Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead (3 page)

I’m constantly thirsty. I can’t remember the last time I had something to drink. My mouth is kept permanently open for a tube that goes down my throat, and some type of cool liquid is always dribbling down my chin. I can’t even swallow; this is pathetic. How I yearn for a big glass of ice-cold water. My tongue feels like a shriveled-up piece of useless flesh. I thought the human body couldn’t survive more than a few days without water. What’s even worse is when the nurses and doctors wash their hands in the sink in my room. Listening to the water pour out from the small faucet, just a few feet away from my bed, is pure torment.

One day, a new nurse shows up. She is about five feet tall, short brown hair, thin, with a friendly disposition. She holds a clear plastic bottle and a yellow sponge. She walks up to me, not saying anything, and pours liquid from the bottle onto the sponge. I can’t read the label but the liquid is clear. Wow, that’s a strong odor. It smells like rubbing alcohol. She starts rubbing the damp sponge onto my legs, feet, arms, and the rest of my body. It tingles. I wonder what would happen if she gave me a swig of rubbing alcohol? This is how desperate my thirst is. When she leaves, my mind fixates on the out-of-reach sink.

I’m awake. I don’t know how long I was out. What I dread most are the terrifying dreams that can come at any time whenever I descend into what might loosely be called sleep. These dreams are unlike any I ever had during my old life. They’re more vivid, with brighter colors and more extreme events. Could the medication be affecting my dreams? And exactly what medications are they?

Because I’m caught in a precarious limbo between life and death, it’s not easy to detect what’s real or a dream. They often swap places without warning, which only leaves me more anxious and baffled. What I would give to step outside my body for the briefest moment and look at the figure lying motionless in Room 19. Maybe I would find some answers.

I have a dream that I am sitting up right in a chair. I’m no longer in the hospital room, but at the airport. Passengers are waiting to board and people are walking through the corridors as they exit the planes. The airport looks familiar. A sign says Reagan National Airport. I have my portable CD player and I’m wearing headphones. I hear the smooth reggae rhythms of Bob Marley. I turn the volume up.

I’m wearing a damp white cotton T-shirt along with a pair of black mesh shorts with silver stripes. I reek of chlorine and my hair is wet. I bounce my Teva-clad right foot to the rhythm of the Jamaican music, but my heel is rubbing against something. I look down and notice a small black duffel bag under my chair. I guess I’m taking this with me onto the plane. Yet where am I going? Or have I already arrived and I’m waiting for someone? The next track on the CD is a good one. I love “Satisfy My Soul.”

I pick up the bag and search its contents. There’s a water bottle, wet black swimsuit, damp blue-striped towel, and a pair of goggles. Did I just come from swim practice? There is a feminine voice on the intercom that says one of the planes from American Airlines is boarding in twenty minutes. I don’t have a ticket. I check the pockets in my shirt and look in my bag again, nothing. A hint of tension is building in my stomach because something doesn’t feel right about this whole situation.

The lights throughout the airport concourse start to dim, and then shut off completely. Only sunlight illuminates the inside of the airport. An air-horn siren starts to go off, and I jump out of my seat and run to the exit, gripping my CD player.

Adrenaline pumping, I sprint around people, trying to reach a safer location. Wait! I forgot my bag. I have to go back and retrieve it. I find it, but pause. People are moving toward the exit. I can barely hear Marley, and now everything begins to move in slow motion. Then everything and everyone disappear. All I see is white. I’m now enclosed in a large white tube or some sort of bubble, and a strong blinding light is shining right at me. I don’t know where I am, but I don’t feel frightened; I sense that I’m not alone. I hear soft voices. An unfamiliar boy sits to my left, talking on a cell phone. He has short brown hair and is wearing a blue T-shirt. To my right are many boys and girls in chairs. It’s almost like we are all gathered in a large waiting room, but what exactly are we waiting for? There must be hundreds of these young kids, and they all seem to be my age. The atmosphere is calm and relaxing.

The boy to my left with the phone asks if I need to use it or if he could call anyone for me. I tell him to call my parents. Seconds later, he reaches my parents and asks me what I would like him to say. I reply, “Could you tell my parents that I love them?”

Then I hear: “Brian, son, your mom and I want you to know that everything is going to be okay.”

Dad? Could his voice not be part of my dream? Then where is he? I see a shadowy figure looming by my feet. I study his face.
Dad? Is that you? It is! You’re here!
At long last! For the first time since my mind went blank, I see him in my room. I want to ask, “Where’s Mom? Is she with you?” But I can’t speak or blink or show any sign of communication to let him know that I recognize him. Excited, my pulse quickens and the machines start their pinging and beeping.

“Calm down son, it’s okay,” he says. He struggles to speak. Someone is standing behind him.
Mom?
I see her blonde hair. I can only shout to myself,
Mom, it’s you! Oh, Mom, you’re here! I’m so happy.
The beeping and buzzing machines get louder.

Two nurses flank my mom. They are holding her upright. She can barely look at me. Her face is hidden behind a veil of crumpled tissues that she holds in a trembling hand. In fact, her entire body is quivering.
Mom, don’t be upset
, I want to say. Yet, I can only look at her with a frozen unblinking expression. She suddenly rushes out of the room.

My dad, however, stays at my side. I hear Bob Marley playing. That must be why I was hearing reggae in my dream. Dad starts gently rubbing my feet, massaging the toes as if they are made of glass. He’s quiet, subdued, and looks like he has aged ten years since the July picnic. He barely maintains eye contact with me for more than a few seconds before glancing away. I watch a tear slide down his left cheek. He tells me that I’m in Prince George’s Hospital, that I was in a bad car accident, that I have a few broken bones, and that I will be able to leave the hospital in several days. I sense that it’s much worse than several broken bones, and his tense, pained look confirms my suspicion.

The next time my parents visit, I want to let them know that I’m right here. Their son might be buried inside the rigid shell of his unresponsive body, but his mind remains active, alert, internally engaged, though a bit dulled from the drugs or mysterious brown liquid pumped into his side. Yet how can I convey this, since I can’t speak or even nod my head? My reality is this: I’m cut off from the world. Remove the lifesupport machines and I am dead.

Am I in what is known as a vegetative state? But surely this can’t be the case; I’m aware of what is happening all around me. A cauliflower or artichoke doesn’t ask itself what it’s like to be picked in the field only to end up on someone’s plate. But I’m scared that doctors and nurses seem to presume I’m a vegetable. “You used to be known as Brian Boyle, but that’s all changed. Sorry buddy, but there’s little difference between you and the leafy greens in the produce aisle.”

I wait for my parents, still uncertain about what to do. As usual, my dad approaches the bed while my mom stands by the open door with two nurses. He says hi and begins to massage my feet. “Brian, can you move your feet?” he asks. “Come on son, wiggle your toes at least.” I try to find some kind of sensation in my feet, but nothing. “Okay, well, how about blinking? Let’s try that. Blink if you want me to keep rubbing your feet.”

I stare at him, listening to the sad desperation in his voice. I have to blink. He needs this sign very much. I struggle to shut my eyes. It takes several seconds for the reflex to begin. With my eyes closed, I pause. A few moments later, I will myself to open my eyes. It’s like I’m pushing a heavy boulder uphill with my eyelids. As soon as they open, he looks as if he has just witnessed a miracle. “Yes! You did it! I’m so proud of you!” he says. I blink again, this time in half as much time. It’s getting easier. I continue to stare at him.

“JoAnne, watch this!” yells my dad. “You’re not going to believe what Brian just did. He blinked!” My mom approaches my bed, looking more shell-shocked than curious.

My dad asks what I want to hear. He steps away, grabs a stack of my old CDs from a bag, and holds up
Led Zeppelin IV
. “Blink if you want me to play it,” he says. “Mom is here. Show her that you can blink. Come on, son. You can do it.”

I shut my eyes, pause for a second, and then launch my eyelids triumphantly. She gasps, putting her hand to her mouth in disbelief, and touches my right arm. Trembling and smiling, she keeps dabbing her reddened eyes with a tissue.

The song “Rock and Roll” plays softly in the background. I no longer hear the beeps and buzzes of the machines. Listening to Led Zeppelin with my parents, I no longer feel alone. My dad is sitting in the chair to my left, while my mom sits in the chair next to the wall on my right. They are both quiet. I suddenly feel movement in my feet. They are swaying several inches to the beat. My mom notices first. “Garth, look!” she cries. He sees my feet moving and rushes over to the foot of my bed.

“I can’t believe it!” he shouts. He touches my feet to feel them moving as if seeing them shake isn’t enough evidence. He tells me to stop moving them, and I do. Seeking an explanation, he turns around to the two nurses, who are standing just outside the sliding glass door. One says that the movement is possibly the result of a lower dosage of medication. My dad asks me to push my feet forward against his hands and I happily oblige. The two nurses hug each other with joy. The hallway lights silhouette them as if they are angels.

Full-length ice blankets drape my entire body, and I’m shaking uncontrollably. The television is on. The 2004 Athens Olympics have begun, but I can’t watch because of the cold. I glance toward the door, hoping for a nurse to remove the frigid blankets. Instead, two police officers stand there, casually talking and sipping coffee from paper cups.

A nurse arrives. She looks new, unfamiliar. I hope she notices that I’m cold and in pain. But I can’t speak or indicate anything to her. “Brian, how are you feeling today?” she asks while placing her hand on my forehead. “Can you blink for me, sweetheart? Your parents told me that you were able to blink the other day. They were so excited.”

I try to blink but can’t. Shivering from this arctic chill, I watch her walk in and out of my room for what feels like forever. She finally returns and removes the icy blankets. What was the deal with that? Next thing I know, needles prick me. I see blood all over my left arm. I can’t even imagine what’s going to happen next.

Two other nurses roll in a portable cart with an assortment of cleaning supplies—shampoo, soap, towels. They push the table next to my bed, grab orange sponges, dip them in water, and start bathing me right in the bed. With water so tantalizingly close to my lips, I’m in a state of near delirium. The nurses obviously can’t read my mind and I know I will remain parched, but their touch is soothing and refreshing. When was the last time I took a shower? Or more precisely, when was the last time I was given a sponge bath? The nurses tilt the bed so my head is closer to the floor than my feet. I’m getting a shampoo!

One nurse pours water over my hair and lathers in shampoo. Small drops of water splash on my face, mouth, lips. I struggle to slide my tongue out of my mouth and catch one of these falling drops of liquid goodness. Unfortunately, I have no luck, but my mouth is open a fraction for the breathing tube, and then out of nowhere, a water drop scores a direct hit!

The shampoo that they are using smells like strawberries. It takes me back to when I was in kindergarten and went to a farm and picked strawberries with my class. My mom and grandma were chaperones; it was a beautiful day and the sun was shining. I inhale the shampoo’s fruity aroma because I know in a short while it will be gone, replaced by the sharp odor of rubbing alcohol.

The nurse rinses my hair with warm water, then dries it with a towel. My bed is set back to horizontal. My hair is combed, my fingernails and toenails trimmed. The two nurses lift me onto another table, replace my linens with a fresh set, and then move me back to the bed. The soft cool texture of the new sheets is pleasing.

While I’m pampered and fussed over, I listen to their conversation about the patient next door. It explains the two cops’ presence. He’s a convict who got jumped in prison when he left his cell. The attacker slammed his head into a brick wall. He now has severe brain damage.

The two nurses also discuss another gravely injured patient: a pregnant woman in her twenties who was stabbed by her husband. The knife tip broke off in her heart and she is listed in critical condition. The doctors are doing everything they can to save her, but her parents have been taking out their anger and frustration on the hospital staff and that is causing unnecessary interruptions. I can’t imagine my parents ever acting this way around my doctors and nurses.

It might be the next day, but I can’t be certain. My dry aching eyes have remained open for the entire time. I must have slept this way. Everything is blurred. I feel nauseous and feverish. I’m lying on my back, with a slight incline to the bed. I hear my dad’s voice. Is he in my room? I don’t see him.

A nurse sticks a needle in my arm, but I can’t feel it as I usually do. She applies liquid solution to my eyes and my vision remains foggy and distorted. I still don’t see my dad.

I begin to see a figure by the door wearing a blue T-shirt. It’s Dad! I feel relieved. He’s talking with a nurse. I overhear fragments of what they’re discussing. Then two words—“bad news”—ambush me. They say a nasty infection has spread throughout my body. I now see my mom who looks more frightened than usual. The room begins to fill with big white fluffy clouds. I’m falling through them in a bright blue sky. I feel weightless in the bright sunshine, the breeze blowing through my hair. The white clouds are now turning gray and the sky has gotten darker, meaner. The room goes jet-black. My mind shuts down.

The bed is moving. I’m being rolled through the hallways with several trailing pieces of medical equipment and IVs. We turn a corner and stop right before a set of folding doors. My eyes are rigid within their sockets. I’m drooling. This is no way to live. I sense bugs crawling all over my skin, biting me, trying to gnaw the flesh. My whole body feels like it’s rotting away from the inside.

From my vantage point, I watch a revolving cast of nurses, doctors, hospital staff, and visitors walk by. Anyone who passes my bed rarely makes eye contact with me. Can you fault them? I must remind them of death. Best to ignore the corpse and keep on walking.

Then I’m wheeled into a cold room, with a big gray electronic machine. I remember this room. It’s the CAT scan place. Because the bed is tilted, I finally get to see the machine. It looks intimidating, almost evil.

The nurses carefully flop me onto a table. The machine swallows me up again and the same robotic voice tells me to hold my breath for thirty seconds. I try to obey, but still no improvement. Several sluggish minutes go by and the scan is complete. I feel woozy as the machine returns me to the world. I vomit violently all over my gown, the table, and the floor. The female technician rushes to clean me. Is she the same woman who was here last time? Her perfume smells familiar, but before I can see her face, I’m wheeled into another room for X-rays.

Two nurses are talking right outside the room. I can hear them clearly. My name is brought up. One says that a doctor told her I’d probably be moved to a Baltimore nursing home for long-term care. The other nurse mentions that she had heard that too. Wait! Nursing home? And then it hits me as if somebody has just punched me in the face. Do doctors think that I will require twenty-four-hour care the rest of my life? Oh no, that can’t be. Give or take a few broken bones and full paralysis, I’m doing all right. I can think, hear, smell, see. But what would I be like if I didn’t have all those machines keeping me alive?

The brutal reality of my situation can’t be glossed over. The machines in my hospital room are not for decorative purposes. Each one is playing a special role in allowing me to exist. Electricity
and
blood flow through my veins. Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have even made it this far. But where exactly have I arrived? Those small, earlier signs of improvement, when I was able to blink and move my feet, now seem like false messages of hope. Being sentenced to permanent exile in a nursing home is worse than dying. I’d rather expire and have it end right here, right now.

I just turned eighteen. I was a good son, athlete, student, and friend to many. I never did drugs or drank alcohol on the weekends like most teenagers; I performed community service at my local church and Special Olympics. Whether I’m dead or living out the rest of my life in a nursing home, the outcome will be the same. I’ll never know what it feels like to fall in love, get married, have a family. I’ll never attend college. I’ll never again get to swim in the ocean, take a walk with my dad, or have a long conversation with my mom. I’ll never go outside, breathe the fresh air, see the blue sky and colorful sunsets.

I’ve held on for as long as I can. I’ve fought the good fight, yet it’s just not enough. It’s time to give up. As an athlete, you are taught
never
to quit. At swim practice, it was drilled into us. You train your body as you prepare your mind never to back off or surrender, especially in the heat of competition.

We aren’t able to choose our destiny, but we can choose our reaction. Life can be beautiful, and it can also turn tragic in the tick of the clock or with a drop of rain on the windowsill. We are only here for a short time in this world. And my time is up. I’m ready to depart. I know what has to be done: I must shut down my will to live, and hope that my body obeys this final command. By doing so, I will finally find the peace that has eluded me. And when I go, I know that I will always be with my parents.

My nurses wheel me back to Room 19. As we move through the white hallways, my life starts to flash by. I’m assaulted by random fragmented memories ranging from when I was a little boy to the present, with each vision carrying a heavier emotional impact than the previous one.

As we approach my room, I see my parents standing by the door, talking with someone, a very large guy, the doctor. My parents look concerned. In reaction to whatever was said, my mom’s mouth opens as if she is gasping for air. My dad places his arms around her. The doctor looks like he is trying to console both of them, and then walks away. Watching them from a short distance, I realize that I made a huge mistake wanting to die. I feel guilty for wanting to give up. My mom is sobbing behind a wad of tissues, but she won’t look at me as I roll pass. My dad walks behind my bed, helping the nurses wheel in the rest of my equipment, IVs, and ventilator.

The nurses move the machines and medical equipment closer to me, reattaching tubes. The electronic symphony of beeping and buzzing resumes. Before the nurses leave the room, one of them injects some liquid into my left arm and attaches a new IV.

My dad approaches the left side of my bed, trying to force a smile that fails to mask his anxiety. It’s almost like he peers into my soul and reads my thoughts. Has he stumbled upon my desire to die? He has a look of frantic desperation, like he has to do or say something before it’s too late. But how did he know what I was thinking only minutes earlier?

He slides the aqua chair close to my bed, placing his hands over the wires and tubes that are connected to my chest, and crosses his arms. His head is bowed. “Brian, please stay strong. Keep fighting.” He slowly gets up from his chair, pauses for several seconds, and walks over to my mom. “I don’t want to do this,” I hear my dad quietly say to her. “It’s been a little over a month and a half and there’s no real improvement. Not much progress at all. He’s only getting worse. He’s so tired; I don’t think he has the strength to go on.” I hear my mom sobbing.

Watching my parents suffer like this is much worse than being paralyzed and constantly being stabbed by needles and being left alone to rot in this bed, plagued by constant loneliness and everlasting confusion. I don’t want to see my parents in perpetual anguish anymore. I can’t leave them, but I can’t continue like this either. Right now, I should be at a swim meet, being cheered on by them. As fate would have it, I’m being urged to keep going through the motions of living while stuck in my deathbed.

My dad walks back to me and sits down in the chair. My mom stays by the door where I can’t see her. He stares blankly at the medical equipment. He struggles to speak. “Son, you have to be strong for us. We’re almost out of the woods now; just a few more days, that is all it will take.” He stands. There is frustration and anger in his voice as he paces around the room. “We want you to get out of this goddamn place!”

“Garth, please, calm down; you’re scaring him,” my mom interrupts in a startled voice.

“No, no, I can’t, JoAnne. Chrissakes, I can’t let this happen. He has to know that he has to keep fighting.” He stands over my bed. “Son, I know you can hear me. Look at me! Now is the time. You are very sick. But dammit, I am not going to lose you! You can beat this; we know you can. If I could switch places with you right now, I would do it in a heartbeat and you know that. We will get through it all together, but you have to make the choice to keep pushing through the pain. I know how tired you are, but please don’t give up.”

He walks to the bulletin board, his hands balled up in tense, clenched fists, looking at the photos. “Everyone is praying for you; everyone wants you to get out of this damn room and come home. They all want to see you.”

He walks back over to my bed and sits down in the chair, slumped and defeated. His eyes are glazed and vacant. Is he thinking about what it’s going to be like when I’m no longer in his life?

“You can do it, son.” His voice is too choked to continue. As words fail him, a nurse enters the room and says that the visiting hour has ended.

My dad kisses me on my forehead. His parting words are, “We love you, and we will be back in a couple of hours.” He asks my mom to say goodbye. She walks over to my bed. He’s holding her up. She’s unable to say anything, so she just holds my mitten-covered left hand, trembling and softly weeping.