For years, we'd been talking about taking a vacation in Maine, but for what seemed like far too many rational reasons, we never did.  Our friends, Wayne and Hope, went every year or two. Wayne was originally from there and they simply loved all Maine had to offer.  Karen and I just didn't feel right about imposing. Well – at least for a while.  They told us they were heading back to their old stomping grounds in the summer of 2010 and we, in a not so subtle way, asked if we could join them. 

We promised to be quiet, obedient, respectful, and responsive – very much like two loyal and loving dogs.  Given this premise and promise, they agreed.  Because they had made this trip numerous times, Wayne took on the task of making all of the arrangements. 

It was late fall of 2009 and he went about his work, arranging the motel (where they stayed almost every time they went), the car, and airline.  It was old hat to him and he breezed through it.  I think in a lot of ways they were actually looking forward to having us along.  After all, who wouldn't want to travel with a couple of well-trained, dutiful pets?  By early 2010, everything was in place and the excitement began to build. 

The first small hitch came around March, when the airline began changing our flight.  Our original reservation had us leaving on Tuesday, July 13th at 9 am with a stop over in Washington, DC.  Around May, they informed us that the flight had been cancelled.  We were now leaving July 13th at around noon with a short 2-hour lay over in Washington, DC.  This would put us in Portland, Maine by mid-evening.  Once all this documentation reached Wayne, he discovered that our flight leaving Washington was actually leaving before we were to arrive.  In checking with them, Wayne learned that, if we wanted to change the reservations, we would have to pay the additional flight change fee.  No problem, that seemed reasonable …. Were they kidding? Apparently not!  Well, as fate would have it, that flight was changed as well, and we were now leaving July 13th/14th at midnight on the red-eye with a 3-hour lay over in Newark, New Jersey. 

As the day of departure grew closer, we held out hope that it would actually happen.  We had originally planned to leave earlier in the month, but had delayed it so I could be present for my seventh grandchild's birth.  Sure enough, beautiful little Gracie Runingen arrived July 6th. So by the 13th, we were free and clear to go. 

Wayne and I play in a men's baseball league with games every weekend.  We had such a game on May 11th and had jokingly said before the game that all we wanted to do was survive so as not to impede our trip to Maine, and so we did.  As a matter of fact, as we walked to the car after the game, we high-fived each other, saluting our achievement.  Aha! In a mere two days, we'd be heading east to the land of lobster and lighthouses. 

The day arrived like any other, except with greater eagerness.  Now we were down to hours and we couldn't wait.  We were packed and had all the proper documents.  Karen and I both work out of our house, so we needed to clean up some last minute work related details, finish packing, have some dinner, then go pick up our tour guides and be on our way. 

Around noon, I went for my usual three-mile walk, still feeling a little sore from pitching on Sunday.  As I made my way back to the house, I could feel a little discomfort on my left side beneath my ribs.  It was nothing severe, but definitely noticeable.  No matter, I figured I'd pulled a muscle throwing, so I took some Advil.  After we had dinner, the pain seemed to increase a little in intensity.  With my extensive medical training (zip!), I began to believe it was actually trapped gas, so I took some anti-gas medication.  It helped a little, but by the time we were riding the shuttle bus from our car to the airport, it was getting worse.  While waiting for the plane, I woofed down a soft drink, hoping the carbonation would…you know – cause a release of sorts.  I contemplated informing my travel companions of my situation just in case…well you get the picture.  By the time we got on board, it felt a little better, so I let it pass. 

It's about a three-hour flight to Newark; so leaving at midnight meant lights out, flying in the dark with passengers hopefully getting some sleep.  Karen and I were seated directly behind Wayne and Hope on the aisle toward the back of the plane.  Once in the air, I could feel my internal friend returning but kept it to myself.  Half way through the flight the discomfort was becoming a little more serious.  Oh well, I thought, I can hang on for another hour and a half!  Most of the lights were out and the vast majority of passengers were sound asleep.  Suddenly, a young boy ran past me to find a flight attendant.  We were located about five rows from the back of the plane and, in a matter of seconds, he and two attendants ran back past us to the galley area.  I, of course, was aware of all this because I could not sleep due to a dagger in my left side.  In a few minutes, the lights came on and they made an announcement asking for help from anyone who had medical training.  I turned and looked into the galley and could see a middle-aged woman lying on her back with family members and the two attendants crouched over her.  They asked again, no response.  Karen had worked at Children's Hospital in Denver for 10 years as a respiratory therapist in the ER, so she got up and went back to help.  When I stood up to let her out, the pain increased dramatically and I was starting to take quick short breaths.  By the time she got back, I was panting like an overheated dog.  I told her I was in some distress, but before she could answer, they came and got her again to attend to the suffering stranger in the back.  A few more minutes passed and she returned.  I was now finding it difficult to talk due to the abrupt, staggered breathing pattern, so as she sat down, I informed her I was in severe pain and didn't know if I could make it all the way to Newark.  Her tray table was down and she had her face buried in her hands as if she was praying.  I repeated myself.  She parted her hands, looked me right in the eye, and said, "SSSSSHHHH!!!!!!!"  Well, there it was – compassion and concern, all for the stranger in the back.  I, on the other hand, could just suck it up and keep quiet.  Apparently, my alleged agony was not as great as my fallen compatriot in the galley.  I don't know what I was thinking – my wife's a former RESPIRATORY THERAPIST and I can't breath! On we flew. 

No one else on the flight, other than my overly concerned wife, knew of my condition.  Wayne and Hope were sawing logs right in front of us, totally unaware that I was gasping for my life.  My breathing was so shallow I thought I might pass out, which I spastically related to Karen.  In her own loving and caring manner, she said, "Well, if you pass out, you'll probably start breathing normal again!"  Wow, why hadn't I thought of that? 

As the plane landed, I was in dire straits and we let Wayne and Hope know before getting off.  They were shocked to say the least.  I'd been a good boy and followed Karen's instructions to the letter.  The only thing I hadn't done was pass out, which in retrospect would have been the most appealing alternative.  Once on my feet, I took on the appearance of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, semi-crouched, pale, pained, a disfigured face, and no one wanting to be within ten feet of me.  Wayne and Hope got off before we did. Actually, everyone got off before we did once they caught sight of this plodding, wheezing, bent figure.  By the time Karen and I got to the desk at the gate, Wayne and Hope had informed them of my problem.  They in turn had called for paramedics who showed up in just a few minutes.  Now I knew it wasn't my heart and felt very strongly that it was simply trapped gas under my ribs.  They checked me out, in front of many incoming and departing passengers,( no awkwardness there), and determined it was not my heart.  On the other hand, however, they had no idea what it was.  I told them I thought it was trapped gas to which they responded, nah, I don't think so. 

They pulled an ambulance around to the gate; Karen and I boarded, and off we went to Trinitas Hospital in downtown Newark.  Wayne and Hope halfheartedly went on to Maine, taking our luggage with them.  Karen and I are now stranded, with carry-ons only, hoping this will be a quick and painless stop over. 

We'd never been to Newark before and, as we rocketed through the streets in the rain, I could see the charm of it.  By the time we got to the hospital, the pain was constant and acute.  They dropped us off at the emergency room entrance where we were to check in.  It was now around 5 a.m. and there were some worthy-of-note people ahead of me, waiting to be admitted - knifing victims, drug overdoses, mugging victims, all of whom made my, open to opinion, gas problem seem … silly.

Once I was checked in, which in itself took some time, they put me in a wheel chair and accompanied by Karen, took me into the ER.  I'm not sure what to say here, except we had moved from out of the unreal into the completely surreal.  Suffice it to say the pace and crowded conditions made anything seen on any television medical drama seem far-fetched.  They found a gurney for me and wedged it in between two people who had buried themselves under the blankets.  One was on his cell phone and the other only moaned.  Since I could not stand to be in a horizontal position, I stayed in my wheelchair and Karen sat on the gurney.  The pain was not letting up and, as I hunkered forward trying to breathe, Karen watched the proceedings in amazement. 

After what seemed an eternity, a young ER doc came over to ask me a few questions.  As I sputtered out some answers, Karen translated for her.  She determined I needed to be admitted and have some tests done. She believed that I might have something going on with my pancreas.  I muttered I thought it was gas, only to have her politely chuckle and say, "That would be my last choice." Thus, the marathon began. 

When the ER doc said tests, she wasn't kidding.  EKG's, cat scans, x-rays, any and all kinds of blood tests, and as each one came back A-OK, she seemed to get more perplexed.  One of the more discomforting and yet fascinating aspects of this process was each time they took me for a test, upon my return, I was either banished from a room back to the hallway or moved from the hallway back into a different room.  The rooms could only accommodate one bed and there didn't appear to be that many of them, at least based on the number of patients.  Thus, the hallways were jammed.  It looked very much like a used car lot with cars bumper to bumper.  A tech would bring me back, find a place to parallel-park, and voila! I was back in line.  This, of course, meant Karen was constantly on the lookout for when and where I might reappear.  This went on for what seemed like days.  I'll never forget one young woman they brought in handcuffed and shackled and parked right next to me.  She was probably in her mid-twenties and accompanied by two police officers.  In a very loud and insistent voice, she demanded they get her the drugs she needed.  Suffice it to say the nurses, doctors and police officers ignored these requests, but that didn't seem to dissuade her.  She was incessantly insistent, which only added to my distress. 

After every conceivable test known to the AMA, some of which we passed on because Karen knew they were unnecessary and because we'd been in the ER for over 18 hours, the ER doc told us she was going to admit me, which meant moving to an actual room, and she was bringing in some specialists.  By now, we were both completely exhausted, having not eaten or slept in … well a very long time. So – the very thought of getting out of this cirque de so nuts was more than appealing.  At this point, I was back in a room, however temporary, and my guess is it was somewhere around 2 a.m.  I was still not able to lie down, so I sat up and leaned forward into my carry-on at the end of the gurney, propping my head forward and trying to dose off.  Karen slumped in a corner chair, trying to do the same.  Around 3 a.m., three fairly young female doctors came in and told me they knew what was wrong.  Alleluia!  Although I was still holding on to my gas theory, both literally and figuratively, they were convinced it was pleurisy and what I needed was a shot that included an antibiotic and an anti-inflammatory drug.  This was a new and interesting hypothesis as I had already been through two rounds of morphine and one of delaudid, which had only made me loopy but did not alleviate the pain.  I was, however, too worn out to argue with them and, although I mentioned gas again and got the usual dismissive response, we moved forward.  In a half an hour or so, the nurse on duty at the time, a young woman from Jamaica, who seemed genuinely concerned and compassionate, came bearing a needle of mercy.  She told me that in about ten minutes I'd notice a difference.  She hadn't been present during my pain-filled, loopy stage, so I welcomed it with dubious expectations. 

She injected me and left the room. Karen dozed back off and I put my head back on my carry-on certain that nothing would happen and convinced that, if they could just kill the pain long enough for us to get back to Denver, we'd regrettably, abort our long-awaited trip to Maine and head home. 

I think I dozed for just a second, when suddenly I sat up and realized I COULD BREATHE!  At first, I thought I might be dreaming, but when I heard cuffed Carla in the hall calling for her drugs, I knew I was awake and inhaling and exhaling almost naturally.  Was this possible? Could the shot have actually worked?  YES!  I immediately awoke Karen; she could instantly see a difference – I was standing straight up, not wincing or wheezing, but talking normally.  From that point on the pain vanished, ah! But our detour was not yet done. 

Finally, sleep could come.  I crawled up on the bed and went sound asleep.  It was now around 4 a.m. and by 4:30 the nurse came a calling.  They were moving me up to the eighth floor into a semi-private room.  It seems that they still weren't convinced they had it figured out and more tests were going to be required.  Karen and I had now been awake for well over 24 hours and she had only had a light snack earlier that evening.  On the other hand, I had had nothing to eat since my dinner back in Denver.  No matter, I just wanted to get some sleep, as did Karen.  Up to the eighth floor we went and into a fairly nice semi-private room.  When we arrived, both beds were empty, so I took the one by the window.  We hadn't been or seen the outdoors for what seemed like days. In point of fact, we hadn't seen outside in almost two days, so although it was dark out, it was better than the bowels of the hospital in the ER.  I had a new nurse, a young gal, very friendly, who helped us get situated.  This bed adjusted to my weight as I moved and was amazingly comfortable.  Poor Karen slumped into a big chair in the corner, both of us anticipating a good old-fashioned siesta. 

In a very pleasant manner, my new nurse asked me if I was comfortable or needed anything.  Sleep, I said. I just need sleep.  She nodded agreeably then turned to Karen and said, "You can't stay here.  You'll have to leave."  Wow, could this get any better.  We both protested vehemently, but to no avail.  Rules are rules and we couldn't break this one, no matter how compelling our arguments were.  She told us that Karen could go down to the lounge on the seventh floor and sleep there.  Now if the lounge was anything like the waiting room when we came in, she was toast.  I voiced my disapproval as strongly as I could, feeling weak, run down and wearing a short hospital gown that was open in the back.  All for naught, Karen agreed and was taken to her new confinement area. 

When we got to the room, the second bed was empty, but soon after Karen left, they brought in a young man who'd undergone some type of abdominal surgery.  This then resulted in constant moaning and a continual barrage of flatulence.  In retrospect, maybe Karen was the lucky one.  Actually, given my ailment, it was somewhat tormenting just listening to him.  I kept thinking if I could have done that … well, I wouldn't be here in this condition now.  Fortunately, I was so tired I went to sleep amidst the perpetual salvos. 

I woke up promptly at 6 a.m. and went looking for my nurse.  My plan was to go see Karen, assuming she was still alive, and discuss our future.  I was actually feeling quite spry, dashing around the nurse's station in my attractive and flowing hospital get-up.  I soon found the nurse and told her I needed to go down stairs and talk to my wife about what we were going to do.  She told me I was not allowed to leave the floor (most likely because of the way I looked) and that she would go down and ask her any questions I might have.  NOT HAPPENING! I stated emphatically.  She could see I was determined and one way or another I was going down to see if my wife was still with us.  She took me aside and asked me if I could handle going down some stairs.  I assured her I was feeling perfectly normal. Just show me the stairwell!  She told me that, although she wasn't supposed to do this, she would and just hope we didn't get caught.  Off we went, her leading the way and me following in my flowing garment. 

There she was, my wife, sound asleep lying on a small couch with her purse and carry-on bag strapped around her neck.  She later told me she did that in case someone tried to steal them, they'd have to take her as well.  Her logic seemed somewhat worrisome, but after what she'd been through, I didn't question it.  We agreed to go on with the trip and escape our internment as soon as humanly possible.  She told me she'd be up as soon as she could get untangled.  The young nurse and I headed back up the stairs to the eighth floor.  On the way up, she told me she sure hoped we wouldn't get caught because there would be serious repercussions if we were.  This had hardly cleared her tongue when we opened the door on the eighth floor.  There by the elevator stood her boss and several nurses, who immediately turned looking as if she and I had committed some heinous crime.  I could almost feel her embarrassment, but hey, I was the one exposed in the open flowing gown.  As we passed, her boss asked her, "What do you think you are doing?"  We just kept moving and I, thinking I could alleviate this apparent gaffe said, "Hey, it was my idea!"  In retrospect, I think all I did was fuel the fire.  I returned to my room and she went back to the nurse's station for a flogging. 

Karen soon arrived, somewhat in disarray but none the worse for wear.  As good fortune would have it, they brought us breakfast, our first meal in what seemed like a week.  We both inhaled it.  Next on our bucket list was a shower.  The new floor nurse came in and Karen asked her where she could shower since my room was off limits.  She told her to follow her and off they went.  My bedridden roommate was sound asleep so in I went.  The hot water felt like the Fountain of Youth, or at the least, rejuvenation for an exhausted traveler. Meanwhile, Karen had been escorted to the ninth floor, which was entirely uninhabited, and told to use one of the room's showers then come back down to my room so we could check out.  She thought it strange that no one was on the floor and the eerie quiet was an incentive to bathe quickly.  As she was leaving the room, a lone woman all dressed in white began making her way toward her from the far end of the hall.  She appeared almost ghost-like.  As she drew closer, she began yelling, "What are you doing up here?"  Once face to face, Karen explained exactly what she was doing there to which the hospital sentinel responded, "Well, you're lucky.  This entire floor is vacant and vagrants and homeless people sneak up here and try to hide out in the rooms.  It's almost impossible to keep them out.  Yeah, you were lucky alright!"  Gathering her composure, Karen thanked her and bolted for the eighth floor. 

As we were preparing to leave, I had one more go ‘round with the doctors about another test, to which I categorically said, NO!  One of them said, "Are you then refusing medical treatment?"  "Apparently," I said.  They had me sign a document indicating as much and off we went.  I can only imagine this is what a prisoner must have felt being given amnesty.  We grabbed a cab and headed to the airport. 

The final chapter in this saga, although not as painful, was nonetheless challenging.  Karen had called ahead and gotten us on a flight leaving at 4 p.m.  Once at the check in, we were told that there was only one seat available, and the woman handed Karen the last ticket and put me on the waiting list. She tried to soften the blow by telling me I was first on the standby list.  Hey, at least Karen would get to see Maine. 

We stopped at a burger and shake café on the way to the concourse and indulged ourselves.  Food never tasted so good.  We took a couple of pictures of each other holding our tickets to freedom … well, at least Karen's ticket.  We both looked like warmed over death.  It was around 1 p.m. and about 3 p.m. a ticket rep showed up at the counter.  I figured being numero uno on the list I was a lock if someone didn't show up.  As I approached the counter, two eager women stepped in front of me.  They too were on the waiting list and he handed them tickets.  Was he kidding? I was number ONE on the list. How could these two interlopers beat me out?  In a somewhat surly mood, I handed him my ticket.  Although weak, pale and distressed, I was more than willing to take action if I needed to.  He punched a few things and then handed me my ticket … a seat right next to Karen's.  Ah, life is grand I thought. 

Four o'clock came and no plane; five, no plane. I turned to Karen and said, "Apparently I'm not going to be allowed to leave Newark, so if you can figure out a way to either get to Maine or back to Denver, take it.  I will just finish out my life here."  Lo and behold at 6 p.m. a plane showed up. We boarded quickly before fate could rear its ugly head and we were off to Portland, Maine. 

Wayne and Hope were waiting for us – in the bar appropriately enough – and the next eight days were sublime.  Maine is everything it's cracked up to be, but I would strongly recommend alternative stopovers to Newark, at least when gas is involved. 

P.S. My doctor in Denver later confirmed that my adventure probably was triggered by gas (the low octane kind)!