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Like Clark before him, Schroeder had entered the hospital suffering from the final stages of cardiomyopathy, a progressive weakening of the heart muscle. While the cause of Clark's condition was unknown, Schroeder's was due to the most common form of heart disease: atherosclerosis, a narrowing of the arteries that chokes off the blood supply to the heart.
Up until about two years ago, Schroeder had lived a normal and active life. He was a popular figure in Jasper, a tightly knit farming community of 9,900 people, mainly of German-Catholic heritage. His home—a modest, white frame house with yellow plastic flowers hanging on the door—had been his father's before him; Schroeder's two brothers, ten aunts and uncles and numerous cousins all live within ten miles. After graduating from Jasper High School, he spent 15 years in the Air Force, serving as a flight controller, mostly overseas. He returned to Jasper in 1967 to provide a more stable life for his six children: Monica, 31, Melvin, 30, Stan, 27, Terry, 25, Cheryl, 21 and Rod, 19.
He took a job as a production worker at the Naval Weapons Support Center in nearby Crane, Ind., and rose to quality-control specialist.
He was active in the American Federation of Government Employees, eventually becoming president of the chapter representing Ohio, Kentucky and Indiana. His former boss, Dick McGarvey, describes him as a "tough negotiator" and as "a good friend." Schroeder was also a leader in the Knights of Columbus, a Catholic fraternal society.
In January 1983, Schroeder's busy family life and career were disrupted by a massive heart attack, which seriously damaged his heart muscle and left him crippled with angina, or chest pain. Two months later he underwent double-bypass surgery.
The operation helped relieve his an gina but failed to check the deterioration of his heart; he was forced to retire from his job. Over the next 18 months, his condition continued to deteriorate. In June 1983 he called together some 220 members of the Schroeder clan for a reunion at a local club. Although Schroeder played master of ceremonies and joked with his relatives, the gathering was a kind of farewell party. By this autumn, the once vigorous man was largely bedridden, unable to walk 20 ft. without chest pain and shortness of breath. At night, he would awake gasping for air.
Ordinarily a man in this condition might be a candidate for a heart transplant, but Schroeder had two strikes against him. First, at 52, he was two years over the age limit set by most heart-transplant centers. Second, like 12 million other Americans, he suffers from diabetes, which is also grounds for disqualification. "If he received a transplant, the antirejection drugs would just throw his diabetes out of control," noted Dr. J.P. Salb, the Schroeders' family physician. It was Salb, along with Schroeder's cardiologist, Dr. Phillip Dawkins, who suggested that he look into the possibility of an artificial heart. By chance, DeVries, the only surgeon authorized by the Food and Drug Administration to implant the device, had moved this summer from the University of Utah Medical Center in Salt Lake City to Humana Hospital Audubon, about 70 miles east of Jasper.