Home & Healing

After two days in the hospital we are home. I’m encased in a back brace which is a hard shell cover that makes me look like a turtle. 
I will wear it 24/7 for three months. 
It took me a few days  to get used to being totally dependent on other people. Our daughter flew in from Alaska and worked pretty much 16 hours a day cleaning, cooking, playing with the dogs, washing clothes.  Our son was with us the first three days, giving up a long-awaited camping trip with friends. He’s been here every night.
Our president called me in the hospital and sent her love and support, telling me to take all the time I needed.
Until you’re in a position where you need that phone call and that support, words can’t describe how much it means. 
I’ve had  cards, calls and emails from the friends and colleagues on campus, the town and from around the country.  I never knew how consoling and uplifting those thoughts, prayers and good wishes were until now.
Some friends and a couple reporters (also friends) asked me if the accident, the near-death experience, changed me.  Certainly.  But more importantly, it has enhanced and given depth to everything I’ve always felt.
I’ve always believed in the importance of family over all else. Our kids, my brothers, my mother, were all here for us.  It helped physically in the day-to-day things, but it also helped spiritually.
I’ve always believed in Mansfield University and the borough of Mansfield.  The outpouring of love, prayers  and thoughts only deepened this feeling. 
Professionally, when I look back at all my experiences during the last four weeks –from the airlines to taxis to EMTs, nurses, doctors, and insurance agents– I judge those experiences by the way Linda and I were treated, the human interactions. No matter where these people were on the food chain, they represented their companies.  I never once saw an administrator. Transpose that to a college campus and you have a lot of answers to questions about PR, marketing, recruiting, alumni relations.  It’s all about human interaction, professionalism, sincerity, caring. . . .

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Writing has been my life.
Writing this blog has been a way of sharing an experience, which is, of course, therapy.  So you have been an important part of my healing.  I do not say this lightly.  Every person who has read my posts has contributed to my recovery process.
As a writer I live in constant dread of being boring or irrelevant.  So with that, I end this series.
Life goes on and I can’t begin to tell you how much that phrase means to me.

Trauma Center

Part 7 of a multi-part series.  It begins with San Diego With Jet Blue

Ironies are sometimes humorous, sometimes sad. Sometimes they’re just ironies.
I worried that Linda had bruised her heart, punctured  a lung or had some internal injury that affected her breathing. I’ve always had lower back problems so I was sure I’d just aggravated or bruised it. A 65-mph head-on impact jolts the body.
And this damned back board wasn’t helping anything.  On the other side of the curtain Linda insisted that the board be removed.  “I’ll take responsibility!” She yelled.  They finally removed it.  Meanwhile I told Nathan to take mine out from under me.  As he pulled on it, I felt something tugging.  It was caught on the IV tube and was ripping the needle backwards out of my arm.  We unwound it and got the board off. It definitely not like the movies where the actor rips out his IV and adhesive.
Mick watched quietly with his one good eye and said nothing.
They wheeled Linda out for a CAT scan. I followed. When the scans came back, the doctor told Linda she had three broken ribs, probably from the side airbag.
I had compression fractures of three vertebrae.  It was me who was in serious condition.
They didn’t have the equipment or expertise to take  care  of me  so they made arrangements to transport us to Elmira, 70 miles away.
Nathan left to find our car and retrieve  our luggage and computers.
A new ambulance crew came in.   The accident happened  at 9 p.m.
It was now 5:30 a.m.
Two of the crew members were young.  The leader was my age, burly, quiet, professional. “I’m Ed.”
“I’m Dennis.”
“We’re taking you to the Arnot Ogden Trauma Center.”
“There are places I’d rather be but that’s good enough for now.”  They made their preparations and lifted me onto the gurney.  How many times tonight had I been lifted by people who knew I had a broken back and that one slip could cost me dearly?  How  many times did I give myself over to strangers and put my complete trust in them?
“We’re ready,” Ed said.
“Listen, Ed.  Can you take the long way to the ambulance?”
He looked puzzled.  “It’s just outside.”
“I need a smoke, Ed.  I smoke a pipe.  I just need a few puffs.”
“We’re not supposed to.”
“I know.”
When I was wheeled outside. Weak dawn light yawned away the darkness.
Ed pointed ahead and said to his young assistant:   “Take him around to the side.”
The assistant stopped pushing me. “For a smoke?  That’s against policy. I just tell them no.”
With quiet authority he repeated, “Around to the side.”
Rules are made by people.  They’re broken by people, mostly by those with enough life experience and empathy to know when to break rules and why.
I lit my pipe and basked in the gentle buzz.
A few  minutes later I was ready for the rest of our journey.
The day had only started.

ER

Part 6
I lost track of time.  It could have been 10 minutes or an hour when we arrived at a rural hospital.  They wheeled us into the empty ER.
Quiet nurses closed the curtain between Linda and me. They inserted an IV.  “What are you putting in me?”
“Saline.”
Good.  I was getting the water I needed.  My lower back was killing me. Shooting pains that stopped breath. Mick, a nurse’s aid, came in and looked me over.  He  was a short guy with one eye, built like a bulldog.
“Need anything?”
“A blanket.  I’m cold.”  He found a blanket and covered me as gently as he would a child.  “I need this board off.  It hurts.”
He shook his head.  “I can’t.”
Linda was moaning, which I took as a good sign.  She was breathing better.  “Take this board out!”  I could have told her they couldn’t but I didn’t have the strength.  I wanted to call my son, Nathan, but they had already done it, giving him the worst phone call of his life:
“You’re parents were in a serious accident. . . .”
I heard a nurse ask what my name was.
“Dennis Miller,” another said.
“Oh, he’s famous!”  I’ve heard this enough times that I could recognize in her voice the hope that I really was the comedian Dennis Miller.  She would look at me and feel disappointment when she confirmed that she wasn’t going to tend to a movie star, that by some million-in-one chance the Dennis Miller had an accident on Rt. 390 and was brought to her small, rural emergency room.
I’ve disappointed a lot of people in my life by virtue of my name.
Time stood still and flew, like a hummingbird whose wings flap 25 times a second to hold it motionless in the air.
A state police woman appeared and asked me questions.  She seemed satisfied and said it was clearly no fault.
A nurse came in. “What’s your pain level on a scale of 1-10?
“Eleven,” I said without exaggerating.
Nathan appeared and God himself couldn’t have been more welcome.  He went from Linda to me, caring, touching, being something no one else could be– our family, our son.
As he stood with Linda on the other side of the curtain, I felt my fingers go numb.  I started shaking.  When my teeth began chattering I knew I was  going into shock.
I took a deep breath and focused on the ceiling,the moment, the self.   Another deep breath.  I didn’t want any drugs.  I wanted to know that Linda would be okay.  i took another breath and told myself to relax.  I’d been through a trauma, yes, but I didn’t need to let it control me.
I calmed down.
Another wave of shaking.  I didn’t call out.  No drugs.  Leave me alone until I get control.
Mick came in, quiet, rock steady like a veteran bartender checking your drink and your psyche.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine, Mick,” I said calmly.  “Thanks.”

Crash, The First Hour

This is Part 5 of a multi-part series.  For the full story, begin with San Diego with Jet Blue
I turned to Linda to make sure she was alright.  Her breathing was shallow, forced, painful.  I touched her and she gasped in more pain.  I’ve never felt so alone and helpless. 
My only thought was:  Don’t let her die!
The brain is lightning on adrenalin.  I scanned the car.  No blood.  The airbags, which saved us possibly from death and certainly much worse damage, rested limply.
A young man at the passenger window: “Roll it down!”  I did.  “I’m am EMT but I’m from Canada so I can’t touch her.  Miss what’s your name?  What’s your name?
Linda was taking short, painful breaths.  “Linda.”
Others  appeared.  “Call 911!”
“When were you born?
“January . . .fifth . . .”
“Tell the ambulances to hurry!  We need two!”
“Need fire trucks! The engine’s smoking!”
Ambulances seemed to instantly appear.  I got out of the car, grabbed my pipe and tobacco, knowing it was going to be a long night.  Sudden excruciating pain in  my lower back nearly made me drop.  My mouth was dry.  Two EMTs appeared behind me. “What’s your name?”
“Dennis Miller.” Please, no Dennis Miller jokes.
“When were you born?”
“9-1-49.”
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”  I could feel them nod to each other.
“My back,” I said.  My mouth was dry. “I need water.”
“Stand still.  We’re going to get you the board.  Let us do everything.  This will feel strange but we’re going to lower you.  Let us do everything.”
“My wife. . .”
“She’s being taken care of. Don’t worry.”
They  didn’t say “It will be okay.  They just said don’t worry.
They were young, very serious, competent and professional.  They loaded me in a separate ambulance swiftly and painlessly and put a neck brace on.
“Water,” I said, sounding like a bad  movie.
“Just relax.  We’ll have you to the hospital in no time.”  That meant no water. Can’t fool me.
They took my blood pressure.  “187 over 120.”
I studied the ceiling of the ambulance, thinking, “If I’m ever going to try to follow The Power of Now, it’s now.  Don’t fret over the past or what could have been, or the future, whatever it might be.  If there ever was a time I needed clutch the moment, it was now.
“So what were you doing when the call came in?” The young female EMT asked her partner.
“Watching the Olympics,” the guy said.
“I was cutting up vegetables for a late supper.” There was no hint of frustration at having their schedules interrupted.  It was  just conversation.  Calls are what they live for. They train hard to become EMTs. My publications manager is an EMT and ambulance association chief.  Their inside joke was “I was out saving a life last night.  What were you doing?”
A joke but the truth.  I was always appreciative of their interest and sacrifice.  Now I was living it.
It was my life — and my wife’s — they were saving.
I focused on the now because nothing else mattered.

Crash

This is Part 4 of a multi-part series.  For the full story, begin with San Diego with Jet Blue

The flight from JFK to Rochester was an hour.   My mother-in-law was safely back in her Coronado home after two years with us.  I was looking forwardd to getting our bags, finding our new Nissan Sentra that we’d had for two  weeks, and making the two hour drive home to our dogs, a drink, and a return to a quiet life.
After some searching we found the Nissan.  “I love this car,” Linda said.I agreed. It was black, well-designed,and the first new car we’d ever had.
We paid our parking bill and headed out on South on 390.  Linda called her sister in Coronado to let her know we’d made the 6,000 mile journey safely.  She called our son, Nathan and told him we’d be home in two hours.  He was ready for us to come home.  He’d stayed at the house all week to take care of the gardens, clean and play with the dogs. He’d be leaving the next day for a camping trip in the Adirondacks that he’d spent two months planning with his high school friends.
It was 9 p.m.
I pictured, for the 100th time, sitting in the living room, luggage tossed in the corner, petting our dogs and sipping on a vodka and tonic.
We were both looking forward to the  change of having our lives back for the first time in two years.
Change.
How does it happen? In myriad ways.
Sometimes with lightning speed.
Like headlights suddenly coming at us from a blind on ramp.  My wife jumps.  Our speed is 68 mph. I instinctively yank the wheel to the left to avoid the approaching car. New car.  Not used to it.  Turned wheel too fast and too far. I jerk the wheel to the right, then to the left.
We’re speeding to the left of the highway and hit the solid steel guardrail. The fender crumples as sparks fly.  We bounce off the guardrail.  I spin the wheel but it’s too late. 
Everything is too late.
We’re out of control.
The Nissan fishtails across the highway.  Linda screams. During this rushing millisecond I watch the guardrails rushing at us head on, knowing that I am helpless.
I don’t remember feeling fear, just utter helplessness, of fate rushing forward at what is now probably 65 miles an hour.
The crash is like an explosion, followed by the lighter sounds of glass and plastic falling all around us.
And then there is silence.

Interlude with Burger

The flight home solidified my belief in Jet Blue as a company that works efficiently without sacrificing friendliness or quality.  I continued reading Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now.  I had made up my mind sitting on the patio of my mother-in-law’s Coronado home that I would really work at incorporating his instructions on how to live in the present moment. I didn’t know that I would have a chance to test it in what would be one of the most critical times of my life, a time that would be arriving quite soon.
I spent the rest of my time listening to podcasts and watching a documentary on John Wilkes Booth on the history channel.
We landed at JFK on time.  Our flight to Rochester, due in an hour, had been delayed one hour.
Linda and I found a burger joint where you custom order your meal on a touch screen, then pay the waiter behind the counter. He hands you a receipt and when your burger comes out of the kitchen, he calls the number.  The customer with the number raises his hand and the waiter trades the burger for your receipt.
During a lull with no customers the waiter came over to me.  “What’s your number?”
“00,” I said.   He nodded.
When my burger came out, he brought it over and started to hand it to me.
“No!” I said.  “You can’t do that.”
He froze and looked puzzled, not sure if he should be angry, defensive or apologetic.  “Why not?”
“You have to take it back, yell ‘77!” and then I raise my hand  and say, ‘Here!’  Then you bring it over to me.”
He looked totally confused until he realized  I was serious.  After a brief silence, he nodded and walked back to the kitchen  window.  A part of his job he’d never even thought about was now a game in which he was self-consciously participating.
He yelled: “77″!
I raised my hand: “Here!”
He grinned as he brought it over and handed it to me. “Thank  you,” I said.
He started laughing.  “You have a good day, sir.”
One should have fun where one can.  We don’t know what the next moment will bring.
Later we boarded the plane for what I thought was  the last leg of our journey.
It wasn’t.
Far from it.

The Unseen People

I discovered fairly quickly that the wheelchairs were not provided by Jet Blue.  This explained why the wheelchair attendant at JFK was wiling to leave the arrival gate and wheel my step-mother an eighth of a mile to the departure gate.  I tipped  her, she thanked me and disappeared into the crowd.  When we arrived at  the San Diego  airport a young African man with  a wheelchair was waiting.  He was quiet and very polite.  My wife and her mother made a stop at the women’s room.
“Where are you from? ” I asked.
“I came here from Kenya last year.”  After more questions I found out he followed his mother here, that he wanted to attend college to become a nurse and return to Kenya to  help his people.   “Do you work for Jet Blue?” I asked.
“No.  I work for a company that supplies wheelchairs and people like myself.  I don’t make much money, you know, my salary and tips.”  When my wife and her mom returned, we took the elevator  downstairs  and he patiently waited and helped my wife find our bags while I stayed with our computers and mother-in-law. I left him a large tipiand wished him my best. The taxi driver was also from Africa, here to make money, attend college and live a good life  without violence. 
I few  days later, on our way back from Encinada I noticed a text about American politics  on the console.  “Are you  a student?”
The young driver smiled.  “Post graduate.  I’m from Kenya..  I was in politics but with all the corruption I had to leave for my safety.  Now I am going return to do rape counseling and perhaps go back into politics where I can better help my people.”  We had a long talk about politics, and how American, Canadian and Chinese interests in Africa are changing his country for the better.
I struck up conversations all week with taxi drivers, grocery store packers and waiters. 
I realized that there is an entire underground of unseen people, many of whom are educated.  Some of them are more  worldly than I’ll ever be.
To them the American Dream not a weary cliche but something that is real, alive and dynamic.  They’re pursing it, living it, taking advantage of it in a positive, productive way.  Many of them are taking the Dream  and the  American  Experience back to  their countries.
I called our admissions director and told him if this country would ever get over its  hangups about immigrants there’s  a whole new population of students to  recruit.  Students who  are serious about life, who have goals and dreams.  People who have seen horrors in their country and are determined  to go back and make a difference.   
If higher ed truly cares about making a difference in an individual’s s life, in American society and in countries around the world, we have the opportunity.  Young people full of ambition and hope are all around us. 
All we have to do is recognize them and share what higher ed has to offer.

San Diego With Jet Blue

Note: This is first post in a series that two weeks ago I could not even imagine writing.  It’s all about adventure, change and what it means to be really alive.  Oh, and there’s a bit about marketing, too).

After two years of living with us on the East Coast, my wife’s mother decided she’d like to go back home to Coronado, CA  My wife wanted  to drive.  We had done that before with me driving her step-father who nearly died on the road in New Mexico, and Linda driving her mother.    We found that America on the road is not handicap accessible.  People are friendly and helpful but buildings and services  aren’t.
I decided  on this trip to study marketing where ever I could.  It began with Jet Blue.

We drove our new Nissan Sentra 120 miles to the  Rochester airport where we would leave for JFK airport and then take a direct flight to San Diego.  Linda had instructed Jet Blue that we were traveling with an elderly, handicapped woman.  We also had two large luggage bags, two small ones and our computers.  When I pulled up to the curb, a distinguished looking middle-aged African American man met us.  “I represent a private firm, sir  and can help you with all of this.” I didn’t argue.

Within moments he had our bags  on a cart and a wheelchair for my mother-in-law.
I parked the car and ran back to  the check-in.  The man asked to see my ticket.  “Your wife said you are  not sitting together.  Let me take care of it.”  In a few minutes he was back with new seating and our luggage checked.
Big tip.
Jet Blue personnel had us and other with handicapped persons  and children board first.  During the whole flight I found Jet Blue staff to be courteous, helpful  and most of all, efficient.  When, on the second flight from JFK, thee was a mix up on seating, they fixed it quickly and quietly to, I think, everyone’s satisfaction, certainly ours.
Their slogan, “Happy Jetting,” was placed  in all passenger areas, but not ostentatiously. 
There were no  delays.  In fact we arrived in San  Diego early.  Pilots and staff thanked  each passenger for flying Jet Blue.
Most of these things happen on most airlines but with Jet Blue I got the feeling of a customer-oriented company that operates with confidence from the top down.
Next post: The underground society surrounding us.  

Life Minus Internet

I’m sitting on a patio under a clear blue sky in Coronado CA. Behind me is a 10-foot high morning glory bush so old it has an eight-inch trunk. We’re out here on family business.
When we arrived Sunday the first thing I did was haul out the Mac and try to get on the Internet.
Nothing.
I thought we could tap into a neighbor’s signal but all networks were secured. After a couple hours I gave up, knowing I was out of luck. I called Time Warner the next morning to get the cable hooked back up and get internet service. The first opening they had was Thursday.
I was sick. Four long days, broken into chunks of 24 hours, which in turn melted into slots of 60 minutes each.
I didn’t want to do the math. This would be the longest time I’d been without the net in years.
How was life going to work? I needed to get to my email accounts, Facebook, eBay. How was I going to get my BlogHighEd fix?
Four long days. . . .
I read a lot. I had brought a couple John D. MacDonald books, along with Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now which I’ve been meaning to read for two years. I spent time with my mother-in-law, a sweet 85-year-old woman who has been living with us the past two years and was now back in her own home in Coronado.
Fix breakfast, a couple suppers, run to Escondido to meet with her lawyer.
I found, by Tuesday, that the withdrawal symptoms had subsided. I took long walks along the quiet streets lined with palm trees swaying in the light breeze as I passed meticulously manicured lawns of million dollar homes.
There is life without the internet.
The cable guy showed up late Thursday, hooked us up and left. I jumped on my G-mail and was confronted with a classic case of anti climax. I had two new emails since Sunday. I opened my office email and found junk mail and some messages that didn’t need immediate answers. I did answer one to our media consultant and my news director, both of whom replied, asking why I was even thinking about work.
I moved over to BHE. Life was going on very smoothly without me.
Having learned a valuable lesson, I closed Firefox, picked up The Power of Now and returned with a drink to the sunny patio on a quiet island off the coast of San Diego.

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For something a bit more substantive, check out Al Reis’ thoughts on The Pitfalls of Megabranding http://adage.com/columns/article?article_id=130104