by Brian Boyle
Debbie attempts several more times but she’s becoming tired. She’s also concerned about my discomfort. She pauses, wiping away beads of sweat that have collected on her forehead. “You can do it. Just say something, even a few letters will do.” The only noise coming from my throat is raspy, gargling coughing. It sounds animal-like, not human. After several more tries, Debbie finally takes a much-needed break. It’s hard to tell which one of us is more exhausted.
She delicately pulls the device out of the breathing tube opening and lets me rest. I blink rapidly to let her know we should continue. Debbie walks to the other side of the room and quietly says to another nurse named Faye, “Do you really think he is even capable of talking again?”
I sure can! I want to shout. Please don’t give up on me. Come on—give me one more chance. I’m getting the hang of it. I know I am. But maybe Debbie is right. This realization drains me of hope. You moron! You were given the chance to talk and you blew it! My head droops forward in despair. I feel defeated and ashamed.
I then notice a group of people approaching my room. It’s Dr. Catevenis leading a small group of people in white lab coats. They all look to be in their mid-to-late twenties. Medical students? Interns? They gather around my bed. Dr. Catevenis explains to them how proud he is of my progress. I want to hide under the bed. These strangers are staring at me like I’m a caged, wounded animal.
Dr. Catevenis asks if I can say hello to his group. I slowly lift my right arm and wave my hand, welcoming them to my cell. I even add a faint smile for hospitality’s sake. It’s always important to be a gracious host.
I study the reactions of these young doctors, but can’t read their expressions. Or rather, I see nothing on their faces. Just stone. No returned greeting or acknowledgment, not even a small nod. Here I am, lingering half-alive between human and machine, but I still can express empathy and kindness. Yet all I receive from these young doctors are vacant stares. I’m nothing but an anonymous body to them, perhaps someone they might read about one day in medical journals. I feel sorry for their future patients. I want them all to leave.
Dr. Catevenis concludes his brief talk by saying, “You’re doing good Brian; keep it up, buddy. I will be back to check on you soon.” A good, thoughtful, and considerate physician, he gives me a thumbs-up gesture and leads away his young charges.
Debbie returns with another small clear plastic tube to help me speak. Fantastic! This is my big chance to redeem myself. When the tube is reinserted, I cough violently. My lungs rattle and crackle, but the sensation seems different, with the coughing more rhythmic. Way down in my lungs, a pocket of air develops, rising up through me like a geyser. I feel a word forming, and I see Dr. Catevenis walking around the corner. He stops right in front of my room, and the long-awaited moment takes place before his very eyes.
“Hello,” I announce in a scratchy voice. I want to say more but the attempt fizzles in a drawn-out hissing.
“Brian, you did it!” he says in complete astonishment. “You’re talking!”
That word, “hello,” I know is just the start of more to come. One day I will put entire sentences together.
Debbie is doing a gleeful jig. She hugs Dr. Catevenis. Several nurses come into my room. Everyone is beaming. It feels like a party. I want to add to the merriment and proclaim, Thank you everyone for keeping me alive. But for now, that lone “hello” will have to suffice.
Debbie, with the help of another nurse, moves me back to the bed. She reattaches a few IVs and checks to make sure my catheter is in place. She turns on the television and places the remote control next to my ear. The remote has speakers built into it. NBC is showing highlights from the 2004 Olympics in Athens. I look forward to watching the swimming.
As much as I love watching them, I admit to harboring jealousy toward these Olympic athletes. Here they perform on the world stage, healthy men and women, doing what they love, representing their countries and living their dreams. I was also an athlete. Now my sole competition is with my body. The Athens athletes are concerned about going faster, higher, stronger than their peers. Me? Don’t I deserve a gold medal for saying my first word?
Debbie finishes her day shift and says goodbye. I look at her and smile and slightly nod my head. She is such a nice woman. Before she goes, she asks me if I need anything. I direct my eyes toward the radio, and she knows right away what I want. She turns it on. I give her a thumbs-up in gratitude. The song playing is “Rooster,” by Alice in Chains, one of my all-time favorite songs. As soon as I hear the music, my body is temporarily in a state of total peace, almost as if I’m back to my old self again. I silently sing along with the lyrics: Ain’t found a way to kill me yet . . . This song neatly defines who I am, in this bed, in this hospital room.
Tony walks into my room. He’s my respiratory therapist. I like him. He has a dark complexion, is bald, and has a gentle but motivating personality. He says that everyone is talking about how I said my first word. He examines my tracheostomy tube. “Okay, so what I’m going to do is pick up where Debbie left off,” he says. “I talked it over with the doctors, and we decided to try an alternative method of having you speak. I think you’ll probably like it better.” He’s addressing me as if I’m a dog, not truly capable of fully understanding what he’s saying.
After he removes the yucky fluid buildup in my lungs, he carefully places a small buttonlike piece of equipment on the outer hub of the tracheostomy tube. The one-way valve, he tells me, will open to let air in when I breathe. The valve closes during exhaling, causing air to leave and permitting speech.
He steps back several feet. I nervously open my mouth and exhale. In amazement, several words come sputtering out of my mouth in a distorted high-pitched sound. “Hello, Tony . . . oh my God, I am talking! I am actually talking! Can you believe it?” Tony looks dumbfounded. He runs out of the room, grabbing nurses and pushing them into my room. I greet them all by name. “Hey Nurse Faye, Victoria, Eileen, Mary Kate . . . where’s Dr. Catevenis?”
It seems like the entire ICU staff on my floor—doctors, nurses, physical therapists, respiratory therapists, medical school students, interns, security guards, nutritionists, maintenance workers—have all rushed into my room. They all want to witness the miracle. I greet as many as I can by name. Everyone looks to be in a state of shock. I’m the only one talking for a change. Not a torrent of words, but enough to cause many to start crying. It’s like they have witnessed a corpse climb out of his grave. I owe my life to these people.
The big man, Dr. Catevenis, joins the crowd. I say “hello” again. He then turns around and begins waving his arms as if he is directing traffic. I glance up at the clock; it is 11:00. Visiting hour.
My dad threads his way through everyone. He rushes to my bed to see what is going on.
“Hey Dad! Where’s Mom?” He looks at me, speechless, and tears start running down his cheeks. He wants to say something but he is too choked up. I’m the one who has the words now. “Dad, I promise everything is going to be fine.”
My mom enters the room. “Hi Mom!” I say. She has the same reaction as my dad, astounded and tearful.
She tenderly places her hand over my right hand. “Hello handsome,” she answers.
CHAPTER 12
QUESTION TIME
Now that I can finally converse, it feels like a jailbreak for my mind. Newly freed, I’m determined to ask questions that have circled in my mind like birds of prey hunting for food. Number one priority is finding out why I am here. I keep hearing those two words “car accident,” but I have no recollection of being in one. I drive a black 1994 Camaro that I bought from my mom for $2,500. It’s a vanity muscle car, but its V6 engine wasn’t build for speed. I’m a safe and cautious driver, with no arrests, citations, warnings, or even a single speeding ticket. My friends say I drive like a granny. So how could I have been in a crash, and not just some fender bender? I never raced, drove drunk, or did anything that many eighteen-year-olds often do that raises their paren
ts’ auto insurance rates. And if I was driving, what happened to the Camaro or the other driver? Were there any passengers with me? What time of day did the accident happen? Why can’t I make sense of any of this? What is preventing me from remembering?
Before the morning nurse arrives, I begin rehearsing the battery of questions that I will ask her. I hope she obliges and answers them. All I want is the truth. It’s time I find out the facts. Then I reconsider this strategy. She might feel like she has to protect me from knowing too much if the doctors think it might cause agitation and impede my recovery. But my parents will level with me, won’t they? So I will wait until visiting hour before I become Perry Mason.
Meanwhile, I fantasize about water. I’m told that I can’t have a sip of water until I pass the swallowing test. Swallowing test? I guess they want to see if I can drink under their supervision. I will have to just wait and suffer.
I’m pleased to see that the morning nurse is Victoria. She is tall, around five feet eleven, and has blonde hair that’s usually tied up in a ponytail. She has cared for me numerous times and is always smiling. We exchange small talk at long last. She prepares me for the day’s first physical therapy session. My blood is taken, IVs reset, gown changed, and hair combed. I find out that I’m no longer on morphine, though I’m still on the ventilator because my lungs are weak.
My main physical therapist, Francine, walks in and is excited to see that I’m able to greet her. She is usually all business. Or maybe she was only like that with me because I couldn’t speak.
Both Francine and Victoria lift me from my bed onto the angry chair. The way it’s positioned, I can get a closer look at the photos pinned to the wall. In most of them, I’m in a good mood, smiling. Yet I feel discouraged seeing the muscles I had developed over the many years of weight training and competing in sports. There I am getting ready for a race at a local pool, talking with Coach Covey before a track meet, doing one of my bodybuilding bicep poses. There are several pictures of me with my parents that were taken on our trip to Jamaica in June. Photographic evidence of pre-accident Brian is nearly impossible to reconcile with the present. I must have lost over seventy-five pounds. How am I ever going to get back into shape again? Is that even possible, or will I be confined to a wheelchair? The walls start closing in on me again as I feel the dark, looming pressure of the unknown tightening its grip on the future. I look away from the photos. Thankfully, my therapy session is starting.
We begin with the usual routine of lifting legs, squeezing hands, and pushing feet forward. As we go through each set, I tell them—it’s so great to talk!—that it hurts my tailbone when I sit for very long in the angry chair. Victoria says that the pain is due to my broken pelvis, which was shattered in the crash. Since I lost a lot of weight, the tailbone is putting additional pressure on nerves in the area that used to have a lot more body-fat support. She finds a small donut-shaped yellow cushion and places it under my butt. Wow! That’s so much better. The pain practically disappears and I thank her for the good deed. She walks outside my room to work on my medical records and daily paperwork.
Under Francine’s guidance, I lift my right arm ten times. Even with her direct and serious personality, it’s clear that she is amazed at how rapidly the recovery has been going. I glance up at the clock, and I see that it’s almost eleven. My parents will be here soon. Will I be able to ask them about the accident? I decide to first test the waters with Francine.
“Um, what other bones were broken besides my pelvis?”
She looks confused. “Nobody has told you?” she responds. I continue to stare at her with a blank look, letting her know that I’m clueless. “Well from your medical records and from talking to your nurses and doctors, I don’t really think anybody thought you were actually going to make it. I remember a few weeks ago, I would pass your room and when I looked at you, my heart would break, every single time. You looked like you were in so much pain. I see a lot of patients come in here who are in really bad shape, but you looked like you were ready to slip away any minute. Some people who have undergone much less trauma do die, but here you are. I don’t want to frighten you, but I feel like I’m talking to a ghost.
“And, as far as your injuries, I know that many of your ribs were broken, both lungs were collapsed. I was told that your heart had shifted to the opposite side of your chest, but it kept beating because you were fit and healthy. You’re like Superman to have gone through what you have, or maybe your heart is just made of iron. Whatever it is, your recovery is beyond belief. You had so many surgeries and operations while you were in the coma. Some of your organs, like your spleen and gallbladder, were removed. You had kidney dialysis, life support, and a ventilator keeping you alive.”
Yes, I think, I’m still alive.
She adds, “Because your pelvis was badly damaged from the impact of the crash, that’s my big concern at the moment. I’m sorry to have to say this, but it will be another miracle if you can walk again. On the bright side, look how far you have come already.”
I now know why my parents and everyone kept telling me that I only had a few broken bones. They never mentioned that I was going to be a cripple the rest of my life. All the progress that I have made has just been canceled. Why did I have to ask Francine? I start crying. She tries to console me, but it’s too late.
For the rest of our physical therapy session, I remain quiet and sullen. I try to smile and nod every now and then, but it’s completely artificial. My spirit is broken. I’m damaged goods. What will it be like to never walk again? How will this change my life? When I graduated high school a few months ago, I never thought that the bright future I had planned was going to turn into something as awful as this. The day of my graduation, as I walked across the stage, the school principal should have said, “Mr. Boyle, congratulations, here’s your diploma. And by the way, in several weeks, all your goals and dreams will be destroyed in a car accident. Best of luck to you in the future.”
When Francine leaves, I’m in a foul mood and I do something that I shouldn’t. A white sheet covers me from the waist down. Naturally, I’m curious to see what the rest of my body looks like. From seeing my arms and legs, I know I’m rail thin and have agonizingly come to accept this unfortunate fact. But what does my stomach look like and what about everything below that? I slowly raise the sheet and lift up my hospital gown for a peek. I notice the invading catheter, but as I raise my eyes upward to my stomach and lower chest, the view is revolting. It’s much worse than anything I had ever imagined. I have never seen anything as dreadful as this. I knew I was pretty messed up from the accident, but this is totally gruesome. It looks as though I have been ripped open many times by the assistance of scalpels and finely sharpened blades. The only thing missing is the carved signature from the surgeon who did all this fine work. What detail, what craftsmanship. I have scars all over. My stomach has been sliced open from the middle of my chest all the way down to my belly button, and the wound is ugly and red. There are even tiny segments of the skin that have not yet fully closed, and I can actually see tiny holes that go deep beneath the layers of skin. I have another long cut that goes all the way across the lower area of my left pectoral. My body is ruined.
Ever since middle school, I always tried to take care of my physique by eating well and weight training. It started when I joined the basketball team in sixth grade. Every day after practice, I would jump rope for several minutes, do an endless number of sit-ups and push-ups, and run whenever I got the chance.
When I saw the formation of my very first abdominal muscles, the workout craze really hit strong and I weight trained everyday after that. It wasn’t really a macho kind of thing that led me to this lifestyle, but more a feeling of being healthy that made me enjoy doing it. The feedback that I happily received from the girls was a big plus too.
Throughout high school, I stayed in shape and actively participated in sports, never getting caught up in the party scene. Shortly after graduation, one of my clo
se friends, named Rachel, persuaded me to pursue modeling. She has the look—tall, blonde hair, long legs, cute face, and she had been modeling for several years. She said that I was the type of guy some agencies were looking for. Shortly after graduation, I received a phone call from a modeling agent in California who wanted me to fly out and attend college near L.A. because he thought I could get work with Calvin Klein Underwear and Abercrombie & Fitch. Unfortunately, I never made the trip west. Instead, I’m in Intensive Care, morbidly staring at my wretched, gone-to-hell body.
When Victoria returns, I hurry to lower the sheet in embarrassment. I give her a fake grin. My parents are following closely behind her, and my dad is carrying a bottle of Mountain Dew. I’m eager to see them. It’s a timely diversion from thinking about my Frankenstein torso.
Victoria says that they have a surprise. I can have my first drink. She hands me a small red plastic cup of ice and gives me instructions. I can chew ice but I should let the ice melt so that my mouth will eventually create a swallowing reflex. If I’m able to accomplish this, then I can move onto a sip of water.
I look at the red cup in my hands. I’ve dreamt of this moment. I bring the cup closer to my lips and feel the cool vapors rising up and caressing my chin, mouth, and cheeks. I can’t wait any longer. I slowly bring the cup up, letting the small chips of ice slide into my mouth. My teeth instantly feel a sharp tingling sensitivity to the coldness, but I slowly adjust to it as I swish the ice around my mouth with my tongue. After several seconds, the ice starts to break down into a cold liquid. I feel the tiny muscles in my throat cooperate as the liquid slides down my dry, sandpapery throat. I feel the chill in my stomach. I take another mouthful of ice, a little more this time.