February 2, 2013, Lexington, MA. It was a windy and cold New England type day. I was just finishing up my morning exercise walk of one mile and proceeded up the stairs to my front door where I entered and sat down on the living room sofa to take my wife and sister-in-law shopping. Suddenly they noticed I was motionless, just sitting and staring into space with my mouth wide open. My wife exclaimed to her sister, ”There’s something wrong with him. Shake him!” Her sister shook me and nothing happened. I still remained motionless, as if in a trance. They immediately called 911. The voice on the other end said, “Put your ear next to his mouth and tell me if he’s breathing.” “He’s not breathing,” answered her sister. Within minutes, the ambulance with its complement of EMTs was on the scene. They rolled the patient of the floor, tried the paddles, all to no avail. Within minutes I was transported to Lahey Clinic in Burlington, MA., one of the premier hospitals in the New England area.
The Emergency Room at Lahey immediately went into action and placed me in a “special cooling room” where the temperature is kept at a low temperature. In the room was a myriad of instrumentation, beeping and flashing lights, and all the while being constantly monitored by doctors and nurses. In addition, nurses sprayed a mist on me to keep me at a low temperature. I was told later on, this technique may be used in highly critical cases of cardiac arrest (my situation) to prevent heart or brain damage. And in some cases, it has proved successful. This procedure went on for three days, as I lay there completely comatose, not moving or speaking – not knowing what was happening since I was still “dead to the world.” Doctors were beginning to feel there was little or no hope and as my son, wife and sister-in-law spent every day watching over me, they also felt there was little hope. Close friends who visited also felt the same – that this would probably be the end.
As my family and doctor met for the third day, the doctor remarked, “I think you can expect a call tonight. It’ll be over.” My family replied, “Let’s go another day.” The doctors replied, “Sometimes, the extra day does help.” On the fourth day, my family again entered the room with its cold mist and myriad of instrumentation. My son walked over to me, peered down at my face and shouted, “Semper Fi Marine!” with extra emphasis on the MARINE.
Suddenly to every one’s amazement, a smile crossed my face and my eyes opened. The doctors, nurses and family couldn’t believe what they saw. Simply by yelling “SEMPER FI MARINE” I seemed to have been brought back to life. Doctors throughout the area exclaimed, “It’s a miracle. This truly is a miracle! We never thought he’d pull out of it.” After two weeks in Lahey Hospital (which I still can’t remember anything about the place or the people, I was sent to New England Rehab where after another month of intense exercising and psychological and physical tests, I was finally returned to my civilian life. And fortunately no physical or mental damage. But as time goes on, I appreciate more and more, those magic words, “SEMPER FI MARINE” because now I know more than ever, those words ingrained in me since boot camp during WWII, have been with me all my living days – and in the end – helped save my life.
SEMPER FI MARINE. It truly is a lifesaver.
Bill Rudy Cuccinello – Not as Lean, Not as Mean, but still a Marine