Living on House Credit and Doctor Time
Written within two months of saddle pulmonary embolism
I was 59 years old when, on Thursday, March 27, 2025, I suffered a massive saddle pulmonary embolism.
My right lung was almost completely blocked, and my left lung had a large blockage as well.
The embolism resulted from an unprovoked deep vein thrombosis (DVT) and required an emergency thrombectomy on Friday evening, March 28, 2025.
Just a day and a half after surgery, on Sunday afternoon, March 30, I was sitting on the front porch with my wife.
Since that day, I’ve often thought that I’m living on credit and borrowed time: house credit and doctor time. I was given a life credit — the doctors, and one determined wife, gave me more time to be alive.
Three Weeks Before
For about three weeks before March 27, I had a cramp in my left leg.
As a child, I had severe leg cramps that we always called “growing pains,” and this one felt exactly the same.
During those three weeks, my leg never showed the classic warning signs — no swelling, discoloration, warmth, or anything else that would have caused concern.
I’d been spending a lot of time working in the yard, so I assumed the cramp was simply sore muscles from yard work.
In retrospect, I also had a tender area on the inside of my thigh — but at the time I assumed I’d hit myself with a shovel handle or something similar.
Wednesday, March 26
My business partner and I flew to Orlando for a conference.
We attended that afternoon, went out for dinner that evening, and everything seemed perfectly normal.
Thursday, March 27
The next morning, I woke up, took a shower, got dressed, and sat down to put on my socks.
Out of nowhere, I became completely out of breath and broke into a cold sweat.
I lay down on the bed, struggling for nearly ten minutes before I finally caught my breath.
Eventually I felt well enough to go to the conference — though I noticed I was getting winded more easily than usual. Walking any significant distance left me short of breath, and I had to stop several times to recover while my business partner continued ahead.
I never mentioned how I was feeling.
Throughout that Thursday morning, I searched online for symptoms of COVID, the flu, and other respiratory illnesses. More serious conditions — including pulmonary embolisms — appeared in the search results.
I dismissed them almost immediately.
My father had been hospitalized for several weeks. I’d been spending time at the hospital. Naturally, I assumed I’d picked up something there.
Friday, March 28
I went to work on Friday morning.
Throughout the day, breathing became increasingly difficult. The distance I could walk before stopping to catch my breath grew shorter and shorter until, by late afternoon, I could only manage five or ten feet before I had to stop.
Around 4:00 p.m., I gave up, went home, took a shower, and climbed into bed.
Kris got home from work around 5:00 that evening. The moment she walked into the bedroom, she knew something was wrong.
She called her sister, Bridget — an emergency room nurse with years of ICU experience.
After hearing what was going on, Bridget didn’t hesitate.
“You need to take him to the emergency room. Now.”
My response was about what you’d expect. I wanted to wait a few more hours.
Kris knows me — probably better than I know myself.
She didn’t argue. She didn’t panic. She simply waited.
She knew I needed to arrive at the decision on my own.
In reality, she’d already made it.
We were going to the emergency room.
The Emergency Room
When we arrived at the emergency room, my heart rate was extremely elevated.
After I was moved from triage into an exam room, I could tell something was very wrong — not because anyone had told me, but because of what I saw.
More people kept coming into the room.
Everyone seemed to be moving faster.
Then one of the doctors leaned through the doorway and asked a simple question.
“When was the last time you had something to eat?”
That was the moment I knew.
I was going to surgery.
The interventional team was already performing another emergency procedure, so I had to wait nearly three hours for another team to arrive.
Looking back, those three hours were a gift.
My youngest son was able to make it to the hospital. My mom arrived just before I went into surgery. My oldest son was away at college, so we spoke on the phone.
As I explained to him what was happening — and what the doctors were preparing to do — the weight of the situation finally hit me.
It is difficult to tell your children you’ll be okay when you honestly don’t know if it will be the last time you speak to them.
Outside the Operating Room
We stopped outside the operating room doors.
I said goodbye to my son and my mom.
I said goodbye to my wife.
Then I watched them stay behind as I was wheeled through the doors.
The Surgery
The surgery lasted about an hour and fifteen minutes.
Afterward, the medical team showed me a life-sized diagram of the pulmonary arteries with the clots laid out on top of it.
The clot from my right lung covered nearly the entire arterial tree.
Another large clot had lodged in the main artery of my left lung.
It was a frightening image — one whose significance didn’t fully sink in until much later.
“You Shouldn’t Be Here”
During my day and a half in the hospital — and many times since — I heard the same comments over and over from doctors, nurses, and other medical professionals.
“How are you here?”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
“If you hadn’t come to the emergency room today, you probably wouldn’t have made it through the night.”
“It’s a miracle you’re alive.”
“You’ve been given a second chance.”
Those weren’t isolated comments.
I heard some version of them from more than twenty doctors, nurses, and hospital staff members during my brief stay.
Sunday Afternoon
By Sunday afternoon, March 30, I was sitting on the front porch with my wife, just as we had done so many times before.
Everything looked the same.
Nothing felt the same.
Learning to Live Again
After I was released from the hospital, I felt a little lost.
Every twinge, ache, or unusual sensation became a source of anxiety.
Was this normal? Was something wrong? Should I go back to the emergency room?
At one point during my recovery, I began experiencing three of the same symptoms I’d had before the pulmonary embolism — light-headedness, chest pressure, and an aching leg. All three were mild.
But there was no way I was going to ignore them.
Back to the emergency room I went.
Thankfully, every test came back normal.
After surviving a pulmonary embolism, anxiety has a way of turning every ache, pain, and unusual sensation into something frightening. Sometimes there’s a serious problem. Sometimes there isn’t. The important thing is not to guess. Go see your doctor.
A Different Life
Before all of this, I considered myself a pretty active person.
Now I found myself questioning activities that had never crossed my mind before.
Physically, my life is remarkably close to what it was before the pulmonary embolism. Cuts take a little longer to stop bleeding. I pay more attention to bruises and injuries. Otherwise, life is surprisingly normal.
Mentally — that’s taken longer.
The anxiety isn’t anything like it was during those first few months, but it hasn’t disappeared completely.
Even today, I don’t think I’ll ever put on my socks again without remembering the morning this all began.
Looking back, I think ignoring warning signs is simply part of human nature. At least it was for me. Whenever there was a harmless explanation for what I was feeling, that’s the one I chose to believe. I didn’t want to be sick. More than that, I subconsciously refused to believe something this serious could be happening to me.
The Person Who Saved My Life
Looking back now, there’s no question in my mind.
The doctors diagnosed and performed the procedure to remove the clots that saved my life, and the nurses cared for me.
But none of that would have happened if my wife hadn’t refused to let me stay in bed.
Kris literally saved my life.
I will never be able to thank her enough.
One Last Thing
My hematologist ordered extensive genetic testing — thirteen vials of blood — looking for a genetic predisposition to clotting.
The results? Nothing.
No genetic markers. No inherited clotting disorder.
It was, as my doctors described it, a truly unprovoked — or idiosyncratic — deep vein thrombosis that resulted in a massive saddle pulmonary embolism and an emergency thrombectomy.
On my mother’s side of the family, an aunt and an uncle both experienced pulmonary embolisms and ultimately passed away as a direct or indirect result. My maternal grandmother also suffered two PEs. At least three of my cousins have tested positive for the Prothrombin Gene Mutation.
Did I ever get tested, even knowing all of that?
No.
So now, the plan is simple.
Take the blood thinners.
And, as my hematologist reminded me over and over: “Just don’t stop taking your blood thinners.”
Looking Back
I’m 60 years old now.
I’ve celebrated more than a full year that, by all accounts, I might never have had.
Physically, my life is remarkably close to what it was before the pulmonary embolism. Mentally — that’s taken longer.
When those hard moments happen, I try to remember the words I heard over and over in the hospital:
“You’ve been given a second chance.”
“It’s a miracle you’re alive.”
I don’t always succeed — some days are harder than others. But eventually I come back to those words.
They remind me that I’ve been given something many people never receive:
Another chance.
Life is too short to spend it worrying about every problem I can’t control.
So I’ll do my best to choose gratitude over fear…
Hope over anxiety…
And optimism over regret.
That’s the life I want to live.
Kris and I still find ourselves sitting on the front porch in the evenings, just as we did before all of this happened. The porch hasn’t changed. Neither has she. Some things in life are meant to anchor us when everything else changes. For me, she’s one of those things.
We have to keep educating. We have to keep listening. And we have to Stop the Clot.
