Promise Me (37 page)

I
f you want a crash course in Activism 101, observe the efforts on behalf of AIDS awareness. I paid close attention, was continually inspired, and learned a lot. On December 1, 1989, the Visual AIDS Artists Caucus of New York City staged their first DWA—Day Without Art—an eloquent and powerful “national day of action and mourning” that garnered a tremendous amount of attention. In 1991, they launched the Red Ribbon Project, purposely keeping the campaign creator’s name anonymous and the copyright for the image free. They wanted to preserve it as a sincere, personal symbol of compassion. At the 1991 Tony Awards, the red ribbon was seen on Jeremy Irons and other Broadway denizens. Within months, it was the must-have fashion accessory of the season.

A few months later at the New York City Race for the Cure, inspired by the elegant simplicity of the red ribbon loop, volunteers pinned loops of our signature pink ribbon on participating survivors. We were still using the logo with the runner outlined by a pink ribbon. It wasn’t something we did on purpose, but it was so poignantly reminiscent of the pink ribbon sash on Suzy’s homecoming queen dress. Low-cost, easy to execute, and pleasing to the eye, the loop of pink ribbon quickly caught on as a way to identify participants, survivors, and supporters at Susan G. Komen events. Following the example of the Red Ribbon activists, who welcomed all comers (including sponsors who enabled them to take their important work into schools, museums, galleries, and parks), we didn’t trademark the ribbon or any particular derivation of it at that time.

The following year, when
Self
magazine editor Alexandra Penney teamed up with Estée Lauder to promote the second annual Breast Cancer Awareness Month issue for October 1992, they went back and forth over the rights to a peach ribbon, but Penney was advised to pick another
color, and she chose pink. Understandably, there was some rumbling from our camp, but when the subject was raised at a board meeting, I held up my hand like a traffic cop.

“We have no dog in that fight. They distributed 1.5 million breast self-exam cards. Why should we be unhappy about that? We have a lot of work to do. Let’s not waste energy being territorial about less than a penny’s worth of pink ribbon.”

I felt Norman’s hand on my knee under the table. A quick squeeze of approval. Breast Cancer Awareness Month—a collaborative effort involving many terrific organizations—was a whirlwind, as every October has been since BCAM began, and after that Norman and I waltzed through the holiday party season. As we did every year, we spent New Year’s Eve in Norman’s office. Knowing the restaurant managers would be working hard, he spent the evening at his desk, calling every single one of them to ask after their families, thank them for their dedication, and wish them a prosperous New Year. I lay on the couch, listening to a master manager in action. At first I thought he did this to make his people feel important. Then I realized he did it to acknowledge that they
are
important.

That year, 1993, promised to be a thrilling year for SGK. U.S. Olympic runner Francie Larrieu Smith was our National Honorary Chair of the Race for the Cure Series. We were funding some amazing research, and with the passage of the Mammography Quality Standards Act, we were looking into the art of the possible, considering alliances and actions that might have a great effect from Capitol Hill.

About to celebrate our twelfth wedding anniversary, Norman and I headed for our home in Florida. Norman was leading the Chili’s polo team in the Challenge Cup Tournament at the Palm Beach Polo and Country Club. The first week, play was postponed because of a relentless rain that had the players pacing in the bar and horses stamping restlessly in the stables.

January 21, 1993 was bright and beautiful. Perfect weather for polo.

Norman and his teammates—Stewart Armstrong, Fortunato Gomez, and George Olivas—rode out looking tan and invincible to face the Cadillac team led by Joe Henderson. The field was still a bit mucky, but the players went at it with their typical fervor. At the end of the second chukker, it was Chili’s 3, Cadillac 2. The horses huffed and whinnied, visibly
winded from slogging in the mud. Stewart and Norman both decided to change mounts during the break. When the players rode out again, Norman was on a quick and pretty little horse named Kachobie.

I’d been tending to some business, but before the third chukker began, I pulled my Land Cruiser into a spot right about midfield and climbed up to sit on the roof. The whistle blew, but play was suspended almost immediately. One of the horses had kicked up a dollop of mud that hit Norman in the face. The horses shuffled and hedged and the players ribbed each other in good nature while Norman dismounted and wiped his eye with a clean towel.

He glanced my way, and I waved, but I don’t know if he saw me.

Norman swung back into the saddle and loped down the field. The ball was back in play with Cadillac in control. Henderson hit a cut shot, and Norman countered from a defensive position, but the ball clipped off at an angle between Kachobie’s dancing feet. Norman turned and blazed after it. I’m not sure he even realized that Henderson’s mount was coming at him. It’s possible he was having trouble seeing because of the mud in his eye. Or maybe Kachobie, who was usually fleet and fierce, was lumbering a bit because of the field conditions. Norman and Henderson were both galloping at breakneck speed. In the split second before they came together, Norman and Kachobie reeled to the side.

T-boned
is the term for what happened next.

Henderson’s mount screamed like the braking of a freight train. The impact smashed Kachobie to the ground. Norman took the blunt force of the fall directly to the side of his head and was instantly rendered unconscious with the full weight of his horse on top of him. Kachobie lay stunned for a moment, then began heaving in panic. She struggled to find her legs, but couldn’t and rolled back on Norman’s body, crushing his ribs. The other players scrambled from their mounts and rolled her onto her back, trying to gentle her thrashing.

By this time I was off the roof of the SUV and running down the field, my boots pounding over the hardpan areas, slipping and stumbling in the mud between. Norman had fallen about a hundred yards from where I was sitting. He always raised his hand when he fell, even if he couldn’t get up right away—all I needed to see was his hand—but he lay motionless.

Don’t scream. Don’t scream. He’ll be embarrassed
.

I reached Norman just as the little medical van bumped up across the sod and lurched to a stop. Someone with the best of intentions had rolled Norman onto his back and removed his helmet. When I fell to my knees beside him, he was gray and lifeless.

“
Oh
,
God—Norman! Norman, can you hear me?
”

Norman’s eyes were closed, his mouth bluish gray.

I shrieked over my shoulder to the attendant climbing out of the medical van. “
He’s not breathing!
Get oxygen! Get the oxygen and bring the board! He has to be immobilized.”

The young man looked at me wide-eyed. He was used to splinting broken fingers, maybe slinging a broken arm firmly enough for the ride to the hospital. Nothing like this.

“It’s—it’s locked.” He pointed at the back of the van. “I don’t know where they keep the oxygen.”

His partner finally got the door open and located the oxygen bags.

“Do you know how to activate it?” I asked.

“Um … I think you pull this …”

“Give it to me.”

He cleared Norman’s mouth while I activated the bag. (Suzy had used a similar device. It’s not something you forget.) As soon as it was strapped over Norman’s face, he dragged in a deep, tortured breath.

“Norman?
Norman.
” I stroked his face and kissed his forehead. “Norman, hang on.”

Someone had volunteered to run to the clubhouse to call for an ambulance, but I knew that would take at least thirty minutes. I gripped Norman’s hand, cursing myself for leaving the Land Cruiser back at midfield.

“Get him in the van,” I told the attendant. “We’re taking him to the hospital.”

“We can’t transport patients. It’s against state law.”

“
Screw the state law! Get him in there.
” I heard myself roar like a wolverine. I struggled to my feet, fists clenched at my sides. “I accept full responsibility. Whatever the consequences—just—just
help me
. Please.”

We got him on the board and into the van.

“Take him to Wellington Regional,” I told the attendant. “I’ll follow you.”

There was a mobile phone in my car. (This was back in the day when the damn thing was the size of a brick and tethered to a base under the dashboard.) I ran for the Land Cruiser as fast as I could, fighting for calm, for a thought process. It had been about five minutes since he hit the ground. How long had he stopped breathing? Three minutes? I got in, gunned the engine, and peeled out of the gravel parking lot, groping for the phone. I bumped up onto the road behind the medical van and called Dr. Sandy Carden, a friend at St. Mary’s Hospital in Palm Beach.

“
Sandy
. Sandy, thank God you’re there. Please, help me. Norman’s hurt. It’s bad. He’s unconscious. We’re taking him to the Wellington ER.”

“I’m calling a neurosurgeon. He’ll meet you there,” said Sandy.

His voice was even and cool. That helped. I hung up the phone but tried to hold on to that even, cool undertone as we wheeled into the breezeway at the small hospital. My heart sank. It was late in the afternoon. I wasn’t even sure there would be a doctor on deck. It was a sleepy little facility back then. If the doctor was on call …

It had been almost twenty minutes now.

I threw open the car door and ran for the van. A male nurse pushed through the double doors and strolled out toward the curb in no particular rush. A combination of
Medical Center
reruns, panic, and a lot of time spent in cancer wards took over.

“
Code Blue! Code Blue!
I’m Dr. Brinker. This is my patient.” I didn’t think about it. I just did it. “He’s in respiratory arrest. Get him to ICU. Get him intubated.
Stat! Let’s move!
”

The ER staff instantly mobilized with a deference they don’t show hysterical wives. Within moments, Norman was on a respirator, and though he didn’t open his eyes, his color warmed from ash gray to a mottled flush as his vital signs stabilized. I scribbled through the paperwork, glancing nervously toward the door.
Where’s the neurosurgeon?

“We’d better get some x-rays,” I told the nurse. “If this is a spinal cord injury, he’ll need a steroid injection right away, won’t he?”

“Yes, Doctor.” He looked at me oddly but nodded and handed me a form for the x-ray.

There were no broken bones in his back or neck. Still no neurosurgeon. And not so much as a flicker of Norman’s eyelids.

“I want him moved to St. Mary’s. Call the trauma hawk.” I called
Sandy from a phone at the nurse’s station. “This is … this is Dr. Brinker. We’re bringing that patient I told you about.”

Sandy was waiting for us with a team of specialists. Norman was whisked to the ICU. I stood in the hall, shaking in my muddy boots. One of the merciful sisters came and spoke quietly with me, reassuring me. Over her shoulder, I watched them splay Norman out spread-eagled with monitor wires snaking out from his neck and torso, ventilator hose to his mouth and nose, IV tubing taped to his arm, catheter between his legs. A hole was drilled in his forehead, and a four-inch pipe protruded from it, standing straight up. The ICP, I would soon learn, the intercranial pressure monitor.

The coming and going settled into a quiet dusk. I pulled a plastic chair next to Norman’s bed. The room fell still except for the soft beeping of the heart monitor and the librarian scold of the ventilator:
shush-hushhhh, shush-hushhhhh
. Norman was in a deep coma. I stroked his arm and pressed my dry lips to his hand, listening with all my heart for any echo of where he might have gone, aching to follow. Wherever he was, I hoped there were horses.

T
his is that part of the movie they don’t show. They insert a montage of cross-fading images, the terrified wife pacing, the shattered son and daughters lingering in the hallway, the doctors with their grave faces and endless jargon—a babble of technical terms and hope-crushing numbers. “On a scale of one to ten, he’s a one.” All this has to be compressed from days to moments, the space of a moving piece of music. To sit through it in real time would be unbearable. It
was
unbearable.

Dr. Phil Williams, a dear friend and neurosurgeon, came from Dallas, examined Norman thoroughly, and discussed the prognosis with us.

“If he comes out of the coma—and that’s a big if right now—he’ll likely see some progress initially. He might be able to recover some mobility and be quite functional as far as speech and cognition. Typically, with this type of injury, there’s improvement, then a plateau, followed by steady decline.”

Periodically, the ICP protruding from Norman’s forehead issued a shrill warning, and the attending physician rushed in and administered
a drug that kept the swelling of his brain in check. The rest of the time nurses and orderlies came and went quietly, maintaining him in this terrifying suspended animation. Norman’s attorney came with the president of Brinker International, and we crafted a press release. Norman was the CEO of a fast-growing, publically held company. We had to be circumspect but truthful in the statement that would be released late in the afternoon on Friday, after the stock markets closed.

“He’s still undergoing tests,” I said. “He’s stable. He’s strong. I’m going to assume that he’s going to be all right.”

It was agreed. They faxed me the statement. We made copies, and Eric took them to a little bank of pay phones in the hall. The phones rang one after the other. Eric, Daddy, and Margaret and a few others kept a rotation going, sitting there answering the phones, reading the statement to media people and others who called.