Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead (6 page)

I continue to lie there on the operating table, drenched in a clammy sweat. Debbie strokes my forehead. She offers congratulations for being brave, but courage is the last emotion I feel right now. I’m totally spent, my vision reduced to a foggy haze.

When I return to my room, the reward for enduring that awful encounter with the feeding tube is another upright session in what I now call the “angry chair.” I hate this chair. I almost wish that I were back in the operating room.

After what feels like ten minutes, my lower body starts turning numb. After thirty minutes, I’m drooling. After an hour, I’m sweating rapidly and feel an intense discomfort in my lungs. I hear the ventilator working harder than usual to pump air into my weak lungs.

I watch ICU visitors walk by my room. If they happen to look inside, they will see a motionless, drooling person strapped to a chair.
Poor damaged soul
, they must think, walking away in revulsion.

Debbie enters my line of sight from the left side of the room; she must have been sitting behind me the whole time. I look at her with my eyes wide open, trying to show her that I want out of the angry chair. She says, “Okay, twenty minutes is up. Let’s take a break, and we’ll try sitting for thirty minutes in a few hours. Sound good?”

I want to scream. Twenty minutes! That’s all that was? This is absurd, but at least I get to lie back down in bed.

Debbie and one of the hospital staff remove the restraints from the chair and they carefully transfer me back to my bed. I wiggle the fingers on my right hand and feel the cool texture of the white sheets. My bed is positioned at a slight incline. Debbie places the blue foam ball in my right hand and I start squeezing it. I have grown used to this small ball, which reminds me of Wilson, Tom Hanks’s volleyball and sole companion in
Cast Away
.

My parents walk into the room, grinning. I wait until my mom is looking right at me. I then slowly launch my right arm straight up, touching my lips, before it loses its battle with gravity and drops back down. She looks totally surprised. Debbie claps her hands in joy. “You did it! You blew your mom a kiss!”

I
wonder if some one can actually perish from boredom. How do prisoners locked away in solitary confinement manage to maintain their mental clarity without going crazy? When it’s just you and your runaway thoughts keeping you company, it’s not like you can find pleasant distractions like reading or conversation to ward off the emptiness. I desperately want to break out of this jail that is my body. Can I ever become the old Brian? Will I ever stretch my legs in our backyard, swim in a cold lake, attend a rock concert?

Each morning, nurses strap me into the angry chair, positioning my body so it can sit upright at a thirty-degree angle. This is supposed to improve blood flow in my legs. While I feel less like a corpse when I’m confined in the angry chair than lying in bed, I only wish I could tell the nurses to loosen the restraining belts which are cutting off the circulation in my chest, waist, and legs. The way they have me strapped down, I feel like a catatonic patient in a mental institution.

Sitting like this, my paralyzed left arm dangles uselessly by my side, while my right arm rests inert upon my chest like I should be reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. The fingers on my right hand look foreign and small, just paper-thin skin stretched tightly around the bones. They remind me of illustrations of skeletal fingers in my high school biology textbook. I wonder if my entire body is skin and bones. I must have lost a lot of weight. Exactly how much?

Not long ago, I weighed 230 pounds. My weight changed according to the sports I played: swimming on the high school team in the winter and, in the spring, throwing the discus and putting the shot for the track team. I always had difficulty with this transition because swimming requires leanness and the field events require power and mass. In swimming, I tried to stay at 180 pounds, just right for my height of five feet and eleven inches. When track season started, I’d quickly gain 50 pounds by drinking a lot of protein shakes. I didn’t want to be big, but I had to be this size if I wanted to compete with other discus throwers in Maryland. I was one of the smallest throwers because most of them were burly linebackers who played football in the fall. Some weighed 300 pounds.

If I couldn’t match their size and strength, my weapon was extreme foot speed. Since I had a much smaller frame, I was able to spin around at a much higher velocity. That is one of the most important factors in achieving height and distance when heaving the discus.

I remember one track and field meet near the end of the season of my senior year. My teammate and good friend Sean Thompson had been virtually undefeated in shot put and discus since we started throwing together in our freshman year. He had college track scholarships to pretty much anywhere he wanted to go. Naturally, I had a burning desire to beat him one day. I had plans of swimming in college, but I still wanted to outthrow Sean just once.

Sean and I were doing our warm-ups when the throwing judge blew his whistle for us to begin. I continued to practice my technique and do some push-ups to get the blood pumping. Sean was up first. He let out a thundering yell as he hurled the metal disc out into the grassy infield. When it landed, a big clump of dirt and grass flung upward. It was a good, decent throw, but not one of his best.

I sat on a small hill away from everyone, waiting for my turn to throw. I felt the hot sun on my face and arms, and I smelled sunscreen in the slight breeze. I took a sip of Mountain Dew from its green plastic bottle. I held the discus in my right hand, feeling the cool metal on my palm and fingertips. I rubbed my hand in the dirt next to my feet and felt the discus’s dull edges to make sure I could get a good grip on it when I threw it. I placed my hand on the center, spreading my fingers wide. I pulled my index finger back so there was a space between my fingers to maximize the grip. I tossed the three-pound, nine-ounce disc a few inches up in the air, causing it to rotate several times before landing back between the ends of my fingers.

The throwing judge called my name. I walked around the fenced-in barrier onto the concrete platform, and then into the circle. I took a deep breath for clarity, slowly exhaling as I shrugged my shoulders forward, getting in one last stretch. I did a quick practice spin and then aligned my feet at the top of the circle, visualizing the form and technique needed to throw as far as possible. I felt the disc’s weight in my hand, gripping it with my fingers and palm. I stood on my toes as I rotated my body as far back as it could travel, gaining momentum, spinning around as fast as I could, and launched the discus into the bright blue sky. After my body came to a stop, I watched the thin metal object slice through the air like a tiny spaceship flying off into the sky. It landed just a few feet short of Sean’s throw, and a surge of adrenaline flowed through me.

I walked out of the circle and around the fence, glancing over at Sean to see his reaction. A look of concern was hidden behind his artificial smile. Secretly, I knew he was cursing my existence under his breath.

After several minutes, the rest of the throwers took their turn in the circle, and then the second of three rounds began. I did a few quick drills over in the grass. It was Sean’s turn, and he launched the orb about ten feet past his first throw. He lifted his arms up in the air in victory, and I gave him a high five as I made my way into the circle.

I went through the same motions, but this time the throw felt different. As I rotated, I’m not exactly sure what happened, but I was able to obtain more speed and the angle of release achieved the ideal plane. I watched the discus soar, landing a few inches further than Sean’s spot and nearly four feet past my personal record of 145 feet.

I couldn’t believe what I had just accomplished, the culmination of thousands of throws I had done in practice and meets over the past four years. I walked over to my coach, Mr. Covey, who shook my hand and gave me a hug. Sean couldn’t top my throw in his final attempt, so I won the event. My athletic dream came true.

But that satisfying memory is eclipsed by Room 19’s reality. I can’t even toss a pencil in the air or snap my fingers. A wave of rage crashes inside my head. My body, in response, reacts by shaking ferociously, trying to wriggle itself free from the restraints. But I am too weak, so nothing happens. I slam my head against the chair’s top in agitated fury and grind my teeth, shredding my tongue, to feel something other than numbness. Blood dribbles out of my mouth and down my chin.

“Calm down, Brian,” says a nurse, rushing over. “It’s going to be okay. You’re getting better; things are improving. You just have to relax and be patient.” Somehow I gather the strength to move my right hand away from my chest and allow it to hang limply by my side. I can’t bear to look at my former discus throwing hand anymore.

Despite everything, I need to start thinking like an optimist. Looking back at my physical therapy sessions, which began three days ago, I can see I’ve made visible progress. I can do the absolute basics—smile, blink, and squeeze hands. To someone of normal health, these activities would be considered infantile. But in a way, I’m relearning everything just like a baby. I keep thinking how this is affecting my parents. They are my inspiration. I can’t let them down now. I’m close to returning to the world of the living again.

If I could only speak, I’d be able to leave behind this locked-in existence. I’d tell my parents that their son is a fighter. I’d thank the nurses and doctors for all the hard work it took to keep me going. I’d ask for a glass of water. I’d tell my physical therapist that I don’t like being awakened at six in the morning by having my chest tapped with her hand. I’d tell strangers in the hospital corridor who stare at me in fright to look away! I’d ask the nurse for a blanket when I’m cold. I’d tell my parents to take me outside in a gurney or wheelchair.

Regaining the ability to talk is the key that will unlock my dungeon’s door. Yet whenever I try saying anything, no sound comes out. Even when I attempt to mouth words, no one understands what I want to say. Nurses and doctors always react with the same puzzled look.

Talking seems easy to do. Just exhale some air from your lungs, move your tongue and lips a little here and there, and you create syllables and, from there, words, and then entire sentences. I can’t even say “Daddy” or “Mama” like most one-year-olds. How long will I remain voiceless? The rest of my life? Why can’t anyone hear me?

I’m in the angry chair when the nurse named Debbie comes into my room. She says that she is going to try to get me to speak. I blink to let her know that I understand, and I blink again with a faint smile to let her know that I’m excited. She is going to insert a small clear catheter into the hub of the tracheostomy tube at the base of my throat. This procedure will force me to cough, which is when I’m supposed to say something. It seems simple enough. I hope the process works.

The tube tickles and scrapes my throat. Rather than cough, I gag. My eyes begin to tear up, while my breathing turns heavy with the pain. I don’t want Debbie to try again; there has to be another way of getting me to speak. But she can’t know what I’m thinking, and so, with kind, motherly assurance, she places her hand on my chest to calm me down. Several minutes later, she reinserts the tube, and this time I’m able to stifle the gag reflex and make a faint gurgling noise.

Debbie attempts several more times but she’s becoming tired. She’s also concerned about my discomfort. She pauses, wiping away beads of sweat that have collected on her forehead. “You can do it. Just say something, even a few letters will do.” The only noise coming from my throat is raspy, gargling coughing. It sounds animal-like, not human. After several more tries, Debbie finally takes a much-needed break. It’s hard to tell which one of us is more exhausted.

She delicately pulls the device out of the breathing tube opening and lets me rest. I blink rapidly to let her know we should continue. Debbie walks to the other side of the room and quietly says to another nurse named Faye, “Do you really think he is even capable of talking again?”

I sure can!
I want to shout.
Please don’t give up on me. Come on—give me one more chance. I’m getting the hang of it. I know I am.
But maybe Debbie is right. This realization drains me of hope.
You moron! You were given the chance to talk and you blew it!
My head droops forward in despair. I feel defeated and ashamed.

I then notice a group of people approaching my room. It’s Dr. Catevenis leading a small group of people in white lab coats. They all look to be in their mid-to-late twenties. Medical students? Interns? They gather around my bed. Dr. Catevenis explains to them how proud he is of my progress. I want to hide under the bed. These strangers are staring at me like I’m a caged, wounded animal.

Dr. Catevenis asks if I can say hello to his group. I slowly lift my right arm and wave my hand, welcoming them to my cell. I even add a faint smile for hospitality’s sake. It’s always important to be a gracious host.

I study the reactions of these young doctors, but can’t read their expressions. Or rather, I see nothing on their faces. Just stone. No returned greeting or acknowledgment, not even a small nod. Here I am, lingering half-alive between human and machine, but I still can express empathy and kindness. Yet all I receive from these young doctors are vacant stares. I’m nothing but an anonymous body to them, perhaps someone they might read about one day in medical journals. I feel sorry for their future patients. I want them all to leave.

Dr. Catevenis concludes his brief talk by saying, “You’re doing good Brian; keep it up, buddy. I will be back to check on you soon.” A good, thoughtful, and considerate physician, he gives me a thumbs-up gesture and leads away his young charges.

Debbie returns with another small clear plastic tube to help me speak. Fantastic! This is my big chance to redeem myself. When the tube is reinserted, I cough violently. My lungs rattle and crackle, but the sensation seems different, with the coughing more rhythmic. Way down in my lungs, a pocket of air develops, rising up through me like a geyser. I feel a word forming, and I see Dr. Catevenis walking around the corner. He stops right in front of my room, and the long-awaited moment takes place before his very eyes.

“Hello,” I announce in a scratchy voice. I want to say more but the attempt fizzles in a drawn-out hissing.

“Brian, you did it!” he says in complete astonishment. “You’re talking!”

That word, “hello,” I know is just the start of more to come. One day I will put entire sentences together.

Debbie is doing a gleeful jig. She hugs Dr. Catevenis. Several nurses come into my room. Everyone is beaming. It feels like a party. I want to add to the merriment and proclaim,
Thank you everyone for keeping me alive
. But for now, that lone “hello” will have to suffice.

Debbie, with the help of another nurse, moves me back to the bed. She reattaches a few IVs and checks to make sure my catheter is in place. She turns on the television and places the remote control next to my ear. The remote has speakers built into it. NBC is showing highlights from the 2004 Olympics in Athens. I look forward to watching the swimming.

As much as I love watching them, I admit to harboring jealousy toward these Olympic athletes. Here they perform on the world stage, healthy men and women, doing what they love, representing their countries and living their dreams. I was also an athlete. Now my sole competition is with my body. The Athens athletes are concerned about going faster, higher, stronger than their peers. Me? Don’t I deserve a gold medal for saying my first word?

Debbie finishes her day shift and says goodbye. I look at her and smile and slightly nod my head. She is such a nice woman. Before she goes, she asks me if I need anything. I direct my eyes toward the radio, and she knows right away what I want. She turns it on. I give her a thumbs-up in gratitude. The song playing is “Rooster,” by Alice in Chains, one of my all-time favorite songs. As soon as I hear the music, my body is temporarily in a state of total peace, almost as if I’m back to my old self again. I silently sing along with the lyrics:
Ain’t found a way to kill me yet . . .
This song neatly defines who I am, in this bed, in this hospital room.

Tony walks into my room. He’s my respiratory therapist. I like him. He has a dark complexion, is bald, and has a gentle but motivating personality. He says that everyone is talking about how I said my first word. He examines my tracheostomy tube. “Okay, so what I’m going to do is pick up where Debbie left off,” he says. “I talked it over with the doctors, and we decided to try an alternative method of having you speak. I think you’ll probably like it better.” He’s addressing me as if I’m a dog, not truly capable of fully understanding what he’s saying.

After he removes the yucky fluid buildup in my lungs, he carefully places a small buttonlike piece of equipment on the outer hub of the tracheostomy tube. The one-way valve, he tells me, will open to let air in when I breathe. The valve closes during exhaling, causing air to leave and permitting speech.

He steps back several feet. I nervously open my mouth and exhale. In amazement, several words come sputtering out of my mouth in a distorted high-pitched sound. “Hello, Tony . . . oh my God, I am talking! I am actually talking! Can you believe it?” Tony looks dumbfounded. He runs out of the room, grabbing nurses and pushing them into my room. I greet them all by name. “Hey Nurse Faye, Victoria, Eileen, Mary Kate . . . where’s Dr. Catevenis?”

It seems like the entire ICU staff on my floor—doctors, nurses, physical therapists, respiratory therapists, medical school students, interns, security guards, nutritionists, maintenance workers—have all rushed into my room. They all want to witness the miracle. I greet as many as I can by name. Everyone looks to be in a state of shock. I’m the only one talking for a change. Not a torrent of words, but enough to cause many to start crying. It’s like they have witnessed a corpse climb out of his grave. I owe my life to these people.

The big man, Dr. Catevenis, joins the crowd. I say “hello” again. He then turns around and begins waving his arms as if he is directing traffic. I glance up at the clock; it is 11:00. Visiting hour.

My dad threads his way through everyone. He rushes to my bed to see what is going on.

“Hey Dad! Where’s Mom?” He looks at me, speechless, and tears start running down his cheeks. He wants to say something but he is too choked up. I’m the one who has the words now. “Dad, I promise everything is going to be fine.”

My mom enters the room. “Hi Mom!” I say. She has the same reaction as my dad, astounded and tearful.

She tenderly places her hand over my right hand. “Hello handsome,” she answers.