by Brian Boyle
Sitting in the front passenger seat and gazing out the window, I know I am returning home. But what exactly am I returning to? I sourly reflect upon two athletic goals I had made at high school graduation. I was all set to swim for St. Mary’s College. Now it’s doubtful that I’ll ever be able to swim again, considering the damage done to my shoulder, pelvis, and lungs. I had also wanted to compete in an Ironman triathlon. But instead of swimming 2.4 miles, biking 112 miles, and running 26.2 miles, my new triathlon will consist of brushing my teeth, combing my hair, and using the toilet by myself.
I lower my eyes to meet the outside side mirror. My face looks thin, pale, and haggard. I don’t look eighteen, but more like a tired eightyeight-year-old man. My cheekbones are practically poking through my skin. I barely have any fat left in my face. My nose looks like skin wrapped tightly over cartilage. Dark circles cradle my bloodshot eyes. I must learn to accept the foreign me.
As we begin driving down our street, my parents warn me that the wrecked Camaro is parked in the driveway near the woods that border our house. It was towed there after the accident. I nervously shoot a glance at the crumpled black hulk as we approach it. Where a driver’s seat used to be is gone, pancaked out of existence.
My dad parks and carries me into the house, down the hallway and then toward the living room where he places me carefully on the couch. After bringing in the rest of my stuff from the truck, he goes upstairs to my room and brings down the mattress and bed frame into the living room. This will be my new bedroom. My dad moves the couch to the left side of the bed where my mom is going to sleep, and he aligns the reclining chair to be on the bed’s right side. This is where he is going to sleep. Even though I don’t have twenty-four-hour nurses anymore, I am sandwiched between two very concerned parents. I feel finally safe, at peace.
I’m amazed at how different the house looks. All the walls have been recently painted but every room seems to be in total chaos—clothes thrown all over the floor, papers scattered across tables. I ask my mom what happened, and she explains that all their focus has been on me. I feel a small surge of guilt but realize how utterly dependent I am on them for everything. I still need their help to make the short walk to the bathroom. I try to use the cane, but my balance is shaky and not to be trusted.
One of my biggest worries is how much weight I have lost. I went from 230 pounds to 130 pounds. Most of that hundred pounds was muscle. Being bulked-up might have saved my life. I heard a doctor once remark that my body had been feeding off all the muscle mass when I was in the coma. Another doctor mentioned that my extra body weight at the accident site gave my internal organs cushion from the several tons of impact that slammed into the left side of my body.
So there are two things that require immediate addressing: gaining back the weight and building up muscles. It’s too early for my system to start gulping down protein shakes like I used to do for quick weight gain before track season. So I start with the muscles. With my parents watching television, I begin doing the seven different arm and leg exercises like I did at Kernan.
I slowly go through the first set, experiencing the familiar burning sensation of inactive muscles being worked. I push past the intense pain, but I know I must force myself to be even tougher than when “no pain, no gain” was my mantra as a weightlifter and swimmer. This is a different kind of pain, because my survival and independence depend on it. Unrestricted by the fluorescent, antiseptic confines of the hospital—no more needles, paralysis, seizures, life support, being fed through a tube—I now have to take control of my own destiny. But how is this even possible? How far am I willing to go in order to repair my shattered body?
After my workout is done, the day’s excitement has tired me. I try to fall asleep but I can’t get comfortable in my bed. I’ve become so used to stiff, crinkly hospital mattresses, where every move your body makes sounds like you’re lying upon a wrestling mat covered in potato chips. I’m disappointed because I’ve been looking forward to sleeping in my soft bed, but the box springs are pushing into my spine and when I turn over, gravity puts too much weight on my back, which causes problems with my breathing.
I finally discover a comfortable position by lying upon my back with my arms spread out to the sides, which is the position I was forced to adopt in the hospital because I usually had IVs in both arms and a blood pressure cuff. My mattress crucifixion comes home.
I wake up several times throughout the night, tossing and turning, expecting to be accosted at any minute by a nurse ready to jab a needle in my arm to take blood. Then I hear the sound of the lawn mower start up. It’s not a dream. I glance at the clock. It’s 3:00 a.m. I look over at my mom; she’s still asleep. But my dad is gone. He’s outside mowing the lawn in pitch darkness. Has he lost his mind?
I’ve been away from the computer all summer. And not by choice. I’m curious what awaits me in the email inbox. Holding onto the walls for support, I hobble over to the den to my computer. My mom brings me in a pillow because my tailbone remains sensitive.
The moment I sign onto AOL Instant Messenger, I find messages from everybody—friends, relatives, and strangers who have been following my progress on the website that my Uncle Chip and Aunt Lisa put together when I was in the hospital. I’m overwhelmed by their concern and support.
While juggling several simultaneous conversations, I check the email but there are so many unread messages in the inbox that the computer crashes. I reboot the system and locate several hundred emails. As I begin reading the messages, I become emotional and start crying. These emails touch my heart, the same heart that a collision with a dump truck on July 6 rudely shoved across my chest, the heart that stopped beating in Intensive Care, the heart that somehow managed to keep me alive through the infections and coma, the heart that is beating now so that I can sit at my computer and read these wonderful words.
From my high school principal, Garth Bowling, on July 27, 2004:
Mom and Dad, in 1977, on their way to a Led Zeppelin concert. My eighteenth year didn’t go as well as theirs.
Dad had an extensive record collection of rock classics. Here I am at four years old, listening.
Summer of 2001, my sophomore year, age fifteen, when I began my competitive high school swimming career. One of the best choices I ever made.
Swimming laps. I really miss my high school swimming days; there were a lot of great memories.
Getting ready to throw the discus in a high school meet in May 2004, which was about a month and a half before the accident. I bulked up to 230 pounds at this point in the season.
High school graduation day. I was really proud of what I had accomplished both academically and athletically. I was ready for the future, or so I thought.
In Jamaica for my senior graduation trip. Two weeks before the accident.
July 6, 2004. My smashed-up Camaro. This crash-scene photo is haunting.
My last day in Intensive Care before being moved up to the eighth floor. The tracheotomy tube had just been removed from my throat.
Depressed and discouraged, I had lost one hundred pounds by this point. I feel like a skeleton boy.
My towering medical file. My parents were always signing papers authorizing surgery and treatment.
My first day at the rehab center in Baltimore. Looking down at my broken body, I can only think, “Lord, where do I go from here?” Full recovery and a normal life seem impossible.
Six months after getting out of the hospital. I used to be able bicep-curl 50 pounds with each arm for repetitions, and now I struggle to lift the barbell with five-pound plates on each side. This is hard, psychologically and physically.
Me and Rachel Gearhart, a special person and friend. She was there for me through both good times and bad.
Me and Dr. Daee, my trauma surgeon, July 6, 2005.
Me and Dr. Catevenis, my Intensive Care doctor, July 6, 2005.
Me and Dr. Naficy, my heart surgeon, July 6, 2005.
Bulking up at the gym two ye
ars after leaving the hospital. The bodybuilding passion is back and bigger than ever.
August 2007—From bodybuilding to triathlon. About to go for a practice swim on the day before the Steelhead 70.3 half-Ironman in Lake Michigan. One racer waded by me and said, “With all those muscles, you might sink to the bottom.”
October 2007—Just before the swim start at the Hawaii Ironman in Kona.
I had a good Ironman swim—one hour, 11 minutes for 2.4 miles.
Riding my Cannondale on the Queen K Highway—long, hot, desolate. A ride I will never forget.
Running through town during the early section of the marathon. That smile on my face doesn’t last long once I make it onto the Queen K.
The best day of my life—crossing the Hawaii Ironman finish line.
Ellen DeGeneres’s talk show lifted my spirits while I was hospitalized. Little did I know that one day I’d be a guest on her show.
Summer 2008—Riding my new Cannondale Slice at the Newfoundland 70.3 half-Ironman. The tricked-out bike was given to me for receiving the Cannondale Determination Award in 2007.
A happy family again, three days after returning home from the Hawaii Ironman in October 2007. Not sure where the journey will take us, but we are grateful for having come this far.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Boyle,
I am so sorry to hear about Brian’s car accident. He is such a wonderful young man and I know how proud you are of him. We at McDonough High School are all hoping and praying that he will have a full recovery. Many of us have been reading the website so we can keep updated on Brian. I will keep him in my daily thoughts and prayers. Please let us know if we can be of any help.
From my Uncle Joey, Aunt Donna, and younger cousin Garrett on September 1, 2004:
Brian,
We love you! Glad you’re feeling better—can’t wait until you come home. With your positive attitude all things are possible.
From one of my very good childhood friends, Molly Simpson, on September 4, 2004:
Brian,
I’m so glad to keep hearing how great you are doing! It amazes me to read your progress from day to day. I’m leaving tomorrow for college, but I will keep in touch and come see you when you are ready to have visitors. Keep it up!
From my Aunt Lisa, Uncle Chip, and cousins Ethan, Wyatt, and Sydney on August 26, 2004:
Brian,
Your mom and dad have been updating us on your progress every day and we are so glad to hear how well you are doing. Uncle Chip can’t wait to take you to meet Godsmack in October. We are so excited for you to finally go home. We love you and keep you in our prayers everyday.
From one of my good friends, Rachel Gearhart, on August 28, 2004:
Just want you to know that I think you’re pretty wonderful! I’m so glad you’re feeling better! I love you, sweetie!
From my biggest rival on the high school swim team and good friend, Josh Turner, on September 10, 2004:
Brian,
Man, sorry to hear the bad news. But I read that you’re making progress. I expect you to compete against me again some day and you’re only going to be better from all of this, so I’ll bring my best. I’m going to come see you before I’m off to school and that’s a promise, bro. Hang in there, dude. I’ll see you soon. All my prayers.
From my high school art teacher, Mrs. Eicholtz, on September 5, 2004:
Brian,
I’m so glad to hear that you’re doing so well! All the teachers at McDonough have been praying for you. As you recoup, your love for art will be a nice outlet for you. The skills you learned in high school will help you to create; I really think you are the one student who enjoyed and explored the most in your advanced level art class this year. And, congrats on being the highest scorer on the art portfolio; zoning in on your concentration early in the year was what really made your portfolio so great! As you heal and feel up to it, let me know if I can get you any art supplies or anything. My prayers are with you always.
From my really great friend and fellow swimmer, Sam Fleming, on September 7, 2004:
Brian,
Dude, You are the most inspirational person I’ve ever met. Keep staying strong, bud! Whenever you’re ready to swim just give me a call and I’ll be there. And anytime you want to hang or workout, I’ll be there. Take care, bud!”
From the Omaha, Nebraska, rock group 311, on August 28, 2004:
Being positive is real easy when things are going great, but it’s the real test when the fit hits the shan. Life is a gift, and to be here enjoying it is the meaning of life. We are here and we don’t know why; so, learn as much as you can, treat people right, and enjoy this precious gift. We are all family. No one is just a fan to us; we know that everyone is divine. The new album is going to be right up your alley, with contemplative leanings on the dark side, lyrically (dealing with breakups and bad attitudes), and of course a good mixture of hard jams and mellow reggae grooves, with some experimental rock in there for good measure.
From U.S. Olympic Swimmer, Gary Hall Jr., on September 10, 2004:
A hello and welcome back from one swimmer to another. I had a chance to read up on the terrible accident on your family’s website. As sorry as I was to hear about your misfortune, I am just as, if not more, relieved to hear that things are returning back to normal and that you, through unimaginable determination, are picking up the pieces. For this I offer my most sincere congratulations. You have my respect and admiration. I was very impressed with your enthusiasm for life. Obviously, it has assisted you back to health. Your grades, your swimming, your writing portray a tremendous human being, one of the good ones. This is perhaps what makes your accident such a tragedy. The world needs people like you. We can’t afford to lose you. Particularly moving was the Charles Dickens quote on your website: “Ride on! Rough shod if need be. Smooth shod if that will do, but ride on! Ride on over all obstacles and win the race!” Welcome back. I look forward to one day meeting you; maybe we’ll go for a swim. Ride on.
From my cousin and close friend, Matt Mansfield, on September 1, 2004:
Brian Boyle—he walks, he talks, and even uses his muscles again! You showed everyone what Divine Intervention really is, what a miracle is, what happens when you really mean something in this world, and mean something to other people. You showed your family, your doctors, and your friends, that it can happen to anyone. The way I look at it is that you are just starting your life as a smart, strong, healthy, friendly, and the definition of a happy and dedicated person. You are the symbol of living life stronger than death. You are the strongest person I know and probably will ever know. You are my cousin, my best friend, my big brother. I love you bro, and always will.
From my cousin and close friend, Hayley Mansfield, on September 1, 2004:
Brian . . .
I’m so excited you’re doing better! And, I can’t wait to see you! You are such an incredible and caring person, and this past summer you have taught me so much about life. You taught me that things happen in life that you can’t explain. They just happen and have no reason for it. Nobody knew that when they said goodbye, it was almost forever. No one knows how strong you really are, how much you can fight the pain, but you proved you get through anything. This isn’t the battle, but it is the war. You have to fight stronger than you ever have before. Each day that goes by gets more intense. The question isn’t anymore if you’ll make it; it’s how much longer it will take. You prove that miracles do happen, that the power of prayer is so much. You prove there is a God out there. You taught me not only to never give up on my dreams, but to never give up on myself. This, I believe, keeps you going every day. This keeps you strong. It shows you the most important things in life. This isn’t over; it will never be. But you will stay strong; you will overcome this. I look up to you through all of this. Brian, you are my hero.
I turn off the computer and sit in silent, teary awe. My mom notices that I have been crying. “Everything okay, honey?” she asks.
“Life couldn�
�t be greater,” I respond. I really mean this.
During my first few days home, I relax when I’m not pushing through exercise routines. I watch a lot of daytime television like the Ellen DeGeneres Show, Andy Griffith Show, and ESPN’s SportsCenter, and favorite movies like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Patton, Easy Rider, Stand By Me, Goodfellas, and Jeremiah Johnson. I’m also reading and rereading all the letters and get-well cards that I received from family and friends when I was in the hospital.