Note to readers: The most-honored story I’ve ever written (it won a couple of national awards, from both APSE and the National Athletic Trainers Association) started simply. In response to a column I wrote asking readers what was the best sporting event they had ever seen in person, a Charlotte father named Ken Quilty wrote me back and said his son playing lacrosse 14 months after a near-death experience had to be it. I asked the Shenk Quilty family to know more about the story, which was how I got to know Adam Shenk Quilty – a remarkable kid in a remarkable family. It was also very fortunate journalistically that the whole life-or-death incident had been chronicled on amateur videotape. The story was so dramatic I just mostly tried to stay out of the way in retelling it to readers. We broke it into three parts in The Observer. My current sports editor, Mike Persinger, deserves a special thanks for allowing me time off from my regular column work to get this project done. I asked Adam before I finished if it was OK to keep him on the brink of life and death for 24 hours between Parts 1 or 2. “No problem,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been there before.” PART 1 Copyright 2003 The Charlotte Observer All Rights Reserved Charlotte Observer (North Carolina) 17 SECONDS A LIFE HANGS IN BALANCE By SCOTT FOWLER, Staff Writer For most of 17 seconds, Adam Quilty looks like a star. He has never been much of an athlete. But this slice of videotape displays Adam's most glorious athletic moment - a darting sprint past three defenders in a lacrosse game for Charlotte's Vance High. Then the videotape shows a lot more. Too much more, really. It scares everyone who sees it. Adam is 17 years old when those momentous 17 seconds begin. He is racing toward the goal. When they end, Adam has collapsed to the ground. Untouched. His heart has stopped. That's where we start. This skinny teenager is a student. A son. A teammate. A brother. Adam dreams of college. He has a crush on a girl named Ashley in his social studies class. Adam is playing lacrosse not because he's good at it, but because he loves it. On this night - March 31, 2000 - Adam and his Vance teammates have traveled to Greensboro to play Southeast Guilford High. It is 9:30 p.m. Vance has been getting creamed for most of the game, which is no real surprise. Vance's lacrosse team is a club team. The parents pay for everything. The team's coaches do great volunteer work to keep the squad going, but it's an uphill fight. The kids can't earn a letter jacket. They rarely get to practice on the Vance campus. Southeast Guilford has a real varsity team with far more experience. Vance is losing 12-3 with less than three minutes to play. Adam doesn't play much unless Vance is way ahead or way behind. In three years as a midfielder, he has never scored a goal. At 5 feet 6 and 110 pounds, Adam's legs wouldn't look out of place on a flamingo. The junior is easily Vance's smallest player. But his teammates respect Adam, and his coaches love him. Watch No. 19, the coaches tell new Vance players. That's what we want. That's the kind of desire you need. Adam never gets sick. He never misses practice. He is one of the few players on the team who actually enjoys the practices as much as the games. Like more than 99 percent of the teenagers who participate in high school sports, Adam will never be a pro athlete. But Adam's future gleams. He is one of five National Merit Scholarship finalists in Vance's junior class. He ranks in the top 5 percent of his class academically. He is funny, self-deprecating and thoughtful. At his bar mitzvah, the rabbi told everyone Adam might grow up to be president. Lacrosse, however, has given Adam things academics never has. A team. Camaraderie. Invitations to cool parties he never would have known about otherwise. Adam is also well-known on the lacrosse team for his ability to take a huge hit. Lacrosse is a contact sport that includes elements of soccer, field hockey and football. It is legal for players to whack each other with long, netted sticks while trying to dislodge the ball. When involved in a big collision, Adam always flies backward and lands in a heap - a skill he learned in seven years of karate classes. This invariably draws a penalty on the other, larger player. Then Adam gets up, unhurt, and keeps playing. No one can fall like Adam. That's what everyone says. A heart in full Something else big is happening in Adam's life on March 31, 2000. The heart that is about to betray him? It feels more whole than it has ever been. There's this girl. Her name is Ashley Lusk. Blonde hair. Quick wit. Smart, too - also a National Merit Scholarship finalist at Vance. She and Adam have been flirting for awhile, but lately it has turned more serious. Adam has this idea - this extraordinary, amazing idea - that he's about to have a real girlfriend. He and Ashley haven't gone on an actual date yet, but he has been working up the courage to ask her. In class, hours before the lacrosse game, Ashley takes a ballpoint pen and scribbles on Adam's left hand. "I Ashley," it reads. Adam tells her goodbye and leaves the note on his hand for the game. He rides the 90 miles to Greensboro with his father, Ken Quilty, and a couple of teammates. His mother, Dena Shenk, an anthropology professor at UNC Charlotte, will miss this game. She is attending an academic conference in Raleigh. His younger sister, Shayna, is staying overnight at a friend's house in Charlotte. In the first half, Adam barely plays. His favorite trick - standing next to the coach in hopes he will be seen first and get in faster - isn't working. In the second half, though, coach Chris Dryden and his assistant, Todd Kelly, start using Adam and the other reserves more often. With 2 minutes, 30 seconds left in the game, Adam goes in. He immediately snares a difficult pass on the left sideline. The 17 seconds begin. 'Somebody's down!' About 20 Vance parents are sprinkled through the bleachers at Southeast Guilford's football stadium, watching the lacrosse game. Greg Carr is there, just like always. Carr, a Charlotte-area homebuilder and the father of standout Vance player Gregory Carr, is videotaping the game. Carr tapes everything. He has every lacrosse game and every wrestling match his son has ever competed in on tape. So Carr has his video camera mounted on a tripod as usual that night, following the action, when Adam catches the pass and starts to run. Adam sprints right past one opponent. Then another. And another. This is Adam's fantasy. He might actually score. Still more defenders close in. Twenty yards from the goal, Adam flips a shot toward the net. But a defender partially blocks the shot. Vance loses possession. Adam doesn't even get to draw one of his trademark penalties - he barely gets bumped. Adam turns and starts running downfield to play defense. The Carrs' video camera records his progress. Almost to midfield, Adam begins running slower. And slower. No one is within 10 yards of him. Other players flash by, as if in a parallel universe - one that moves much faster. Adam doesn't fall so much as he collapses. Face-first. His hands never get down to absorb the impact. "Oh my God! Somebody's down. Oh my God! He just fell down!" The panicked voice of Nancy Putnam, a teenage girlfriend of one of the other Vance players, is captured on the Carr video. In that 17-second span noted by the videotape timer, Adam has gone from the best chance he will ever have to score a lacrosse goal to sudden cardiac arrest. Hope in black and white Two officials, dressed in traditional black-and-white striped shirts, work most high-school lacrosse games. One of them, Chuck Frederick, is calling only the fifth lacrosse game of his life. Frederick, 46, is a doctor - the chief of anesthesia at the Moses Cone Health System in Greensboro. But no one on the field knows that except the other referee, a more experienced official. He tells Frederick to stay on the far sideline so the coaches can't yell at him. Frederick is finally starting to relax. He has done OK, he thinks. He watches Adam's shot go awry and starts jogging toward midfield, trailing the ball. Adam is in Dr. Frederick's line of sight, 25 yards away, when Adam crumples. The doctor sees the fall and thinks to himself that it looks strange because Adam doesn't try to catch himself. Maybe it is an epileptic seizure, the doctor thinks - he has seen that happen before, on a basketball court. Frederick sprints to Adam's side, arriving first. It takes him seven seconds. The doctor sees that Adam's lips are turning blue. Adam's eyes are open. His pupils are dilating. Adam isn't breathing. A lump forms in the doctor's throat. This isn't a seizure. It's worse. The doctor forgets to blow his whistle to stop play. He bends over and feels for a pulse. No pulse. Also at Adam's side within 15 seconds: Mark White, the Southeast Guilford head trainer, and Chris Dryden, head coach of the Vance team. Dryden doesn't always come out on the field for injuries, but he runs hard toward this one. The other referee blows his whistle and stops play with 2:13 left in the game. Some players gather around Adam. As a huddle forms around Adam, the doctor takes charge. The men turn Adam onto his back and take off his lacrosse helmet. The doctor reaches under Adam's neck and pulls up to give Adam a clear airway. "What have you got?" the doctor asks the trainer. White, who was North Carolina's athletic trainer of the year in 1999, doesn't know what to tell him. "What do you mean?" White asks. Frederick gets more specific. Does White know CPR? Yes. Can Dryden keep checking for a pulse? Yes. Can White get someone on the other end of his two-way radio to call "911"? Yes. Does White have anything other than basic trainer's equipment that might help save Adam's life? No. A father's nightmare Ken Quilty, sitting in the bleachers, doesn't know his son is down. Ken is talking on his cellular phone with his wife of 22 years, Dena Shenk. She wants a live update on one of the few games of Adam's she has ever missed. Then Ken notices the skinny legs sticking out of the huddle. A shiver of dread races down his spine. "Someone's down," Ken says. "Hold on." On the other end of the phone in Raleigh, Dena hears screaming. She thinks she hears somebody other than her husband say: "It's Williams." She mistakenly believes a Vance player named "Williams" must be the one hurt. Vance assistant coach Kelly scrambles back from the huddle toward the sideline. "Mr. Quilty! Mr. Quilty!" Kelly yells. Ken Quilty rises out of the bleachers, hangs up on his wife in midsentence and starts running toward his son. The doctor feels again for a pulse in Adam's neck. Nothing. He gives Adam a couple of quick mouth-to-mouth breaths. Sometimes that works without having to go to full-fledged CPR, which occasionally breaks ribs. Nothing. This kid is dying right in front of me, the doctor thinks. We've got to do CPR, Dr. Frederick tells White. You do the chest compressions. I'll do the breathing. First, they must get to Adam's chest. They hurriedly slice up Adam's orange-and-blue No. 19 jersey - the one so much a part of him that his e-mail address contains a "19." 'They're doing CPR' White teaches cardiopulmonary resuscitation to high school students, but he has never done CPR on a real person. Frederick has. They quickly establish a rhythm - five chest compressions for every breath. After vaulting the chain-link fence surrounding the field, Ken Quilty joins the frantic huddle. The father takes his son's hand. Adam's eyes are closed now. He is in ventricular fibrillation - an abnormal heart rhythm in which uncoordinated, fluttering contractions of the heart's lower chambers occur. About 90 percent of the people who suffer VF outside a hospital will die. Between breaths, Dr. Frederick glances at the tips of Adam's fingernails and his earlobes. Blue is bad. Pink is good. They are still blue. All CPR can do is buy time before the rescue crews get there. And where is the ambulance, anyway? On the videotape, fans say in hushed tones: "They're doing CPR." Then the stadium is almost completely quiet. The P.A. announcer pierces the silence. "The game is over. They've asked that we clear the stands, please." The players gather in clumps on the sideline. Many pray. Greg Carr turns off his video camera. The doctor is having doubts. It's been too long, he thinks to himself. No way the kid walks away clean from this. If he lives, he's going to have brain damage. I've got to think of something else to do. Mark White, the trainer, is more optimistic. He's young, the trainer thinks. This kid won't die on my field. Six minutes after Adam collapses, the doctor remembers something. He gets the school resource officer, Brad Whitley, to take over the CPR breathing for him. The doctor has a small medical bag of supplies in his car, including a syringe of adrenaline. It might help. He runs for it. 'Shock him!' At 9:31 p.m., the first of six 911 calls from the Southeast Guilford football stadium registers at Guilford County Emergency Medical Services. Randy Kendrick, a communications supervisor at that 911 center in Greensboro, takes the call from Southeast Guilford athletics director Roy Turner. Kendrick gets a few details and sends everyone he can muster by 9:33 p.m. Dr. Frederick hustles back and injects Adam with the shot of adrenaline. When a nurse who has come out of the stands guesses Adam might be cold, seven people pull off their jackets in unison and cover Adam's legs. Dryden, the Vance coach, checks Adam's thigh, searching for a pulse in the femoral artery. Nothing. At 9:39 p.m., nine minutes after Adam collapses, Ryan Jones' siren punctures the night. Jones is a paramedic, traveling alone on a yellow Guilford County medic truck. Jones' truck isn't equipped to transport patients, but it does have all sorts of quick-response medical equipment, including a heart defibrillator. As Jones pulls onto the field, he sees a circle of about 20 people. People naturally huddle around someone who's hurt. Jones, 27, has seen countless huddles in his five years as a paramedic. Jones gets a synopsis from Dr. Frederick, sets up his portable defibrillator and hooks a heart monitor to Adam. There is a hesitation - just for a second. The doctor and the paramedic look at the monitor and then at each other, understanding more than anyone else what is happening. Adam's heart is in electric chaos. Adam has been without a pulse for at least 14 minutes. His heart isn't flat-lining, but it is quivering uncontrollably. Because his heart isn't pumping blood, his brain is being deprived of oxygen. "Shock him!" Dr. Frederick says suddenly. "Shock him!" Jones checks the defibrillator paddles. "Clear!" Jones says. The defibrillator shocks Adam, and the teenager's 110-pound body jolts upward. The heart monitor shows that Adam's heart still isn't beating normally. "Shock him again!" the doctor says. Again, Jones uses the paddles. Again, Adam's body jumps. The paddles leave burn marks on Adam's chest. For more than a minute, the monitor looks better. Adam's heart almost breaks into a good rhythm. But then the rhythm becomes irregular and chaotic. The defibrillator still hasn't worked. Ken Quilty grabs Adam's hand once more. His son is dying on a cool night, 90 miles from home, in the middle of a damp field, in a shredded lacrosse jersey, surrounded mostly by strangers. "Come back to us, Adam," the father says, leaning close to his son's forehead. "Please come back to us." PART 2 ADAM LIVES DOCTORS SEEK CAUSE OF MYSTERIOUS COLLAPSE By SCOTT FOWLER, Staff Writer When paramedic Ryan Jones lowers the defibrillator paddles to Adam Quilty's chest for the third time, the 17-year-old Charlotte Vance High lacrosse player has been without a pulse for 19 minutes. There's a doctor on the scene - Chuck Frederick. By chance, he had been refereeing this lacrosse game in Greensboro when Adam collapsed and his heart stopped. Frederick, an anesthesiologist, caught up to Adam seven seconds after the fall. Soon afterward, the doctor and a certified athletic trainer at the game had begun cardiopulmonary resuscitation, trying to save Adam's life. The CPR has helped. Adam isn't dead. But Dr. Frederick thinks to himself that even if Adam doesn't die, serious brain damage is likely. "Clear!" Jones says. Adam's father, Ken Quilty, lets go of his son's hand. Adam's body jerks. This time, Adam's heart jumps back into rhythm. But no one gathered around Adam on the football field at Southeast Guilford High applauds. Adam still looks bad. He is face-up, his eyes closed. Unconscious. His No. 19 jersey and his lacrosse pads have been sliced into pieces. His lips are a chalky blue. On his left hand are the words "I Ashley" - a reminder of a happy moment earlier in the day. A second truck has pulled onto the field, this one from a nearby fire station. More help. More equipment. More medicine for the IV Frederick has started. The Guilford County ambulance is the third and final rescue vehicle to arrive, at 9:46 p.m., 15 minutes after the first call to 911. The ambulance rumbles onto the football field and stops a few feet from Adam. The medics are unloading equipment about the same time Adam regains a pulse after the third shock from the defibrillator. The sight of the ambulance invigorates players on both teams, huddled together on the sideline. "Quil-ty! Quil-ty!" they start chanting. They start clapping rhythmically, faster and faster, as the medical technicians load Adam onto a stretcher. Ken climbs in with him. Then the players loudly recite "The Lord's Prayer" together. At 9:56 p.m., the ambulance doors close - 26 minutes after the teenager collapsed. As the ambulance makes a sweeping turn on the 50-yard line, one player shouts: "1-2-3!" In unison, the players scream once more: "Quilty!" Quality of life Adam doesn't hear the chants. His heartbeat is relatively stable, but he is unconscious. He breathes with the aid of a ventilator, but he hasn't moved since his fall. Five minutes into the ambulance ride, Ken Quilty sees the big toe on Adam's right foot move. It is miraculous proof to the father that his son is alive. The ambulance pulls into Moses Cone Memorial Hospital in Greensboro at 10:11 on that night - March 31, 2000. Adam's father is with him. His mother, Dena Shenk, is coming from Raleigh, 80 miles away, to Greensboro. She's so upset that a friend is driving. Adam's mother hardly ever misses a game, but was away at an academic conference. She did not see Adam's brief run at glory or the mysterious fall that followed in the crucial 17-second sequence that was documented on a friend's videotape. Dr. Frederick heads toward the hospital. Mark White, the trainer from Southeast Guilford High who along with Frederick administered CPR, goes home. White calls his best friend and tells him he won't believe what just happened. At the hospital, with Adam unconscious, there is no way to make an assessment on what, if any, brain damage he has suffered. But his heart seems to have established a good rhythm. He will live. The quality of his life is the question. Within two hours, doctors in Greensboro recommend that Dr. Richard Smith, a pediatric cardiologist in Charlotte, take over Adam's care. Smith works at Charlotte's Sanger Clinic and is well-known in his field. Adam is also from Charlotte. On a grim night, the fact that he can go home to be treated is a welcome coincidence. Adam can even go to Charlotte right now if he is taken by ambulance, doctors say. Do his mother and father want that? Yes, of course, they say. Wherever he has the best chance to live. Just help him. Dena Shenk, Adam's mother, has barely gotten to the hospital before it's time for another frantic ride. She gets in the front of the ambulance. She looks back through the window and shudders as she realizes medics have taped Adam's eyelids shut. The medics want to keep Adam's eyes closed and moist, but it looks ominous to Dena. Dena hears the siren scream for 90 miles from Greensboro to Charlotte's Carolinas Medical Center. She will never hear a siren again without cringing. Adam's father will travel to Charlotte with the Vance High lacrosse coach, Chris Dryden. Ken insists on driving, over Dryden's protests. Ken tailgates the ambulance on the freeway before Dryden convinces him to slow down. The other Vance players all rode to the game with their parents since lacrosse is a club sport and doesn't qualify for an activity bus. They go back home, too, and disperse silently once they get back to school close to midnight. Several think Adam probably will die. A few believe he already has died and they just haven't been told. Why did this happen? Dr. Smith is almost certain Adam won't die when he first sees him on April 1, 2000, about 10 hours after Adam's fall. But does his new patient have brain damage? Most people would under these circumstances. And what would cause a seemingly healthy 17-year-old to go into cardiac arrest on a lacrosse field, anyway? Over the next couple of days, Smith looks into the family's medical history. Not much there. He does one test after another. What he finally comes up with is a "probably." He never will get to "for sure." Smith believes Adam probably has a viral infection in his heart called myocarditis. Myocarditis, conceivably, can go away. But if it isn't really myocarditis, what then? Another cardiac arrest would likely be fatal. The best way to prevent such an occurrence is to place a sort of pacemaker called an internal cardiac defibrillator into Adam. The ICD could automatically convert Adam's heart to a normal rhythm within seconds of detecting an abnormality. The downside: Once you put in an ICD, you hardly ever take one out. And you have to get the device checked every six months and get cut open every few years to get the battery replaced. And the patient has to be careful. Forever. Contact sports like football or lacrosse are usually prohibited for patients with ICDs. Decisions to come Adam is heavily sedated for most of the next couple of days and attached to numerous tubes. Once, about 28 hours after the accident, his mother is alone in the room holding his hand. She remembers saying to him, "Adam, you're doing great. Just keep fighting. I love you so much." Adam doesn't open his eyes. But he squeezes her hand. Adam flickers in and out of consciousness several times once he is taken off the ventilator. Finally, he begins to speak, a few words at a time. He usually asks the same questions each time, in a croaky voice, but can't remember the answers a few hours later. His would-be girlfriend, Ashley Lusk, comes to visit. "I still have you on my hand," Adam says, suddenly brightening. He shows her the "I Ashley" phrase she wrote on his left hand hours before the accident. Adam doesn't remember some things, including anything about his collapse or the next 24 hours. But he doesn't slur his words much. That's a plus. Dr. Smith starts to feel hopeful that Adam has not suffered any significant brain damage. Adam's 13-year-old sister, Shayna, is in the room two days after the fall along with some other family members when Adam asks his usual questions. What happened? Why am I in the hospital? Shayna explains. Adam asks another question. Will I ever play lacrosse again? No, Adam's mom tells him gently. Adam starts crying. Shayna does, too. But Dr. Smith isn't sure of anything yet. He wants to see how the next week goes before making any big decisions about the rest of Adam's life. PART 3 GOAL OF PLAYING AGAIN PROPELS ADAM'S RECOVERY; SEE EACH DAY AS A GIFT' By SCOTT FOWLER, Staff Writer Two days after his life was saved on a Greensboro lacrosse field, Adam Quilty floats in and out of consciousness in a hospital room at Carolinas Medical Center in Charlotte. It is April 2, 2000. Adam can't remember anything about the 17-second span that forever altered his 17-year-old life. Not the goal he almost scored. Not the way he crumpled to the ground. Not the 24 hours that followed. His memory, in fact, is worrisome. Every time he wakes up, he asks the same questions. He talks slowly. Does he have brain damage? Dr. Richard Smith, the pediatric cardiologist supervising Adam's care, notes Adam isn't slurring his words. That's a good sign, he tells the family. As Adam becomes more lucid, the doctor talks to him and his family. Dr. Smith says extensive tests show Adam's cardiac arrest might have been caused by a viral infection in his heart called myocarditis. But the tests weren't conclusive. Something else could still lurk inside. The safest approach, Dr. Smith says, is to place an internal cardiac defibrillator (ICD) inside Adam, and never take it out. The ICD, about the size of a pocket watch, is like a miniature emergency room. A type of pacemaker, it can correct an abnormally fast or slow heart rate. Once inserted near Adam's left collarbone, it must be monitored closely and replaced every four to eight years. The initial operation would cost about $50,000, which insurance would cover. On April 5, 2000, Dr. Smith implants the ICD during a two-hour procedure. The doctor tests the device several times by stopping Adam's heart on the operating table, then letting the ICD restart it. On April 6, a week after his near-death experience, Adam returns home with fading burn marks on his chest from the defibrillator paddles, and a 3-inch scar from his surgery. On April 17, Adam goes for a neuropsychological evaluation. His brain seems to be a whole lot better - better than his parents had dared to expect - although he does have some trouble with both short- and long-term memory. The examiner gives Adam all sorts of tests. He aces most of them. "He has shown an excellent recovery from his cardiac near-death experience," the examiner writes in her six-page report. "He shows mild attention and concentration problems. Thank you for referring this very pleasant young man." Within a few weeks, Adam returns to school - half-days at first. Ashley Lusk, his friend, helps a lot. His teachers and his guidance counselor are sympathetic, allowing him to work at his own pace. On April 29, 2000, Adam and Ashley go to the Vance High prom, but not together. By the end of the night, however, they have decided to become a steady couple. By the fall, the start of his senior year in high school, Adam feels much better. He has adjusted to what Dr. Smith calls his "very minimal brain injury." Adam has learned to talk more slowly and pause in conversation so he has time to find the right words. Most people don't notice. He's fine, he says, shrugging off almost all offers of help. He just wants to play lacrosse again. The doctor's letter Of course, the idea of Adam playing scares everybody. What if he collapses again? Wasn't one near-death experience enough? Dr. Smith tries to help by writing a letter of support for Adam on Dec. 7, 2000, one that coach Chris Dryden shares with other Vance administrators. The letter reads, in part: "I feel quite comfortable that Adam be allowed to participate in conditioning and drill-type activities if you are willing to allow it. If Adam were pushing hard to do so and the defibrillator were padded, I probably would allow him to play in games as well, although I do not think it is completely prudent." After a series of meetings, a compromise is reached. Adam will practice with the team, but stay away from contact drills. He will serve as honorary captain for every Vance game. Could he play a little at the end of the season? Maybe. For months, Adam practices but doesn't play. It's a tease, he tells those close to him. If he could just play one more time, he would feel complete. Finally, toward the end of the season, Senior Day looms. I'm playing, Adam says firmly. If Adam thinks he can do it, and Dr. Smith signs off, the parents decide not to stand in the way. On Senior Day, Adam Shenk Quilty will start for Vance. His parents will hold their breath in the bleachers. The Game On May 3, 2001, 14 months after he nearly died on a lacrosse field, Adam pulls on his No. 19 jersey. He applies eye-black to cut the sun's glare. He holds his helmet and lacrosse stick in front of him on the sideline. Before the game, the seniors are introduced. They cast shadows in the early evening sunshine as they line up at the field's edge. "No. 19 - senior midfielder, Adam Quilty," the announcer says, and the crowd applauds. "Adam is accompanied by his parents, Dena and Ken. Adam will be attending UNC Asheville next year." Ashley sits in the bleachers. She and Adam have become inseparable, and she too will go to UNC Asheville. Adam walks onto the field, smiling. A videotape shows him looking no different than the other Vance seniors - happily embarrassed, joking with others. Adam's parents are joyous and nervous, especially before the opening faceoff. Dena Shenk, Adam's mother, thinks to herself that she will be glad when her son gets off this field. His father, Ken Quilty, is so proud he can barely stand it. He believes this is the best sporting event he has ever seen. Adam does well. He doesn't score - the chance he had during those 17 fateful seconds turns out to be the best he would ever get. He's not involved in much action. But he plays. That's what matters to him. Vance wins easily. Adam is part of the team again, and that's the part of lacrosse he always liked best. He feels so good he plays a little bit in two games after that, too. Senior Day 2001 is not just a happy ending for Adam. It's an amazing beginning. A 4.0 student When Adam enrolls at UNC Asheville in the fall of 2001, no one treats him gingerly because no one knows his story. He uses the computer sign-on "Adam Reborn" sometimes during video games, but people don't think to ask why. He's just another college student now - or maybe a little more. Formerly a champion procrastinator, he doesn't waste much time. He takes extra courses and finds time to tutor kids. "Seize the day," Adam says. "I really do try to live by that." After two years of college, Adam has completed 82 hours of coursework - he's about a semester ahead of schedule already. He is majoring in computer science. Adam's grade-point average is 4.0. All A's, every course. He's a better student now than he was in high school. When he graduates in 2005, he plans to either go to graduate school or get a computer-related job. Ashley attends UNC Asheville, too. She is studying to be a teacher. Adam and Ashley went to England together this summer, taking classes at Cambridge and floating around Europe. They have been dating steadily for 3 1/2 years. The Shenk Quilty family is finally able to talk about what happened to Adam on that lacrosse field without somebody crying. The family has decided to tell its story now in the hopes that it can help somebody else through a difficult time. What did they learn? Take almost every sincere offer of help. Don't worry about putting people out when you're in a crisis. Good friends really do want to help. Let them. What else? "Consider life itself," Adam says, "as the greatest opportunity and blessing. See each day as a gift. And don't be afraid to tell someone just how much they mean to you." Says Adam's younger sister, 16-year-old Shayna: "As horrible as the experience was, Adam's near-death brought us closer together. My big brother is the coolest person I know, and my hero." As for Adam's parents, they are the ones who still seem most affected by the incident. They talk sometimes about the fragility of life and of trying to love their children more for who they are. They talk of Adam's resilience, recalling karate lessons Ken took with his son. Adam earned a second-degree black belt, and showed his father an indomitable spirit that would surface again as Adam fought for his life. Says Ken Quilty, Adam's father: "Forget the 'I can't wait until the terrible twos are over,' or, 'Remember how good you were before you became a teen?' "Appreciate your loved ones as they are now. Today. Let them know it. Tomorrow may never come." Follow your instincts Adam's biggest worry now, in 2003, is not his body. He has learned to live with the ICD and the occasional memory lapses. The nightmares about not being able to see or breathe - apparently a dark leftover from the ambulance trip when his eyelids were taped shut - don't come as often. The ICD has never had to kick in full-force, because Adam has never had another heart abnormality. He doesn't play lacrosse regularly anymore, but he still likes sports. What does Adam worry about? His future children. Can they play sports? Will they inherit a heart problem? It's all possible, Dr. Smith tells him. No one can know. You just need to follow your instincts. So Adam does. He doesn't fret too much about the future, really. Or the past. Adam is only 20 years old. He figures it's going to work out. After all, he's got a good heart.