Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead (9 page)

I have a bowl of cereal for breakfast. Soon afterward, two paramedics enter my room, one pushing a gurney. They put me on it and strap me in tight. My parents walk alongside me as the paramedics push through the hallways and out through the doors of the hospital. An ambulance waits in the driveway. The next time I return to Prince George’s Hospital, I want to walk into Intensive Care on my own and personally thank everyone who played a role in my recovery.

The short ambulance ride from Prince George’s Hospital to the Kernan Rehabilitation Center seems endless. My dad follows behind in his red Ford F-150 pickup truck. When we arrive at Kernan, the ambulance stops and the paramedics open the rear doors and carefully lift my gurney out of the vehicle and wheel it onto the sidewalk. The sun feels good. The paramedics push me toward the main entrance of the big brick building.

The reception area is filled with nurses and hospital staff, handling paperwork and filling various medications. Several minutes pass before our presence is acknowledged. I wonder if they even knew we are supposed to be here.

After I’m signed in, one nurse who seems friendly leads us down a corridor to my room. But when we take a turn down a hallway with a sign that says Spinal Cord Injury Unit, I’m surprised because I don’t have any spinal injuries. My parents are also confused by this and ask the nurse, but she isn’t sure why either.

We arrive at my room, which has two beds. The nurse says my roommate was released the previous day. Out of curiosity, I ask about the extent of his injuries. He was a laborer at a construction site when a one-ton block of concrete fell on him and crushed his legs.

The paramedics transfer me to the bed by the windows on the left side of the room. My parents and I thank the men and say goodbye.

The room is plain as vanilla. There are two chairs in the small space between the beds, a television above the door, and a private bathroom on my right.

It takes an hour to settle in. The nurse stops by and tells us that her shift has ended. In a little while, the new nurse arrives. He’s unfriendly, less cordial, direct. My parents ask him if they can stay with me overnight because I can’t do anything on my own just yet. He declines their request because visitors are not allowed to stay after 9:00 p.m. This is awful. I can’t walk or move around without being helped. How will I go to the bathroom by myself? What happens if I have difficulty breathing? Suddenly, I yearn to be back in Room 19, having lunch and talking with the nurses who had become close friends. Perhaps the transition from twenty-four-hour care is too abrupt. Am I really ready to take this next step on the road to recovery?

Because my parents won’t budge, Mr. Nurse finally relents. Only one can stay overnight; the other will have to say in a nearby motel. He then checks my vital signs and collects some blood for sampling and tests. I have been here for less than two hours and I’m already getting stabbed with needles. He leaves with my blood sample but soon returns with a wheelchair, which means escape. I already feel claustrophobic. I ask my parents to wheel me outside, and they are only too happy to oblige.

I sit in the sun and it feels good. The slight summer breeze seems about right for my delicate lungs. Listening to the birds in the trees and cars rush by makes me feel like a normal human being rather than a hospital patient. All I need is a sleeping bag and I’d be content to spend the night under the stars. Just before dusk, my parents wheel me back into the building and down the long hallways to my room.

After a light dinner and an ice cream cone, we watch television and talk about what the first session of physical therapy will be like. There’s a knock on the door and a boy, in his mid-teens, arrives by himself in a wheelchair and asks to come in. Sure, we tell him. He rolls right in, like an old friend.

“Hey man, what’s up?” he says. “My name is Tony. I heard that you just arrived here a few hours ago. What’s your name?”

“Nice to meet you Tony; my name is Brian. Yeah, my parents and I just got here.”

Tony says that he’s fifteen years old and has been here several months because he is paralyzed from the waist down. He was one of the best football players for his age in the state of Maryland. But during summer vacation he was racing off-road four-wheelers with his buddies when he lost control of the vehicle at fifty miles per hour and collided with a steel guardrail. His neck took the initial impact and his body then wrapped around the metal barrier.

His story leaves me speechless. I feel a strong connection with him. Like me, he’s obviously a fighter. But the difference between us is something that I dare not voice: there’s a possibility I will be able to walk on my own, while he will be wheelchair-bound for the rest of his life.

Tony’s nurse tracks him down in my room and tells him he has to go. Time to take his pain medication. We say goodbye, and I wonder how many patients like Tony are at Kernan—struck down in their youth, with all their hopes and dreams shattered in a split second.

I’m sleepy and my parents let me drift off. Several hours pass before a nurse wakes me, wanting a blood sample. When I awaken again, the morning sunlight is shining through the windows. I have cereal and orange juice for breakfast. My mom decides that for my first session of physical therapy, I should wear something special. She selects a pair of blue shorts and a white T-shirt with the U.S. Naval Academy insignia. Just putting on these clothes leaves me winded.

To get motivated, I listen to various heavy-metal songs on my CD player, with emphasis on the
heavy
—“Awake” by Godsmack, “One” by Metallica, and “Walk” by Pantera. A woman comes into my room. She’s tall with blonde hair. “Hello, my name is Karen, and I’ll be your physical therapist,” she says. We shake hands. My god, her grip is strong.

She wheels me down the long hallway; I attempt small talk but I can tell that she is all business. We take a turn through a set of double doors and I’m wheeled into a large room crowded with other patients. I feel like the new kid on his first day of school. She pushes me a few feet past the door and tells me to wait here because she needs to retrieve my medical file.

I sit alone. Almost everyone here is confined to a wheelchair, both the manual and motorized kind. Several patients are hobbling about using crutches, walkers, or canes. I imagine the age range starts in the teens and reaches into the eighties. Some look like they could be war vets from Iraq, Vietnam, maybe even World War II. I wonder how many are victims of an automobile accident like myself.

Several people are missing an arm or a leg. Some are lying flat on their backs on padded mats, missing all four limbs. In one corner is a small group of patients with heads caved in, eyes missing, and faces halfgone. A teenage boy is sitting in a wheelchair about fifteen feet from me. His head is completely encased by a wire frame bolted into his skull. A trache tube is connected to his life support machine that sits on a nearby cart. His face is rigid and expressionless, with drool spilling down his chin. I too looked this way only several weeks ago.

If I had visited this house of horrors before my accident, I would have been frightened witless. Yet when I peer down at my scarred, shrunken body, I realize that I’m just like all the other unfortunates in this room. I know what it’s like to be stared at and judged. How can I ever erase that memory of the young girl who told her mom that I looked like “a monster.” Her words cut deeper than a surgeon’s scalpel. I still feel the wound.

As I look around at everyone, a fraternity of fellow sufferers, I notice that some are smiling and waving at me. I return their welcoming gestures, feeling an immediate acceptance. One wheelchair-bound man in his late forties is talking to an older woman who must be his therapist. He keeps looking in my direction, and as he shakes her hand to say goodbye, he wheels himself over to where I’m sitting. “Hey buddy, how are you? My name is Gerry. Is this your first day here?” he asks, while extending his hand for me to shake.

“Yes, I just got here yesterday,” I respond. “I was in a car accident earlier this summer and just got out of ICU. So how long have you been here?” Behind his grin, there is an overwhelming sadness in his eyes.

Gerry says that he has been here for three weeks because the doctors are trying to see if they can teach him to walk again. When he first arrived, he was technically paralyzed, but his doctors are trying some kind of new therapy to repair his broken vertebrae. I ask him how he broke his back.

His voice turns shaky as he replays the fateful day. “I was a passenger in my brother’s car,” he says. “We were on the highway. Our mother was sitting in the front seat and my wife was next to me in the back. Our daughter was in between us. A semitruck driving on the left side lost control and rammed into us, killing my brother and mother on impact. My wife and daughter later died in the hospital. I was the only survivor.”

I look at him without saying anything. Tears roll down his cheeks. I reach out my hand to him, holding onto his shoulder and offering sympathy as I get choked up as well.

Listening to Gerry and then thinking about paralyzed-for-life Tony, I understand that everyone here has an equally painful and tragic story. Including me. One day, you are fine. Driving home from swim practice, dune bugging with your pals, or traveling somewhere with your family, and then
bam
, out of nowhere, your life is changed in an instant and you find yourself living in a different world. You only hope that with the promise of rehab to mend your damaged body, your spirit won’t break as well.

Karen comes back and says in her drill-sergeant voice, “Let’s get to work.” As she wheels me away from Gerry, I tell him to stay strong. He gives me a brave smile in response. We pause at an empty area in the center of the room. She drapes a heart rate monitor around my neck. It has a wire cord that she attaches to my right index finger. My blood pressure is alarmingly high, she notes. She wheels me over to a woodframed mattress and helps me onto a blue padded mat. She asks me to raise one leg and then the other and to do the same with my arms. While I’m doing these movements, she measures my flexibility. After she records the results, she helps me get back into the wheelchair and pushes me over to a table.

“Your blood pressure is way too high,” she says with a hint of sarcasm. “You really have to just relax. This is a big concern, so I think this will be about as much stretching that I’d like to do with you today in your first session. Your body just needs time to adjust. We don’t want you having a stroke in here.”

She then hands me a small piece of plastic with wheels. It looks like a child’s toy. What am I supposed to do with this object? She tells me to push it forward and backward on a table. I’m able do it with my right hand, but due to the severe nerve damage in my left shoulder, my left hand can only budge it several inches. It feels so damn weird not to have strength in my left arm, but that’s how it is. Karen reassures me that I might one day have full recovery with my left shoulder and arm but it will take two to three years. I had heard that same prognosis from nurses back in Intensive Care. I just have to be patient. Do I have any other choice?

After my first session of physical therapy, Karen wheels me back to my room. My parents are waiting. We have a small lunch and then we go outside and take a tour of the grounds.

Something has been troubling me for several days, and as much as I hate to disrupt the tranquil mood as my parents roll me down the pathways, I can’t resist the temptation. I say to my dad, “You never finished telling me what happened when you first arrived at the hospital.”

He looks at me with surprise. So does my mom. But they realize that they can’t put off revealing the facts anymore. He wheels me over to some shade underneath a tree. They both take a seat on a nearby concrete bench. He begins: “When I finally got to the hospital, which seemed like it took forever, I walked into the waiting room and saw your mom, Uncle Pat, Aunt Donna, and Uncle Joe, who had all already arrived. A receptionist told me that you had just come out of surgery and were in the recovery room and a nurse took us there. The situation was unreal. There were doctors and nurses gathered all around you. Machines were plugged into your body, with tubes running everywhere, including a big blue cylinder-type breathing tube in your mouth. There was a fresh, ugly red surgical cut running from your belly button up to your chest.

“I said, ‘Brian, Mom and Dad are here. We love you, son; you’re going to be all right buddy. Don’t give up.’ After I said that, your body started to thrash around, but you were not conscious. As the nurses tried to hold you down, I thought to myself, ‘This can’t be happening.’ I asked the nurses if you would survive and their only response was that you were now in God’s hands. Then it was time for us to leave. We stopped in a stairwell and your mom wept. A little later in the waiting room, a nurse arrived and asked us to follow her. She offered no details. ‘I just need you to come with me,’ she said. We walked in silence. We thought we were on our way to the morgue. The elevator door opened, and we followed her down a short hallway to another set of doors. We had no idea where she was leading us.”

My dad pauses; the memory of that first day is tough to relive. “We were taken to Room 19, which was right in front of the nurses’ station because they wanted to keep close tabs on you.” He says that I was sedated and unconscious, surrounded by more nurses and doctors, more machines and more tubes. There were so many things going on that they couldn’t even come close to touch me.