Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead (18 page)

O
ne morning as I’m looking in the mirror at the many scars decorating my left arm and shoulder, I think it’s time to do something creative: get a tattoo. It won’t be my first. When I was fifteen, I got a lightning bolt tattoo on my right shoulder. The bolt symbolized victory and the unpredictability of life. It suited my fierce competitive drive in sports.

So, on my nineteenth birthday, about ten months after the accident, I decide on a second tattoo to commemorate my new victory in life and to celebrate a birthday that I almost didn’t have. This tattoo is the Greek word “alpha” and would be inked on my left shoulder, over traces of shattered glass and black paint from the car that infused itself into my scarred flesh.

“Alpha” was the classification of my status when I arrived at the hospital by medevac. For shock trauma victims, alpha signifies the absolute worst for the victim, who is usually minutes from death. In most cases, that means the patient could be dead on arrival.

Dr. James Catevenis, the codirector of the Intensive Care Unit at Prince George’s Hospital, is Greek, and the tattoo would also serve as a permanent tribute to him. For over two months, he did his best to make sure that I would live to see another day.

My Uncle Joe drives me to a tattoo parlor in Waldorf, Maryland, called the Blue Scarab. Because my left shoulder is the side where I was hit by the dump truck, the tattoo artist has to work around the scarred flesh still embedded with small pieces of broken glass and black paint fragments from the Camaro.

L
ate spring 2005. Not quite a year since the accident. My days are now spent around concrete. Lots of it. I like going to work with my dad. Every morning, I wake up around five in the morning and think what a great privilege it is to easily slide my legs from under the blanket and over the side of the bed onto the floor. Breakfast is usually a bowl of Lucky Charms with milk and a glass of orange juice. Then it’s out the door and into my dad’s truck for our thirty-minute drive to where his concrete pump truck is stationed.

A concrete pump truck is not the same as those barrel-shaped ready-mix trucks one sees on roads or at construction sites. Because most work sites are often crowded with machinery and building materials, the process of pouring concrete can be challenging. The concrete pump truck allows one to get close to where fresh concrete needs to be poured. The pump operator uses a radio-controlled device to position the boom pipeline into the desired area to be filled. The boom itself is a mechanical arm that extends from the truck and is made up of a long series of pipes through which the concrete flows, and can range from fifty-six to two hundred feet in length. The concrete moves through the pipes via a hydraulic networking system. My dad’s pump truck is capable of 105 feet, which is sufficient for a wide assortment of jobs—housing foundation slabs, driveways, swimming pools, as well as commercial and industrial projects. A typical workday can range between ten and fourteen hours, and might have us going out to six different sites.

The concrete itself is brought in from ready-mix trucks that back up to the receiving end of the pump truck called the hopper, which then sends the concrete through the boom and out the hose at the other end. Most people think that concrete and cement are the same thing because the words are often used interchangeably, but cement is actually one of the ingredients of concrete, along with sand and gravel.

For the first few weeks, I mostly do maintenance tasks such as cleaning and waxing the truck, making sure to remove all the concrete fragments before they dry and chip the paint, shining the chrome on the wheels and wiping the tires with Armor All, and cleaning the windows. It’s tiring work, but my left shoulder and arm benefit from the physical activity. I soon progress to lifting heavy two-by-fours and concrete blocks. The more I lift, the stronger I get. By the end of spring, my weight is back up to 180 pounds. Another bonus: by wearing construction boots usually covered in concrete, my legs also get a terrific daily workout.

On slower days, Dad lets me set up the truck. It’s an adrenaline rush to operate a machine that costs $500,000. But I must always remain extra careful. So many things can go wrong. Over the years, my dad has personally witnessed many accidents on job sites. On a mediumrise commercial building project in Tysons Corner, Virginia, a guy on the open third floor was using an air compressor to blow away debris. He slipped off the edge and landed on a one-inch-thick iron rod that punctured his stomach. Even though he was in shock, a coworker handed him a cigarette, which he partially smoked, while waiting for the rescue workers to come and saw off the rod before rushing him to the hospital for emergency surgery.

Another time, my dad was working at Union Station in Washington, D.C., when a coworker was on top of the dome replacing sheet metal. The worker’s safety-restraint belt broke and he slid down fifty feet, with the metal’s sharp jagged ends shredding his body. A two-foot-wide water gutter stopped his fall. He ended up in critical condition.

On another occasion when my dad was working at a parking garage at Georgetown University, a guy on the second floor was stripping away metal wall forms with a thirty-pound iron-digging bar. The bar slipped through his hands and fell to the lower level where it hit a coworker, smashing his hard hat into pieces and cracking his skull. He was killed instantly.

The reason he tells me these stories is not to frighten me, but because he wants me to understand just how dangerous the construction industry is. Yet in the thirty-five years that he has worked in this business, he has never had any safety problems or caused any injuries. He has trained thirty pump-truck operators, always telling them that anybody can run a pump truck, but to be a successful operator, you have to be a successful troubleshooter. His stellar safety record verifies that statement many times over.

When I get home from work, I usually head to the local rec pool. All the construction work has strengthened me. I can swim longer and faster. On some days, I meet Sam at the pool or the gym to lift weights. I continue working with my dad right through the summer. We decide that I should attend St. Mary’s College in the fall. Sam will be my roommate in one of the dorms. We will also be teammates on the swim team. A year ago, all of this would have seemed highly unlikely. No, make that impossible, even insane, to consider college and actually being on the swim team. I still have difficulty wrapping my mind around how I outfoxed death and survived a coma, paralysis, seizures, and infections. I am grateful for each and every day.

I
t’s hard to believe that I am finally here—at St Mary’s. The beautiful campus sits next to the St. Mary’s River. The school was established in 1840 and academic pursuits are a priority here. It’s a small school, with about two thousand students. St. Mary’s City was the fourth outpost of colonization in British North America and was the capital of Maryland until 1695.

After unloading all my stuff into my room and saying goodbye to my parents, Sam and I check out the college’s new fifty-meter pool. I’m amazed by its sheer size and try to calculate how many gallons of water went into filling it up. I visualize the pool being filled with millions of my teardrops, because that is exactly what it took for me to get here.

We have a week of classes before our first swim practice. All the guys and the girls on the team are like a small family, which I definitely prefer since I’m incredibly self-conscious walking around with my visible scars. My local rec pool was dimly lit and rarely crowded. However, the lights inside the new St. Mary’s aquatic center are bright. You can see every red and pink scar on my body, which makes me want to walk around with a shirt on, or at least have a towel draped over my shoulders.

Because I was introduced to the team at a preseason meeting, the other swimmers already know about the accident. But this is the first occasion that they have seen me without a shirt, so the questions begin flying immediately, though not in an uncomfortable way. I keep my answers short and as upbeat as possible, providing a condensed version of the events.

When it’s time to swim, I go hard and strong with the rest of the sprinters. But after thirty minutes, my body begins shutting down. I try to push through the fatigue and stay focused, but exhaustion wins. I stroke to the side of the pool, feeling cramps in my legs, arms, and neck. A sympathetic and supportive Coach Barbins walks over to see if I’m okay. I say that I just need a quick drink and then I’ll be good.

I take some sips from my water bottle, then get the drive to continue on through the pain. I kick off the wall triumphantly and achieve a nice rhythm with the other swimmers. I don’t want anyone to think that I’m unable to keep up with the pace, especially on the first day when everyone is checking out one another. The last thing I want is my teammates to feel sorry for me, grant me favors, or think that I’m not good enough to be on the team. But my body can take only so much. After another fifteen minutes, I head to the pool edge and remove my swim cap and goggles. I feel dejected and vulnerable, as if I’ve just let everyone down, especially myself.

I collect my kickboard, water bottle, and pull buoy and climb out of the pool. I toss the kickboard and pull buoy in the metal bin and walk alone to the locker room with my head down in shame, unwilling to look up at any of the swimmers in the pool.

It’s time for a serious reality check while I take a shower. The hot water can’t remove the obvious: I was an idiot to think that I could swim at this elite level. Everyone is much faster than me. I can’t even make it through
half
a practice. This is a big mistake. So why beat myself up over my physical limitations? My teammates weren’t crushed by a truck; they didn’t have their organs shattered and body battered. When I was fighting for my life fourteen months ago, they were able to stay fit and swim whenever they wanted, living healthy normal lives. While I was learning how to walk and take a piss without any help, they were deep in training.

Yet if I overcame death, why have I become such a defeatist simply because I can’t swim hard for an hour? Now is
not
the time to quit. If I give up, it’s not because I can’t do it, it’s because I
think
I can’t do it. I turn off the shower and decide to show up for swim practice tomorrow. I can do this.

The next day I get back in the pool with the team. I’m doing the best that I can and that’s all I can hope to achieve. I swim hard for forty-five minutes and then get out of the pool. And this is how it goes for the remainder of the first week. I attend classes, do homework, and go to swim practice. It’s a good routine. I call my parents after every practice to give them an update on how everything is going with school and in the pool. They are pleased to hear from me.

The next week, I speak with Coach Barbins. We decide that I should swim two or three times a week instead of six like everyone else. It’s not that I’m incapable of swimming every day, but there’s a concern that my heart and lungs need the extra days of rest. We want to stay on the prudent side of caution.

I also decide to move out of the dorm and live at home. I will commute to school instead of staying on campus. I think it’s too early for my parents to be alone after everything we went through over the past year. After spending practically every waking minute with them and experiencing so many hardships together, I find that it’s emotionally hard on them for me to just disappear into college life. My mom tells me that when I’m not around, my dad becomes quiet and mopes around the house like a lost dog.

On the days when I don’t swim, I lift weights and run on the treadmill to keep up my conditioning. My left shoulder is still not 100 percent; there’s still nerve damage. My lungs haven’t flushed out all the junk and liquid. I can’t jump more than a few inches off the ground because my ankles are weak. This matters in swim races because you need sufficient ankle strength to spring off the starting block and push off the walls.

With a little over two months of training under our Speedos, we’re ready for our first swim meet with Hood College, which will be held in the new aquatic center. Because Coach Barbins knows how badly I want to swim in this meet, he gives me the privilege of swimming in the two-hundred-yard medley relay team, which is the first event.

On November 11, 2005, I walk out into the center with the rest of the St. Mary’s Seahawks swim team. We’re wearing our school colors—navy blue, yellow gold, and white. My parents are watching in the crowded bleachers. The announcer introduces the first race.

I take off my blue team parka and set it down on a bench. I instantly sense stares from the people in the stands, the timing officials, and especially the opposing team. I hear people whispering, and I know what they’re saying, but my still-visible scars, I realize, are the triumphant symbol of loving life. These scars are my proud battle wounds.

I put on my goggles and swim cap, then head over to the designated starting blocks with the other swimmers. Sam is a few lanes down from me, swinging his arms to get loose. He sees me and gives a thumbs-up. Each school has two relay teams, and mine is in lane one.

In the two-hundred-yard medley relay, each swimmer goes two laps. The four events, in order, are backstroke, butterfly, breaststroke, and freestyle. I’m swimming the freestyle, which means that I’m the anchor leg.

When the race official says, “Judges and timers ready,” my body suddenly grows weak. However, “swimmers take their marks” snaps me back into reality. Then
beep
!

As the swimmers blast across the pool, I focus on what I must do. Two of the other relay teams have a lap lead when my breaststroking teammate is about fifteen feet from the wall. He is neck and neck with the swimmer in the adjacent lane. It will be a race for third place.

I rapidly inhale and exhale several times, trying to remove all the lingering carbon dioxide so only fresh oxygen remains in my lungs.

Ten feet.

I swing my arms in a circle for that final stretch and press my goggles tightly against my eyes.

Five feet.

I crouch so my hands are near my feet, and my fingers grip the edge of the starting block.

Three . . . two . . . one, and my teammate’s fingers touches the wall.

I leap off the block, kicking hard to glide those extra feet underwater. When I surface, I’m churning though the water at full-throttle, maintaining proper form and technique. Before I know it, I’m already doing a flip turn at the wall. The swimmer to my left won’t back down. I really put the steam on, giving everything I have. My lungs are on fire and I refuse to take any more breaths. I dig down deep to block the lactic-acid pain. I elongate my stroke. I’m only a few yards away from the wall when I notice that he’s starting to fall back. But I can’t take the risk of him charging for the wall at the last second. The black line at the pool bottom has changed into a fuzzy dark line as exhaustion overwhelms me. My arms feel heavy, like they’re not joined to my body. I push harder. Several more feet and I’m there. I slam my hand so hard against the wall that a wave of water splashes up out of the pool and drenches the timing official.

Our relay team takes third. My individual split is around twenty-four seconds, only a second slower than my personal record in high school. I give high fives to my teammates, but they’re wondering why I’m excited about third place. Need I remind them that doctors and physical therapists once thought I would never be able to swim again? To me, third place is as good as gold.

I run up to the bleachers and give my parents a big old hug. But I have to hurry back down to the pool deck because I have one more event to swim—the individual fifty-yard freestyle.

I’m back on the starting block. I hear the beep and race through the two laps in roughly the same time as before—twenty-four seconds. It earns a fourth place out of eight swimmers.

By the end of the fall semester, I’ve raced in three more swim meets. For Christmas, my parents surprise me with the ultimate gift—they are going to build a pool in the backyard. Brian’s Pool is scribbled in blue colored pencil at the bottom of the blueprints. It will be ready by early summer. But during winter break, I get sick again. Excess fluid has built up in my lungs. I come down with bronchitis and early-onset mononucleosis. The most likely culprit for this health setback is a compromised immune system due to swim training; my body’s natural resistance to infections is still low. Regretfully, I’m forced to stop swimming. Instead, I will spend more time lifting weights to build back my strength.

So while I attend classes at St. Mary’s, I find an athletic outlet with my old love: weight training. It’s certainly not a team sport—just me and the heavy iron. Yet I have no complaints because I’m gradually getting stronger and healthier. That’s what’s really at stake here: I must convince others as well as myself that I have the desire, ability, and means to be the athlete that everyone once knew me as. I can’t make those endless days and nights in the hospital vanish. What I can do is make people not focus on that bleak period whenever they see me. Each day then becomes a slow, methodical, and deliberate movement toward reaching my goal to become fit. By early summer, with classes out, I start to feel much better about my appearance and myself. Muscles certainly help my self-esteem as well as warding off depression.