Still Me (5 page)

I was extremely lucky to have come under the care of Dr. Jane, a brilliant neurosurgeon and professor of neurosurgery. In addition to being chief of neurosurgery at UVA Hospital, he is chairman of the Department of Neurological Surgery at the University of Virginia Medical School, where he has trained many of the world's leading neurosurgeons and preeminent professors of neurosurgery. His curriculum vitae is roughly the size of a county telephone directory, listing accomplishments that seem too numerous for a single lifetime. In 1993 he was elected president of the Society of Neurological Surgeons and editor of the
Journal of Neurosurgery;
in addition he served a term as director of the American Board of Neurological Surgeons. He has lectured and taught all over the world, from the United States to Taiwan, from Stockholm and Prague to Korea. He has received dozens of awards and grants to investigate cranial injuries and nerve regeneration. The coauthor of several books on the central nervous system, he has also contributed chapters in close to seventy others and published more than 260 articles in prestigious journals. It was just my great good fortune that he was at the hospital when I arrived, that he took control of my care and agreed to operate on me himself.

Just after I regained consciousness. Dana and I dealt with ICU psychosis and prepared for surgery.

At the small county hospital in Culpeper, little could be done for me. But fortunately the doctors there had methylprednisolone (MP) on hand and administered it to me immediately. Methylprednisolone is a synthetic steroid, which must be given within eight hours of the injury to have any effect. Doctors discovered in the 1980s that it can help fight the inflammation that occurs immediately after a lesion in the spinal cord. Not only does the victim suffer the damage caused by the initial trauma, but soon afterwards the entire central nervous system starts to fall apart, going down rapidly like a row of dominoes. The inflammation, which in my case extended down to the seventh cervical vertebra, causes the breakdown of fats into unstable compounds called free radicals that are like acid to cell tissues. In other words, healthy nerves below the site of the injury are being eaten alive, causing further loss of sensation and motor function. But in most patients MP can reduce this inflammation by about 20 percent. This 20 percent can mean the difference between patients breathing on their own and spending life hooked up to a ventilator.

This is why being given the MP was so critical. Afterwards the staff at Culpeper could only wait for the medevac helicopter to airlift me to Charlottesville and the intensive care unit at UVA.

As soon as I arrived there, Dr. Jane had me stabilized to prevent any more compression in the spine (a result of having landed straight on my head). Compression causes electrical impulses attempting to travel through the injured area to go haywire, which leads to the death of even more nerve cells. As these cells die another wave of destruction radiates out from the damaged site. Immune cells flood in and, in a frenzied attempt to clear away the accumulated debris, begin to chew up damaged and healthy nerves alike.

So as the victim of a spinal cord injury at the C2 level lies immobilized and unconscious, inflammation is steadily destroying the essential functions of the body: breathing, bladder and bowel control, sexual response, and any motion below the neck. Only the heart and the brain continue to function normally.

Dr. Jane had me placed on a bed and implanted a metal structure into my head just above the temples. Then he attached a heavy weight behind it to keep me immobile. I was hooked up to machines that monitored my heart rate, pulse, blood pressure, and oxygen saturation levels (SATs). I continued to drift in and out of consciousness. Sometimes I would attempt to flail and jerk my head from side to side, and they would have to sedate me even more.

My lungs had begun to fill with fluid, making me highly susceptible to pneumonia. In the past doctors had no way of removing liquid from the lungs, and at this stage a patient usually died. I had pneumonia in one lung, but they managed to clear the infection with powerful antibiotics and by repeated suctioning—an extremely unpleasant experience. They stick a tube into your lungs and suck out the liquid. The tube going down your throat can be very painful, and you're off the ventilator for at least four or five breaths, which can seem like an eternity. I dreaded suctioning more than any other “care” the entire time I was in the ICU.

After five days I became fully conscious and able to make sense. Henson and Jane came in to explain my situation. They told me in detail about the extent of my injury, and that after the pneumonia cleared from my lungs they would have to operate to reconnect my skull to the top of my spine. They didn't know if the operation would be successful, or even if I could survive it. They had a plan, but it was extremely risky and they needed my consent. Dana had insisted (over the objections of some of the family) that the doctors discuss everything with me personally and that nothing be done without my consent.

I answered somewhat vaguely, “Okay, whatever you have to do.” Ever since childhood I'd been used to solving my problems. Whatever scrape I would get myself into, I was always sure of a way out. I'd think: I'll get out of this, I'll be okay, everything's fine. I'd survived a lot of difficult situations before, both physically and emotionally.

Once I fell out of a parasail on Martha's Vineyard because my friend who owned the boat and all the equipment probably didn't realize, and certainly didn't tell me, that the harness was certified to carry only up to 180 pounds. As the boat pulled away from the beach and I gained altitude, all four straps slipped through the buckles. I fell about ninety feet into four feet of water. Luckily I had the presence of mind to curl up into a ball and go in sideways, so I wasn't seriously injured. I coughed up a little blood, and the next day one side of my body was black and blue, but I was fine. I've broken an ankle skiing, bruised my ribs playing hockey, and contracted malaria while scouting locations for a film in Kenya. During the shooting of
Street Smart
I had an emergency appendectomy, but I was back on the set the next day. I always recovered quickly from these physical setbacks, and over time I coped successfully with the emotional challenges in my life, such as my parents' divorce, as well.

So at first I thought this was just another temporary problem. I needed some kind of surgery, but I'd be up and around before long. It was only after the doctors left that I really began to absorb what they had told me: This is a spinal cord injury, a paralyzing injury. I had the horrible realization that this was different.

The doctors had explained my condition, and now I understood how serious it was. This was not a C5–C6, which means you're in a wheelchair but you can use your arms and breathe on your own. C1–C2 is about as bad as it gets. Why not die and save everyone a lot of trouble?

Dana came into the room. She stood beside me, and we made eye contact. I mouthed my first lucid words to her: “Maybe we should let me go.” Dana started crying. She said, “I am only going to say this once: I will support whatever you want to do, because this is your life, and your decision. But I want you to know that I'll be with you for the long haul, no matter what.” Then she added the words that saved my life: “You're still you. And I love you.”

If she had looked away or paused or hesitated even slightly, or if I had felt there was a sense of her being—being what?—
noble
, or fulfilling some obligation to me, I don't know if I could have pulled through. Because it had dawned on me that I was going to be a huge burden to everybody, that I had ruined my life and everybody else's. Not fair to anybody. The best thing to do would be to slip away.

But what Dana said made living seem possible, because I felt the depth of her love and commitment. I was even able to make a little joke. I mouthed, “This is way beyond the marriage vows—in sickness and in health.” And she said, “I know.” I knew then and there that she was going to be with me forever. My job would be to learn how to cope with this and not be a burden. I would have to find new ways to be productive again.

My two older children—Matthew, fifteen, and Alexandra, eleven—my children with Gae Exton, had come over from England. I had met Gae when I was shooting the first two
Superman
films in London. Although we never married, we had been together for nearly ten years until an amicable split in February 1987. Dana had called them, and all three flew over right away. During the first three days of their visit, all they could do was come into the room and help swab my mouth with sponges or wipe my face with a damp cloth. When I finally regained consciousness, I saw them gathered around me, putting on their bravest faces. And I understood in an instant how much they needed me. In spite of the terrible condition I was in, I could see how glad they were that I was still alive. Despite the ugly equipment that kept me immobilized, each one of them managed to touch me or give me a gentle hug.

At first Will was too terrified to join us in the ICU. He was even afraid of Dana visiting me. It took him several days to overcome that fear. But when he finally did come in and saw that Dad was the same, just lying down, he had a dramatic surge in bravery. It was as if he'd overcome the greatest nightmare of his life.

Soon after, Dana told me about something remarkable. I used to take Will for swimming lessons in Mt. Kisco, just after he turned two. Part of the routine there was that the kids had to jump off the side of the pool into Dad's or Mom's waiting arms. Will was afraid to jump off the side, and I'd have to really coax him to make the leap. I'd have to get closer and closer until he felt safe. But now, right after his visit with me, he was making huge jumps off the side of the pool at the Omni Hotel. He didn't want his water wings anymore, and he dared to go underwater. I watched videotapes of him swimming during that month in Virginia and was amazed to see this new courage.

In the evenings I'd watch the Stanley Cup finals. There was always somebody visiting me, and Dana was just down the hall. Alexandra and Matthew had flown back to London to finish the school year. But now Will would come in and out all the time. I was so grateful that he didn't seem to be uncomfortable or afraid of me. He'd learned all the nurses' names and made himself at home. He'd come in and I'd be connected to all kinds of IVs, tubes, and hoses and things, with a trach, a tracheotomy tube coming out of my throat, like the one I have now. But Will could look past all that and see me, and want to be with me. He would climb up on the bed and get comfortable and we'd watch the hockey games together.

This meant so much. If he'd avoided me or seemed scared or been afraid to touch, I would have felt utterly rejected. But Will's shiny little just-turned-three-year-old face coming through the door to spend time was always a great lift.

I realized: I can't drift away from this. It wouldn't be fair to my family. I
don't
want to leave. This realization, following what Dana had said, ended my thoughts of suicide.

My mother had come down from Princeton and was immediately led into the ICU. She saw me unconscious and immobilized, and was told that I had only a slim chance of survival. She became distraught and began arguing strenuously that the doctors should pull the plug. They told her to calm down, to wait and see what would happen. Of course she didn't want me to die, but she simply could not stand the thought of my living in such a terrible condition. She knew what an active life I'd always led—that for me being active and being alive were the same thing. In the past I would have agreed with her.

She kept insisting on this until a real fight erupted. She spoke to the chaplains in the hospital, and to the doctors. But she avoided confronting Dana, because she knew how strongly Dana felt that it was my decision, mine alone. At one point, in a moment of real despair, my mother told Dana's father, “Tomorrow, we're going to do it.” And Chuck Morosini replied, “Wait a minute. You're not doing anything.”

In my ICU room I was protected from the drama and controversy going on outside. My younger brother, Ben, who had come down from Boston, sided with Dana and Chuck. Together they persuaded my mother to calm down and think things through.

Dana continued to take care of everything. She conferred with my agent, Scott Henderson, and my publicist, Lisa Kasteler, both good friends. She was bombarded by the media, who wanted any scrap of information about my condition. She wasn't ready to face them, so Ben held a short press conference the day after my operation, while Dana contacted more of our friends and relatives all over the country. She did all this on two hours of sleep each night.

How she held everything together during those days, I don't know, but a lot of what she did was for Will's sake. She tried to keep him from seeing the calamity written on everybody's face. Her inner strength and ability to cope with the situation still seem amazing to me. Will's third birthday was on June 7; my operation took place on the sixth. Somehow Dana organized a birthday party for him, with a hired clown and lots of nice people from Virginia who Will had never met before. They had a party and he had fun, he had a good day. Later, when I saw the videotape, I couldn't stop crying. It was excruciating to watch him celebrating without me. He should have been home with all his friends and neighbors and family, the three of us hugging one another as he opened his presents.