Zbar - Floating Feathers

Copyright 2020 by Ross I.S. Zbar

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Written requests for permission to use specific material or for bulk orders should be sent to the publisher.

Published by Miles Trevor Press

PO Box 252

Oakland, NJ 07436

For information about bulk orders, please contact the publisher at:

MilesTrevorPress@yahoo.com

ISBN: 978-1-7345416-0-1 pbk

ISBN: 978-1-7345416-1-8 hc

ISBN: 978-1-7345416-2-5 ebk

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020902278

Editing and book design by Stacey Aaronson

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to all those who have either helped or hindered my journey in life to this point,

as it is the present that I gratefully embrace.

CONTENTS

authors note

Much of this book was composed only two months after my near-fatal accident while I was rehabilitating at home. The scars were still fresh and painful, but I was grateful to be capable of writing down my recollection of the events while they remained vivid. The descriptions in this book are my memories, as well as those of my wife and two stepchildren, who filled in the gaps that escaped me in the blackness of my trauma.

As a surgeon who dedicates his life to helping others, I never imagined that almost dying would make me a better physician, but it has. More importantly, this trauma has made me a better person. Best of all, as both physician and patient, I was given a unique opportunity to see how our system of medicine treats people, which sadly, in many ways, is replete with accepted protocols that are not only antiquated and injurious, but inhumane. It is my hope this book can be a catalyst to advance thoughtful dialogue of that system to make true positive change, one that will benefit medical personnel and patients alike.

Amor fati ,

Ross I.S. Zbar, MD, FACS

Glen Ridge, NJ

October 2019

TRAUM A

chapter one

December 22, 2018

I t is an unusually warm Saturday afternoon in the Northeast, and I thankfully have the next few days offno scheduled patients or surgeries because of the holidays. My two stepsons, Sotiri and Vasili, are home from college, and after finishing lunch with my wife and me, they excuse themselves and dash off to enjoy the break. I, too, get up from the table, poised to tackle my growing to-do list.

I spend my weekdays fixing holes in people as a plastic surgeon specializing in reconstruction, and I enjoy spending time on the weekends doing similar work on my house. In fact, I find that tending to wounds that dont bleed are much less stressful for me. Unlike in the operating room, I can eat and take breaks while tinkering as a handyman, and my house doesnt complain that the resulting scar is visible (although my wife may). On this particular day, first on the list is mending a new leak from a skylight in our bedroom.

I kiss my wife Denise and tell her how much I love her, then leave for the hardware store and purchase the items I need. After returning home, I take out the extension ladder and lean it against the roof. I climb up easily yet carefully, navigate to the skylight situated on a secondary roof, and inspect it. A small gap between the tar and metal frame is the culprit. I pull out the caulk gun and start to patch the hole, only to find that the caulking tube is nearly dried out and I need the spare one I ve just purchased. My eldest stepson is on his way to the gym and offers to help, but I tell him Im fine. We chat for a few minutes, me on the roof and him on the pavers. Then he drives off.

The next thing I know, I am encased in a padded hive of drones and beeps. My vision is blurry; people slide past like abstract brushstrokes. It takes only a few moments to realize that Im in an intensive-care unit. Through what feels like a rainy fog, my wife leans close to my face and softly tells me that I fell and suffered major injuries. At first, I dont believe her. Then she tells me that Ive been here for three weeks, that Ive missed Christmas and New Year s. That s impossible , I think. But then, slowly, warbled memories begin to play in my mind. Bizarre hallucinations. Misty snapshots of my wife talking to me. Severe discomfort. A strong sense of being imprisoned.

I also vividly recall being haunted by a deep feeling of dread that I was, for days on end, fighting against the Angel of Death.

chapter two

I come from a family of physicians and medical practitioners: my paternal grandfather, who emigrated from Poland, and my father practiced otolaryngology (a focus on ears, nose, and throat, also known as ENT); my maternal grandfather was an internist in the Village of New York City; and my mother was a nurse. I clearly remember being a high school student, sitting in a study carrel, knowing I would walk the same path of medicine my family hadonly I wanted to be a plastic surgeon. As an Eagle Scout, I was inculcated with giving back to others, and I was always attracted to the idea of performing cleft-lip surgery in developing countries.

I worked hard in school in pursuit of my dream and was privileged to attend Harvard College and Yale Medical School, followed by a surgical internship at Lenox Hill Hospital in New York City, then a residency in otolaryngology at the University of Iowa.

At the time, Iowa was ranked as the most competitive ENT program nationally, but my east-coast friends and family couldnt fathom my moving there. It was a big leap for me too, but I was filled with ambition the day I shipped off from New York to Iowa City, driving directly west for a thousand miles. My younger brother, Brett, rode shotgun to help me navigate the urban sprawl of the countrys most congested region to the endless cornfields of the Midwest. I had never smelled hog farms until that drive.

During the four years I lived in Iowa City, I learned the true meaning of Midwestern valuesan honest days work for an honest days pay, modesty matters, your word is your bond, and your name and reputation is your most prized possessionall qualities I valued as well. Perhaps it is because so many Iowans grew up in farming that my Ivy League education was no match for the sincere humility and sensibility that Midwesterners possess.

Being at the University of Iowa also afforded me a rare opportunity to work in a laboratory that was studying genetic deafness, and I leapt at the chance to participate. I would spend two three-month stints performing medical research in rural southern India, where there is a high rate of consanguineous marriage. Because of this, I was able to draw blood and extract DNA from members of the same family, helping to isolate genes causing deafness. It was my time in India that solidified my desire to perform surgeries in the developing world.

To become a plastic surgeon during the 1990s, one had to be board certified in another surgical specialty, so choosing otolaryngology seemed natural to me. During one of my ENT rotations in Des Moines, I applied to the University of Texas Southwestern Medical Centers Department of Plastic Surgeryarguably the best in the countryand was accepted. So, after finishing my first residency in Iowa City, I moved to Dallas. Once again, Brett helped me make the driveone hell never let me forget. I had loaded the U-Haul trailer with all my heavy books in the back, figuring those were the least important items. As a result, we fishtailed the entire eight-hundred-mile drive; we couldnt drive more than forty-five miles an hour without risking a turnover. The trip took forever, but it turned out to be an eye-opening adventure, from the plains of Iowa to the oil rigs of Oklahoma on to Big D.