4A
THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
ANDY MARSO
THURSDAY, APRIL 28, 2005
ANDY MARSO
editor@kansan.com
Empathy from all is 'miracle'
Meningitis gave me a taste of suffering that was unimaginable for me. After weeks in a drug-induced stupor, my respirator was removed and I finally became conscious of my surroundings. My arms and legs were stiff and immobile, and the tube that had been breathing for me had dried out my mouth and scratched my throat so that I could barely speak above a whisper. Another tube was still uncomfortably implanted in my nose and down my throat, continuously feeding me a thick liquid. I was incapable of rolling over in bed on my own.
The day I left intensive care was a happy occasion, but I was only beginning a treatment that was, at times, more painful than the illness. Sepsis had left my extremities horribly damaged — I had the equivalent of third-degree burns on 30 percent of my body. My arms and legs were blackened and my fingers and toes were decomposing while still attached to my body. Each day I was carried to the burn unit's "tank room" for hydrotherapy. Nurses and burn technicians would spray me with warm water and strip away the dead flesh until my arms and legs bled. Sometimes I clinched my teeth and faced this silently. Sometimes I broke down, sobbing and begging for another shot of pain medicine.
The physical suffering was intense, but could be calmed by medicine and would usually fade. Nothing could stem the tide of my emotional pain. For the first time in my life I experienced complete helplessness and despair. I tried to keep a brave face for visitors, but in my private hours with my family and the hospital staff I broke down countless times. The nights were the worst. I'd lie in bed crying and asking God why such a thing would happen. I begged for a miracle that would restore my hands and feet, but it never came. Time and again I gave up hope for the future, crying out that meningitis had beaten me, and wanted it to please just be over.
But the sun would rise again and I would wake with the strength to face another day. This strength didn't come from inside me — other people gave it to me through their compassion. It started with my family. My dad, who spent nearly every night with me in the hospital, curled on a foldout chair next to my bed. My mom and grandma took shifts staying with me throughout each day and brought me food after I exhausted every possibility on the hospital menu. My brothers, Josh and Dan, left their homes, friends, jobs and college to be with我 for months at a time. My body was broken and I was like a baby who needed help to eat, wash and even scratch an itch. But I was always taken care of.
The compassion of my friends was also key to my recovery. I had visitors come and brighten my spirits almost daily. My oldest friends were scattered throughout Minnesota and Wisconsin, but all of them visited. Sometimes they would drive eight hours to and from Kansas City on a weekend just so they could spend one day with me. Friends who visited from the University of Kansas included professors, co-workers at the Kansan, fellow scholarship hall residents and classmates I had studied abroad with. The entire burn unit buzzed with excitement the day Keith Langford stopped in to see me.
Two of my most treasured supporters were Kansas City residents Mike Nolte, a burn survivor, and Matt Bellomo, a meningitis survivor. Neither of them knew me, but both came to comfort me with insights from someone who had been in my shoes. All my visitors, as well as my cards and letters, gave me a window into the outside world and quelled the loneliness that threatened to crush my spirit.
At a time in my life when I needed it most, compassion flowed to me from all angles. Besides my family, the true heroes of my story were the members of the hospital staff. Yes, they were paid, but every day they went beyond their job duties. There was a housekeeper who greeted me with a smile and a kind word every morning and another who took my parents' hands and prayed over me in Spanish. The dietician made me special milk shakes because I couldn't stomach the canned high-protein drinks. There was a nurse in the burn unit's intensive care section who would do her paperwork at my bedside, often offering me chapstick because my dry lips were one small pain she could soothe. The burn nurses and technicians were always clowning and joking, and to me a laugh was as effective as a painkiller. On my birthday, the burn staff showered me with CDs, DVDs and other gifts.
In time I would realize that I had been given a miracle, though not the one I had been praying for. I was given a glimpse of the divine in the compassion of those who cared for me. I knew that, as humans, we have a great instinct to help whatever we can to ease the pain of others, even as our own inconvenience. Amidst all the suffering in the world, it is this instinct that gives us the great hope for the future. ■
With a two-pound metal frame weighing down his leg, Andy Marso can't comfortably cross his legs. Andy had surgery on his left foot on Feb. 28 to straighten the atrophied tendons that caused Andy's foot to point down. Harry Marso tightens the frame a few millimeters a day so that it can help force Andy's foot to a 90-degree angle. Andy will have the same surgery on his right foot this Monday.
Marso
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 1A
"How are you feeling? Can you get up?"
"I keep feeling worse ... I tried to get up, but I can't."
When Andy raises his arms, Clay sees the purple bruises blotched on Andy's skin, and he knows this isn't just the flu. He asks Andy if he's called Watkins to make an appointment. Andy hasn't, and he resists calling — he can't move, much less go to the student health center. Clay tells him he'll carry him there if he has to, but they're going, and now.
After a quick phone call to schedule the 12:30 p.m. appointment, Clay walks downstairs to get Andy a glass of orange juice. After all, OJ cures everything.
Clay doesn't realize winning this fight will save his friend's life.
Clay tries to help Andy to his feet, but Andy is wincing, even one step is too much, and Clay needs an extra set of shoulders. He finds Joe Fitzpatrick downstairs at lunch, and asks him to help get Andy out to his car.
"Fine, fine — but if I get whatever Andy has, I'm holding you personally responsible."
They load Andy into the front seat of Clay's car, and Andy's head slumps back, his mouth open, eyes closed. Clay parks in front of Watkins and runs inside for a wheelchair — he's sprinting now. Once he rolls Andy to the nurse's desk, it takes one look to get Andy into his appointment early.
Leah Luckeroth, internal medicine physician, is five minutes away from her lunch break when a nurse catches her to see a patient.
As soon as Luckeroth sees Andy, she knows he is seriously ill. A purplish-colored rash means few things, and one question will define the cause.
"So, when did you get this rash?"
So, when did you get this ask?
Andy says it was late last night,
after the softball game, when he
started to run the fever.
Luckeroth tells her nurse to call 911. If he'd had the rash for days or weeks, it could have been a heart or kidney problem, but to break out this quickly, she knows it has to be meningitis.
The Watkins team floods the room. From an adjoining waiting room, Clay hears a nurse yell "stat" — the only time he's heard it when he's not watching "ER." A nurse puts an IV in Andy's arm, another doctor calls Andy's parents and Luckeroth calls Lawrence Memorial Hospital to alert the infectious disease doctor, so he can alert the University of Kansas Medical Center. A nurse tells Clay to wash his hands.
In minutes, Andy is lying on a gurney in an ambulance on the way to LMH.
At 3:45 p.m., Clay watches nurses at LMH wheel Andy to the helipad for a life-flight to the Med Center. Clay's called everyone he can think of — the hall, Andy's friends, his parents.
The Marsos pulls together
Ginny Marso, Andy's mother, left
her private law office at noon for lunch with colleagues. It's a quarter to one, and Harry Marso, his father, just returned to his house in St. Cloud, Minn. The phone rings, a telemarketer, Harry thinks, and he hears a woman's voice. She says she's from Watkins Memorial Health Center, and that Andy has contracted meningitis and is undergoing tests. Harry hangs up distraught, and calls Ginny; she's just heard from Clay and is rushing home. Within minutes, Harry's bought airline tickets to Kansas City and flipped open an encyclopedia to look up meningitis. When Ginny arrives, she throws three days worth of clothes into a suitcase for the two of them, and they run out of the house.
Ginny doesn't know she won't return to St. Cloud for six months, and then, it will only be for a weekend. Harry has not returned, and is still on leave of absence from his job at Fingerhut, a mail-order firm.
When Andy's parents arrive at the Med Center, Steven Simpson, pulmonary and critical care doctor, lays out the prognosis. Andy has severe bacterial meningitis — bacteria has entered his spinal fluid and crossed into his blood stream. His white blood cells attacked, but the bacteria piggy-backed onto the cells and are now running throughout his body. The only way for his body to fight the meningitis is to cut off blood flow to his extremities, then to his organs, his brain, and last, his heart. Simpson met Andy at the helipad — the only time he's ever done that for a patient — with a dose of Xigris, a new $10,000-per-dose miracle drug. Xigris flows through the veins for 96 hours and flushes out meningococcal bacteria.
Simpson isn't here to mince words.
"Andy could lose fingertips, toes, maybe hands, feet, arms or legs. The chances for no amputations are about two to three percent."
And that's if Andy lives, which Simpson tells the Marsos is still uncertain. Soon Andy's arms and legs will turn black from the lack of blood flow and oxygen, and Simpson expects dialysis, or failing organs, to set in. Andy will then need a ventilator to breathe.
Once the bacterial meningitis entered Andy's bloodstream, his body shut off the blood flow to his extremities, starting with his hands and feet. After days without blood and oxygen, the tissue in Andy's fingers and toes shriveled, blackened and died. Doctors debridled the necrotic tissue — removing the dead skin — by scraping away the tissue in a hydrotherapy tank pictured in the bottom photo, where they could wash the wounds. The doctors cut until Andy's skin bied, which meant they'd reached living tissue. Andy took hourly doses of Fentanyl, a type of morphine, to withstand the pain of debri-dlement.
Harry feels like he's sinking to the floor, like he's been kicked in the stomach. It's a feeling that will occur again and again this night, and countless nights to come in the next
12 months. This isn't what the encyclopedia said. Andy had called him just last night — he said he had chills, the flu. Harry had chills and a fever just last week; even had to leave work. But he'd gone home, took a nap, and he was fine.
The guys had filled the victory trophy with beer and everyone drank from it. Just a few days ago the Kansan staff, including Andy, went to a concert at The Bottleneck, and people tried each others' drinks, interchanging bottles, glasses and plastic cocktail cups.
Soon, Burhenn hears the rumors that someone at the Kansan has meningitis. She calls Malcolm Gibson, journalism professor and news adviser to the paper, and Gibson says it's Andy, and she knows how serious it is by the
In the ICU, Ginny and Harry finally see their son — his face is swollen and purple, his arms are elevated. He's awake, but he can't speak.
the Student Senate meeting. At the time, Burhenn wondered how a 22-year-old could know he'd be sick a day ahead of time — people in college bounce back the next day — but she reminds herself Andy never backs out of a story, and she calls him at 1 p.m. to check up. She gets his voicemail and leaves a message that she'll bring him chicken-noodle soup that'll fix whatever alms him.
The Marsos take chairs in the ICU to play a wrenching wait game.
Dan Marso, Andy's younger brother, is waiting for an advising appointment when he gets the call from his mom. Andy has meningitis, he's in the hospital, your dad and I are flying down there, she says. Dan doesn't know what meningitis is — it sounds like laryngitis, but he knows that's not serious — and he goes home to research it on the Internet.
The search says people can lose limbs, brain function or even die. The phone rings, and it's Ginny again. Andy's limbs are turning black, his fever is climbing, his heart rate's critical and soon his organs could fail.
To Dan, it was like a stopwatch beginning to tick.
He calls upstairs to his Grandma, Dorothy, who lives with the family. "Grandma, we're leaving!"
Dan grabs only his wallet and keys and yells again to Dorothy, "We're leaving, we're leaving. Let's go!"
It's an 8-hour drive, but an eternity to Dan. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, ignoring speed limits. When the tension gets to be too much, he reassures Dorothy.
"Grandma, he's going to be fine. We're going to take care of this."
"How sick is Andy?"
A few minutes into her 10:30 a.m. class, Peggy Kuhr, journalism professor, notices the absence. Andy Marso hasn't ever missed her reporting class, and he's been late only once, and that was for a story interview. Students say they've heard Andy has the flu, that he was sick the night before.
At lunchtime in the newsroom, rumors circle about a student having neeningitis.
"I heard it's one of the reporters."
"It's somebody on the advertising side."
"I heard it's one of the reporters." Michelle Burhenn, then-editor of the Kansan, remembers Andy had called the night before to tell her he wasn't feeling well enough to cover
urgent tone of his voice.
Gibson's spoken to Watkins, and he tells Burhenn meningitis is spread through close contact — kissing, sharing eating utensils or drinks. Andy's fellow Kansan staffers start to question Burhenn.
"Will I get sick?
Do you know how Andy got it?"
Burhenn tries to calm their fears, but she remembers a newsroom softball game a week before. The guys had filled the victory trophy with beer and everyone drank from it. Just a few days ago the Kansan staff, including Andy, went to a concert at The Bottleneck, and people tried each others' drinks, interchanging bottles, glasses and plastic cocktail cups.
About 5 p.m. Kuhr calls Burrenh to tell her Andy is critical. Kuhr warns her to prepare for the worst; she might need to tell the newsroom staff Andy has died.
At the same time, Gibson drives to the Med Center to be with the Marsos. His goal is to take the weight off their shoulders, allowing them to concentrate fully on Andy. He picks up a cell phone charger, makes food runs and calls Rev Vince Krische, the St. Lawrence Catholic Center priest, to talk with the family. Gibson and his wife, Joyce, try to console the Marsos in the waiting room until 10 p.m. They leave and return home to sleep with the phone next to the bed. The doctors say they're not sure if Andy will live through the night.
THUF
At 5:30 a.m., the phone rings — a jarring sound to Gibson, who knows there can't be another reason for a call so early.
24-hour v
But there is, and it's good news — a journalism colleague just had her baby.
Gibson can't go back to sleep. Like the Marsos, he continues to wait.
Dan clothes
t-Tshirt, t
he arrive
His par com-
mer
Clay Blay
buy him
he's on a
need she
shower.
to the F
the fan
response
and a d
And his org
oes, ews
stares a like
fied tea
been brohe
he has
Now that he's used his right thumb to switch off the plastic prosthetic, Andy uses his lone fingernail to puncture the skin of the banana, and slowly, by pushing the skin down against the plastic fingers of the hand, he uncovers the fruit underneath. First, he pushes his thumb to tear one side, then another, while his prosthetic is frozen in a tight grip around the bottom of the banana.
The Frier fami that dam
Du and a 5th f the fi leaves in conting, prov next
Gil come son's the f
He leans in, takes a bite.
D a.m. at th The com
It's work, but he's getting the knack.
He takes a few bites, but now the prosthetic hand is in his way, with a grip around the remaining bites.
Resolute, he uses his thumb to switch his hand back on. Poising the banana over the table, he flexes his nub inside the cuff, and the hand's grip releases. The banana drops to the tableton.
Andy starts over again, and this time, he grips lower.
4