Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead (2 page)

I’
m in a new room. I hear footsteps, then the sound of shuffling papers. A machine starts up in front of me—the rumble of an air conditioner combined with a microwave’s hum. Some footsteps come closer. My bed shakes and moves, but only for a few feet, then halts. The ceiling looks different. I must be near a wall because I see dark areas that could be pictures or posters. My eyes are frozen, staring straight ahead. I can’t quite see what the posters are, so I try to move my head but I can’t. I see the letter
R
on one of them, in my peripheral vision. The word is a long one, whatever it is. Maybe I’ll be able to see it if my bed starts to move again.

The faint scent of flowers, maybe perfume, pleases me. I see the shadow of a woman standing nearby. A nurse? I wish she would say something.

Papers rustle. The scent of perfume is stronger now. She speaks in a soft whisper: “Brian Boyle, eighteen years old, motor vehicle accident victim, ICU patient since July 6, 2004.”

Motor vehicle accident? July 6?
I don’t remember a thing. No memory of it, just an empty space.

“Brian, can you hear me?” she says loudly into my right ear, startling me. “If you can hear me, blink your eyes. No? Okay, can you squeeze my hand?” She grabs my right hand. “Come on, I know you can do it, buddy. Squeeze my hand just a little bit.” She gives it a subtle squeeze but she gets no response in return—no movement whatsoever. “We are all waiting for you to get better. Just hang in there.”

Hang in there? Where else can I go? But why do I keep having these weird feelings in the middle of my chest? I feel my heart’s regular beating—
thump
,
thump
,
thump
.

“Okay, Mr. Boyle, you’re next in line for a CAT scan. Same procedure as this morning. You should be used to it by now.” As she walks away, I hear her mutter under her breath, “Poor kid, he’s already been through so much.”

My mind explodes into a thousand fragments. I see myself walking through a minefield. The ground is made of golden yellow sand, and every few steps that I take, I accidentally set off one of the mines.
Boom
. There go my legs. My body falls to the ground, but I carry on in shock, dragging forward what’s left of me. I set off another mine with my hand.
Boom
. There goes my left arm. I’m on my back now, bleeding to death, trying to pull myself through the sand with my right arm. I struggle to move a few inches, all the while begging God for answers. I look up at the blue sky, miserable, searching for one last bit of hope. My eyes are burning from the sun’s brightness. I then see a small dot in the cloud. Salvation? The dot is getting bigger. The dot becomes this date—July 6.

But what day is it now? And why did she say that I’m used to this? How many of these CAT scans have I had? And just exactly what is a CAT scan?
Hey, Ms. Nurse, come back and tell me more!

Those papers she was looking at are right behind me. They must be attached to my bed or something. If I could grab them, I’d get some answers. I try to lift my left arm. Nothing. I try harder. Nothing! Why is this so difficult? What about my other arm? It won’t move, either.

My body feels warm. Cool drops of sweat pool on my forehead, slowly pausing at my eyebrows. But when the sweat rolls into my eyes, it burns like acid. I can’t do anything to stop the pain, but at least I feel pain. I stare at the ceiling, trying to think of something else.

What is that word on the side of the wall, the one that starts with the
R
? It’s driving me batty. Maybe if I can figure out what that word is, I can start figuring out why I’m here.

I shift my attention to the ceiling, then the wall, then back to the ceiling. I count the little specks of holes in the ceiling. My throat is dry; I desperately need water.

My mind returns to the unexplained, totally baffling reality of being in Intensive Care. I hear footsteps again. They are coming from behind, off to the right. It must be the woman. I smell her perfume. She is close, fidgeting with some machine. I hear the click and clack of buttons being pressed. Am I about to enter the CAT scan machine? I don’t know why, but I feel like I’m about to enter the slaughterhouse.

An electronic beeping starts and I sense motion. I’m moving forward on some kind of conveyer belt and getting closer to the machine. It’s a looming big white plastic mountain dotted with countless small neon green lights.

The machine stops. It’s swallowed me whole and I’m its hostage. A frightening, cold robotic voice says: “Please hold your breath for thirty seconds.” I try to obey the machine’s stern command but can’t hold my breath. My lungs are expanding and contracting on their own.

“Please hold your breath for thirty seconds,” the voice repeats.
Hey, can you give me a moment?
I want to yell,
I can’t do this! Take the damn scan already!
I try to hold my breath again, but can’t. My heart and brain are racing to see which can go faster, and my heart takes the lead. The neon lights fade, the buzzing gets louder. Liquid fire returns to my left arm. I’m nauseous and dizzy.

The machine spits me back out. Perhaps it didn’t like my taste.

I am naked. A soft breeze flows over me. My body is rigid, stiff as a plank of wood. The room is quiet, except for the beeping I heard when I was back in that other room. I drift off because my mind prefers to go on standby.

Then I hear a soft whisper from an elderly woman. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.” My right hand is slightly raised, as if someone is holding it. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” I can’t see her because my eyes are taped shut. All I see is the gloomy, dark hue inside my eyelids. The voice continues, “Now and at the hour of our death.” She begins reciting the rosary. Why is she saying this? And how did she know I’m Catholic? As she recites each line, darkness descends once more, like a welcoming friend offering me escape.

I emerge from what must be deep sleep. I’m not sure how long I have been out. I don’t even know what to call it when everything goes dark and my mind turns off. Another day or two or three has passed; I can’t tell. Fortunately, my eyelids are no longer taped closed. My vision is blurry, but I notice a large white space above me. Yes, the ceiling. It seems familiar. I’m back in the first room.

But why is my heart racing? I’m sweating profusely, or is it blood? Maybe both? I’m drenched in some disgusting broth and it feels like it’s oozing out of my left side. I want to look down, but I can’t move my head, though I have a peculiar prickly sensation running from head to toe. The pain is like a thousand needles stabbing me. My skin is getting hotter, and I feel at any moment my body will burst into flames. But at the same time, I am chilled, as if there are ice packs jammed under my arms and legs.

I still hear the fan’s whirr. Every now and then, a small alarm goes off, and then a beeping begins. It seems like a nurse comes in every fifteen minutes. I can only guess, since time has no meaning. The nurses keep telling me that I’ve been in a serious car accident, but I have no recollection of an accident. The last thing I remember is my family’s Fourth of July picnic held on July 3.

The picnic takes place every year and is organized by my dad’s concrete construction company. My mom and I always tag along as my dad’s guests, but even so, he spends most of the time reintroducing us to his coworkers. The day is warm and sunny. I smell hot dogs and hamburgers cooking on the grill. Kids are playing and laughing in the background. Layered over those sounds are several conversations taking place among the adults.

I step away from the crowd and walk toward a large grassy field. I want to get away from all the commotion and reflect on my plans for the fall. I’m looking forward to attending St. Mary’s College of Maryland—which is only an hour away from home. In the spring of my high school senior year, my parents and I met with their swim coach, Andre Barbins. I had a 4.0 grade point average, took several advanced placement courses, and was captain of my high school swim team, which was top-ranked in the state. Andre told me that I was going to be one of his top recruits. For the first few weeks of summer, I trained in the pool at the local recreation center while helping my dad with odd jobs like landscaping or going out to work sites with him.

I walk back to the crowded picnic and stay for the fireworks. That’s the last thing I remember from the picnic, or anything else, before everything turns blank. My memory ceases from that point on.

I take a closer inspection of the room. The ceiling is etched in my brain; I’ve grown accustomed to its speckled pattern. One afternoon, when nurses are changing my gown and have turned me over, I see the room is crowded with at least a dozen electrical monitors.

A nurse enters my room. “Brian, honey, can you blink for me today?” she asks in a tone suggesting that she really isn’t expecting an answer. I try to blink, but it’s impossible. She gently rolls me on my right side while she checks a tube connected with the left part of my stomach. I now have a new view of the right side of the room that I haven’t seen before. I realize that the fan is not a fan at all. I look closer at the small label that says Ventilator in big bold letters. I have a machine breathing for me. That’s why I couldn’t hold my breath in the CAT scan machine. If all these machines are keeping me alive, what does that mean? The white ceiling dims to charcoal.

O
ne morning, the sliding glass door to my room is open. My bed is raised at a slight incline, but my angle of view is limited since I can’t move my head or eyes. Doctors and nurses are walking around in white coats and light blue scrubs. I recognize one whose face I saw on his identification card, Dr. James Catevenis. He checks on me frequently. He’s drinking coffee, talking to a nurse who looks like she had a rough morning. Orderlies and nurses roll along people of all ages, some still connected to IVs, on gurneys.

A middle-aged woman and her daughter stop by my open door to ask a nurse a question. The daughter peeks into my room; then her eyes widen and she shouts, “Mommy, there’s a monster in that room!” The woman glances at me and then says to her, “Oh, good Lord, honey, don’t look at him.” She grabs her daughter and rushes off. My mind sinks in absolute shame. I’m no longer human, just a half creature kept alive by machines like in a horror film. What have I done to deserve such harsh, unjust punishment?

An alarm goes off and everyone rushes to the room on my right. It blares for several minutes before ceasing. Soon, a gurney with a white sheet covering the body appears in the hallway. I’m starting to envy ICU patients en route to the morgue. At least their suffering is over and they are at peace. What if I have to spend the rest of my life trapped like this? Why should it be otherwise? I have all the time in the world to ponder this matter.

Every time a nurse or doctor enters my room, I can only stare at them like a wax figure. Motionless as a corpse, I can’t talk, nod, lift a finger, or blink. When the doctors look right at me, they seem to be trying to read my mind. What I would give to have a simple conversation with these strangers. Instead, I’m lifeless, unmoving, unresponsive—a silent body trapped in a bed, with my arms spread out like a crucifixion on a mattress.

A nurse approaches holding a syringe. “Brian, you’ve been on a lot of really heavy medication, but we are going to try to wean your body off of all of that,” she says. “We want you to get nice and healthy and strong. I’m going to just take some blood right now. Just a slight pinch and it will all be over.”

The needle stings, and then she walks out of my room carrying a big bag of my blood. Several moments later, she returns and disappears behind my bed. Then, out of nowhere, vibrations start coming from under the bed, and I hear the pumping sound of hydraulics. My bed starts to move, reclining then rotating left. Am I going to slide off? I try to grab the sheets, but my stiff wooden fingers won’t cooperate. With my body weight shifting, I feel pressure on my elbows, forehead, hips, and calves, wherever I’m strapped to the bed. The bed halts until I’m facing the wall at a ninety-degree angle. Blood rushes to my body’s left side, causing an odd tingling sensation.

With this new view, I take in part of the room I’ve never seen before. It’s all so foreign. I feel like a traveler arriving on a deserted island, exploring new exotic sights, sounds, and smells. I’m giddy. There are so many new things to examine.

The floor is made of shiny pinkish tiles with random specks of dark blue, purple, and brown colors. There’s a wooden chair with an aqua-green cushion. I wonder how many people have sat in that chair over the years. Behind the chair is a tan-colored table with several drawers and a metal sink built into it. I’m not sure how big the sink is, but I can see the faucet and the container of soap next to it. I deeply crave a drink of water. The inside of my mouth is raw and dry as sandpaper. There are small white boxes on the left side of the sink containing bandages and latex gloves. The wall is an off-white color with a five-inch purple section in its middle. There’s a white bulletin board with a card pinned next to it: Room 19
—
Brian Boyle.

Okay, so I’m in Room 19. I still want to know what day it is and how I got in here in the first place. I want to know where my parents are and why I’m hooked up to these machines, and why my bed just rotated. Does anyone realize that I am not brain-dead? I want to scream!

For some reason, my body begins to shake. I can’t control these tremors that begin to escalate in intensity. I’m shaking like a rag doll in a dog’s mouth. As my teeth grind, my mouth foams up. I taste the awful metallic tang of blood, and feel the disgusting broth of bloodied saliva dripping down the left side of my face. I’m drifting in and out of consciousness; everything is hazy. Then everything calms down, although iron-tasting foam continues to leak from my mouth.

I’m exhausted, spent. My only thought is finding relief from this torture where I’m indifferently punished by a nameless, cruel force.

I’m staring listlessly at the wall. Time passes. Then something bizarre happens. My eyes move! I don’t know how this occurred, or if it was simply an assortment of neurons randomly and suddenly firing away deep inside the brain, but my eyes are finally able to slowly move within their sockets. They are no longer frozen.

The hydraulic system underneath the bed starts back up and I’m returned to the original flat position, but with a slight incline. While I still can’t move my head, my eyeballs are free to roam, to take in more sights of the room. I don’t know how long this visual freedom will last, so I hurry to take advantage of the new opportunity. I notice a clock above the door and small television set in the upper right corner of my room. After a while, my bed rotates back to the left.

Now I can see the bulletin board covered with photos. Many are of me from my high school graduation; others are from various swim meets. That’s odd. Who put them there? There are also photos of my parents, relatives, and friends. Thinking of the life I used to have makes me sad. Tears well up around my lids and the salty liquid trickles down my cheeks, joining the trail of blood, foam, and saliva.

My body begins to tremble again, and then I’m violently shaking all over. I wait for the terrorizing frenzy to pass. After a minute or so, I’m finally released from its wicked grip. My pulse is rapid. What is wrong?

Suddenly, I blink! I try to blink again, but my eyelids feel heavy and restrained. I struggle to shut my eyes, and then try to reopen them. This takes awhile; I feel like a crane operator hoisting a steel beam with his eyelids. Finally, they are open. But relief is short-lived when I notice a treelike contraption by the bed—a nest of tubes, medical equipment, and containers filled with reddish liquid that’s light in color and has a thick, slimy, gooey appearance. The mysterious stuff fills several plastic containers. A bright red tube comes out of the top of one these slimefilled containers, and interweaves with other wires and containers, then continues right down to the side of my body. Is this the medical brew keeping me alive? I look away in disgust. At that instant, a bubbling noise erupts from one of those containers and several teaspoons of liquid ooze into the tube, making a light gurgling noise.