Max
08-31-2003, 04:16 PM
Spinal cord injury leaves Delray Beach resident struggling
Mary Thurman Yuhas
Special Correspondent
August 31, 2003
"Nothing. Nothing at all," is what David Aldrich, 45, of Delray Beach remembers of the accident that left him a quadriplegic and blind.
It was Memorial Day, May 27, 2002. Aldrich and his date had spent the day anchored next to friends near the shores of Peanut Island between Riviera Beach and West Palm Beach. Around 5 p.m., the 6-foot Aldrich dove or fell into the shallow water.
When he resurfaced, he was floating face down.
One moment the confirmed bachelor was relishing his career as a yacht broker for MarineMax in North Palm Beach and joyfully driving his new, cherry red Mercedes-Benz. Now he was near death.
"The doctors were very pessimistic and thought, if he didn't die, he would never get off of the ventilator," said his sister, Karen Powell, of East Stroudsburg, Pa.
Family members and friends could only hope and pray.
Aldrich's heart rate was low. "Do not resuscitate," was put on his chart in the event that he suffered a stroke, heart failure or seizure.
A week later, Aldrich awoke and found himself on a ventilator with tubes in every orifice. The one in his throat was the worst because it prevented him from speaking.
"I have never felt so alone. I never cried because I couldn't," Aldrich said.
But at least he was one of the survivors. Some 4,860 patients with spinal cord injuries die every year before reaching the hospital, according to the National Spinal Cord Injury Statistical Center in Birmingham, Ala.
Aldrich had to mouth his thoughts. He wanted to know why it was so dark.
"It wasn't until six months later when he was at Craig Hospital that we realized how blind he was," Powell said.
Surgery was performed nine days after his accident to widen his spinal canal and prevent further injury to his unbroken but stretched, bruised and swollen spinal cord.
By July he was off morphine and his thinking had cleared. He tried to confirm what he suspected. "Am I a quad?" he asked his mother, Margaret Aldrich.
When she avoided the question, he persisted. "Is that why I'm always so cold? Am I a quad?" When she finally answered, "Yes," the reality hit him hard.
"I bawled my eyes out," he said.
Meanwhile, his family learned about Craig Hospital in Englewood, Colo., which specializes in spinal cord injuries and rehabilitation. It's one in a network of specialized hospitals around the country that serve an estimated 250,000 to 400,000 people with spinal cord injuries, the majority of them young men. Aldrich was accepted, and even his Sheltie, Trooper, came to wish him well when he left for Craig on Nov. 7, 2002.
When Aldrich's parents came to see him again at Christmas, he was visibly better, even after learning that Trooper had died from a brain tumor.
In February, Aldrich asked hometown friend, Patricia Lucero, if she would become his primary care manager when he returned to Florida. Lucero, 45, from Grafton, Mass., talked to her daughter, Leeanne Lucero, 15, and educated herself about the duties before accepting.
His family back in Grafton helps Aldrich financially. He had his father sell the Mercedes-Benz he worked so hard to buy, and he knows that in four or five years his money will run out and he will be transferred to an institution. His sister-in-law, Sally Aldrich, has been working to get him on Medicaid.
Another priority has been breathing on his own again.
"I had to get off of the vent," he said.
"Patients compare getting off of a ventilator to sipping air through a straw. They must control their emotions to stay focused. It is very fatiguing," said Dr. Donald Gerber, a neuropsychologist at Craig Hospital.
It took four months, but Aldrich finally got off the ventilator. Then, a month before he was to go home, a serious infection put him in intensive care and back on the ventilator.
"I couldn't believe it," he said. "I had to get off of it all over again."
Aldrich and Lucero flew home to Fort Lauderdale and went by medical van to his home in Delray Beach on May 27. Since his homecoming, he has had a pacemaker installed to correct a low heartbeat.
When he wakes, Lucero joins him and the two have coffee and they talk. He eats, so the 16 medications he takes first thing in the morning are not so hard on his stomach.
Aldrich is taken off the BiPap, a ventilating support system that helps keep his airways open at night. Afterward he is always short of breath.
A commode wheelchair is used in the bathroom. "The bowel program is the most horrible, degrading, painful part of the whole thing," Aldrich said.
He has to be shaved, his teeth brushed, showered, dressed, his hair blow-dried. The whole process takes about three hours, and he is exhausted when it is over.
His favorite time of day is when he can sit outside by the pool in the afternoon with Lucero and her daughter.
Getting ready for bed takes about an hour and a half. Aldrich must be placed in a different position in bed every night or he will develop bedsores.
Only Aldrich's sense of humor keeps his days from becoming overwhelming.
"I can't get out of bed. I can't go for a walk. I can't put my arms around a girl. It's hard," he said. "Gotta have humor. You'll go nuts. I have to make light of it so others don't feel uncomfortable around me."
Staff researcher William Lucey contributed to this story.
Copyright © 2003, South Florida Sun-Sentinel
http://www.sun-sentinel.com/news/local/palmbeach/sfl-db31quadaug31,0,7958887.story?coll=sfla-news-palm
Mary Thurman Yuhas
Special Correspondent
August 31, 2003
"Nothing. Nothing at all," is what David Aldrich, 45, of Delray Beach remembers of the accident that left him a quadriplegic and blind.
It was Memorial Day, May 27, 2002. Aldrich and his date had spent the day anchored next to friends near the shores of Peanut Island between Riviera Beach and West Palm Beach. Around 5 p.m., the 6-foot Aldrich dove or fell into the shallow water.
When he resurfaced, he was floating face down.
One moment the confirmed bachelor was relishing his career as a yacht broker for MarineMax in North Palm Beach and joyfully driving his new, cherry red Mercedes-Benz. Now he was near death.
"The doctors were very pessimistic and thought, if he didn't die, he would never get off of the ventilator," said his sister, Karen Powell, of East Stroudsburg, Pa.
Family members and friends could only hope and pray.
Aldrich's heart rate was low. "Do not resuscitate," was put on his chart in the event that he suffered a stroke, heart failure or seizure.
A week later, Aldrich awoke and found himself on a ventilator with tubes in every orifice. The one in his throat was the worst because it prevented him from speaking.
"I have never felt so alone. I never cried because I couldn't," Aldrich said.
But at least he was one of the survivors. Some 4,860 patients with spinal cord injuries die every year before reaching the hospital, according to the National Spinal Cord Injury Statistical Center in Birmingham, Ala.
Aldrich had to mouth his thoughts. He wanted to know why it was so dark.
"It wasn't until six months later when he was at Craig Hospital that we realized how blind he was," Powell said.
Surgery was performed nine days after his accident to widen his spinal canal and prevent further injury to his unbroken but stretched, bruised and swollen spinal cord.
By July he was off morphine and his thinking had cleared. He tried to confirm what he suspected. "Am I a quad?" he asked his mother, Margaret Aldrich.
When she avoided the question, he persisted. "Is that why I'm always so cold? Am I a quad?" When she finally answered, "Yes," the reality hit him hard.
"I bawled my eyes out," he said.
Meanwhile, his family learned about Craig Hospital in Englewood, Colo., which specializes in spinal cord injuries and rehabilitation. It's one in a network of specialized hospitals around the country that serve an estimated 250,000 to 400,000 people with spinal cord injuries, the majority of them young men. Aldrich was accepted, and even his Sheltie, Trooper, came to wish him well when he left for Craig on Nov. 7, 2002.
When Aldrich's parents came to see him again at Christmas, he was visibly better, even after learning that Trooper had died from a brain tumor.
In February, Aldrich asked hometown friend, Patricia Lucero, if she would become his primary care manager when he returned to Florida. Lucero, 45, from Grafton, Mass., talked to her daughter, Leeanne Lucero, 15, and educated herself about the duties before accepting.
His family back in Grafton helps Aldrich financially. He had his father sell the Mercedes-Benz he worked so hard to buy, and he knows that in four or five years his money will run out and he will be transferred to an institution. His sister-in-law, Sally Aldrich, has been working to get him on Medicaid.
Another priority has been breathing on his own again.
"I had to get off of the vent," he said.
"Patients compare getting off of a ventilator to sipping air through a straw. They must control their emotions to stay focused. It is very fatiguing," said Dr. Donald Gerber, a neuropsychologist at Craig Hospital.
It took four months, but Aldrich finally got off the ventilator. Then, a month before he was to go home, a serious infection put him in intensive care and back on the ventilator.
"I couldn't believe it," he said. "I had to get off of it all over again."
Aldrich and Lucero flew home to Fort Lauderdale and went by medical van to his home in Delray Beach on May 27. Since his homecoming, he has had a pacemaker installed to correct a low heartbeat.
When he wakes, Lucero joins him and the two have coffee and they talk. He eats, so the 16 medications he takes first thing in the morning are not so hard on his stomach.
Aldrich is taken off the BiPap, a ventilating support system that helps keep his airways open at night. Afterward he is always short of breath.
A commode wheelchair is used in the bathroom. "The bowel program is the most horrible, degrading, painful part of the whole thing," Aldrich said.
He has to be shaved, his teeth brushed, showered, dressed, his hair blow-dried. The whole process takes about three hours, and he is exhausted when it is over.
His favorite time of day is when he can sit outside by the pool in the afternoon with Lucero and her daughter.
Getting ready for bed takes about an hour and a half. Aldrich must be placed in a different position in bed every night or he will develop bedsores.
Only Aldrich's sense of humor keeps his days from becoming overwhelming.
"I can't get out of bed. I can't go for a walk. I can't put my arms around a girl. It's hard," he said. "Gotta have humor. You'll go nuts. I have to make light of it so others don't feel uncomfortable around me."
Staff researcher William Lucey contributed to this story.
Copyright © 2003, South Florida Sun-Sentinel
http://www.sun-sentinel.com/news/local/palmbeach/sfl-db31quadaug31,0,7958887.story?coll=sfla-news-palm