Again, I called on my friend Debi Davis and asked her to arrange for my house to be cleaned since Brian’s family was going to stay there.
Then I called some long-time, close Army friends, the Boykins, and asked if they’d watch our dog, Hayley, while we stayed at the hospital.
Sometime in the afternoon the White House florist showed up in ICU with a huge cart of flower bouquets. She presented them to all the families on behalf of President and Mrs. Bush, explaining that the flowers had been cut from the Rose Garden that morning. They were beautiful. Across the cart hung a red, white, and blue ribbon with USA printed in the middle of it. All the family members cut the ribbon and then wore pieces of the ribbon on our clothing.
While all the visits and surprise flowers were nice, really all I wanted was to see Brian. I was in his room as often as they’d allow me.
Obeying Kristi’s command to talk to Brian, I talked to him about everything that was happening, except for any details that might be upsetting, such as the medical retirement issue. I told him about everyone who visited or called. I talked about the other victims’ family members and how kind they were.
I’d never have left his side, except the hospital staff made me leave at certain times. During those times the staff changed his dressings or put him in the tank—both excruciating experiences for Brian. Because of the nature of burns continuing to kill cells, the medical staff scheduled Brian to visit the tank every day to be debrided, getting rid of dead skin and tissue.
Later that evening Jack Elwood called to tell me that between thirteen hundred and fourteen hundred people attended the prayer vigil at church. And they spent a long time praying specifically for Brian. I hoped and trusted God would hear those prayers on behalf of my husband and everybody else who desperately needed a miracle.
When the nurses allowed me to return to Brian’s room, I told Brian about all those people praying for him. Then I spent the rest of that night rubbing his feet—the one place I could touch without causing him tremendous pain. How grateful I was for even that small skin contact with the husband I loved so much. It was the only thing that seemed somewhat “normal” since the Pentagon was hit.
Six
No Rest for the Weary
* * *
Journal 9/13/01
“He opened his beautiful green eyes this morning for the first time. When I went in first thing . . . his eyes were opened. His eyes were just wandering around the room, but when he saw me, he locked on me. It was awesome. . . . God, Brian is in your hands and arms. Protect him—and give Dr. Jeng a supernatural wisdom.”
* * *
Mel
At about 7:30 a.m., on September 13, I was walking back from the hotel room, where I’d gone to wash my face and try to freshen up, when my cell phone rang. I thought that was odd, considering not too many people had my cell phone number. I looked at the phone number on my caller ID. It read “Unknown Caller.”
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Birdwell?”
“Yes?”
“This is the Secret Service. We’re calling on behalf of the President. He would like your permission to visit Colonel Birdwell today.”
For just about the first time in my life, I was speechless.
“Mrs. Birdwell?”
“You’re talking about the President—of the United States? President Bush?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How did you get my cell phone number?”
“Ma’am, we’re the Secret Service.”
“Oh!” I said, embarrassed. “Okay. Yes, the President can most definitely visit my husband.” It was mind-boggling to think that the President would ask permission.
“Good. Thank you,” the agent continued. “And Mrs. Birdwell, please don’t discuss this with anyone. We need to keep this as quiet as we can.”
“Okay.”
Then he hung up.
The President was going to come, and I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone?
I returned to the burn center and saw Secret Service everywhere. When I saw so many people who wouldn’t normally be there, such as other hospital staff members I’d never seen before, I realized that somehow word must have leaked that the President was coming to the hospital that day. I mentioned it to Dane Rota, who told me that he found out the Secret Service had actually been there the day before, and not one of us had noticed all these Secret Service people combing the place, trying to figure out security issues and everything else that goes into bringing a President into an unsecured hospital. I was impressed because we were very tuned into who was coming and going through those halls. I couldn’t believe how discreet they had been—we’d never noticed them.
Then, all of a sudden the Secret Service quickly and quietly cleared everyone from the floor except for the Burn Unit staff and family members. Dane and I looked at each other as if to say, Well, that was pretty amazing.
Finally I went in to see Brian. I was eager to see how he was doing.
His eyes were open for the first time.
My heart leapt when I looked into his beautiful green eyes. I said, “Hi, baby. How are you?”
He looked at me, then away, then back really quickly. His eyes followed me everywhere I went. While he couldn’t say anything to me because of the tubes, he mouthed the words “I love you.” Then he lifted his hugely bandaged arm and began to spell in the air with his fingers. Mostly he just kept spelling pain and hurt.
Then he began to barrage me with heavy questions: Did he lose any limbs? Did he still have an Army career? Did he still have a job? How was he going to support Matt and me?
I guess the drugs made him loopy because he put extra little curly things on his letters. Plus he’s a bad speller! I couldn’t figure out what he was spelling. I kept guessing wrong, and he’d get frustrated because I wasn’t able to understand him. Or he would start to spell a word and get tired, and so I would try to figure it out for him. But at least he was communicating.
* * *
At around 11 a.m. President and Mrs. Bush arrived. They first visited two other Pentagon casualties on the third floor, then walked the flight of stairs to the Burn Unit ICU to visit the seven burn patients and their families. There was no media with them, no photo ops. Everything was hush-hush.
A nurse stepped in the room and said, “They’re on their way.” Colonel Rota and several members of the burn center staff came into the room with us—they wanted to see the President, too.
Mrs. Bush entered first. She had on a black suit with a lime green blouse, and she was absolutely gorgeous. I had never realized what a beautiful woman she is.
Before she came into the room, someone must have briefed the two of them, telling them who each person was and what his injuries were. So Mrs. Bush walked in and said, “Colonel Birdwell, it’s nice to meet you. We’re really proud of you, and you’re an American hero.”
I had to interpret for Brian. While he could mouth things, it was hard to read his lips since he had tubes in his mouth and nose. Spelling was a little easier than the lip-reading—but not much since he was so bad at the fingering.
“Where are you from?” she asked him.
“He’s from Fort Worth,” I was able to answer.
She perked right up. “Really? I’m from Midland, Texas!”
And they put their hands up and did this little “Texas happy dance”—at least that’s what I call it. It was as if two kindred spirits from Texas were reuniting. You know how when you meet someone you have something in common with and you want to get to know that person better? It was like that.
I think every Texan does this dance. We’re Texans, we bond, aaahhh.
I just laughed.
Then she asked if we had children, and I told her about Matt. She asked if we had pets, and I told her about our dog, Hayley.
Mrs. Bush and I talked for a few minutes, then she gave me a long, genuinely tender hug and asked how I was doing. I told her, “I’m doing okay.”
She turned back to Bri
an and said, “Well, Colonel Birdwell, I brought someone to see you.”
And . . . nothing.
She waited a moment, then turned her head toward the door. “I said I brought someone to see you, Colonel Birdwell.” At that the President walked into the room. He looked haggard. His eyes were bloodshot, and you could tell his visit here was gut-wrenchingly difficult for him. He walked to the foot of Brian’s bed, which was cranked up so Brian could “sit up” for the visit. Brian saw the President and his eyes were huge, so wide-eyed taking it all in.
The President said, “Colonel Birdwell” and saluted Brian. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I was surprised that the President, as the commander-in-chief, subordinated himself to Brian, a junior officer. I thought, He’s showing respect for my husband. My eyes filled with tears.
When the President began to drop his hand, he noticed that Brian was trying to return the salute.
Before President and Mrs. Bush arrived, the nurses had prepped Brian for the tank and surgery, so they had removed all his bandages. Only sterile towels were draped over him. As Brian tried to raise his arm, all we could see was bright red muscle—no skin. The skin had burned off, and the staff had debrided the rest.
The President stood still, with huge tears in his eyes, holding his salute while Brian tried desperately and agonizingly to return it. Brian struggled to lift his hand to a proper salute but was able to get only about three-quarters of the way up before he had to drop it because of the pain. President Bush continued to hold his salute until Brian’s arm came back down.
Normally, the junior officer initiates a salute and then holds it until after the President drops his salute. In this case Brian struggled to lift his severely burned arm and hand to his forehead, while the President’s arm stayed still. What an incredible moment. There stood the President of the United States—the most powerful man in the free world. And he was holding his salute to a junior-ranking officer—my husband—out of respect for him and what he was going through.
We were all crying. Finally President Bush dropped his salute and told Brian, “Colonel Birdwell, you are a great American, a hero, and we are going to get the guys who did this. This will not go unanswered.” Brian seemed to take it all in with his huge eyes. Then the President turned to me, still with tears in his eyes, gave me a hug and a kiss, and asked how I was doing. I felt horrible because here was the President of the United States giving me a hug and a kiss—and I hadn’t showered or washed my hair in three days! I had on no makeup. And my shirt had Brian’s blood all over it because every time I would do something with Brian, such as help a nurse readjust his position, I would get his blood on me. I’m making quite the impression, I kept thinking. But President Bush didn’t seem to notice.
Then Mrs. Bush explained pleasantly, “Colonel Birdwell is from Fort Worth.” And it was the happy dance again! Even the President did the little Texas happy dance!
The President asked Brian, “Do you have children?”
“Yes, Sir,” I told him. “Our son, Matthew. He’s twelve.”
He nodded solemnly.
“How about pets?”
“Hayley, our golden retriever. But Brian calls her the Big Stupid.”
The President laughed at that. “Mrs. Birdwell, may we pray for your family?”
“Yes, please!” I said. “We’d really appreciate that.”
Then he read my Vacation Bible School T-shirt, which said, “Every day’s a holiday with Jesus in your heart”—the same T-shirt I had worn for the past two days.
“Is every day a holiday with Jesus in your heart?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I said. “Some of them are not especially happy holidays, but every day is a holiday.”
He chuckled, then asked, “Where is your church?”
I told him and he nodded. “I’m familiar with it.”
Then one of the Secret Service agents stepped into the room. It was time for the President to move to the next family, the last burn victim. So they said good-bye and went into the next room.
It was an awesome visit, but very emotional for all of us. Brian was exhausted after that.
I thought about this historic visit. The leader of the free world had made time in his busy schedule to comfort us. He and the First Lady were so real, their compassion so genuine, and he was a man of God. This was a man who had seen the horror of burns, and I believe it further strengthened his resolve to respond to the terrorists’ actions. I had looked into his eyes and could see he understood the gravity of what lay before this country—that by standing in Brian’s presence, a potentially dying soldier, he would soon be sending other soldiers to their deaths by the decisions he would make in the upcoming days.
After the President and Mrs. Bush left, the nurse kicked us out of Brian’s room so she could get him into surgery.
As Colonel Rota and I went out into the waiting room Army Specialist Pena from Walter Reed met us and handed me another packet for Brian’s medical retirement.
I couldn’t believe the audacity. Did they not understand my no?
Pena said, “Mrs. Birdwell, we need you to fill out this information.”
I became livid. It was all I could do not to hurt her.
I had just listened to the President of the United States tell my husband he was a great American and a hero, and now the Army wanted to throw him out.
Rota saw me step toward the Walter Reed woman and jumped in between us.
“Mel, sit down,” Rota said. “I’ll handle this.”
SPC Pena said, “Well, I was sent to give this to Mr. Birdwell.”
“You mean, Lieutenant Colonel Birdwell,” Dane corrected her.
She became flustered. “Yes,” she said. Dane looked at her expectantly. “Yes, Sir,” she said again.
He waited for me to sit down, then escorted Pena into the hall to get information on who he needed to talk to at WRAMC. He told Pena he’d take care of it, which he did. I’m not sure of all that happened other than he said he educated her—that things may have been done a certain way in the past, but all bets were off now. Then he assured me I wouldn’t have to deal with the issue again.
After that incident, Dane forced me to go to the cafeteria. I went but didn’t eat. I just wanted to get back up to Brian.
Brian
I was walking a fine line between life and eternity. I was in such excruciating pain, I begged God constantly to let me die. There was no reprieve.
The nurses kept me heavily drugged, both because of the burns and because of the treatment, so everything about my world was scrambled. I couldn’t remember much of anything, except for a few images and parts of intensely emotional events.
I do remember hearing Mel’s voice. It’s so distinct—something of an Oklahoma drawl. And I loved hearing her talk to me, particularly when she read Scriptures. Her presence there kept me calm. I knew I wasn’t alone.
I can’t remember the first time I saw Mel, but I remember seeing her eyes. They were filled with an indescribable love and comfort, and they were filled with tears. Even in my drugged state I knew she would walk through this with me. I don’t remember much else, since I was in and out of consciousness for most of the next couple of weeks.
I know my eyes were open when the President came, yet I don’t remember the President’s visit. I remember trying to salute. But I don’t remember when. For some reason, I thought I was with the President in a laundromat. The medication was messing with my mind. But worse, it didn’t help the pain. I still had intense, throbbing, searing pain all over my body.
When General Van Antwerp visited, I was alert enough to remember he was there. When I saw him, I asked about my coworkers Cheryle Sincock and Sandi Taylor.
General Van Antwerp paused and then shook his head mournfully. They were gone.
Gone. That one word exploded inside my head. I hit my head against the pillow and groaned. I didn’t think I could feel worse pain than what I’d experienced up to this point. I was wrong. Knowing my cowo
rkers were dead was worse than any of the burns or treatments I’d experienced.
Cheryle and Sandi were dead—and I was alive. A trip to the bathroom had saved my life.
Oh, God! I cried to myself. Immediately a concern filled me as I thought about their spiritual lives. I didn’t know where Cheryle and Sandi had stood with God.
I wondered, Did I do enough? Maybe I should have shared the gospel more. Maybe I should have told them more about Jesus.
I vowed that if I survived, I would never live with another regret of having not shared my faith. I would never again give up an opportunity to tell someone about Jesus. I couldn’t go back and witness to Cheryle and Sandi. But I could become more intentional about discussing my faith with others from this point forward.
Mel
After lunch Colonel Rota and I went back to 4H, where Major General Van Antwerp was waiting for us. General Van Antwerp was Brian’s boss and a wonderful godly man and mentor to Brian. His frequent visits would prove to be a great comfort to both of us. Brian was out of surgery, and the general, a Christian, had already been in to see him and pray with him.
“Brian knew I was there, and we had a good visit,” he told me.
We talked with the general for a while, then I went back to see Brian.
“I threw up on General Van Antwerp,” Brian told me through his finger communication.
“What? You’re kidding. He never mentioned that to me.”
Later I asked the general about it. He chuckled and said, “Better me than the President.”
Dr. Jeng came into Brian’s room and told us he wanted to do a tracheotomy on Brian to ensure an open, clear airway. Because Brian was still at a high risk from his inhalation injury, Dr. Jeng was concerned that the passageway would swell too badly and Brian wouldn’t be able to breathe. Dr. Jeng told us that because of the immense number of surgeries Brian was going to need, the physicians wanted to be able to use the trach to directly administer the anesthesia. He explained the best way to administer anesthesia is through the lungs. With so many upcoming surgeries, they couldn’t keep intubating Brian each time since that would cause severe damage to Brian’s throat. While I didn’t like hearing that, I understood the importance of putting in the trach.
Refined by Fire Page 8
