Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead (16 page)

Finally, the girl at the front desk signals to us that we can see my dad. My mom pushes me in the wheelchair through the red double doors as we follow a nurse down a long empty hallway until we reach a small room with a pink cloth divider. An old man is sleeping in one bed, with an oxygen tube under his nose. I look past him and see my dad’s shoes poking out from the other side of the pink divider. We go around the curtain, and there he is—lying in the bed with his shirt off and several electrodes attached to various areas of his chest, arms, and lower neck. He appears calm, but his bloodshot eyes tell another story. He says that the doctors ran several tests on his heart and did some blood work, and they ruled out a heart attack. It turned out to be a panic attack caused by stress and anxiety.

Mom sits down in the chair next to him. I remain in my wheelchair, wishing I could do something to make him feel better and reduce his stress. What did he always do when I was in Room 19 to make me feel better? I know. I untie his shoes and slide them off his feet. He shoots me a curious look because he’s unsure what I’m doing. I start rubbing his feet, and we both begin laughing.

M
y parents encourage me to leave the house with them when they go out for errands. But the day trips to Home Depot and Lowe’s fail to excite me because I have to be pushed around in a wheelchair. Shopping makes me self-conscious. I feel strangers’ eyes bore right through me and see all the scars zigzagging across my neck, chest, and stomach. I definitely look sickly. My hair is falling out. The doctors told me that this might happen because of all the medication that had flooded my system. Home and the therapy center are the only two places where I don’t feel like a freak.

On the bright side, I’m gaining weight. The doctors monitor my protein intake on a weekly basis to make sure that my body is able to process it. There’s a real concern because my gall bladder and spleen were removed. They give me the green light to consume whey protein powders like I used to take when transforming from swimmer to discus thrower. There are several jugs of protein already in our kitchen closet, and I quickly go through them. My parents take me to one of the vitamin stores, where we spend a small fortune on multiple containers, but I know the money is well spent. More weight and muscle equals more strength.

I now drink two protein shakes with my meals. Along with the shakes, I also eat two protein bars. I’m getting about 150 grams of protein a day. The interesting thing about consuming all that protein is that you have to exercise to turn it into muscle—otherwise it will be stored as excess fat. I learned this lesson in my sophomore year when I tried to put on weight too quickly, thinking that the protein powder would magically turn into muscle all by itself. That’s what the magazine ads always said. But I became bloated instead.

My younger cousins Matt and Hayley, who live in Annapolis, like coming over to hang out. Matt just started high school and Hayley is still in middle school, and they are the brother and sister I never had and always wanted. Matt and I are similar in many respects. We act the same, talk the same, and very much look the same—but with different color hair. We grew up together, played the same sports, and listened to the same music. We could read each other’s thoughts, and we both prefer to keep our feelings to ourselves.

Every day when my parents would leave the hospital, my mom would always update my Aunt Kati, her sister, about my condition. Kati would then relay the information to my Uncle Tom and then to Hayley and Matt, but Matt would never want to hear the news. He refused to accept that his cousin and best friend was dying. The first time he came to see me in the hospital, he brought me his personal CD player with some Jimi Hendrix CDs. I was the one responsible for introducing him to Jimi and he thought that I would be able to listen to him. But at that time, I was deathly ill and still in a coma.

Hayley later told me that while I was in the hospital, her brother would sit in his bedroom all day and work on art that was dedicated to me. His art included digital photography of swimming idols, rock legends, mythological beings like Thor, and comic-book icons like Iron Man. Hayley would write down thoughts in her journal. If the news about my condition was good that day, she would jump up and down with happiness. If it was bad, there would be tears of sadness.

Now that I’m home and spending a lot of time with Matt and Hayley, I can tell that the accident has taken a psychological toll on her because she is so young. She began having panic attacks whenever she went outdoors because in the back of her mind she constantly thought that what happened to me could also happen to her. I tell her that we don’t have the power to decide what will happen to us today or tomorrow, but we do have the power to decide how we can react to those events.

On weekends when they visit, we watch movies together. They help me do my exercises, listen to me when I need someone to talk to, and every time I have to get up to walk somewhere they are on both sides of me, making sure I get there safely.

My grandmother and grandfather on my mom’s side, whom I call Nana and Big D, have also been a great help and brighten my mood. I think the reason that I love art is because Nana inspired me to be creative and use my imagination at an early age. She loved telling me stories about what it was like growing up in Newfoundland. But with her diabetes and other ailments growing worse, we now mostly talk about medical matters.

Joe Lineberger, my grandfather, is called Big D, which is short for Big Daddy. He was born in Maiden, North Carolina, in 1931. His first job was picking cotton in the fields, and the few cents he earned each week he gave to his mother. He excelled in academics and athletics and was accepted by Duke University, where he had to work two jobs to pay for his schooling. In 1953, he entered the Air Force as a second lieutenant through the Reserve Officer Training Corps program. He served in overseas assignments that included Thule Air Base in Greenland, Pepperell Air Force Base in Newfoundland, exchange duty with the Royal Canadian Air Force in Ottawa, and Headquarters Military Assistance Command in South Vietnam.

He accomplished all of this with a wife and five children and is now one of the highest-ranked officers at Andrews Air Force Base. I use his successful background and career as motivation to fortify my own determination to resume a regular life.

The first step back to normalcy is liberation from the wheelchair. I have gone from standing for several minutes to hobbling the fifteen feet from my bed to the kitchen table. I stop and rest, then shuffle back to the bed. Several hours later, I do it again. Soon, I’m able to walk further. One regular trip is the twenty-five feet from the hallway door to the garage. I’d get to the doorknob, stop and rest, and then return to my bed. The most difficult part about learning how to walk again is stairs. Once my foot makes it onto the first step, I have to catch my breath, rest, and five minutes later I do the same with my left foot. Descending steps is just as tiring and laborious.

For two consecutive months, I focus my energy and attention on walking. It means freedom from my two-wheel fortress of dependent mobility. Even though I have to stop to take a break every few minutes, I find immense joy and pleasure in walking on my own two feet. With constant exercises, stretches, plyometrics, and an incredible amount of balance drills, I’m finally able to permanently graduate from the wheelchair to a cane. It’s a relief not having to ask my mom or dad for a sandwich or to grab a clean T-shirt from my room.

Within several weeks, I no longer need a cane to move around. As my legs get stronger, there comes additional motivation to speed up rehab, as if a chain reaction has been set into motion. I decide to immerse myself in the atmosphere of a real gym. When I was on my high school swim team, I did a lot of cardio work. I would ride the stationary bike, run on the treadmill, and do hundreds of ab crunches. In order to get more muscular for discus throwing, I would do bench press sets, pushups, dumbbell workouts, and a lot of powerlifting to build mass. I’d spend hours pumping iron.

My Uncle Joe helps me out at the gym. He works for the Verizon telephone networking system and travels around the area surveying various telephone poles and other communication systems that need his evaluation and approval. During his lunch breaks, he goes to a nearby gym called the Sport & Health Club. So on Tuesdays after therapy, my mom drops me off at the club, which is located only two minutes away from the rehab center. We work out together for about an hour and a half, even though I struggle to lift the lightest weights. My first set of bench presses is with a 25-pound barbell—225 pounds less than I was lifting in June right before the accident. Still, it feels good to be back in a gym, to hear the clanging of iron on iron, the grunts of fellow lifters, the thud when a heavy weight hits the floor.

Now, because of the success of outpatient therapy, there has been a lot of recovery in the nerves in my left shoulder from Cameele’s E-stem device. Tosheeda is a miracle worker, helping me regain leg strength. She has me do many of the same drills and regimens that I did on the track team: stretching, high-knee exercises, and simple plyometrics.

One late afternoon, my dad takes me to the high school track for some additional walking. The exercise also benefits him. Ever since his panic attack, he’s been taking the antidepressant Zoloft, which has improved his mood. Our first and only lap takes forever, but the track’s rubber surface cushions my fragile knees and ankles.

Each week we return to the track. I usually add another lap each time. My dad walks alongside me, which works out well because it gives us more time to talk. We walk at an extremely slow pace. But that’s okay. The greatest part is that I am upright, mobile, and not confined to a bed, chair, or cane. Distances are now measured in hundreds of yards rather than several-dozen feet. We seldom discuss the accident. Instead, we focus on my future, since I’m not going to college. I’ve decided that once my physical therapy is over, I want to learn more about the concrete business. I already know how to operate a concrete pump truck. I’d be following in the footsteps of the family construction business. My dad was always proud of my academic achievements, so it was his dream for me to go to college because he never had the opportunity. But now, I’d rather be around my dad on his different job sites because it’d be therapeutic for him as well.

On our fifth visit to the track, I hear the distant boom of thunder as rain begins falling around us like heavy teardrops. Curiosity consumes me with a burning desire to walk faster. My dad asks me if everything is okay. I nod yes and continue to press on, quickening my pace, almost to the point of losing balance. The faster leg rotations are accompanied by an unexpected lift off from my forefeet as they hit the ground. My walking turns into a slow jog.

I visualize the scene in
Forrest Gump
when he is running away from the bullies as his leg braces fall away. I’m fleeing from the tragedy of July 6 that stole my life. With my unnatural, awkward running style—the slow-to-mend pelvis still causes pain—I must look like an uncoordinated fool. But who cares! I am running! Rain begins splashing upward from the track. My deep gasps play a duet with the sound of each foot striking the wet surface. Walking was once impossible, and now I run.

I jog for another lap before exhaustion finally sets in. I rest my weary body against a fence. Sweat mixes with rain on my face. My dad walks over to me and proudly puts his arms around my shoulder. We both laugh. It’s laughter that neither of us wants to cease. I tell him that two laps are good for a start, but what about some day running a mile? My dad starts giggling with happiness. “Brian, don’t get too ahead of yourself.” It’s great to hear the merriment in his voice again.

Driving back from the track one afternoon, I ask my dad for a favor. I want to see the intersection where the accident took place. This will be my first time back there since July 6. He hesitates, but then agrees to the inevitable. He knows I need this closure even though I don’t have any recollection of that day.

We take a right onto Ripley Road and follow the winding, two-lane country road for about a mile. The sharp bends come up pretty quickly. We pass over a series of freshly painted rumble strips letting drivers know that a stop sign is ahead at the intersection of Ripley and Poorhouse. We drive a bit further and I see the intersection sign followed by a stop sign. We have arrived at my private Ground Zero. My hands begin to shake. We are both quiet. One would think by our silence that we are paying our respects to the deceased in a cemetery.

My dad parks his truck by the intersection near the grassy embankment that the driver on Ripley sees when he looks to the left, which is the same view I had in the Camaro. The view to the right is worse. The embankments are so overgrown with foliage that you can’t see anything until you pull out a few feet beyond the stop sign which then places you directly in the path of oncoming traffic.

We get out of the truck and walk around the accident scene together. I break the silence by asking my dad if he ever spoke to the other driver.

“We never heard from him,” he says in anger. “I talked to the investigating officer several times the first week of the accident and all he said was that you were ‘smoking tires’ and that he was still looking into what happened. I never heard from him after that and none of my phone calls were ever returned.”

“Smoking tires? I don’t even know how to do that.”

My dad responds, “That’s because your car is not even able to do that unless you power-brake it.”

“Power-brake? What the hell is that?”

My dad looks at me. “Exactly.”

“Why would the police even suggest something so false?”

My father thinks they wanted to place the blame on me. But neither of us can guess why.

I ask my dad if he knows anything about the driver. He knows nothing, not even his name. “Cops wouldn’t tell us,” he says.

My father’s rage is palpable. Yet I don’t feel any anger toward this mystery driver who wrecked my life and Camaro. How can I? I don’t remember the crash. In a way, this phantom driver doesn’t even exist. But my scars and damaged body do. The sadness of my parents watching me suffer in the hospital exists. They have been traumatized by the entire ordeal. The local law authorities made it even worse for them by stonewalling and then making up facts.

We watch a green Mustang pull up to the stop sign, coming from the same direction that I was driving from on the day of the accident. The driver has to nose forward several feet to see if any vehicles are approaching from the left. The front bumper is practically in the middle of the intersection. He finally determines that the road is clear and continues driving on Ripley.

Dad says, “See what I mean about this intersection? It’s a safety hazard that the county should have fixed long ago.” He tells me that my grandfather and Aunt Kati and Uncle Tom tried to find out what really happened that day. Kati called the investigating officer in July. Apparently, the phone call didn’t go well, because as soon as she began asking questions, he became very angry, saying that it was all my fault and that I could have killed someone. He wanted to issue me a fine for failing to remain stopped at the stop sign. He told my aunt that he didn’t know if it was a suicide attempt.

I can’t believe this nonsense. Suicidal? Me?

“It gets worse,” my dad says. “The officer then said that the truck driver mentioned you were playing a game of chicken with him. This was bogus. Aunt Kati also asked him about the police report that said that you were not trapped in the car and that you climbed out of the car all by yourself. And can you believe that the officer said the dump truck driver had to hold you down on the ground because you were combative and flailing about? The investigating officer told your aunt that the truck driver saved your life, which was a lie. She then spoke to another policeman who wasn’t involved in the case; fortunately, he was supportive. He said that he couldn’t believe that they hadn’t put a stoplight at that intersection because it’s known to be a dangerous, accident-prone intersection. Something just wasn’t right.”

Along the side of the road and strewn in the weeds, I look down and see tiny fragments of glass, black paint shards from the Camaro, and a surgical glove with dark bloodstains. Could that be my blood? I bend over and pick up a four-inch piece of a broken outside mirror. I feel its sharp jagged edges. I assume it came from the Camaro.

I walk over to the telephone pole and sit down on a small hill that overlooks the intersection. I stare out at Poorhouse Road, still holding the glass shard. I consider all the what-ifs from that day. If I had swum one additional lap and left the pool one minute later, would the accident still have happened? Or, if the truck driver had an extra cup of coffee at lunch, would we still have met in the middle of Ripley and Poorhouse?

I feel a sharp pinch on my right index finger. I’ve cut myself on the glass. A small drop of blood has smeared the mirror. The incision is no bigger than a nasty paper cut. I look at the blood, my blood, reconsidering my own mortality. I had almost bled out that day.

I tell my dad that I’m ready to go home.