Fallen: A Trauma, a Marriage, and the Transformative Power of Music (16 page)

WHEN SIMON WAKES
, he indicates with his fierce right hand that the tape and nose tube are irritating him. I tell him I will speak to a doctor or nurse just as Karen, the occupational therapist, arrives with Marc and Lorna. Karen asks Simon if he understands what the nose tube is for. Although it has been previously explained to him that it is there to provide nutrition, he signals with a waggle of his hand that he is unsure. Karen re-explains, and he squeezes, yes, he understands. She has brought a blue duotang labeled
This Log Book Belongs to Simon,
where we can all mark down progress, observations, or concerns. As I leave to go to the hotel for food, a shower, and a nap, Simon is being transferred into the bed-chair.

While Simon is positioned in the upright chair, eyes closed and head slumped forward, Marc continues singing. He sings Gram Parsons’s “Hickory Wind,” an urgency threading through the gentle melody.

At the start of the third verse Simon lifts his head and looks toward his father. As Marc sings “It’s a hard way to find out that trouble is real,” Simon, for the first time since his fall, mouths the shape of words. Although he makes no sound, he is, in effect, singing the lyrics along with his father.

Later, when I return to his room, Simon gestures “you” (pointing at me) and “talk” (making a gabbing motion with his hand), then points to his nose tube.

“Yes,” I say. “I spoke with the nurses. Do you remember what Karen explained about the nose tube?”

Yes, he nods and mouths “thank you” and “love you.” I think. I think that is what he is saying. I want so much for that to be what he is saying.

“I love you too, Beau. You know I do.”

He pushes the right side pillow off the bed and gestures emphatically for me to sit beside him. I sidle into the narrow space between his body and the lowered guardrail, massaging his left hand and wrist, as he falls back to sleep.

SANTIAGO RAMÓN Y CAJAL
, a fiercely free-thinking Spaniard, was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1906 for his work in neuroanatomy. Ramón’s work demonstrated how axons grew, and he argued forcefully that nerve cells are singular and independent elements. The idea that music training can produce anatomical changes in the brain can be traced back to Ramón when he argued, “Everybody knows that the ability of a pianist... requires many years of mental and muscular gymnastics. To understand this important phenomenon, it is necessary to accept that, in addition to the reinforcement of pre-established organic pathways, new pathways are created by the ramification and progressive growth of terminal dendritic and axonal processes.”

This is what music demands: that new pathways be created.

AUGUST 8, DAY 18

Big day, babe. At 6:30 this morning I went to write an update in the log book. You gestured at the book and I handed you the pen and held up the back page and you wrote “Logbook.” When I asked you to write your name, you printed out “Simon.” Later, while I was discussing the need for an ear specialist to take a look at your ears and the nurse was disagreeing, you gestured for the log book and wrote “take Kara’s opinion.” “Opinion” took several tries and you didn’t spell it quite right, but close enough.

Seriously!

I have so much faith in your ability to heal, but, honestly, I didn’t think we would reach this point so fast. I was so excited to show your parents, but I could see the look of dismay on your mother’s face when she saw your spidery, barely legible scrawl. This is it? her look said. This is the big breakthrough? She is terrified at how slow your process of waking up is. She’d prefer (as would we all) that you’d just sit up and start beating her at Scrabble. Right. Now.

Still... it has been such an exciting day with you writing. It’s hard for me not to get too ahead of myself. I, of course, wanted you to keep writing all day. This morning you asked, “What is reason for stay?” and I explained that you had fallen and hurt your back and head. You also wrote “general information for the persona” and, when Guido arrived, “A blank page for Eli...,” two messages which made me feel especially pleased. “Simon has some places to rock!!” was perhaps my favorite message of all.

You did continue to write messages with vehemence—underlining and punctuating words with several, determined period marks—but they lacked the clarity of your earlier notes. The lines you drew looked like letters, almost. I felt as if you knew exactly what you wanted to say but the message was getting lost in translation.

But every day is a roller coaster. I left at 4:00 to eat something. Your mom said shortly after I left, your fever spiked and your hand movements became agitated. You were chilled and shivering, the fever was so intense. There has been a lot of dense bloody phlegm being suctioned out of your lungs. The doctors are also worried about a possible urinary tract infection. A nurse just came and took
bottles
of your blood (nice bottles, it looked a fine vintage). We’ll figure out what this is.

It’s 9:00 now. I sense we are in for a long, difficult night, but that’s okay. Eli is coming in tomorrow. Everything will be better with him here.

AUGUST 9, DAY 19

AS THE SUN
rises, I slump into the chair beside Simon’s bed, my sense of urgency in recording these pivotal days supplying me with just enough energy to update my journal. I have been up all night, along with the overnight nurse, filling small white bags with ice from the ice machine to pack around Simon’s body, tucking them into his armpits, over his forehead, and around his groin. His fever has hovered around 40 degrees Celsius all night, and because his liver is showing high levels of toxicity, he is unable to take a Tylenol. Ice bags are the last line of defense against this raging fever. He is so hot, it takes less than ten minutes for the ice to melt enough that it needs to be replaced.

Simon wags his hand at me, signaling he wants to write something. I pass him the pen and hold up the log book so that he can scribble his message, but the words he writes are undecipherable. The only thing I can clearly make out is the phrase “I Simon” and the word “wait.”

“I’m waiting, Beau,” I say. “You take your time. As much time as you need. Do you remember why you are here, in the hospital?”

Simon’s right hand, fingers and palm flat, tilts from side to side, a gesture we have come to interpret as indicating uncertainty. I give him my standard explanation that: one, he hurt his head and back but is in stable condition; two, he needs a lot of rest while the swelling comes down; and three, he can trust his body because he is amazing and is getting better every day. I have been repeating this explanation to him, using the same words over and over in the hopes that he will begin to remember what is going on from one waking moment to the next, and this time I am rewarded by an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Although his forehead is warm and clammy against my palm, it is clear the fever is lessening. I play Gram Parsons’s “One Hundred Years from Now” on the small boom box Marc has bought. The look on Simon’s face suggests that while the song is familiar, he can’t quite place it. He mouths (I think) “What is this?,” suddenly exhausted. I switch it off just over halfway through, replacing it with Glenn Gould’s recording of Bach’s Prelude in C Minor. This music is more soothing, and Simon drifts off, finally, into a peaceful sleep. When Marc and Lorna arrive, I retreat to my darkened hotel room.

9:35 p.m.

Beau! Eli was here today and described how Sully had dared him and his friend Nate to wear girl’s short shorts to play tennis in. Eli said he and Nate had accepted the dare but were worried about “their junk hanging out.”

And you laughed.

Not just a smile but a full—albeit noiseless—movement from the belly.

Eli wrote you a note that I am to show you every day he is not here:
Hey Man, Stay strong. Everyone is cheering for you. I love you. Eli.

Your fever is heading up again.

The nurse—another Judy—gave you a bed wash and then she said, as she pulled on a pair of gloves, she was going to get some lubricant and “perform your bowel care.” What a look on your face. Oh babe. I am glad that you are likely forgetting all of this. The look was one of questioning horror. All I could say was something dumb about this being the best way right now and telling you again that this is transitory—moments in time—that we will be moving through and past this.

I try to imagine what it must be like waking up and not remembering the previous day. I do feel like there is a bit of a cumulative buildup of information for you. Your confusion today is more articulate, less abstracted.

AUGUST 10, DAY 20

IT IS ANOTHER
sleepless night replacing ice bags over and around Simon’s scalding body, but by 6:30 in the morning the fever seems to have finally broken. I place rolled-up towels under Simon’s hands to facilitate straightening the fingers. The left hand, still unmoving, remains tightly clenched.

As Simon wakes I play the Glenn Gould
CD
until he signals—with a definitive slicing motion—
enough
. I ask him if he would like me to read and I pull out the Cormac McCarthy book. I have only read a few sentences when I am interrupted by a whispery squawk. Simon is trying to speak.

“Sorry, Beau,” I say. “I’m not sure what you are trying to say.”

He vigorously waves his hand at the log book, and when I hand him the pen he writes, “Why am I alone riding up Coast.”

“I’m not sure I understand the question,” I say. “But I can understand that at times right now you must feel very alone. But I’m here. So are Eli and your mom and dad. And so many other people: Emily, Sarah, Rob, my mom, Guido, Joe, Sully. If not always in person, then in spirit.” I explain to him that after he fell, he rode in the Air Evac, alone, to Vancouver and that Guido met him at the hospital and that I came as fast as I possibly could.

Simon’s right hand drops the pen to tug at his blue hospital dressing gown. He shocks me by vocalizing clearly: “What will I wear?” I can’t help but laugh. It is a most ironic first statement, given Simon’s usual disdain for all things sartorial. Because of the trach, his voice is thin and mechanical-sounding but... it is his voice. Talking!

“I need clothes.” This next statement is more of a whisper, and it is obvious that the effort to push enough air to vocalize is exhausting.

When the respiratory therapist arrives, she covers Simon’s trach opening. His breath is strong and he graces her with two words: “Hello” and “Perfect.” After the nurse suctions out his lungs through the trach hole, he says, “That was remarkably uncomfortable,” carefully enunciating each syllable in a manner of speaking that reminds me of his grandfather.

He laughs several times at my dumb jokes—big, full chuckles—and, when he sees my cup of tea, asks what I am drinking. He remembers the explanation from yesterday that he couldn’t have food or water by mouth yet and that he was getting nutrition from the damned nose tube. He smiles when I tell him I will cook anything he wants to eat when the tube is out. Later, when I ask if he needs anything, he says “Coca Cola,” and I say the best I can do right now is honey lip balm, and once again he laughs.

9:30 p.m.

Well, Beau... when you woke up this morning, you really woke up. You have been awake all day, connecting with the nurses, being grilled by your mom (she ran you through your paces—identifying colors, numbers, letters, geometrical shapes and reading a clock face—all of which you answered like a pro) and engaging with visitors.

Al and Julie came to visit, and you, without being prompted, remembered that you had been set to play a wedding gig in Vancouver yesterday with Al (and Pat and Kristi). You asked Al how the gig went and who played guitar and apologized for not making it. You remembered the Olympics were on and told me you wanted to watch some “
goddamned sports
.” You agitated for getting a
TV
hooked up early in the morning and remembered to follow up throughout the day, badgering me every time I walked into the room, so insistent that I have to override my anti-
TV
sentiments. Nurse Laurel obliged us and brought in an ancient idiot box in the evening. No cable yet, but we watched half of an old
VHS
cassette—
Girlfight
—before you fell into a deep sleep.

It has been one of the best days of my life.

AUGUST 10, DAY 20

THIS IS THE
first day Simon will remember since his accident. Although many questions about the brain injury still remain, some of the largest are broadly answered: significant aspects of his memory, language, and personality are still amazingly, gloriously intact.

AS SIMON WAKES
, like a bear from hibernation, so does his appetite. He is famished, and all he wants is solid food. Well, he wants two things: food and access to round-the-clock coverage of the Olympics. This hunger for both nourishment and entertainment means that not only is he alive, he is Simon. The weight of all those dangerous, treacherous thoughts I worked so hard not to even think—What if Simon didn’t wake up Simon? Who would he be? Would he be angry? Would he be desolate? Would he be lost or trapped within the bruised and caved-in parts of his brain? Would he still love me? Would he still want what he had always wanted before?—is momentarily suspended. The profound normalcy of his requests verge for me on the miraculous.
TV
and chicken shawarma.

The
TV
proves easier to provide than food. The day after Simon’s awakening, he is moved out of Step-Down and into the spinal cord ward proper. Marc fills out a request at the nurses’ station, and, shortly after, the cable guy hooks up a small
TV
in Simon’s room and he is able to watch swimmer Michael Phelps take the men’s 400-meter medley, the first of Phelps’s historic eight Olympic gold medals.

Although I have explained the nature of the spinal cord injury to Simon when he learns he will be transferring out of Step-Down, he writes this note:
If I’m moving to another room I’ll need a set of crutches to assist me to!!