ParT ONE

Celebrating Survival

A Preview
When we lose control—a spouse betrays our trust, a villain invades our space,
the healthcare system fails us—we must take charge today so tomorrow will be
better.

Beyond the Call of Duty

Bobbi LaChance

It was a hot summer night in Portland, Maine—well over 100 degrees. We left
the windows open when we went to bed, hoping for a breeze. Half awake and half
asleep, I heard footsteps in the kitchen. One of the children must be sneaking a
cookie. I thought I heard the familiar clink of the glass lid on the jar, but I didn’
want to wake up.
On the edge of drifting into a deeper sleep [ heard footsteps tiptoe into my
bedroom, then tiptoe out—squeaky floorboards. From the kitchen, I heard a
strange noise, then all was quiet. With sudden awareness, I bolted upright in bed
listening. [ heard another movement in the kitchen. “Oh My God,” 1 thought,
“there’s someone in the house. Are my children all right?” Ever so slowly, as my
feet touched the floor, reaching down, I unhooked my guide dog, Wicket, and
crept softly toward the bedroom door. Wicket stayed right at my side. Just as I
reached the threshold of the doorway, I slipped my hand around the door mold-
ing and flicked the kitchen light on.
Suddenly, T heard a scream as my five-year-old daughter, Lisa, barreled into me
yelling, “There is a man in the kitchen!” I felt Wickets fur go by my leg, and then
all hell broke loose.
2 Behind Our Eyes

My seven-year-old son, Christopher, appeared to the left of me in the hallway.

“Mama, I've got my bascball bat, I'll get him.”
I heard a menacing growl, and teeth clicking as if to bite. For an instant, the
room seemed still, then a voice screeched, “Call off that dog! Call off that dog!”
Christopher started toward the intruder. I grabbed him by the collar of his
pajamas and pulled him close to me. Sure that the bat was our defense, he was not
letting go of it. “Where is he?” [ cried. There was a roaring in my ears, and I could
hear my heart beating.
“Wicket has him pinned between the refrigerator and the cabinet,” Christopher
told me. “Every time he tries to move, Wicket acts like he’s going to bite him.”
Once again, Christopher stepped forward with his bat raised. T pulled him in
again.
“Call off that damn dog!” squealed the man.
T held my two children tight against me. The roar in my ears wouldn’t stop. 1
could neither think nor react. I felt my daughter quivering against my left side,
and noticed warm liquid on my toes as my daughter lost control of her bladder.
As I reached behind me and dialed zero on the phone, the growling and cursing
continued.
“Operator,” said a voice.
“Police!” I yelled into the phone.
In a matter of seconds, a male voice responded, “Portland Police
Department.”
In one breath I said, “There is a man in my kitchen—my guide dog won't stop
growling—my daughter just peed on the floor because she is scared.”
“Where do you live, ma'am?” asked the officer.
“I don't know,” T hysterically answered.
Again the shrill voice of the man cut through our conversation, “Get rid of this
dog! Get rid of this dog!”
“He’s in the kitchen,” I stammered, “the children and I are here alone—I am
blind.”
“Ma”dl‘l‘l,” Said tl‘lC UffiCCr VCl’)/ Pa[icfltly, “Can yUU [Cll me your add[ess.}”

“Address,” I repeated. “Let me think—what’s my address?” Today they could

find me instantly, but our trouble that night preceded 911.
“I need your address, ma'am,” the officer said again very parien[ly,
“I don’t know,” I repeated, agitated by these questions. I stood holding the
phone away from me as if it were some strange object. Nothing made sense.
Christopher grabbed the phone out of my hand and began talking to the offi-
cer, telling him, “Her name is Mommy, but her real name is Jenny Gilmore, and
 Behind Our Eyes 3

we live at 12 Myrtle Street, second floor, in Portland. I have a baseball bat, and he
is not going to hurt my mom or my sister.”
Relieved that Christopher had answered the officer’s questions, I took back
the telephone. “There is a man in my kitchen and my dog is holding him at bay
and I have two very frightened children,” I told the officer with a great deal more
composure. The dog’s growls seemed to get deeper, and I could hear the snapping
of his teeth.
“Don’t you try to move,” threatened Christopher holding up the bat.
Tightening my arms around him, “Down, hero,” I said.
“Mrs. Gilmore, someone is on the way,” the police officer said in a reassuring
voice, “T will keep this line open until the officers arrive. Can you tell me—does
the intruder have a weapon or is he armed with anything?”
“Christopher,” I pleaded, “Can you see from here? Does he have any type of
weapon?”
Christopher responded, “No, Mama, I don’t think so. He’s standing between
the cabinet and the refrigerator. He's sweating like crazy, and he’s got his hands
over his ears. Mama, he looks scared Wicket is going to bite him.” I repeated what
Christopher told me.
“I will continue to keep this line open,” repeated the officer.
We felt a moment of relief, knowing the police were on their way. “Mama,”
Christopher whispered, “He's starting to move. I bet he wants to get away.”
Wicket, secing this movement, suddenly lunged forward, giving three fero-
cious barks. I could hear the sound of his snapping teeth. “Get him away! Get him
away! He’s gonna kill me!” he screamed.
Suddenly, whether from anticipation or fear, silence prevailed. I could hear the
ticking of my kitchen clock, as well as traffic in the street below. The refrigerator
motor kicked on. Every muscle in Christopher’s back tightened. I hugged him
closer to meas he raised the bat in his hand, whispering, “I'll protect you and Lisa,
Mama.”
In the distance, I could hear sirens wailing, then I heard the sound of car doors,
S]an]ming, heavy fUU[S:CPS in the Stairwcll, and a 10ud banging at ‘ny Fr[)nt dUUr.

Christopher bolted out of my arms and ran to answer it. Doing as he had been
taught, he asked, “Who is i?”
“Portland Police Depar[ment,” boomed a voice from the other side.
Christopher opened the door wide to let the officers in. There seemed to be
mass confusion as two police officers entered the kitchen.
My daughter Lisa, squeezing my waist tight, burying her face in my nightgown,
in a muffled voice asked, “Mama, They've got guns. Are they going to shoot us?”
4 Behind Our Eyes

I couldn’t find my voice, but I patted her shoulder reassuringly. Finally, I leaned
down and whispered, “No, sweetheart. They’re here to help us.”
The roar in my ears became louder. My legs felt like rubber.
One of the police officers sized up the situation very quickly. “Ma’am, take a
seat there at the kitchen table.” Gently, he placed his hand on my shoulder, guid-
ing me to the chair. My daughter dragged her feet as I pulled her along with me.
Christopher came to stand at my side, bat still held tightly in hand. Evidently
the man tried to move from his position, teeth snapped and the growls sounded
like they came from a wolf instead of my gentle guide dog. The officer pulled out
a chair.
“Check out the rest of the apartment.” He ordered his junior partner.
“Call off this dog,” pleaded the intruder. The senior officer didn’t respond.
Leaving the situation alone, he began filling out his paperwork. The intruder
bcgged again, “Please get this dog away from me!”
The officer replied, “Your troubles have just started, pal, never mind the dog.”
When his partner returned, explaining that the rest of the apartment was secure,
the senior officer told him, “Cuff him.”
His partner asked, “What about the dog?”
The senior officer very quietly said to me, “Ma'am, call off your dog.”
“Wicket,” T said, “come.” Wicket obediently came around the corner of the
table, sat down, and put his head in my lap. I rubbed his shoulders and ruffled his
cars to let him know that everything was all right. “Good boy,” I whispered.
After the man was removed from the apartment, the senior officer shut and
locked the window through which the intruder had entered. “Better have your
landlord check this window tomorrow,” he suggested. “If you need further assis-
tance, just call.”
As soon as the police left, Christopher, Lisa and I pushed the refrigerator in
front of the window. I bathed Lisa, and found her a clean nightgown. We decided
to leave the kitchen light on for the rest of the night. Crawling into bed, I began
to shake from head to toe. If this was a nightmare, I just wanted to wake up.
“Mamfl, can I SICCP With yOu.:“ came a Bn-la]l VUiCC F(Um thC bcdl’o\)m dOUr.

“Sure,” I said, lifting the cover, “Come on in.”

“Christopher’s coming, too.”
I heard small bare feet on the kitchen floor, then Christopher came through
the doorway. “Can I sleep here, too?” he asked, “That way [ could protect you.”
Feeling warm tears in my eyes, I threw back the other side of the covers. He
crawled in, baseball bat and all! The three of us snuggled together.
All of a sudden I felt the weight of two paws on the foot of the bed. I reached
down, “Just this once,” | said. As a smile crossed my face, 1 felt the dog’s weight
 Behind Our Eyes 5

settle across my feet. “You deserve this, Wicket. You went way beyond the call of
duty.”

My Healthcare Nightmare
Sanford Rosenthal

“Mr. Rosenthal, look at all that fluid you've been carrying!”

“Mr. Rosenthal, open your eyes. Turn this way now!”
T hurt too much to remind them I couldn’t see. The pulmonologist and the
X-ray tech screamed their way through my drug-induced sleep during weeks of
hospitalization. How had it come to this? The memories from that day still make
me shiver. Healthcare personnel had been my friends for decades. I counted on
their competence. Blindness from Retinitis Pigmentosa was my biggest challenge,
wasn’t it? I was a reasonably healthy middle-aged man until the summer of 2006.
Where else could I turn now for support and solutions?
In September of 2005 my primary care physician prescribed Naproxen for
arthritis-like symptoms. It’s a generic equivalent for Aleve, and it’s dangerous for
heart attack survivors. He knew that T had a heart attack ten years ago. If the doc-
tor had his reasons for prescribing Naproxen anyway, he never shared them with
me. I should have been at least warned to watch for fluid retention. A bit skepti-
cal of his arthritis diagnosis, I changed physicians during the year—but the new
doctor continued the Naproxen prescription—even though I complained about
swollen ankles.
By July 28, 2006, I was having trouble breathing. Fluid buildup hid my ankles.
My legs were so stiff and heavy that I could barely walk. The doctor prescribed
Lasix, a diuretic, and recommended bed rest. My appetite had vanished over the
past two months, but my weight was increasing because of the retention. Gallons
of fluid held me hostage. Over the next three weeks, I lost twenty-six pounds. I
spent many hours lying down every day because I had no energy. When I strug-
gled to breathe even in bed, [ knew it was time for some serious intervention.
I called my brother for his opinion. He could hardly understand me berween
my coughs and gasps. He came over, took one look and one listen, then calmly
convinced me that | needed emergency care. I barely dragged myself to his car.
The hospital admitted me immediately and determined through blood rtests
that I was suffering from Naproxen poisoning. I was malnourished and my kid-
neys were in renal failure. That's when I met the pulmonologist.
With no sedation, he placed a needle between my ribs and into my lung cav-
ity to remove the fluid. “Look in that tank behind you! Two liters!” he bellowed.
“That’s two or three times as much as I remove from most people in your condi-