.

My dad was following us in his truck, but he soon abandoned the wild ride and ducked back into the lanes of marginally sane traffic, to wait for the accident to clear. But not intrepid Ruth. She forged ahead, ignoring insults and dodging the attempted roadblocks.

Finally we reached an impenetrable Jam of emergency engines and police vehicles, all obviously responding to the wreck. Ruth pulled up just short, and with firm resolve, and baring plenty of cleavage, she climbed up onto the step of the nearest engine to beg for mercy from one of the heroic firefighters. It was an inspired approach. The emergency crew was galvanized into action, engines and rigs were moved, and within minutes we were following a police escort out of the canyon toward the I 15 freeway. I still wanted to climb under the seat, but I was very proud of Ruth, and glad to be riding with someone so bold.

A short time later, we arrived at the ER at the U of U hospital.

Next instalment:  Doctors Let Me In The Door

Miracles VI: Friends, Doctors, and Sharks

Rehab in Provo was fairly routine. It is the exceptional things that are worth mentioning.

First is that I came there with a renewed sense of purpose. I met repeatedly with my son Robert and his wife Stacy. I was obsessed, perhaps, with a sense of urgency that my life had been spared for a purpose. A short mission, so to speak, to serve so cause for good. I was not aware of the mission yet, Robert and I discussed some possible actions we might take toward directing the lives of his brothers, because I expressed some remorse as an absent father of so many years that I had failed my family and not trained my sons well. Anyway, we discussed many subjects with tentative feelers along those lines.

I also met my friend Michael Golden, several times. In fact, he came with me the one Sunday to the abbreviated Sacrament meeting they held in the little chapel at the hospital. It was a special, spiritual moment for me, and kind of ministering of a special friend that I will try to always remember in my heart. I can never repay Michael for his kindness, but I hope to try to do things half as thoughtful for others, and am hoping to try to instil in my own sons such a sense of selfless charity and friendship. I hope the seed is already there, and it is not too late for them. I hope...

Another thing that happened while I was in the Provo Rehab was that I had a series of "shark attacks" under clinical observation. This is important because the incident was documented by trained medical observers. First at Mountainview, then in the Provo Rehab ward, and finally at the U Neurology Unit, doctors and nurses have seen these attacks, and know that I am not making up the stories. In fact, one man of the psychiatric practice at the U hospital witnessed a "shark attack" while there was quite a crowd of onlookers. I was somewhat absent myself for most of the incident, since they tend to affect me that way, but my dad told me later in rather a bemused demeanor that the doctor seemed rather horrified by the incident. I hope he was not permanently traumatized. When we find some understanding, I want to share it with him personally, just to offer my personal reassurance.

Again, this clinical observation is notable because my doctors stand outside the room and whisper and shake their heads, "somatoform", "deeply psychotic!", "borderline shizofrenic behavior!", and other two- dollar words from the DSM, I've heard them all before. But the blood pressures continue to go higher than ever, and the nurses were alarmed to the point that they were going to call a "code blue", because they had seen nothing like this before, and my respirations were down to almost nil, and blood pressure levels were so too high to be even believed. Later, I heard the nurse describing the incident to the next on duty, in the handing-off briefing. He used the term "freaky!" emphatic and numerous times. I say this not to his discredit, because I think he responded well to the incident. We have found subsequently that the "shark attacks", although alarming, do not seem to produce any serious life-threatening effects beyond the extreme pain. Best to just stand back, and maybe don't watch, if that is your preference, and wait until it passes.

My point is, these attacks are very real, to me. They are happening to me. I don't give a damn if the doctors call the "psychotic complexes" or "somatoform" or "silly putty"! I want to know reasons and explanation this is happening to me, because IT IS! It has happened before, and I know it will happen again! It cannot just go away for no reason. The first attack was obviously associated with the first stroke incident in July. They started then. Why? Why are they continuing? I want to know, even more than reasons for how to stop them from happening, but UNDERSTANDING what is happening to me!   If I had better understanding, even if I could not stop or control these things, at least I could know WHY they are happening to me. As it is, one of the best explanations seems to be to simply shrug your shoulders and turn away and mutter, "he's obviously mad as a hatter!", and dismiss the whole affair.

That might resolve the issue just fine for a doctor who gets to move on to the next disease. But I live inside myself.

I remember Dr. Brin, standing in the circle of doctors in neurology rounds, at the foot of my bed one day, pronouncing, "That's NOT OKAY! -- That's NOT OKAY!" And true to her words, she worked until she found something that was NOT okay. I owe her such a debt of gratitude for that! Finally, a doctor who lived up to the IDEAL of HEALING!

But I get ahead of myself..

I went home from Provo Rehab fully prepared to start over again from the July point.

Little did I know what was in the works, and would so shortly come to pass. The biggest series of miracles in all...

Next instalment:  Interacte

Miracles V: Reprise, Me and My Hospital

The second stroke hit in November. Hit me really with a devastating force I do not yet understand. I truly thought the attacks I was having at the same time as the stroke were somehow related. My sister Ruth and I later came to characterize them as "shark attacks" and it turns out, they were occurring somehow independent or triggered by the same events as the stroke, but seemingly independent events. The doctors well understood and diagnosed the stroke events, and were even somewhat sympathetic toward my reported migraine complaints, but they were completely baffled by the "shark attack" stories. They tended to treat them as some kind of psychotic episode generally, although many of the hospital staff showed genuine compassion and concern. They obviously did not know what was wrong.

In the development of the first series of attacks in November, apparently in conjunction with a fairly serious second brain stem stroke, I laid in my bed incapacitated, waiting to die, and hoping I would. My dad and my friend Ricky helped me into the car, and I was too hurting and weak to resist. Dad and mom drove me to a hospital, though I did not want to go into a hospital again, I just wanted to pass away in my own bed at home.

It turned out they were taking me into Payson, Moutainview Hospital, though I was only semi-lucid, and didn't recognize what we were even doing most of the time. I told dad he was going the wrong way at one point, because I was alarmed to see that he was not heading for Provo and the Utah Valley Regional Medical Center that I thought he was taking me to. We arrived at Mountainview Emergency entrance, unloaded me , and things happened for a while that I don't remember too well, except lots of different people asking me to tell them what was wrong. I tried to explain about a hundred times, it seemed like.

Finally, I remember a sort of long drug-induced sleep, interrupted by several nightmarish hiatus breaks with what must have been "shark attacks". I could hear lots of people yelling and seems like running around the bed doing things, and trying to get me to talk, and doing something to try to wake me up, and alarms sounding everywhere -- but all seemed very far away, and I couldn't seem to muster up much concern. I just hurt and felt so tired, and wanted to stop breathing and die. Then someone would inject something else in the IV, and I would fall asleep again until the next attack.

I think at least two of these episode occurred where the medical staff witnessed the attacks and tried to intervene. After that, I think they determined that the attacks were not life-threatening, though they were painful and frightening, so they decided to just stand by and not try to intervene at all. I had several more painful "shark attacks" but they began to subside, and almost ceased by the time I left Mountainview.

One of the first significant miraculous events that took place was that people started to talk to me about my feelings, first my parents, then doctors and nurses, then friends and family, then everyone in general. I am amazed at the sudden outpouring of concern and sympathy I felt, coming from so many sources all at once. Perhaps because I had lived so many years in bitter loneliness and self-enforced monastic isolation, this seeming new found fellowship and brotherhood was almost surreal to me. One of the nursing staff at Mountainview, a young man named Tom, showed particular interest and sensitivity in listening to my story, even though I am sure he was convinced I was suffering from some problems with psychosis.

One great miracle of faith and hope at this time was that my bishop, Marty Hall, came to minister to me. He brought hope and prayer into the midst of great suffering and despair. He is indeed a man who bears the mantle of priesthood authority, and bears it well. He brought other gifts, as well. I give thanks for those too.

Another miracle that was visited on me at this time was the gift of a visit from two of my sons, and a spouse, which was a joy beyond my greatest hope. I was able to talk at length with them, something we had never really done before as peers, and it was sheer pleasure to my soul.

After a stay at Mountainview, the doctors determined they were finished with diagnostic work, and that I would benefit from more comprehensive rehab, so I transferred to Provo's Rehab Center for further inpatient care.

I wasn't prepared to go home yet -- I could not take care of my self independently, and my folks were not up to the task. The Rehab Center seemed like the best choice, though I had bad memories associated with the hospital. It turned out to be excellent care, and I am happy with the way things turned out.

Before I leave the chronicle of Mountainview Hospital, I have to mention again the funniest incident. I have journalled this experience before, but it bears repeating, I think.

One of the first problems I encountered with nursing care in the hospital was that I assumed I should do what I wanted, and they assumed I should be asking them for permission first before venturing to do much of anything -- and I mean ANYTHING. They were mad when they found out I had presumed to get out of bed by myself and use the toilet to urinate without using the urinal provided for the purpose of monitoring output and providing lab sample, etc.  I had no clue, and they had not told me, but they were just furious anyway. This went on for more than two days until someone patiently explained to me like I was some kind of stupid moron that I was supposed to be using the urinal, and that I was obviously NOT doing it because I wanted them to get into trouble with the doctors, and it was all my fault for such a backward upbringing, or some such. I apologized most profusely, and feigned complete ignorance, which was easy because I had not a clue what offence they were accusing me of. I started using the urinal as regularly as I could, and thought we were at peace.

Well, another minor skirmish. One day, I decided I wanted to take a shower. I smelled like a horse. Not bad, just too much BO and too long absent soap and water. So, I said to the nurse, in passing, "I think I will shower today. I think my dad can give all the help I need."

The nurse seemed to hear, and did not disagree violently, but passed on rather quickly to other duties, seemingly leaving my dad and I to attempt the shower as we pleased. In reality, the nurse was submitting my request, and it would have been considered, but they would have insisted that two PT guys be standing by, just in case I needed any assistance getting back into bed after the shower.

I got undressed and climbed into the tub shower with the greatest of relief. There is nothing like the blessing of hot soapy water rinsing over a traumatized body. A hot shower can be so relaxing after a week in bed without one.

Problem is, standing up in a shower for too long can also challenge blood circulation for one who has lain flat on his back for a week. Without much warning, I suddenly realized I was going to pass out -- right away. Things were turning gray before I realized it. I called out to my dad, "I'm passing out!" Fortunately, the shower was equipped with an auxiliary stool for just such contingencies. I collapsed on it just as my dad moved it into place. In alarm, he summoned the nurse, who sternly disapproved of the "unauthorized" shower, and immediately summoned various Gestapo and burly PT guys to help me out of the bathtub.

By the time all the troop stopped arriving, I had revived, gotten out of the tub, with a little assistance, and was getting dried and dressed. I was sternly informed that showering requires an attendant, and I was not to do that again, under any circumstances. I tried to act appropriately remorseful, but apparently they were not convinced. After helping me get gowned and safely back in the bed, I was wheeled off for more diagnostics, including an extensive EEG, which involves gluing dozens of electrodes to my hair, and leaves a very big mess of glue and other stuff in the hair and scalp after completion... Oh Oh, I really need another shower! What to do now? I made the request through proper channels this time.

It just turned out by some coincidence that two 15-year-old girls from the local high school were serving as volunteer nurse assistants that morning. They got assigned to monitor me -- while I was taking a shower. I have to say, it is the first time in my life that a couple of young girls have ever watched me taking a shower before. I honestly hope they were not too offended.

Before I peeled off my clothes, I gave them a chance. I said, "If you are offended by the sight of a fat, naked old man in the shower, please turn your head NOW!"

They both claimed to have seen it all before, and even seemed to study with some interest as I soaped up and rinsed.

The shower was quickly completed without further incident, and I returned to my bed for further rest and recuperation.

Next instalment:  Brain Damage

Shark Attacks

Just a quick note for my friends.

There are still some sharks in the water, I fear. I do not know or care if these attacks are caused by something I am doing to myself purposefully or not. I can only say it can be so painful in intensity that I cannot bear it, and I scream from the agony. Usually attacks of this intensity are very short, or they seem so to me. In any case, I pass out very quickly after the pain really winds up, so I'm not sure what happens after the screaming phase. Ruth's characterization seem fairly consistent.

I have been with my dad most of the time today. He reports only two shark attacks, one that was moderate and one pretty severe. I hope with every wish that they go away forever.

I have several broken teeth broken along the right lower molars now. They have sharp edges that cut my tongue and the side of my mouth when I am not careful. I am seeing a dentist this week, but am reluctant to get any repairs before I am sure the sharks will not return. Maybe will just ask for some sort of protective mouth gear.

Miracles I: Chronicles

I must write down a record of the most amazing series of events I have ever experienced or heard about. I still cannot believe all these these things really happened to me. I have been having psychotic delusions as well, so take this testimony for what it is worth. In my defence, I will say that I am among the most scrupulously honest persons I know of as a life-long habit. I will always be truthful, even when it costs me personally or is painful.

It's going to take a lot of writing to get this story all down, so I will serialize it into short instalments and intersperse with other things that come up in the mean time.

I should like to start, I think, with a bit of background. I first had a stroke back in July last year. I remember not feeling well, so I was thinking that a bit of vigorous exercise was what I needed to make me feel better.

We had a stack of spruce tree rounds that we bought from the local sawmill. Most of them were huge -- over 40" in diameter and 100 pounds in weight. I was swinging a heavy maul to split the rounds into sections small enough to fit into the stove.

While I was swinging the maul, someone came up from behind and hit me over the head with a 4x4. Or anyway, that's what it felt like. It staggered me, and as I fell to my knees, I looked to see who had hit me.

As I recall, this was the first of a series of incidents my sister and I later decided to call "shark attacks". After the initial attack, I recovered on wobbly legs enough to stagger over to the porch of the house, where my dad was sitting in the shade. I tried to speak to him and explain that "my legs are all unhinged" but was only able to mumble some unintelligible sounds.

After a long period of recovery, we went to dinner together in Mt Pleasant. I suffered no ill effects at the time, other than continuing generally feeling poorly, but I drove to the food place and home. That night, I had the first stroke in my sleep some time, and when I woke up next morning, most of my right side was paralyzed, what the doctors call "hemiparesis".

In retrospect, I understand now that what I initially experienced, the "shark attack" was NOT a stroke or a mini-stroke, a TIA, or anything normally related to a stroke. My assumption that this was the case has led to endless confusion and miscommunication between myself and doctors, resulting in a great deal of needless misunderstanding and distrust on both our parts. I apologize for the terrible miscue. It was my mistake, I take full responsibility.

Next instalment:  Handicapped