BJ Kimbrough: Andy Griffith is Dead and I Don’t Feel So Good Myself

BJHEARTATTACK1

It came on suddenly. As quickly as… well – a heart attack. All those years of promising to eat better and quitting smoking were coming back to haunt me in those critical minutes. I never did quit eating that savory racetrack food and I never did quit smoking, despite the best efforts of my friends to get me to stop.

MRE1

The armed forces will teach you how to become a good smoker and a good drinker. Photo from www.outofregs.com

Let me start by giving you some background on my life’s story. I happily served 21-years in the Marine Corps where I learned a great number of things, including how to be a good cigarette smoker. Not an average or mediocre one – a great smoker! As a helicopter crew member, lunch and sometimes dinner was quick food that you could grab and take with you to make a launch time. This was the staple of my diet and these habits stayed with me for the next 35 years.

After retiring from the Marine Corps, I began working as a writer for Power Automedia, covering races and car shows. My poor diet habits followed me as a quick bite of racetrack and car show food at the events. There’s nothing quite like a good hotdog or plate of cheesy nachos at the track.

I never claimed to be smart and you’d be hard pressed to find it written anywhere, but I was smart enough to know that the pains that I had been feeling in my chest over the past six months were not normal. As much as I dreaded seeing the doctor, I sucked it up and scheduled an appointment for March 19th to see if I could get a diagnoses. 

The funny thing about doctors is that when they come to a conclusion, they always send you to other doctors for further opinions and tests. So I was prepared to spend some serious time in the doctor’s offices. 

Grabbing a fast meal to make launch time was a learned behavior.

Grabbing a fast meal to make launch time was a learned behavior. Photo from Marine Skid Kids Facebook Group Page.

Three days before my scheduled appointment, on March 16th, I was at one of my favorite places, a dirt oval race track. I was covering the debut of a new racing series, the URA, which is an open wheel sprint car racing series. Many of the same drivers that participate in the larger and more established USAC/CRA series would be competing and I was looking forward to the racing.

The Route 66 Motorplex at Victorville was the scene. On March 16th, the URA open wheel series were conducting their debut race.

The Route 66 Motorplex at Victorville was the scene. On March 16th, the URA open wheel series were conducting their debut race. Photo from Virtual Globetrotting


My time in the Marine Corps gave me plenty of opportunity to stare into the eyes of the Grim Reaper. Each time I would tell him, “Not Today.” This time was different however, the Reaper wanted to dance the last waltz.

The day started out well enough with an interview on internet radio with my longtime friend Dennis Pittsenbarger on stock car radio hosted on the Entertainment Radio Network. Then I moved into the pit area so that I could talk to some of the sprint car drivers and teams.

As luck would have it, the track officials on hand were good friends of mine and have known me for years. They could tell that something wasn’t right. At the pit entrance, they had me sit down and called the emergency crew out to check my blood pressure.

Refusing further medical help, I told the officials that I didn’t feel well and was going to pack up my equipment and drive home. “We can’t let you drive,” said the head tech official as he locked the pit gate to make sure I didn’t make a run for it.

Fine. I would just go back to my truck and lay down until I started to feel better. 

I Never Made It

About 30 steps into my trip back to my vehicle, I collapsed, face down in the dirt, not breathing and no heartbeat.

The Grim Reaper and I had tangled before, but this time it would be different.

The Grim Reaper and I had tangled before, but this time it would be different.

My time in the Marine Corps gave me plenty of opportunity to stare into the eyes of the Grim Reaper. Each time I would tell him, “Not Today.” This time was different however, the Reaper wanted to dance the last waltz.

I had collapsed near the pit area of the #92 Sprint car team, affectionately known as Moose Racing, where they quickly began to assess the situation. One of the other sprint car racers, Kenny Perkins, whose day job is a respiratory therapist, began to administer CPR.

I cannot stress enough the amount of luck and kismet that entered my life on that day. If I had made it back to my vehicle and laid down, I would have quietly passed away. If trained professionals had not been around when I collapsed, I would have undoubtedly died. The track emergency crew eventually put an AED device on my chest and shocked me back to a normal heart rhythm. From there, I was stable enough for the ambulance ride to the medical center.

From this point forward, I cannot remember any of the actions or events. Not for the next two weeks anyway. What I am recounting is the stories that the doctors and my family have shared with me.

Nurses

The Communication Gap Between Doctors and Patients:

“This might sting a little” means Hang on, we’re going to hack your arm off with a pocket knife.

“You might feel a little pressure here.” This usually means that a pallet load of bricks will be placed on your chest.

“This might pull a little.” Close your eyes and imagine William Wallace being stretched on the rack in London square.

“I did the same thing to a 7-year old boy this morning and he didn’t even wimper.” Was he conscious?

“If you just relax, this will be over before you know it.” The hairs on the back of your neck should stand up when you hear a doctor say this. It’s a delay tactic designed to give the doctor time before you start fighting back. 

The doctors were gathering information from me, family history and such, while running tests to see where all the problems were. I was still having heart attacks while all this was going on. The doctors were amazed that I didn’t feel the heart attacks as they were happening. No change in facial expression or vocal change. The heart monitors told a very different story and crash carts were called for. 

Before the crash carts could arrive, a petite young nurse decided to do a technique commonly called “a chest thump” to my already bruised chest. The CPR and electric shock had bruised and softened my chest like a mallet tenderizing a piece of tough meat.

My nurse Regina quickly apologized by saying “sorry” then pounded my chest three times till the heart rhythm went back to a normal beat. Then she looked me square in the eyes and said, “crash cart…ain’t nobody got time for that.”

Regina was there when I eventually walked out of the hospital too. Neither of us thought that this was going to end with a positive outcome, but we both fought as hard as we could and I’m still here today.

Both Regina and I wondered to what ends were we battling so hard for? There was still a long way to go and many risky operations. In these type of situations I always remember Terry Pratchett’s quote, “Give a man a fire and he’s warm for a day, but set fire to him and he’s warm for the rest of his life.” I wasn’t sure if I had been set on fire or not.

After my heart was stabilized and the heart attacks had subsided, the doctors did some tests to determine what kind of blockages and how many existed in the veins around my heart. The standard EKG told the doctors what was happening with my heart at that micro-second, but not much more than that. Next I had an Echocardiogram where they send sound waves into your heart. Other than treating the heart to a concert of echoes, that didn’t tell the doctors too much more about my condition.

Crash cart? "Ain't nobody got time for that," said my nurse before she pounded my already bruises and tenderized chest.

Crash cart? “Ain’t nobody got time for that,” said my nurse before she pounded my already tenderized chest.

Then came the ultimate test. The cardiac catheterization procedure. This is a nifty procedure where the doctors hack open your arm and run tubes in your arteries to your heart. Then they inject dyes, or what the professionals call “contrast agents” into the heart to see any blockages and how the heart is operating.

“This may burn a little,” said my doctor. They don’t tell you where it burns however. The contrast agent goes into your heart, shows the doctors how the heart is operating, then makes a beeline to your bladder and testicles. That is where the burn takes place. Excuse my language, but you pretty much feel like your testicles are going to burn right off.

It turned out that there was 90% to full blockage on all 6 veins which would require major open heart surgery to pass the blockages. Anything more than four bypasses is rare and there is always a risk, but with 6 vessel bypasses and my current condition, the chances for survival slimmed down quite a bit.

The first three days in the hospital was touch and go. They would prep me for emergency surgery then determine that I was not strong enough to survive the procedure. After the second day it was decided that putting me into a medical coma to help keep my systems stabilized was the best solution.

This Might Sting a Little

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The end result was emergency coronary artery bypass graft surgery involving 6 vessel bypasses.

Even the best laid plans can go wrong and on the third day my systems began to shut down. One-by-one, specialists from respiratory, kidney, heart and endocrine systems worked to stabilize my functions. Things didn’t look very good for the home team and palliative care team was called in and the Priest administered last rites. 

Sometime in the night we got a break and all the systems stabilized enough to attempt open heart surgery. For the doctors it was a small window of opportunity. It was now or never so they rolled me into the operating room.

Several hours later I was rolled back out with a successful 6-vessel bypass operation having been performed. My family was reminded that I was a long way from being out of the woods and I was moved back into the ICU ward. I was kept in a medical coma for the next 8 days while they weaned me off of all the drugs and IVs that had kept me going. My family was allowed to see me for 10 minutes each hour while I was in the ICU unit.

A steady stream of doctors would come in and check on me, often removing another IV bag of drugs that had kept me alive. As more and more of the drugs were removed, I was able to start remembering what was happening. According to the bystanders and doctors, they would wake me up and my questions would always be; “What am I doing here, am I going to be OK?” and the like. Twenty minutes later would be the same ritual. Needless to say, the doctors were happy when my short term memory returned.

The next couple of days centered on monitoring and keeping things stable. I had several wires coming out of my chest where the doctors could hook up a temporary pace maker if needed. It was kind of unnerving to look down and see those wires sticking straight out of my chest and all the tubes that were inserted in my abdomen.

I had two tubes going into my chest and two more going into my stomach. Not small ones either. These were the size of a radiator overflow tube. We’re talking 3/8-inch diameter and they left a really nasty scar. I was happy when the tubes were removed, and when I looked down at the holes that remained and I couldn’t help but remember the phase “chicks dig scars.”

If it’s true that chicks dig scars, I would certainly be in high demand. The 12-inch scar that ran down the center of my chest that was highlighted by the aforementioned tube holes that line both sides of the vertical scar. It is truly quite a site.

The doctors gathered together and briefed me on what to expect. They had me surrounded as if to stop me from running in any direction and I could swear that one of the doctors even called me “an old fart.” 

As it turned out, I needed to start getting out of bed and using a walker, making laps around the ICU floor. After I could prove to the doctors that my heart could take the stress, they would move me to the telemetry ward where they could monitor me by remote. My body functions would be transmitted back to a central desk by wifi. 

My heart was beating correctly now and I was left with wires sticking out of my chest.

My heart was beating correctly now and I was left with wires sticking out of my chest.

Finally, on March 28th, I was scheduled to be released from the hospital to continue recovery at home. All the wires were pulled out of my chest, which was one of the weirdest feelings I’ve ever experienced. The wires were wrapped around my heart so the removal of the wires left my heart muscle quivering as they pulled them out.

Armed with sheets and sheets of prescriptions, we were briefed on what to do and what to look for. Much of this I missed because I wanted to get out of there quickly. There were sick people all around and I wasn’t sick anymore. 

The hour and a half drive back home was uneventful because I took a pain pill before leaving the hospital. That night I slept in my own bed, like a normal person. While there was, and still is, a long way to go for complete recovery, I can quote my favorite author Lewis Grizzard, “I took a lickin’ and kept on tickin'” – Now I believe in miracles.

About the author

Bobby Kimbrough

Bobby grew up in the heart of Illinois, becoming an avid dirt track race fan which has developed into a life long passion. Taking a break from the Midwest dirt tracks to fight evil doers in the world, he completed a full 21 year career in the Marine Corps.
Read My Articles

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