August 29, 2016. The Day My Live Changed

On August 29, 2005, my life changed.


At the time I was once again band leader of a four piece combo. We had played a gig at Lehman’s Supper Club on the edge of Rice Lake, Wisconsin. Butch always paid me by check, and I, in turn, wrote each of my band members a check so that we were all square before we even left. When I had finished writing checks, I realized that I would be overdrawn come Monday.

When my bank opened on Sunday morning, just after eleven in the morning, because it was a beautiful late summer morning, I decided I would use the Honda 500 motorcycle to deposit the check. I also decided, for the first time since I had purchased the shiny, new, burnt orange bike two months earlier, that I was not going to wear my helmet as I was only traveling less than three miles at speeds of no more than 30 miles per hour. My route would take me past the mall on Golf Road, to the intersection of Golf and Highway 93. Golf Road, newly widened and repaved, at this intersection now had painted arrow indications for a right turn only lane, a straight ahead lane, and a left lane with both straight ahead and left turn arrows painted on it. Golf Road was my usual route to my bank, Royal Credit Union, which was located just across the junction. The past few times I drove to the bank, because of the new changes, it was anybody’s guess if drivers would end up in the correct lane at the intersection and the confusion made it dangerous.

This morning, traffic was already heavy and when I approached the intersection, there were vehicles already at the stop light in all three lanes, and others slowing down and choosing lanes. I decided I would take the straight ahead middle lane which meant that as I approached, there would be vehicles on both sides of my bike. I was less than 20 yards from the light; and that’s the last I remember.

I regained consciousness several hours later, looking at the ceiling of a patient room in Luther Hospital, my right lower leg shattered in several places, already in a cast, and a severe concussion. One of the staff informed me that I had been in a bad motorcycle accident, had been delivered to Luther Emergency by ambulance, that I had already had surgery during which an artificial knee and a titanium rod was placed in the leg.

What exactly happened that August morning, my memory will not allow me to see. Because the bike had jumped the curb on the right and I plowed into the light pole, and because later a friend brought me a photograph of the chalk outline of my body on the street, I can only surmise that at the last moment, a driver to my left realized they were in the wrong lane and wanted to move over into the lane I was in, didn’t see me in the mirrors, made their move, and I must have reacted instinctively and swerved hard to my right, fell off the bike as it careened into the pole, totally destroying it, or I was still on it when it hit the pole, and the result of the impact threw me back on the pavement. I don’t even know who called it in.

I will spare the details of the lengthy recovery. The most difficult part, emotionally, was to miss my nephew Michael Heagle’s wedding and a chance to spend time with my two sons Jonathan and David, who had flown in from Brooklyn, New York,.

The specialist who had done the surgery told me that I would have to return in a year’s time to have the rod removed. Looking down at the lengthy scar that went from four inches above the knee to mid ankle, I thought to myself I don’t think so, Doc. I’m not going through this again, I will live with the metal.

When I fully recovered, the band reassembled and we worked pretty regularly until the following Autumn. We were on the bill at Chippewa Falls annual Oktoberfest and it was at that point, with arthritis setting in so badly that the pain became unendurable. I would have pleaded to have the surgery. However, because after the first surgery, the leg had not been set properly. I wore a brace for several months which was supposed to straighten the lower leg but didn’t. I knew I would have to have a second surgery, but decided it would not be in Eau Claire.

One afternoon I was just coming out Menard’s when I crossed paths with Jim Carter, former Green Bay Packer linebacker, and now Ford dealership owner in Eau Claire. He nodded to me, seemingly recognizing me, so I engaged him in conversation, told him what had happened to me, and then asked: Jim, as a retired NFL linebacker, did you have to have work done on either of your knees?
Yes, both knees.
I then asked where he had his surgeries, the surgeon’s name, and if he would recommend him for my second knee operation. I wrote down the pertinent information, including the surgeon’s office number, thanked Mr. Carter, and began to make plans.

Again, I will spare the details of a lengthy recovery in Minneapolis, but at least the leg no longer had hardware, was set using a Global Positioning System, and was now straight. However, I found as the months passed, I was still dealing with constant pain in the lower right leg, especially the newly replaced knee, so much so that I could not kneel on it. My physician at Marshfield Clinic first suggested over the counter pain medications, but nothing assuaged the pain.

After nearly two years of experimenting with anything and everything non narcotic, I pleaded with him to allow me to use something stronger, There was a new drug on the market, the long term effects of which were not yet known, but it was a recommended drug for those in chronic pain. However, my physician was reluctant to allow me to begin using it; he warned me that it was addictive but I pressed. I told him I was 66 years old so what if it is addictive? Who knows how much longer I will live anyway.

Finally he relented and gave me a prescription for Fentanyl, an opiod, which within ten years would be the scourge of Americans when people began overusing, becoming severely addicted, so much so that increased dosage was necessary to achieve the same results. In my case, I was on 75 milligram Duragesic patches which were changed every 72 hours, covered by Kim’s health insurance through her long and dedicated service as an Eau Claire Public Schools Kindergarten teacher. I continued to regularly refill my prescription until early 2017 and the death of Paisley Park’s Artist Known as Prince. When I read that he was addicted to Fentanyl, I knew that I had to get off the drug as its effectiveness had already begun to wane for me as well.

Because of insurance coverage changes, I had to leave Marshfield Clinic and become a member of the Mayo Clinic Health System years ago. When I made my decision, with the strong support of my wife, Kim, who has always stood by me through sickness and in health, we visited my new physician together. He suggested that I begin tapering very slowly as Fentanyl is stronger than Heroin. He lowered the dosage to 50 milligram patches and I did well for some time, but now my insurance company began to be a hassle with the changes, and every time I would go to renew my prescription, the transaction would not be completed with one trip.

Disgusted with the whole routine, we once again visited my regular physician and I told him that I wanted no more patch use. He gave me a prescription for Tramadol, a much weaker form of Fentanyl, to see how that would go. After the first week, however, Dr. Larry decided he didn’t need the Tramadol and would go cold turkey. I stopped taking the Tramadol, against Kim’s better judgement, and consequently, a few days later ended up screaming in pain, being driven to Luther Hospital’s emergency room at 11 P.M.

I was given a one time injection of some other narcotic to ease my withdrawal pain and when I was ambulatory, Kim drove me home and I returned to my doctor’s recommended withdrawal schedule. April 11, 2017, will always stand clearly in my memory as that is the day that I began withdrawal in complete dedication. That first month was agony I would not wish on my worst enemy. It got so bad, in fact, that I once again ended up at Luther Hospital Emergency, this time screaming at Kim as she drove. Kim! Don’t pull over! Just undock the car doors and let me jump out !

Once again a very patient, kind, compassionate daytime shift of nurses and doctors slowly brought me down. This time around, they gave me a one time prescription of a non narcotic pain reliever, Toradal, which is mostly used for women after child birth or other short term intense pain encounters. I am still using the generic, Ketorolac, but I use it very sparingly for two reasons: some of the side effects, which I have experienced, are small itchy red spots on the arms and torso, increased swelling in the lower legs, and secondly, I do not want to abuse my prescription by increasing intake as my physician keeps a close eye on that.

After a little over a horrific month of intense pain that seemed to know exactly where the weakest points of my body are and settle there, coupled with diarrhea, intense stomach cramping, two separate tones ringing in my ears, one a piercing high, the other the sound of a rumbling railway train or a furnace running, unimaginable pain in my low back and between my neck and shoulders, I knew that the Fentanyl was finally out of my system one morning when Kim gave me my now one half of a Tramadol and it made me very ill.

Although still taking non narcotic pain meds, I did go through a time when food tasted better than it ever had and my body told me that I needed fresh fruit and real oatmeal. I could not bear to look at Payday candy bars, once my favorite when I drove for Markquart Toyota as a car jockey, swapping brand new cars color for color. I had used them for the sugar rush, which helped me stay alert at the wheel.

During the month of May 2017, I was still not steady enough to drive myself. I tried it once, on a short jaunt, and the car frightened me. At that point, it may as well have been a navy cruiser, because that’s how it felt to drive it. May is also the month that I began to experience Post Acute Withdrawal Syndrome, a phenomena which is still bandied about by some experts as not real, a figment of the imagination, a mind problem. I can assure you that PAWS is real.

That first month, I would be fortunate to have two days in a row where I could operate at about a 75% capacity before all the symptoms of withdrawal would reoccur, including the return of the loud ringing in my ears, diahrrhea, extreme amounts of intestinal gas, returning pain and swelling to the injured leg, high anxiety levels as well as irritability. On those days, I could not think clearly enough to be able to perform song lyrics or drive for Markquart Toyota. The first time I played a one hour set of music, the songs of which I knew every lyric, for Oakwood Villa in Altoona, I would get into the second verse and totally lose it.

Fortunately, I took Peggy McGraw, the entertainment director, aside before my show and explained what I was going through, and she, wonderful person that she is, would come to my rescue, filling in the blanks. There was also a Catholic Nun who was always in attendance as her mother is a resident, and I could tell she knew that something was amiss, so after I stumbled through my hour, I approached her and explained. She said Well, I could tell that you were on something or coming off something. i’ve been around the block more than once, you know. The first grade Catholic boy inside me was relieved and she and I had a good laugh about it.

As I write this, Thanksgiving 2017 is part of a very stressful weekend past, which ended with an email telling me that my dear friend of some 30 years, Matthew Capell, had died. As a result, the stress and overwork of handling all the Thanksgiving cooking, and the further stress of the sad news, set me back to nearly zero in the PAWS scale and the ringing in the ears, loose stools, irritability, and inability to sleep returned, but with the help of Toradol, which I haven’t had to use for nearly a month, the continued withdrawal has begun to stretch into a continuous line of two steps forward, three steps back, three steps forward, two steps back, and although it has taken all of seven months, I am beginning to have longer stretches of pain free days, as long as I watch my parameters closely, and avoid extreme stress.

If publishing this helps in any way for others to avoid using Fentanyl, or of, like me, you are an addict, take comfort in knowing that you are not alone and never give in to the urge to go back. I have never had that urge because I have been through so much that I don't ever want to go back. My good friend Sarah Herrell sent me a card while I was in the midst of withdrawal that said simply "When you're going through Hell, keep going."