Heartspeak

By Dusty Rhoades and Vicki Rhoades

How does one find the courage to replace the fear of impending death with peace, hope, and thanksgiving for life? Vicki Rhoades discovered the answer to this question in the spring of 1994. She lay in the hospital dying as her heart gradually failed. Only the miracle of a heart transplant could save her. Vicki and her husband, Dusty, approached her life threatening illness from two different perspectives: hers as a wife and mother dealing with her own mortality; and his as a husband using the coping strategies of a military aviator. They share their life changing experiences in Heartspeak.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 17, 2003
• ISBN: 9781465330871

Dusty Rhoades

Vicki and Dusty Rhoades reside in Calvert County, Maryland. They were raised in Michigan, where they met in junior high school. Vicki is a fine arts graduate of St. Mary's College of Maryland. She is committed to peacemaking and community-building activities. Dusty is a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy. He spent 25 years as a Naval Aviator, commanded a jet squadron aboard the U.S.S. Midway and directed the prestigious Naval Test Pilot School. Vicki and Dusty are active members of Patuxent Friends Quaker Meeting and volunteer their time as mediators for the Community Mediation Center of St. Mary's County.

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Copyright © 2003 by Vicki and Dusty Rhoades.

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

END NOTES

This book is dedicated to Leslie.

Her heart continues to speak of love.

Our love and appreciation

To our children, who teach us how to live with conviction

the lessons we tried to teach them.

To our Quaker Friends who teach us how to hold ourselves

and others in the Light.

To our friends and family who offer endless support and

encouragement on our life’s journey.

To Vicki’s transplant team who work to give her and others the

opportunity to lead full lives.

And last, but far from least, to all organ donors and their

families. They are the heroes who find the courage and generosity

of spirit to give of themselves at the most tumultuous time in

their lives.

INTRODUCTION

In the spring of 1994 I lay dying in a hospital.

My husband, Dusty, was at my side as my life slowly ebbed away. Only the miracle of a heart transplant could save me, and a donor organ might not become available in time. I would either walk out of the hospital with someone else’s heart, or I would be wheeled out on a gurney with a sheet over my head. My organs would then be left behind to give life to others.

Where can we find the courage to replace the fear of death with a sense of hope? How can we maintain a positive perspective during the times when we feel most vulnerable?

This is the story of a shared experience. How we found the courage to face life threatening challenges and respond to adversity as partners in life. It’s also a story of our self-realization and spiritual transformation.

We approached my life threatening illness and our spiritual journey from two different perspectives: mine as a wife and mother dealing with my own mortality; and Dusty’s as a husband using the coping strategies of a military aviator.

We speak from our hearts in the hope that others will benefit from our experience.

Vicki Rhoades

Summer, 2003

ONE

Vicki’s Wake-Up Call

I was late. It was eight-fifteen and I needed to be at work at eight-thirty. I could make it but I had to scramble.

I grabbed half a donut and gobbled it down as I raced out the kitchen door. I charged through the garage and headed for my car parked out on the driveway in the rain.

I didn’t make it.

I could see where I wanted to go, but my legs wouldn’t take me there. I leaned against the side of the house and surrendered to the weight of my body, landing with a thud when my bottom reached the pavement. My strength drained out of me like water swirling through an open drain. I was too weak to move.

What was happening?

I sat in the rain in my freshly laundered skirt—smothered by the smell of the pine bark mulch we had spread the day before. My breath was labored, forced and shallow. I wasn’t in pain. But was I dying? Was this the sensation of death; the feeling of slowly fading away?

I prayed that a neighbor would see me and come to my rescue, but all the nearby driveways were absent of cars. I was alone.

A newspaper headline popped into my mind. Woman dies in driveway sitting yoga style in the rain.

It was minutes in real time, but it seemed like hours before I was released from the grip of the time warp that held me captive. My strength returned slowly at first, then it poured back into me as if someone had opened a faucet. My head cleared and I gained the confidence to stand—ready once again to move cautiously toward my car.

I climbed into the car, turned on the ignition and sank back into the seat. A deep breath and a moment’s assessment of my condition confirmed that I felt well again. The episode was over but I wanted to get to work where I’d be with friends. If it happened again, I’d be safer there than at home alone.

All the way to work, I tried to come up with explanations for the way my day had started. I blamed it on not taking the time for a decent breakfast. I rationalized that stress could be another reason. Our whole family was going through a busy time, and I was right in the middle of it.

Our daughter, Shannon, would be graduating as valedictorian of her high school class. Dusty’s mom and my dad and stepmother were coming from Michigan to help us celebrate. I had to get the house ready for our company and prepare for the occasion.

I was excited about Shannon’s graduation but nervous about her leaving home. My first born child would soon be at the University of Michigan—600 miles away.

Our son, Aaron, was a junior in high school. He was wrapping up a successful season on the cross-country team. I loved watching him run, but this often meant trying to be in two places at once. I could usually rearrange my schedule to make the events, but it was more of a challenge for Dusty.

Dusty was Director of the Navy’s Test Pilot School at Patuxent River, Maryland. Being in charge of T.P.S. was his dream come true. I was happy for him, but his job made demands on me as well. There were unwritten responsibilities attached to being the skipper’s wife. I was expected to attend all of the school’s social activities and ceremonies. I was also the designated role model and leader for the junior officers’ wives. Organizing the wives and being their source of information and guidance was difficult for me. They looked to me for answers and half the time I didn’t feel as though I understood the question. I never took the time to learn military protocol.

Skipper’s wife didn’t come with a job description—or a salary for that matter. I had learned by observing other skipper’s wives through the years, but I concluded early on that I didn’t fit the part. Dusty tried to reassure me that I should do only as much as felt comfortable, but his understanding only reinforced my sense of responsibility to him. Since he was in the Navy, so was I. I wanted to hold up my end of our partnership, so I burdened myself with trying to assume the role of a good Navy wife. Even though hats and gloves and afternoon teas were passe, there was still enough Navy pomp and circumstance to put me in a tailspin.

Our horses added another dimension to my hectic schedule. Dusty and I surprised ourselves and the rest of our family by buying two horses on the spur of the moment. Horses had been a life-long interest of mine. Dusty, on the other hand, had very little experience with them. He could barely tell one end of a horse from the other. It was funny when he tried to compensate by relating his aviation experience to horseback riding. He talked about pre-flighting the animals, strapping on flight gear, and manning up for a ride. His willingness to pursue my interest in horses with such enthusiasm was endearing.

We often met at the stable after work. We’d saddle up Jewel and Palabar and ride through the miles of wooded trails on base. We found our way along narrow paths and over plank bridges. When the trails opened around us, we cantered through grassy clearings. It was a refreshing departure from the structure of Navy life.

After our ride, we’d jump in our cars and rush home to fix dinner and spend some time with our teenagers. It made for a long day, but we needed the time together—time to make up for the many months and years that Dusty had been deployed at sea on Navy carriers.

My life was full. All these activities were important to me, but maybe it was just too much for me to handle.

I was relieved when I pulled into the parking lot at the community center. I felt safe there.

I wanted to forget about my morning crisis and start my day over. I slipped through the back door of the building and turned down the hall to the office. No one was there. I plopped down at the computer to collect my thoughts and sift through information so I could begin writing the senior citizens’ monthly newsletter.

My co-workers, Rosa and Sandy, were busy preparing for the day’s activities. Rosa was setting up for a tap dance class in the multi-purpose room and Sandy was in the kitchen getting ready for the lunch crowd.

The three of us were a good team. We worked for the Calvert County Office on Aging, planning activities for an active group of senior citizens. It seemed like the people in our programs had more energy at age 70 than I did at 42. They participated in everything from aerobics to art classes.

Rosa and Sandy bustled into the office. There was a look of concern on their faces. We were worried about you, Sandy blurted out. Is everything OK?

When I told them why I was late for work, they insisted that I make a doctor’s appointment.

I still wanted to deny the importance of the morning episode, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to put it out of my mind. I had to find out what was going on.

I picked up the phone and called the clinic at the Patuxent River Naval Air Station. I made an appointment to see a doctor the next day. Then I called Dusty.

TWO

Dusty Gets a Call

The harsh ring of the old black government telephone interrupted my concentration. I had been reviewing manuals for my morning flight with a student. I picked up the receiver and was surprised to hear Vicki’s voice.

I had some sort of fainting spell as I left the house this morning, but I’m at work now and I feel OK.

What do you mean by fainting spell? I asked.

I just felt weak, and I had to sit down in the driveway until I recovered and was able to drive to work.

My wife’s words hit me like a splash of ice water in my face.

Vicki didn’t like to call me at the Navy base. It was rare to find me in the office. Even though I encouraged her to call and she knew the people I worked with, she felt uncomfortable asking my secretary to hunt me down and interrupt me from a flight briefing. I was always on the run—flying, teaching and attending meetings.

This morning she got through to me on the first try.

There was a quiver in her voice. I could tell she was upset, but all I got was a general description of what had happened. She tried to make everything sound routine, but I knew she was worried. Consequently, so was I. She said she felt all right and wanted to stay at work for the rest of the day. I was still concerned.

Vicki and I had known each other since junior high school. I always thought she was beautiful. She had dark brown hair down to her shoulders, a pretty face, and a smile that would light up a room. She had an infectious laugh. I can still recognize her laughter from the other end of a building. I secretly admired her, but I was the chubby geek in the class. I didn’t have the courage to approach her. It took me several years, quite a bit of growing up, and a large increase in self-confidence before I asked her out for a date. We went to the Junior Prom together, continued to date casually, and remained good friends through high school. After I left for the Naval Academy, Vicki sent me a humorous card to cheer me up from the trials and tribulations of plebe year.

A caricature of a boy winked from the front of the card. It was a reminder of a corny joke. I used to keep one eye closed until a girl in the group finally asked what I was doing. This would play into my clever response, Haven’t you ever seen a one-eyed sex maniac? Those were the days before there was any significant sex life in high school.

The card gave me a chuckle, and Vicki signed it with the phrase Always a friend. How true that statement proved to be.

When I returned home to Michigan on Christmas vacation, I stopped by Vicki’s home to see how she was doing. She made the mistake of being happy to see me, and I practically fell headlong into her liquid brown eyes. A night of conversation led to several dates and an increased tempo of letter writing. Vicki came to Annapolis as my date for June Week, the celebration of the end of plebe year and commissioning of the graduating class. A year later, we were engaged, and we were married the week after my own graduation in 1969.

Vicki followed me around the world, put up with my absences, and managed our household. She raised our children by herself during my long deployments aboard Navy aircraft carriers. I was often gone for six months out of the year. The time away from home was brutal, but the homecomings were sweet.

My sea duty years were over now. We could enjoy time together as a family and make the most of our life in Southern Maryland. We would soon be celebrating our nineteenth wedding anniversary.

Everything had been going so well.

What could be the cause of Vicki’s episode in the driveway? Stress and exhaustion might have taken their toll. Was Vicki’s body giving her a warning that she was doing too many things at once? Going to see the doctor was a good idea, but she probably just needed to throttle back a notch or two.

On another level, a cold hard knot was growing in the pit of my stomach. Vicki’s physical stamina had always been problematic. She was trim and active, but never in shape. If we walked uphill, she needed to stop and rest every few steps. She wasn’t visibly winded; she was just too tired to continue.

When we lived in Japan, we had to climb long flights of steps to and from the train stations. The steps discouraged her. When nobody was behind us, I embarrassed our teenagers by putting my hand under Vicki’s rear end and boosting her up the stairs. I called it escalator service. If we were walking or riding bicycles, Vicki lagged behind at much less than a normal pace. I had to ride in circles to stay back with her. I thought it was a matter of conditioning, and that she had never learned to push through her fatigue and achieve a higher level of stamina. She seemed better during our years in Japan, and I reasoned that was because she had to be physically active.

Still, she felt limited, and this barrier was inconsistent with her overall good health and positive lifestyle. Vicki had never smoked. She had an occasional glass of wine with dinner or one beer with a pizza. She never drank to excess. Vicki ate healthy foods and maintained her figure. She should have been able to do anything.

There had also been a disturbing incident on our wedding night, when Vicki felt faint and had a rapid heartbeat for several minutes. We didn’t know what had happened, and she didn’t want to discuss it, but I never forgot the event. We knew that her mother had suffered from heart failure, but we never had cause to suspect that the condition was hereditary. Vicki’s father and all of her grandparents were enjoying long, healthy and active lives.

When I got home from work, Vicki was subdued. She felt fine physically, but the morning episode had shaken her. I asked her to describe her experience, but she got frustrated with me. She couldn’t focus on specific details, nor did she want to. She got angry when I pressed her for more information.

I can’t describe how it felt!

I backed off. By this time, I had managed to convince myself that this really was a stress-related event, but I was relieved that she made an appointment to follow-up with a doctor.

THREE

Vicki’s Crisis

I explained my symptoms to the doctor at the Navy clinic. I wasn’t comforted when he immediately ordered an electrocardiogram (EKG).

The machine recorded an abnormal reading of my heart rhythms. At first, the doctor blamed the unusual reading on an inexperienced technician. Two more EKGs convinced him something was wrong, so he referred me to a cardiologist at the National Naval Medical Center (NNMC) in Bethesda, Maryland.

I suspected that I was in trouble, but I still hoped that this was all a mistake. My life was where I wanted it to be. I didn’t want the script to be rewritten by the squiggly lines on my EKG.

Dusty drove me to NNMC for my appointment and we sat together in the large, open waiting room of the cardiology clinic. I picked up a tattered magazine to avoid the sights and sounds of the hospital. The antiseptic odor of the clinic wasn’t easy to ignore. It reminded me of sickness and pain.