Struck

by Douglas Segal

  And then there was my astonishing baby girl, who had gone to school the day after the accident and who, besides some tough times of missing her mom, also seemed to be adjusting pretty well. I would slip away from the hospital for some of her assemblies to see her address the school as student president or participate in a presentation, one time for winning the student-of-the-week award. At these seemingly simple events, looking at her up there, I’d find myself moved to tears.

  Even though she appeared to be handling things remarkably well, I wondered whether there might be something being suppressed by her, something ugly that was going to emerge maybe tomorrow, maybe months down the road, maybe years. A few friends had asked me if Alyce was seeing a therapist regarding the accident. In the days and weeks following it, I know she had been called into the school counselor’s office to talk and also had talked to some of Susan’s friends, with whom she shared a close relationship. She told me about these conversations, casually and comfortably relaying them to me, and really seemed to be doing okay with it all—certainly as “okay” as could be expected. Still, I shared my friends’ concerns that there might be some issues masked lurking below the surface and decided to pursue a therapist for her.

  I found one through a psychologist friend of mine and set up an appointment. She was very nice and asked whether there were any obvious signs of trauma. Nightmares? No. Loss of appetite? No. Emotional ups and downs? No. Nothing that didn’t seem appropriate given the circumstances. While it sounded to her like Alyce was doing as well as could be expected, we both agreed that it might still be a good idea to establish a relationship now, even if Alyce didn’t have any obvious issues or need someone to talk to at the moment. Perhaps things would change over the next months, and if so, she’d have that trust in place. I went home and broached the idea with Alyce.

  “Hey, Al, I was thinking that it might be a good idea for you to go and meet with someone to talk to about the accident.”

  “You mean like a therapist?”

  “Yeah, you know. Just someone who you can talk to about how you’re feeling.”

  “But Dad, I have you to talk to.”

  And while her sweetness broke my heart, I explained that even though she can always talk to me, there might be some things she doesn’t want to talk to me about, and I don’t want her to have to hold those things in.

  She thought for a moment. “How long would it be for?” she considered.

  “Just an hour. And you can see if you like it.”

  She paused again, evaluating the appointment like it was the dentist or worse. “Do I really have to?”

  I could see from her face that she really didn’t want to, and it didn’t seem like her unwillingness was coming from a place of emotional avoidance. I pressed some more, explaining that it’s like going back to the hospital for a follow-up X-ray to just check and make sure everything was still good and healthy. She still wasn’t into it, and the last thing I wanted to do was impose a psychological issue onto her that she didn’t actually have. Still, I wondered if, like her, I was just avoiding what should be done.

  I called the doctor to relay my conversation with Alyce, and, surprisingly, she also didn’t think I should push it. She said that it sounded like Alyce was processing it all in a healthy manner, and the last thing she wanted to do was stigmatize her. She suggested I leave it alone for now, and if things changed down the road to give her a call. I thanked her, and we hung up.

  I can only hope that this is the right choice, as these are some of the injuries I worry about the most, the less obvious ones, the ones that might present themselves in the future. I twisted my knee badly while skiing when I was a kid, and though it healed and was fine for years, as I get older, I can feel that it’s not the same as the other. It was damaged. And I fear—not just for Alyce but for all of us—that we might be carrying similar injuries inside us, ones that seem okay right now, that have healed or are on their way to healing, only to become complications later in life.

  Susan and I were living in Los Angeles when the 1994 earthquake hit. It was terrifying, and to this day, whenever there’s a smaller quake, those feelings of fear immediately rush back through me. When it comes time for Alyce to drive, for example, will she be able to, or is that when a subconscious, deep-rooted fear will present itself? Like the doctor, I don’t want to stigmatize, but I can’t help thinking about whether there are ghosts lying dormant…for her, for Michael, and for me.

  Susan will clearly have scars and mobility issues from her trauma for the rest of her life. The internal scars, the ones we can’t see, are equally haunting.

  day 36

  It’s been exactly five weeks since they last saw each other, Susan and my remarkable daughter. That’s when Alyce leaned over in the front seat of our mangled car and through tears kissed Susan’s unconscious forehead and managed to say, “Goodbye. I love you.”

  Though she was there, too, Alyce never actually saw her mother in the ER that day and couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Since then, I had shown her pictures of what her mom looks like in the halo. I had told her that she might say some funny things while talking to her. She was prepared but apprehensive, and a good chunk of that was about returning to the hospital.

  But my daughter, like her mother, is a brave one. Walking down the hall, Alyce was a mixture of excitement and nerves, but as soon as she passed through the door and saw Susan’s face light up at the sight of her, the anxiety melted away.

  “Dolly!”

  “Hi, Mommy.”

  “Look at you. You look so beautiful,” Susan admired.

  And she did.

  She showed Susan a few of the oversize get well cards that have been made for her. Susan enjoyed them, but mostly she enjoyed just looking at Alyce.

  “Have you been feeding the puppies?” Susan asked.

  Alyce wasn’t fazed. “We don’t have any puppies, Mommy.”

  “Really? I didn’t bring home two puppies?”

  “No,” and then…“but I’d like a puppy. Can we get one?”

  Alyce had asked me what she should talk to Susan about, and I had told her that she could talk about anything—school, soccer, friends, whatever she wanted. I had also told her that sometimes Mom got mad at me when I couldn’t let her have something to drink or couldn’t let her leave the hospital.

  So when it came time for Alyce to talk, the words she chose to speak were to try to help me. “Mommy, Daddy is the best and he’s taking such good care of us. You have to trust him and listen to him and let him take care of you, too.”

  My eyes began to well; Susan just smiled at her and stayed quiet.

  “And I miss you so much, and I know you want to leave the hospital, but the doctors say you can’t yet, okay?”

  “Okay, dolly.”

  Alyce didn’t stay long. Just long enough to see that her mom was still there and that the hole in her throat and the contraption screwed into her head weren’t as scary as she thought they might be.

  And she didn’t run out of the hospital as anxious to leave as she had five weeks earlier.

  This time she walked out proud. And I was equally proud of her, for being such a graceful, beautiful young woman.

  days 37–39

  What a difference an ice chip can make. Melting ecstatically on her tongue, an uncontrollable moan escaping from her lips. I only wish I could satisfy her so well.

  Three little morsels every twenty minutes, but enough to give her some tiny bit of respite. Gone is the NG tube, gone are the restraints, and now able to enjoy the sweet relief, albeit minuscule, of some moisture in her mouth. With each layer of the onion we pull back, I hope for less and less agitation, and while the ice chips are a huge step forward, they don’t negate the fact that she remains confined to a hospital bed, imprisoned in the halo.

  Prior to the approval of starting with the ice chips, Susan has been tortured, begging, pleading, negotiating, anything for something to drink—water, seltzer, green tea, Diet Coke
. I had to refuse each plea and cope with her accusatory looks, like I was gaining some sort of sadistic pleasure from denying her this basic need.

  Me, the master of her hell.

  I tried for the 800th time to explain it clinically, and she responded with such a sharp bite and wit that it simultaneously pained me and made me smile.

  “Thank you very much, Dr. McSegal. But I don’t think you know so much, Dr. McSegal. No one has ever died from a glass of green tea or grape juice, Dr. McSegal.”

  This isn’t the only name she’s given me during her agitated state: “Lone Ranger,” “Joe Shooter,” “Turkey Joe,” and “Captain Rogers” being some of her other “terms of endearment” when I haven’t complied with her wishes. I’m not quite sure of any of their origins or intended meanings, but they all have to do with me being a controlling son of a bitch completely set on making her life miserable.

  On Tuesday, when her speech therapist arrived for another assessment and the now hotly anticipated swallow test, Susan knew the grave importance of this event. I had coached her, her doctors had coached her. “Don’t cough and you’ll get to start drinking.” The concern is that if Susan isn’t able to correctly swallow the liquids, they’ll end up back in her lungs, which will then lead to another case of pneumonia.

  Before beginning the assessment, I brought the therapist up to speed on Susan’s condition, and I asked her if she knew about what had happened over the Thanksgiving weekend. She did. I went on to say that with the PEG tube in, the NG tube out, and Susan’s hands unrestrained, we had made major strides in her agitation states, and that not being able to have any liquids was our next big issue. “It’s very, very hard for her.”

  And then the therapist had the unbelievable audacity to say, “Well, she’s being very well hydrated. She’s just fixating on this.”

  “Fixating? Are you suggesting she’s not really thirsty?!”

  “I’m just saying there’s a lot of confusion going on.”

  My blood boiled. “She has been in the hospital for over thirty days with absolutely nothing to drink, breathing through her mouth and only occasionally getting a little sponge swab that she sucks the life out of. “You don’t think you’d be just a little thirsty if that were you?!”

  I know Susan’s confused. I hear it every day when she talks about what she did that morning. “I went shopping in Times Square, and then me and the girls had Chinese food in Chinatown.” But she is not confused about being thirsty—just like I know how real the pain in her leg is when I lift it too high.

  In any case, the therapist completed her assessment, and it broke my heart to see how hard Susan was trying, on her best behavior, following each command perfectly, giving an award-winning performance. Going in, though, I suspected she was going to fail it. I could see just from the swabs I had been giving her and the ensuing coughs that she wasn’t ready. My hopes and expectations may have been low, but hers were so high that it made it that much harder to watch.

  Still, Susan was confident she had passed, telling the therapist that she’d “only have a little green tea or some seltzer and no crazy meals, everything in moderation.” The silence from the therapist told me what I already knew. When the therapist left the room, I told Susan that I needed to go talk to her. Susan stopped me before I left, addressing me like she has never asked me for anything this important nor ever would again…

  “Please don’t ruin this for me.”

  The decision from the therapist had already been made, but in Susan’s mind I could tell what she was thinking. Dr. McSegal was butting in and robbing her of her salvation.

  Out in the hallway, my suspicions were confirmed. I learned that she hadn’t passed the test. Though I was disappointed, I understood, but I also needed the speech therapist to do one thing for me. I needed her to go back into the room and explain the results and that these orders were from her, not me.

  The therapist initially resisted, which made my anger flare again. She relented, and we went back into the room, but instead of delivering the bad news, she just started to say goodbye and told us when she’d be back again. She wasn’t going to say anything! She wasn’t even going to tell Susan that she had failed. She was going to leave it to me to enforce the “no liquids” regime!

  Susan’s last words, “Please, don’t ruin this for me,” were still echoing; I knew that they were more a threat than a plea. I also knew how absolutely furious she was going to be…at me! I needed to at least try to get across to her that I wasn’t the one dictating the rules. I stopped the speech therapist from leaving and said, “Please explain to Susan what’s going on.”

  The therapist begrudgingly gave Susan her assessment, though in my opinion, in a half-assed way. I could tell that Susan didn’t buy it at all and was looking at me with a clenched jaw. I felt completely let down and abandoned.

  Fortunately, at that moment, her team of doctors arrived. I explained what was going on, and they interceded and explained to Susan that, in fact, I wasn’t the one who decided these things. They had to follow the expertise of the speech therapist. However, they also thought it would be fine to give Susan a moderate amount of ice chips, which, trumped in this case by the medical team, the speech therapist was in no position to dispute.

  So we did achieve one small victory, three little ice chips every twenty minutes. Sometimes it’s enough to satisfy her, and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it soothes her restless agitation, and sometimes, not even close. And that’s how it’s been over these last few days, predictably unpredictable for me, well, I should say for all of us…

  Dr. McSegal, Captain Rogers, and the Lone Ranger.

  days 40–42

  Could the fog be lifting?

  By today’s indications, I would say so.

  After receiving my usual 5:45 a.m. phone call asking where I was and what I was doing, I reminded Susan that I had to take Michael to the bus and then I would be coming to see her. She asked if I would please bring her some underwear, her sweatpants, her headset (because the phone is heavy), and a T-shirt. I told her I would, even though, other than the headset, I knew they would all just sit in a bag in her room. But at least they’d be there if she asked. And so I started the day, expecting it would be similar to the last few, which have been a mix of ups and downs.

  Her physical condition has generally been progressing, but mentally she still has had bouts of agitation and anger, insisting she’s allowed to drink, that she’s gotten up and walked around, even showered and washed her hair. There also remains a great deal of frustration about not being able to go home.

  “You get to be at home with the kids. Why can’t I? It’s not fair!”

  She’s right. “Fair” is the last thing any of this is.

  I tried to explain, though much of it was met with, “I don’t want to hear any more of your bullshit!”

  One thing I’ve definitely noticed is that she’s far more agitated when she doesn’t do any physical therapy. Just sitting up in bed and exercising her legs can be so demanding that it takes the edge off the anger, so even when PT doesn’t come in, the nurses and I now sit her up in bed ourselves. It’s in these moments she usually realizes that she’s just not ready to walk yet.

  Meanwhile, the ice chips have happily progressed into little sips of water a couple of times a day. Whereas just days earlier, those chips were such sweet, refreshing salvation, Susan is now spoiled by the water and relents to having to settle for an ice chip. It doesn’t stop her from trying for more.

  The other day her friend Deb came to visit, and Susan, when she thought I wasn’t looking or paying attention, motioned for Deb to come closer and lean in. Deb could immediately tell there was something shifty about her demeanor and wondered what she could possibly want. After all, every painkiller imaginable was available to her. All she had to do was ask.

  Meanwhile, Deb bent down and Susan whispered, “I need you to get something for me.”

  “What is it?” Deb asked, panicking over what k
ind of illicit contraband her dear friend was going to be counting on her to provide.

  “I need you to sneak me in a couple of Diet Cokes.”

  Oh, my God, will this never end?!

  In addition to the battle over the liquids, I keep waiting for the confinement of the halo to set her off. Occasionally, she’ll complain about its weight, the heaviness on her chest, and, of course, the pins in her head, but overall she’s been tolerating it fairly well. I’m hesitant to even write this, though, for the same reason I don’t talk about how good the traffic is prior to arriving at my destination: the jinx factor. We just need to make it through the next three and half weeks, when the CT scan will show us if her neck has fused enough for the halo to be removed.

  One of the definite highlights of the past few days was finally being able to bring Michael to see her. Between the Thanksgiving screwup, the subsequent trip to the ICU, and his very busy schedule, we just hadn’t been able to make that happen. But after his soccer game on Friday night, we decided to drop in on our way home, and though she wasn’t particularly pleased with me for the usual unjustified reasons, she loved seeing our boy. Even as annoyed with me as she was, watching her as she took him in, seeing her proud smile as he calmed her agitation, it was easy to see exactly what she was thinking: “We did good with him.” She was right about that.

  On Sunday, I brought both kids back for a visit, and sitting up in her cardiac chair, Susan anxiously awaited stories from them both, gobbling up every morsel of their deliciousness until she got too tired. Then they watched with fascination as she was transferred from the elaborate contraption of a chair back to the bed.

  This morning, walking toward her room, I was once again nervous about what I would face. I found her to be much clearer than on previous mornings. As we talked, I could sense she had a better understanding of where she was, that there wasn’t a second level to her hospital room where the rest of us lived. She also seemed to more closely comprehend the amount of time she’s been there, even accepting that some of the things that she’s insisted were real didn’t in fact happen.