Dean Martin was in a 1977 hospital bed when doctors said, "It's over." after his massive heart attack. Six months later, he walked onto the Vegas stage and delivered the performance of his lifetime, proving that the King of Cool couldn't be counted out. It was March 15th, 1977, and Dean Martin was lying unconscious in the cardiac intensive care unit at Cedar Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. At 59, the man who had been the picture of effortless cool for three decades was fighting for his life, connected to machines that were doing most of the work his damaged heart could no longer handle. The heart attack had struck without warning three days earlier while Dean was rehearsing at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas. He had been running through Everybody Loves Somebody with the orchestra when he suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed on stage. The paramedics who rushed him to the hospital said it was one of the most severe cardiac events they had ever seen in a patient who was still alive. Dr. Robert Freriedman, the cardiologist overseeing Dean's care, had delivered devastating news to Dean's family that morning. The damage to Dean's heart was so extensive that even if he survived, he would never be able to perform again. In fact, Dr. Freriedman wasn't sure Dean would even be able to live a normal life. "I'm sorry," Dr. Freriedman had told Dean's children, "but you need to prepare yourselves. The next 48 hours will determine whether your father survives at all. And if he does survive, he'll be an invalid for whatever time he has left. Dean's daughter, Deanna, was devastated. Her father had always been larger than life, a man who seemed immune to the physical limitations that affected other people. The idea that he might never sing again, never perform again, never even walk without assistance, seemed impossible to accept. But the medical evidence was undeniable. Dean's heart attack had been what doctors called a widowmaker, a complete blockage of the left anterior descending artery that supplies blood to the heart's main pumping chamber. Most people who suffer this type of heart attack don't survive the ambulance ride to the hospital. For the first two weeks, Dean drifted in and out of consciousness, unaware of the teams of specialists working around the clock to keep him alive. His heart rhythm was dangerously unstable. His blood pressure required constant medication to maintain, and his kidneys were showing signs of failure from the stress his body had endured. Frank Sinatra visited every day, sitting beside Dean, beside Dean's bed, and talking to him, even though the doctors weren't sure Dean could hear anything. Sammy Davis Jr. flew in from New York and refused to leave the hospital until he knew his friend would survive. This can't be how it ends for Dino. He's supposed to outlive all of us because he never takes anything too seriously. But as the days passed, Dean's condition seemed to stabilize at a level that offered survival, but little hope for recovery. He was conscious more often, but weak and confused. The medications were keeping him alive, but they were also clouding his mind and sapping what little strength he had. "Dean, you're lucky to be alive," the doctor said gently. "But I need to be honest with you about what the future looks like. Your heart has been severely damaged. You're going to need constant medical supervision, a strict diet, and probably roundthe-clock nursing care. Dr. Freriedman paused, struggling with how to deliver the next piece of news. And I'm afraid your performing days are over. Any kind of physical exertion or emotional stress could trigger another heart attack that would almost certainly be fatal. Dean listened to this news with the same impassive expression he'd worn on stage for 30 years. But inside, something was breaking that had nothing to do with his damaged heart. 3 weeks after the heart attack, Dr. Freriedman sat down with Dean for the first time to explain his prognosis. So, what you're telling me, Dean said slowly, is that I'm supposed to spend whatever time I have left sitting in a chair, watching the world go by. I'm telling you that you need to find a new way to live, Dr. Freriedman replied. Many heart attack survivors go on to have fulfilling lives, just different lives than they had before. Dean nodded politely, but privately he was thinking that a life without performing, without the connection he felt with audiences, without the music that had defined him for decades, wasn't really a life worth living. For the next month, Dean went through the motions of recovery. He attended physical therapy sessions where he learned to walk short distances without becoming breathless. He met with nutritionists who explained the bland, low sodium diet he would need to follow for the rest of his life. He practiced taking the handful of medications he would need to swallow every day to keep his damaged heart functioning. But anyone who knew Dean could see that he was just going through the motions. The spark that had made him the king of cool seemed to have been extinguished along with his damaged heart muscle. His children were particularly worried because Dean had always been a fighter, someone who faced adversity with humor and determination. But this time, he seemed to have given up completely. "It's like he's already dead," Deanna told her brother, Dean Paul. "He's breathing and talking, but the person we knew is gone." What Dean's family didn't know was that he had been having conversations with someone who understood exactly what he was going through, Tony Bennett. Bennett had suffered his own heart attack 5 years earlier and had been told by doctors that his performing career was over. Instead of accepting that prognosis, Tony had worked with a specialized cardiac rehabilitation program to gradually rebuild his strength and stamina until he was able to return to the stage. Dean Tony told him during one of their phone conversations, the doctors don't understand what performing means to people like us. They see it as physical stress, but for us, it's spiritual nourishment. Without it, we die anyway, just more slowly. Tony had connected Dean with Dr. Marcus Webb, a cardiologist in New York, who specialized in working with professional athletes and performers who needed to push the boundaries of what traditional cardiac care considered safe. Dr. Webb's philosophy was radically different from the conservative approach Dean had been receiving. Instead of telling heart attack survivors what they couldn't do, Dr. Web focused on gradually expanding what they could do using careful monitoring and progressive training to rebuild cardiac capacity. Mr. Martin, Dr. Webb told Dean during their first consultation, I can't promise you that you'll be able to perform again, but I can promise you that we're going to find out exactly what your heart can handle, and we're going to push those limits as far as safely possible. For the first time since his heart attack, Dean smiled a real smile. The rehabilitation program Dr. Webb designed for Dean was unlike anything the traditional cardiologists had recommended. Instead of gentle walks and limited activity, Dean began a carefully monitored program of progressive exercise that gradually increased his heart's capacity to handle stress. But the most important part of Dean's recovery wasn't physical. Full story in the comments

 

Dean Martin was in a 1977 hospital bed when doctors said, “It’s over.” after his massive heart attack. Six months later, he walked onto the Vegas stage and delivered the performance of his lifetime, proving that the King of Cool couldn’t be counted out. It was March 15th, 1977, and Dean Martin was lying unconscious in the cardiac intensive care unit at Cedar Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles.

At 59, the man who had been the picture of effortless cool for three decades was fighting for his life, connected to machines that were doing most of the work his damaged heart could no longer handle. The heart attack had struck without warning three days earlier while Dean was rehearsing at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas.

He had been running through Everybody Loves Somebody with the orchestra when he suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed on stage. The paramedics who rushed him to the hospital said it was one of the most severe cardiac events they had ever seen in a patient who was still alive. Dr. Robert Freriedman, the cardiologist overseeing Dean’s care, had delivered devastating news to Dean’s family that morning.

The damage to Dean’s heart was so extensive that even if he survived, he would never be able to perform again. In fact, Dr. Freriedman wasn’t sure Dean would even be able to live a normal life. “I’m sorry,” Dr. Freriedman had told Dean’s children, “but you need to prepare yourselves. The next 48 hours will determine whether your father survives at all.

And if he does survive, he’ll be an invalid for whatever time he has left. Dean’s daughter, Deanna, was devastated. Her father had always been larger than life, a man who seemed immune to the physical limitations that affected other people. The idea that he might never sing again, never perform again, never even walk without assistance, seemed impossible to accept.

But the medical evidence was undeniable. Dean’s heart attack had been what doctors called a widowmaker, a complete blockage of the left anterior descending artery that supplies blood to the heart’s main pumping chamber. Most people who suffer this type of heart attack don’t survive the ambulance ride to the hospital.

For the first two weeks, Dean drifted in and out of consciousness, unaware of the teams of specialists working around the clock to keep him alive. His heart rhythm was dangerously unstable. His blood pressure required constant medication to maintain, and his kidneys were showing signs of failure from the stress his body had endured.

Frank Sinatra visited every day, sitting beside Dean, beside Dean’s bed, and talking to him, even though the doctors weren’t sure Dean could hear anything. Sammy Davis Jr. flew in from New York and refused to leave the hospital until he knew his friend would survive. This can’t be how it ends for Dino. He’s supposed to outlive all of us because he never takes anything too seriously.

But as the days passed, Dean’s condition seemed to stabilize at a level that offered survival, but little hope for recovery. He was conscious more often, but weak and confused. The medications were keeping him alive, but they were also clouding his mind and sapping what little strength he had. “Dean, you’re lucky to be alive,” the doctor said gently.

“But I need to be honest with you about what the future looks like. Your heart has been severely damaged. You’re going to need constant medical supervision, a strict diet, and probably roundthe-clock nursing care. Dr. Freriedman paused, struggling with how to deliver the next piece of news. And I’m afraid your performing days are over.

Any kind of physical exertion or emotional stress could trigger another heart attack that would almost certainly be fatal. Dean listened to this news with the same impassive expression he’d worn on stage for 30 years. But inside, something was breaking that had nothing to do with his damaged heart. 3 weeks after the heart attack, Dr.

Freriedman sat down with Dean for the first time to explain his prognosis. So, what you’re telling me, Dean said slowly, is that I’m supposed to spend whatever time I have left sitting in a chair, watching the world go by. I’m telling you that you need to find a new way to live, Dr. Freriedman replied.