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Health scare brings a family closer

Heart surgery emphasizes importance of self-care

PAUL QUICK

The Rev. Quick, who is diabetic, had to get his blood sugar tested every few hours during his recovery at Duke. The red “heart” pillow is given to open-heart surgery patients to hold on their chest if they cough or sneeze.

PAUL QUICK

David Quick, his father, the Rev. Dr. William K. Quick, and sister Kathy Quick Davis walk in Duke’s cardiac “step-down” unit two days after the Rev. Quick’s second open-heart surgery.

It was the news we knew was inevitable: My father, the Rev. Dr. William K. Quick, was facing his second open-heart surgery in 13 years. Having gone through the first with him, I quietly dreaded it — though certainly no more than he did.

What I didn't expect, however, was how the November experience became a homecoming, physically and spiritually. It reconnected me and my siblings who are in various stages of midlife and living in four different states, awakened a level of spirituality in us and provided me a window into the world that I rarely view firsthand. I know the statistics that one in three Americans live with some form of heart disease, but my world is wellness, not sickness.

At 44, I quickly acknowledge my good fortune of knowing no loss of a close family member other than two grandparents who reached the ages of 93 and 88 and whose quality of life had greatly diminished.

A friend my age lost his father within the past year, and I put myself in his shoes and became ever more thankful every time I see my father or hear his voice on the phone. That said, I've been prepared for "the phone call" for years.

Until the end of October, I'd get occasional reports from him of tightness in his chest and fatigue, especially after he tried to do too much. It was nothing that a Chinese herb tea, made from dried wood ear mushrooms, or nitroglycerin pills wouldn't clear up. While he's 75 and he's long retired as a minister of a major United Methodist Church in Detroit, he's still actively working by guest preaching, performing weddings and funerals and teaching future pastors at Duke Divinity School in the spring semester.

But then came several episodes of chest pains in the days after a 14-hour drive to Durham, N.C., from Detroit. After a day of these episodes, he headed to the emergency room at Duke Medical Center. Tests later indicated that he might have suffered a minor heart attack while in the ER. He was admitted and a cardiac catheterization showed that the aortic valve needed to be replaced.

It was time for surgeons, the mechanics of the human body, to open up his chest again.

My plans for Thanksgiving — which originally were to stay in Charleston, run the Turkey Day Run, crash someone else's feast and catch up on yard work — turned on a dime. Surgery was scheduled for the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and there was only one place I'd be.

Going home

Despite being born in Greenville, N.C., being raised mostly in Detroit and having lived in Mount Pleasant twice as long as any other place, I consider Durham home, as do my siblings. As a family, we spent only four years there, but they were formative. Those were the years before Detroit sent us in separate directions.

Durham keeps calling us back. My younger brother and I returned to go to school at Duke, and my father, who graduated from the divinity school in '55, has been teaching there for a decade. For me, the sights of Duke Chapel, the tobacco warehouses (now condos), Trinity United Methodist (my dad's old church), Cameron Indoor and Wallace Wade stadiums, Bullock's barbecue restaurant and the former parsonage on West Knox Street stir something deep in my soul. Now, the entrance to Duke University Hospital has joined that list of Durham icons.

All but my mother, who has bad arthritis and lives in West Virginia, converged on the City of Medicine — Steve from Chicago, Kathy from Asheville, N.C., and Paul from Athens, Ga. We all understood the severity of Dad's situation this time around.

It was his second open-heart surgery and he was 13 years older, a diabetic and has a mostly blocked carotid artery (also in need of surgery). He did little to rebuild his heart after the first surgery.

Kathy says the latter was because he is "scared" to exercise. Indeed, he comes from a different era and place. Exertion was associated with heart attacks. His father, my grandfather, dropped dead from a likely heart attack or stroke after loading watermelons on a hot August afternoon in 1964. He was just 53.

Modern medicine, drugs and awareness weren't there for him.

Day of reckoning

In the weeks leading up to surgery, my dad was worried and talked about his will. Having all of his children arrive the Sunday before his surgery seemed to take his mind off the pending doom, but then came Monday and the chaos of preoperative procedures. In a computerized message, he was told to report at 1:45 p.m., but about 1 p.m., he was called by a staffer asking where he was. He was supposed to report at 8 a.m.

This was not starting well. I worried about the seemingly unnecessary stress of rushing to the hospital, not having time to eat lunch and not leaving for nearly six hours and then having to be at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. would have on his body.

The night before surgery, he picked a cafeteria to have dinner. The family, including my uncle Harold and aunt Ann, gathered at a long table. I noticed the burden on Dad's face and wondered if this would be our last supper together.

I also longed to be in a more intimate, quiet place, far from the rattle of plates and trays, the glare of fluorescent lighting. That night, at home and before heading to bed, we met in a circle in the living room and held hands. Kathy prayed. Mary prayed and sang. My dad prayed. Some shed tears.

Morning came too soon. In the spirit of the cooperation and coordination in the days to come, we agreed there was no point in all of us going to the hospital. Mary, my stepmom, Kathy and I accompanied dad. We checked in. It was still dark outside and the waiting room was jammed. He changed, we put his clothes and belongings into a locker and parted ways.

Once I heard the surgery had started and having been told it would take six to eight hours, Kathy and I left. It was out of our hands. No need to sit there and worry with all the other worriers.

What did we do? We took off for a workout.

Seeking diversions

My brother, who works at the University of Georgia, thought ahead and scored us four weeklong passes at Duke's wellness center, located a stone's throw from Cameron Indoor. The wellness center ended up being our primary escape, and our use of it underscores the priority that all four of us put on exercise.

We understand our family history and are taking a proactive approach for something that is simply in our blood. My siblings all have above-normal cholesterol. Steve and Paul are taking drugs to control their levels. Kathy is trying a homeopathic approach, for now. I recently had mine checked and the doctor described my levels as "excellent."

Also having witnessed my dad's "workaholic" lifestyle, I think we are similarly tuned into managing stress better, and that included the stress of being bedside with him for a week. We took turns.

Besides breaks for workouts, Paul and I found a substitute Turkey Day Run in Carrboro, N.C., (one of the participants was 10,000-meter Olympic bronze medalist Shalane Flanagan) and went to the Duke-UNC football game at Wallace Wade. Steve met up with a friend and made a pilgrimage to Bullock's with Paul. Kathy took time to cook and freeze some healthy soup for Dad's return.

Surgery and recovery

My father's surgery ended up taking less than five hours. When Kathy and I first got word, I initially was worried something bad happened. We walked in when the surgeon, Dr. Carmelo Milano, was explaining to Mary, Harold and Ann that he had to use a mechanical valve on Dad. As a result, Dad would have to be on a blood thinner the rest of his life. Yet another drug with complications — cuts will take longer to stop bleeding and the risk of internal bleeding is heightened.

That's the price of living.

Dad's recovery remains slow. One step forward always seemed to be followed with a step back. He suffered from lack of sleep (first from pain, then from being awakened every two hours for tests), fatigue, bouts of depression and doubt (at one point, he questioned why he didn't just "fade away"), swelling and a lingering cough.

The scariest moment for me was during a walk around the triangular hallway of the cardiac "step-down" unit. He became confused, didn't know the month, the year or who the president was. My father's memory, even in his mid-70s, rivals the best, and his capacity to illustrate an idea with a story, joke or quote is phenomenal. I fear him losing his mental capacity almost as much as I do him dying.

But the memory loss at the hospital was short and likely due to lack of oxygen. Twenty minutes later, he was reeling off the names of presidents like it was the alphabet.

As my final morning with Dad before I returned to Charleston neared, I felt guilt in leaving. My siblings had returned to children, spouses and jobs. At the advice of my uncle Harold, my dad started hatching plans to go to an interim-care facility for a week or two before heading home.

There was nothing more I could do. I decided to leave just before lunch. At about that time, I heard a knock on the door.

In came a chaplain. She was from Zimbabwe, didn't know who my dad was and offered her assistance. Her eyes brightened as he told her about his involvement in and knowledge of her native country and that he taught at the divinity school. From his reclining chair and wearing a gown, he offered advice to her — and me:

"Pray unceasingly," and, "Treat everyone well because everyone is suffering some pain in life."

Even in his state, he was still providing wisdom. It brought tears to my eyes and was a sign to me that it was OK to leave.

Reach David Quick at 937-5516 or dquick@postandcourier.com.

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