It is Well with My Soul
I have taken up lap swimming over the past few months. In June 2021, I had hip reconstruction surgery on my right hip. I was born with congenital hip dysplasia, and, wore a brace at night for about 9 months. The brace corrected the direction of my leg and foot (my right foot was turned inward toward my left). However, I still had an anatomical abnormality in my hip joint. Thirty five years of walking, running, competing in running, and high impact exercise resulted in a shredded labrum (I did not know that's what was wrong, I just knew my hip hurt a lot and would lock up on me occasionally). It took me another four years to really get sick of the pain and consult an orthopedic specialist. The shredded labrum was the least of my problems. My surgery involved sewing the labrum back together, anchoring it into the hip socket with anchors, reshaping the femoral head (which was shaped like a fist, not a ball), reshaping the acetabulum (the cup the femoral head goes into), removing bone spurs and arthritis, and last but not least, attempting to fix the nice sized hole in my hip cartilage. As a result of this surgery, I can no longer do any kind of high impact exercise or running. I can walk, but even that begins to hurt after a while. Ergo, I swim. Three times a week I drop Honey off at Kid's Care, don my swim cap and goggles, and swim away. I swim 2,000 yards each time, so, in a 25 yard pool, that equals 80 lengths.
With no one to talk to, or child to chase, or even music to listen to, it's just me and my thoughts in that pool. I've had a lot of time to think, to pray, to process, and, yes, even to craft term papers in my head that I can write later on dry land. Recently, my mind has been processing this past year, and the upcoming anniversary of Andrew's passing. In nine days, Andrew will have been gone five years. Five years. My two oldest children weren't even five years old when he died. Andrew and I were only married for five years and 8 months. A blink and a lifetime all at once.
Tonight, as I updated the most recent installment of "Tales from the Trenches", I went back through my old posts. I saw several that I had written, but reverted to draft status, instead of published. I made the decision to publish them all tonight. To understand the reason why, I have to take you back five years.
Andrew entered the hospital on November 1, 2019 in the midst of a mental health crisis. The next day, with me present, he was given a psychiatric examination by a psychiatrist who worked at the hospital. The preliminary findings were that Andrew suffered from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD. There were other diagnoses that were suggested, such as Bipolar, but more information was needed. That day, the psychiatrist changed Andrew's medications. He had been on antidepressants for years. Unfortunately, one of the antidepressants he was taking had a side effect of obsessive thoughts. Not a good thing for someone who actually has OCD. In addition to this, Andrew self-medicated with copious amounts of alcohol. In his words, if someone could give him something that would make his brain shut off, he would take it. Until then, alcohol was the only thing that shut his mind off. So, not only was Andrew tapering off antidepressants, he was building up dosage on new meds, and detoxing at the same time. Part of the detox protocol at this hospital was using benzodiazepines to assist in the detoxing process.
On Monday afternoon, Andrew was considered medically detoxed and transferred to the lock-down behavioral health unit. This was something I agreed with 100%. One of the results of the psychiatric exam was that Andrew did not comprehend how serious his diagnosis was, and as such, was a danger to himself if discharged. He would remain in the behavioral health unit while the 5150 hold was in place, and until the courts decided if he was to be civilly committed for a time. On Friday, November 8th, I was in court with Andrew for the civil commitment hearing. A psychiatrist, social worker, and county health worker all agreed that Andrew needed intensive treatment, and, if left up to himself, he would not likely do it. The judge agreed and issued a stay of commitment, contingent upon completing 30 days in a dual-diagnosis (chemical dependency and mental health) treatment center, followed up by a minimum 120 days of intensive outpatient OCD treatment. If he failed to complete either of those orders, he would have been civilly committed and transferred to a lock-down unit. Andrew understood that he needed to attend these treatments, but he did not understand the conditions placed upon him. And I wasn't going to tell him about them until he was safely ensconced in the dual-diagnosis treatment center.
That Friday ended with the county social worker looking at various options for treatment. Our preference was Hazelden, due to the fact that there were visiting hours every Wednesday and Sunday, so the kids and I could see him regularly. There was an IOP (intensive outpatient program) OCD facility about 30 minutes away from our home that he could attend for the three months of required therapy. On Saturday, I brought the kids to the behavioral health unit to see Andrew. We played Candyland. At 6:23am on Sunday, November 10th, I received a call that Andrew had collapsed in his room, his heart had stopped, and they had done CPR for 25 minutes before they were able to restart his heart.
After Andrew was put into a medically-induced coma, on Monday afternoon, I went to the hospital to see him after work. The chief psychiatrist from the behavioral health unit came into the room and introduced himself. He informed me that Andrew's file would remain on his desk, and when he woke up, we would continue on with his treatment. Andrew never did wake up, and passed away on November 15, 2019 at 10:22pm.
During the time Andrew was in the ICU, many doctors came in to talk to me. One of the doctors I remembered because he had a neck brace on. This doctor informed me that he had been in contact with the behavioral health psychiatrist, and, as best as they could tell, it appeared that Andrew had suffered a large Delirium Tremon's (DT), which led to Andrew vomiting. He aspirated the vomit which stopped his heart, and during the 25 minutes it took to restart his heart, he suffered catastrophic, irreversible brain damage. In other words, Andrew drank himself to death. I was devastated. Mostly I was devastated for our children. Someday I was going to have to tell them that their dad died because of his alcoholism. He drank himself to death. There is no good way to say that to children. I was also mad. I was mad at Andrew for getting into this mess. I was mad at the physicians who told me for two years that there wasn't enough evidence to do a full-scale psychiatric evaluation on Andrew. I was mad that all the hope I had for our future, hope of his recovery and restoration to full health was gone. I fought every day for over two years to support and help my husband. Now, it was over.
Fast forward to May 2020. The pandemic had thrown the world into mass confusion. Honestly, it didn't really effect me that much. My world already made no sense. Everything was topsy-turvy, upside down, and like I was living in a bad sci-fi movie. I more appreciated that the rest of the world was now as muddled as I was. Through a series of events I won't go in to, I received some news. When Andrew was transferred to the behavioral health unit on that Monday, a medication order was double-entered in his chart. In fixing the error, the medication order was deleted completely. Andrew unknowingly entered the behavioral health unit cut off from the benzodiazepines he had been taking daily for two months. No taper, no gradual reduction; Andrew went cold turkey off of a Class IV drug. Over the next few days, Andrew displayed multiple signs of benzodiazepine withdrawal. The psychiatrist overseeing the unit dismissed these signs, suggesting instead that Andrew was faking the tremors in his hands that made it impossible for him to hold a cup of water. He even went so far as to accuse Andrew of med-seeking. Nurses logged notes in his chart about noticeable tremors, agitation, lack of sleep, pacing, and restlessness. Andrew didn't have a giant DT. Andrew suffered a benzodiazepine-related withdrawal seizure. There was nothing in the medical records indicating a tapering protocol had been administered. In fact, I accidentally received an itemized bill for Andrew's hospital stay. When I say itemized, I mean itemized. Every Q-tip, baby wipe, ChapStick wipe, and Kleenex accounted for. After Monday afternoon, the 4th, Andrew was never issued or given a dose of benzodiazepine.
For the next nearly four years, I pursued a wrongful death lawsuit against the hospital and the psychiatrist. It was long and it was ugly. I gave two depositions, one lasting 7 hours and the other five hours. The lawyers for the psychiatrist and the hospital were relentless and ruthless. When S and I married in 2022, this became new ammo for them. Clearly Andrew's death didn't have much of an effect on me or my kids anymore. Why am I still pursuing this wrongful death action when I have replaced Andrew? The kids have a new dad, why does it matter what allegedly happened to their bio dad? I stayed really calm until that last question.
In the end, in the state of Minnesota, a wrongful death lawsuit really has nothing to do with who or what caused the death of a person. In a wrongful death lawsuit, the aggrieved parties must prove that the relationship they had with the victim was significant and meaningful enough to warrant compensation for that person's death. Yup, that's right. I had to prove that my relationship with Andrew was serious and significant enough that his death affected me in such a manner as to warrant compensation for what I lost. Ultimately, the lawsuit was dropped by me and my lawyers due to an action I took before even consulting council, which was deemed spoilation of evidence.
It's been almost a year since the lawsuit was dropped. When the lawsuit was dropped, I was no longer bound to silence about what truly happened to Andrew in that hospital. While litigation was pending, I could not say anything publicly about anything related to the suit. So, why now?
It's coming up on five years since a medical error led to the death of my first husband, Andrew. It was one of the most difficult things I have ever done, but I have forgiven the psychiatrist and the lawyers. Doctors are humans, and humans make mistakes. Unfortunately, in a profession such as medicine, mistakes come at the cost of a life. In my case, hubris and bias created a situation where symptoms were dismissed or downplayed, and that action lead to a loss of life. I do not hate or hold ill will against the doctor or the lawyers. Does it incense me a bit that the lawyer likely earned a really hefty bonus for making my case go away? Yeah, that still stings. But I chose the path of forgiveness for a couple reasons. First, holding on to anger and bitterness was only going to poison me. I refuse to be another casualty in this story. Second, they do not deserve to take up residence in my mind. And third, I forgive because I have been forgiven much. Christ sacrificed his life so that I might have right standing with God the Father. My many (millions) of sins have been forgiven because Jesus Christ died in place of me. To withhold forgiveness is akin to spitting in Jesus' face. Do I want to speak to them? No. Am I going to recommend the facility or physician? No. Am I going to speak badly of them and slander them? No. I am going to continue living, thriving, raising my children, loving my husband, remembering that man I married first, and leaning in to the next role God has in store for me.
It's been five years. A blink and a lifetime all in one. I am grateful to know what really happened. It feels good to share the truth. Not any of this would I wish on my worst enemy. But God is still good. He is faithful and he is good. He loves me and loves Andrew, and he commands me to love my neighbor as myself. Am I going to invite these people to Thanksgiving? Hard pass. I release them and give them no more of my mental or emotional energy. Andrew's death remains the single worst moment of my entire life. But what joy, wonder, and love remains in my life and continues to shower over me. I'm still singing. I'll stay singing until there is no breath in my lungs, and then I will transition to singing at the feet of Jesus. Andrew, I miss you. I miss your awful jokes and sense of humor. I miss the fart machines, roses, and even all the golf clothes. You remain in our hearts forever. I love you the double mostest infinity googolplex times pi with whipped topping. I'll see you soon enough at the feet of Jesus. Save me a good spot.
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