Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead (8 page)

My dad studies the machines keeping me alive. He tells me the police told them that the accident happened around one thirty in the afternoon on July 6, which was three days after the picnic. It took place at an intersection a few minutes from our house at Ripley and Poorhouse roads. I had called them earlier that day because I had just left the track and was on my way to swim at the Lackey High School pool. I mentioned that after my swim workout, I was coming home to lift weights. Then on my way home, I went through the intersection and a dump truck hit me.

“A dump truck?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he responds. “The police called it a T-bone because it hit right in the middle of the Camaro on the driver’s side.”

“And what kind of condition did the police say that I was in?”

My father pauses. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to continue. My mom starts talking. She says I called her at work that morning and asked her not to forget to stop by St. Mary’s College to make a change to my fall schedule. On her way home, she remembered slamming on her brakes when the car in front of her abruptly stopped as a small dog darted in front of it. For some reason, she looked at the clock and saw the time was 1:30 p.m. She had a strange feeling, almost a premonition. “I often wonder if it was the mother instinct deep within warning me that you were in trouble. It was a feeling that I have never experienced and one I will never forget,” she says. Then she stopped at the florist to order flowers for a colleague at work who was in the hospital. She got home around three. As she pulled into the driveway, she noticed that I was still out. Inside, she checked the phone’s caller ID and noticed Dimensions Healthcare. She didn’t recognize the name and played a message that said, “This is Prince George’s Hospital Center calling regarding Brian Boyle. Please call as soon as possible.”

“I started trembling, hyperventilating, and crying all at the same time,” she says, “I had to dial the number several times because my fingers were shaking so badly. I kept saying to myself, ‘What happened? Why Prince George’s Hospital?’ That’s where someone is taken for emergency trauma. When I finally dialed the number, a woman told me that you were in an accident and that I needed to get there soon. I asked over and over if you were alive, but couldn’t get any details. The woman asked me if I had someone to drive me there. She could tell that I was frantic. As soon as I hung up, I called your dad on a construction site two hours away. As soon as he answered, I said something bad had happened to you. He screamed into the phone, ‘No, No, No! Get to the hospital as soon as you can!’”

My mom stops talking. The memory of July 6 overwhelms her. She can’t find the words to carry on. My dad consoles her with a hug. He explains his immediate reaction when he got the bad news. “When I got a call from your mom, I found myself on my knees, like someone had taken a baseball bat and laid me out flat. She told me what hospital and I asked myself if you would be alive when I got there. On my way to the hospital, a police officer from the accident scene called and told me that you were in really bad shape. He said that you had severe internal and head injuries, and he didn’t think you were going to survive and was surprised you were still living after the impact of the crash. It was a direct and harsh conversation. The officer didn’t show any compassion or empathy.”

My dad goes silent.

“How bad did I look when you first saw me?” I ask.

“Son, I know you have a lot of questions about what happened,” my dad responds in a shaky voice, “but we aren’t ready to talk about that just yet. Everything is still so fresh in our minds right now. Soon, we’ll tell you about everything, but we just can’t talk about it right now. It’s too much.”

They sit uncomfortably in their chairs. It seems like we are all lost in our own thoughts. No one says anything for several minutes.

Victoria returns and says it’s time to take out the feeding tube, and that it won’t be anywhere near as painful as insertion. She gingerly peels back the tape from around the tube in my nose. She places her hands around the end of the tube, prepares me for the moment, and begins tugging.

The tube tickles while coming out. The other end of the thin hollow tube is dripping clear liquid onto my hospital gown. My nose twitches as it regains the feeling of not having a tube jammed in there anymore.

Victoria says that she has more good news. They have been slowly weaning my lungs from the ventilator without my even knowing it. She asks me if I feel any difference with my breathing patterns, and I say no. “Then there is a good chance that the trache tube will be removed.”

My parents wait for Victoria to leave before they spring another surprise: Yesterday, between visiting hours, they went to check out two local rehabilitation centers where I can start my real physical therapy.

“You mean ... I’m going to be leaving here? How soon?” I inquire timidly.

“Yeah, can you believe it?” says my mom. “The doctors said that you have to wait a few days before you can leave because they have to get most of the strong medication out of your system.”

“Oh . . . okay, that sounds great. So tell me about the two rehab places.”

My dad says, “We visited places in Baltimore and Washington, D.C. Both were highly recommended by the people here. The center in Baltimore is where football players from the Baltimore Ravens usually go when they get injured. We noticed that there was a lot of space outdoors where we could push you around in the wheelchair. The center in Washington was pretty nice too, but we didn’t think there was much outside space.”

“Okay, yeah, let’s go with the center in Baltimore.”

Despite only just finding out that I might never walk again, I can’t believe everything I’m hearing. My feeding tube is out. I’m finally being weaned off the ventilator. Leaving the ICU is another milestone.

My parents stay for the rest of visiting hour.

Right before I close my eyes for a nap, I notice a family walking by my room, crying and talking quietly with one another. Whoever they are crying for occupies the adjacent room. Both the father and mother are middle-aged. Huddled between them are several teenage-looking boys and girls who, I’m assuming, are their children. One of the older girls is holding up her mom who lifts a tissue to her face, dabbing her red, tearful eyes and then clenching the tissue in her hand the same way my mom used to do. The mother glances in my direction, then averts her eyes and lowers her head because she sees I’m watching. But she raises her head and renews eye contact with me. I smile and raise my right hand to let her know that I understand what she is going through.

She then decides to approach me. Her husband stands by the door. “Excuse me, Brian?” she says in a feeble, uncertain voice. “You don’t know me but your nurses told me all about you and everything you went through. Well, my son Brandon is in the same situation that you were in when you first got here.” She pauses. “They don’t think he is going to make it.” Another pause, though much longer, as if she only just realizes the reality of what she has said. “I know you don’t know us, but I just wanted to meet you, because everyone keeps telling us that you’re a true miracle for making it through all that you have. Just seeing you is giving us all the hope in the world that our son is going to make it, too. Please keep him in your prayers.” I tell her that I will. She comes closer to give me a hug. I shake her husband’s hand. I tell them to stay strong, and that they should talk to their son as much as they can because he needs them.

When they leave, I easily imagine Brandon in the next room, hooked up to many of the same machines that have kept me alive. I wonder if Brandon is even conscious. Does he know what is going on? Probably not, but one day he will. But what if he doesn’t? What if he doesn’t make it? I say a prayer for Brandon.

At this moment, I feel like I am the luckiest person in the world to have come this far.

A
sleepless, storm-tossed night. I can’t stop thinking about the costar in my new life: a wheelchair. This new set of wheels will replace the smashed-up Camaro. Hardly a fair trade. No V6 here. Just my hands, arms, and shoulders, which are barely functional. Will I be confined to a motorized chair? I wonder how fast these guys go. I’m sickened by the prospect of being a cripple. And just what is the politically correct term? Handicapped? Paraplegic? Vertically challenged? Disabled? Whatever label society chooses to slap on my forehead, that designation will remain with me the rest of my life. Yes, the rest of my life.

I watch dawn break and the sky lighten from my horizontal perch. I wish it would stay dark and allow me to disappear into its black inky void. I’m not ready for human company. As if to break this moody spell, the physical therapist Francine walks into my room with a metal walker. “What’s that?” I ask. “You said yesterday that I was never going to walk again.”

“I know I said that,” she says with a sly grin, “but I was looking over your X-rays with some of the doctors, and we thought, why not give it a try and see what you are capable of?”

Francine
, I say to myself,
you got game!
My mood instantly brightens. “Yes! Let’s go for it!” I shout triumphantly.

Another therapist comes into the room, Francine’s assistant, holding a belt restraint. They gently slide me over to the left edge of the bed so I can sit upright. My weakened back slouches forward because I’m still getting used to the tug of gravity. Francine’s assistant wraps the safety belt around my waist, then puts a pair of socks and shoes on my bony, delicate feet. They slide me forward a few more inches, just enough to regain the sensation of my feet touching the pink-tiled floor. My balance is flimsy. If somebody blew a puff of air at me, I would tip over and shatter into a thousand pieces.

They position the aluminum walker in front of me and move the remaining IVs so they won’t get tangled up. The trache tube is unhooked, so from this moment on, I’m breathing entirely on my own. I just hope my lungs are up to the task.

I think back to my power-lifting days, psyching myself up, before I slowly put weight on my feet, ankles, and knees. I tell Francine and her assistant I’m ready. They maintain a sturdy grip on the restraint belt. They lift me. I rise, like Lazarus from the dead. My unused joints make loud cracking noises, like popcorn in the microwave. It takes more than a minute to fully stand. I’m covered in sweat, my back slouching, legs wobbly, arms cramping, lungs heaving. I did it! I stand proudly for another fifteen seconds.

I imagine what it would be like if I took a small step. Just several inches, that’s all. But I realize I’m not quite ready for such heroics, so I tell them I need to sit.

They support me as I slowly lean forward, trying to bend my legs. I’m several inches from the bed when my legs collapse and I flop onto the bed—a terrifying but soft landing.

“How did your legs feel?” asks Francine “Did you notice any pain in your pelvis?”

“Nope,” I respond enthusiastically. “Just that my legs, knees, and ankles feel so weak. Can we take a break and try it again in a few minutes?”

Francine grants my wish. But just before I try again, my parents arrive. She tells them what we’re trying to do. My mother takes out her camera. I feel an intense amount of pressure, but maybe that’s what I need right now.

Sitting on the bed, I raise my left foot about two inches off the floor. I do the same with my right leg. I place my hands on the hollow metal rails of the walker, feeling its smooth, cold surface. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and pull myself off the bed. I stand. All. By. Myself.

My back is as straight as it can possibly be. My scarred chest is held high. I have gone from skeleton boy to Atlas. I grit my teeth and flex what little muscles remain in my forearms and biceps. Heart pounding, I lift my left foot an inch above the floor. I pause in midair and then slide it forward an inch. My first step! Mom snaps a picture and Dad congratulates me, but I’m not done yet. I have to keep going to make sure that this isn’t some fluke. I need to test my physical limits. Francine stands next to me, watching intently, ready to offer help with the restraint belt should I falter.

I lift my right foot in the same careful manner, exhale slowly, and clench my jaw, as I slide it forward two inches this time. Another inch with my left and another inch with my right. I keep going. I am now standing outside my room. This is uncharted territory. I feel like I have just walked across the continent. Nurses see me, I smile, and everyone starts cheering. Dr. Catevenis walks toward me, smiling. But after a minute or so, the temporary adrenaline rush fades. I discover that I don’t have the strength to turn around and make it back to my room. Uh-oh, I didn’t plan for this. I’m in big trouble. I start to panic. If I fall, I will probably break more bones. I visualize my body as a watermelon falling, and the fierce impact causing all its soft insides to burst open.

“Francine! Dad! Help!” I yell. They both rush to my side. Francine holds the safety belt tightly as she helps me turn around to make the return trip. The anxiety dissipates when my body hits the bed. Francine reattaches the ventilator. I spend the next several hours in a state of near exhaustion—and sweet exhilaration.

When the nurse named Faye arrives, I relentlessly ask her if I can be taken on a tour of the hospital. I’m feeling bold and want to see something else beside Room 19. She keeps telling me that I need to rest but she’ll think about it.

When my parents show up, I start pleading with Faye to let them push me around in the wheelchair. Faye finally relents, but she says that due to hospital policy, she will have to be my wheelchair pusher since I’m an Intensive Care patient. I thank her and we prepare for our big trip. My parents put a small pillow on the seat of the wheelchair for my tailbone. Faye unhooks the ventilator and IV tubes and peels off the wired electrodes plastered all over my chest. My parents carry me over to the wheelchair and position my feet into its metal holders.

We roll down the corridor of the Intensive Care Unit talking and having a good time, which, I imagine, is not something that normally happens on this floor. I request a visit to the radiology department. We stop at the double doors that lead to the room with all the CAT scan and MRI machines. I wonder if the perfume-scented technician is here. Would she even recognize me in this condition, since I’m now able to sit upright and talk? After I spend a few moments staring at these closed doors and recalling the many times that I have been scrutinized by these mysterious giant machines, we press on down the hallway.

We go through a door that leads to a large waiting room with chairs, a television, and another hallway that leads outdoors. I can see the bright blue sky and the leafy green trees through the windows. I mention that the ultimate trip highlight would be to go outside. Faye agrees, and we exit through the automatic sliding glass doors. Once we’re outside, I finally feel free. I’m treated to the smell of the warm summer air, a cool breeze flowing through my hair, the sound of cars driving by. The sun feels wonderful on my frail arms and legs. I’m ecstatic, and yet I know that another difficult journey looms once I leave the hospital and start my physical therapy at Kernan, the Baltimore rehab. The nurses have stressed that my new rehab sessions won’t be as forgiving as what I’ve been doing here.

The other difficulty about leaving Intensive Care is that I will be going from twenty-four-hour personal care to being pretty much on my own in an unfamiliar environment. Will I have my own nurses? How will I get around? I still can’t climb in and out of bed by myself. I don’t have the strength to push my wheelchair. And what about all the medications I’m going to need? It’s going to be a really tough transition. After spending more than two months in Prince George’s Hospital Center, I know more about my room in the ICU than my own bedroom at home. There is a deep, profound connection I’ve made with Room 19 that I cannot explain. I’ve grown accustomed to its off-white walls and pink-tiled floor, the aqua-cushioned chair on my left and dark blue chair to the right, the sink on the left, the clock above the doorway, the television in the upper right-hand corner. I feel safe and protected as long as I’m in Room 19.

We have been outside for maybe twenty minutes when I decide it’s time to head back in because my back and tailbone ache from sitting in the wheelchair. My lungs are also growing weak from the thick humidity and heat. Once we are back in my room, I’m not hooked up to the ventilator or given any new IVs.

Dr. Catevenis walks into my room and tells us that I will be brought up to the eighth floor for the night to make sure that I can handle being in a more independent situation. “Your parents will be able to stay with you, and I will be stopping in every now and then to see how you are doing,” he says. “Then, in the morning, you will be transferred to Kernan by ambulance.”

As soon as Dr. Catevenis leaves, my parents gather all my things and put them in a large bag. All the photos on the bulletin board are carefully taken down. The bag is nearly to the point of exploding with stuffed animals and get-well gifts from family and friends.

The final few hours I spend in Room 19 are pleasantly filled with eating ice cream, watching television, and chatting with nurses who duck in to say hello.

Two male nurses walk into my room with a wheelchair. My parents stand, greeting them with excitement. My dad cautiously scoops me up from my bed as if I am a small child and places me in the wheelchair. My mom gathers up the rest of my stuff and we make our way down the corridor. Before we get too far, I turn my head for one last look at Room 19 and its collection of now-silent medical monitors and machines that nursed me back from the dead.

Once I get settled in my new room on the eighth floor, I do something really stupid. It must be a mixture of overconfidence and curiosity to discover what I can do on my own because I try to get out of the wheelchair. After fifteen frustrating seconds, I’m standing but can’t go anywhere because my feet are trapped behind the wheelchair’s footrests. I didn’t think about this before standing. There is nowhere to go but back down in the wheelchair or over the footrests with my feet. I hurry to make a decision, and then it happens: I lose my balance and fall face forward on the bed.

The faceplant triggers a jolt of pain that shoots from my nose all the way down to my toes. It feels as if I have just jumped off a twostory building. My mom rushes over, but my thin legs and feet remain stuck behind the footrests. I can’t think straight because the pain is so intense, especially in my legs. I begin to scream. Several nurses rush in my room to help untangle me. My dad, who had been on the Intensive Care floor packing up the rest of my stuff, finally arrives. He pushes the wheelchair out from under me and flips me over on my back. Because my blood pressure is skyrocketing, nurses inject me with several different medications.

I have my first whole meal for dinner: a big greasy cheeseburger with fries and a root beer from a nearby fast-food joint called Five Guys. I then have some ice cream while I watch television with my parents. After an hour, I realize that they are asleep and I slip on my headphones and listen to some of my favorite CDs like
Grassroots
by 311,
What’s the Story Morning Glory?
by Oasis,
Stone Blue
by Foghat,
Dr. Feelgood
by Mötley Crüe, and
Powerage
by AC/DC. The music is therapeutic, allowing me to drift off into another world. I stay in this relaxing state until dawn. In just a few hours, I will be moved to Kernan Rehabilitation Center.