by Brian Boyle
Iron Heart
The True Story of How I came Back from the Dead
Brian Boyle
Bill Katovsky
Copyright © 2009 by Brian Boyle
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Boyle, Brian. Iron heart : the true story of how I came back from the dead / Brian Boyle with Bill Katovsky. p. cm.
9781602397712
1. Boyle, Brian. 2. Athletes--United States--Biography. 3. Traffic accident victims--United States--Biography. 4. Triathlon. I. Katovsky, Bill. II. Title.
GV697.B686A3 2009
796.092--dc22
[B]
2009022241
Printed in the United States of America
As each second ticked by, my life was slipping away.
This book is dedicated to my mom and dad, the faculty and staff of Prince George’s Hospital and the many others that have helped with my recovery.
You are the reason I am alive and breathing today.
Since 2007, I have worked very closely with the American Red Cross. It has been a true honor for me to volunteer, take part in their testimonial speaking engagements and blood drives, and to proudly wear their logo on my race suits during my triathlon and running events. I lost 60 percent of my blood at the scene of my accident, and Red Cross blood donors were there for me. As my treatment progressed, blood donors became a vital factor in my recovery and journey back into life.
Blood is needed for emergencies like mine, and for people undergoing treatment for cancer, those with chronic blood disorders, premature babies, people in need of surgery, and many others. For the nearly 5 million people who receive blood transfusions every year, your blood donation can make the difference between life and death. I am living proof of this.
When I needed it, the American Red Cross was there with 36 blood transfusions and 13 plasma treatments that saved my life in a situation where time was of the essence. Volunteer blood donors made this possible. By giving just a little bit of their time, blood donors gave me a lifetime.
On behalf of the many patients like me to whom you have given a second chance, a heartfelt thank you to all Red Cross blood donors.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART ONE - HEART
CHAPTER 1 - WAKING UP
CHAPTER 2 - HOPING TO FIND ANSWERS AND FINDING NONE
CHAPTER 3 - A NEW KIND OF LIVING HELL
CHAPTER 4 - I RECOGNIZE MY PARENTS
CHAPTER 5 - ANGELS IN THE HALLWAY
CHAPTER 6 - I WANT TO DIE
CHAPTER 7 - GARTH AND JOANNE BOYLE
CHAPTER 8 - THE SMILE
CHAPTER 9 - THE KISS
CHAPTER 10 - THROWING THE DISCUS
CHAPTER 11 - “HELLO”
CHAPTER 12 - QUESTION TIME
CHAPTER 13 - STANDING TALL
CHAPTER 14 - LEAVING INTENSIVE CARE
CHAPTER 15 - KERNAN REHABILITATION CENTER
CHAPTER 16 - WHERE AM I?
CHAPTER 17 - THERAPY SESSIONS
CHAPTER 18 - WITNESS
PART TWO - BODY
CHAPTER 19 - COMING HOME
CHAPTER 20 - THE TRACK
CHAPTER 21 - THE INTERSECTION
CHAPTER 22 - RETURN TO PRINCE GEORGE’S HOSPITAL
CHAPTER 23 - GETTING BACK IN THE POOL
CHAPTER 24 - TATTOOS
CHAPTER 25 - CONCRETE
CHAPTER 26 - ST. MARY’S COLLEGE SWIM TEAM
CHAPTER 27 - JULY IS THE CRUELEST MONTH
CHAPTER 28 - BODYBUILDING
PART THREE - SOUL
CHAPTER 29 - MY FIRST TRIATHLON
CHAPTER 30 - FROM COMA TO KONA
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
PART ONE
HEART
CHAPTER 1
WAKING UP
I awake to regular beeping sounds. I’m a lone in a white room and looking straight up at the ceiling. Bright lights shine all around me. My heart is beating fast. I try to raise my arms, then legs, but I can’t move them. My head won’t budge either. I can’t blink or wiggle my fingers.
So what’s making those pings and blips? It sounds like a machine, perhaps several. But what are they doing? One machine creates a small burst of air that gently caresses my face. Its slight breeze does not cool my hot skin. I feel beads of sweat pooling on my forehead. When the perspiration rolls down my cheeks and reaches my chapped lips, it soothes them because they are unbelievably dry. My throat is sore and irritated.
A figure dressed in all black appears. Could this be Death? I then notice a small white collar around his neck. Death looks like a priest. Do I know this man? Even so, I can’t recognize him because his face remains a blur. Suddenly, my mind swells with a screaming sound. It’s a loud, almost deafening noise, as if the priest is yelling in my ear. The sound vibrations are pounding inside my skull, like I’m standing in front of giant speakers at a rock concert. Then the noise somehow turns into actual words spoken in a slow, distorted tone. I strain to make sense of his words: “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit ... ” Why is he giving me the last rites? I try to shut down my brain so his words won’t affect me. I want him to stop or go away. The room goes dark.
I’m awake. The priest is gone. Everything in my body feels numb. I want to close my eyes, but they won’t move or shut. I feel tears welling up. It’s like I’m underwater looking up at the surface. With this sensation, a vivid memory arises. I’m suddenly back at the outdoor pool where I used to swim with my younger cousins Matt and Hayley.
“Hey, Matt, watch this!” It has just started to rain and I dive into the water. Through my swim goggles I peer upward at the gray sky, trying to see anything above the water past the reflection and through the many raindrops colliding with the surface. I feel weightless and at peace underwater.
But I’m not in a pool right now. My attention returns to my burning eyes. They feel like they’ve been open for hours, maybe even days. Is that even possible? Wouldn’t they dry out at some point? This thought makes me nauseous; I want to vomit, but that urge is overwhelmed by something even more powerful. My left arm feels like it’s on fire. The pain is excruciating. Somebody throw water on me. Please! I’m begging you!
No one comes because I can’t speak. So I suffer in isolation and maddening silence. My mind goes blank. I can’t remember anything, not even my name. Somehow, without urgent prompting, I remember: Yes, my name is Brian. Brian Boyle. Am I dead? But if I were dead, I wouldn’t be able to have these thoughts because dead people can’t think, right? But I don’t feel normal or alive either. Something is terribly wrong.
Maybe this is just a bad dream. So let’s try something to wake up. I can bite my tongue. Bite. Bite and wake up. But I can’t bite my tongue b
ecause I can’t even feel it. Where is it? It has to be in my mouth somewhere. I try again. If I had a tongue in this nightmare it would probably have been bitten off by now. I bite harder. Nothing.
My heart starts beating faster. Its thumping rhythm rises above the eerie silence that’s filled my mind. But why is it beating in the center of my chest, which isn’t where the heart is located? And something heavy must be sitting on my chest because it’s crushing me. The pressure increases. I want to shout, “Get this thing off me, I can’t breathe,” but I can’t make a sound. My heart feels like it’s going to explode.
An alarm starts beeping loudly. I see red lights flashing. This is real; it’s not happening in a dream.
I hear footsteps. Several. Now I feel many hands on me. Grabbing my feet, arms, head. The hands pick me up, and I’m placed on a table with wheels. Why? What are you doing? And where are you taking me?
Blurry shadows of people cluster around me. Voices are talking loud and fast: something about my heart and emergency surgery. Does this mean that I’m in a hospital? And what’s wrong with my heart? Oh man, this can’t be good. Mom, Dad, where are you? I need you.
I’m being pushed down all these different hallways. The ceiling looks the same everywhere—large white rectangular sheets of tile broken up by fluorescent lights with clear plastic covers.
The gurney is moving quickly, with several people running alongside. They’re also dragging the beeping machines. A large man looms over me. Underneath his white lab coat, he’s wearing a light blue button-up shirt. There’s a ballpoint pen and two red markers in his front pocket. He’s wearing an identification card connected to a lanyard. I struggle to read the name: Dr. James Catevenis, ICU Director, Prince George’s Hospital Center.
ICU. That’s . . . Intensive Care Unit! This has gone from bad to worse. Only people who are critically injured or near death find themselves in Intensive Care.
The moving bed slams into a set of folding doors that swing open. I’m being wheeled into a partially lit room. It’s quiet here. Voices echo off the aqua-green tile walls. The bed comes to a complete stop and many hands surround me again, lifting my body onto a cold, hard surface.
People huddle near me. Everyone is wearing light blue surgical wardrobes and white latex gloves. A wide overhead light flicks on; it’s bright as the sun. Someone squirts brownish liquid on my chest and rubs it in, and another person places a clear plastic mask over my nose and mouth. A cool, scentless breeze fills the mask.
I stare up at one of the doctors who stands to my left. He must be the head surgeon because he’s directing everyone. He says something about fluid building up around my heart. I watch his hands hover near my chest. He’s holding a shiny object, which looks sharp, like a scalpel. The overhead light grows brighter. Within seconds, it swallows me in an even brighter flash. The last thing I hear before losing consciousness is the surgeon: “Let’s hope the third time is the charm.”
CHAPTER 2
HOPING TO FIND ANSWERS AND FINDING NONE
I’m in a new room. I hear footsteps, then the sound of shuffling papers. A machine starts up in front of me—the rumble of an air conditioner combined with a microwave’s hum. Some footsteps come closer. My bed shakes and moves, but only for a few feet, then halts. The ceiling looks different. I must be near a wall because I see dark areas that could be pictures or posters. My eyes are frozen, staring straight ahead. I can’t quite see what the posters are, so I try to move my head but I can’t. I see the letter R on one of them, in my peripheral vision. The word is a long one, whatever it is. Maybe I’ll be able to see it if my bed starts to move again.
The faint scent of flowers, maybe perfume, pleases me. I see the shadow of a woman standing nearby. A nurse? I wish she would say something.
Papers rustle. The scent of perfume is stronger now. She speaks in a soft whisper: “Brian Boyle, eighteen years old, motor vehicle accident victim, ICU patient since July 6, 2004.”
Motor vehicle accident? July 6? I don’t remember a thing. No memory of it, just an empty space.
“Brian, can you hear me?” she says loudly into my right ear, startling me. “If you can hear me, blink your eyes. No? Okay, can you squeeze my hand?” She grabs my right hand. “Come on, I know you can do it, buddy. Squeeze my hand just a little bit.” She gives it a subtle squeeze but she gets no response in return—no movement whatsoever. “We are all waiting for you to get better. Just hang in there.”
Hang in there? Where else can I go? But why do I keep having these weird feelings in the middle of my chest? I feel my heart’s regular beating—thump, thump, thump.
“Okay, Mr. Boyle, you’re next in line for a CAT scan. Same procedure as this morning. You should be used to it by now.” As she walks away, I hear her mutter under her breath, “Poor kid, he’s already been through so much.”
My mind explodes into a thousand fragments. I see myself walking through a minefield. The ground is made of golden yellow sand, and every few steps that I take, I accidentally set off one of the mines. Boom. There go my legs. My body falls to the ground, but I carry on in shock, dragging forward what’s left of me. I set off another mine with my hand. Boom. There goes my left arm. I’m on my back now, bleeding to death, trying to pull myself through the sand with my right arm. I struggle to move a few inches, all the while begging God for answers. I look up at the blue sky, miserable, searching for one last bit of hope. My eyes are burning from the sun’s brightness. I then see a small dot in the cloud. Salvation? The dot is getting bigger. The dot becomes this date—July 6.
But what day is it now? And why did she say that I’m used to this? How many of these CAT scans have I had? And just exactly what is a CAT scan? Hey, Ms. Nurse, come back and tell me more!
Those papers she was looking at are right behind me. They must be attached to my bed or something. If I could grab them, I’d get some answers. I try to lift my left arm. Nothing. I try harder. Nothing! Why is this so difficult? What about my other arm? It won’t move, either.
My body feels warm. Cool drops of sweat pool on my forehead, slowly pausing at my eyebrows. But when the sweat rolls into my eyes, it burns like acid. I can’t do anything to stop the pain, but at least I feel pain. I stare at the ceiling, trying to think of something else.
What is that word on the side of the wall, the one that starts with the R? It’s driving me batty. Maybe if I can figure out what that word is, I can start figuring out why I’m here.
I shift my attention to the ceiling, then the wall, then back to the ceiling. I count the little specks of holes in the ceiling. My throat is dry; I desperately need water.
My mind returns to the unexplained, totally baffling reality of being in Intensive Care. I hear footsteps again. They are coming from behind, off to the right. It must be the woman. I smell her perfume. She is close, fidgeting with some machine. I hear the click and clack of buttons being pressed. Am I about to enter the CAT scan machine? I don’t know why, but I feel like I’m about to enter the slaughterhouse.
An electronic beeping starts and I sense motion. I’m moving forward on some kind of conveyer belt and getting closer to the machine. It’s a looming big white plastic mountain dotted with countless small neon green lights.
The machine stops. It’s swallowed me whole and I’m its hostage. A frightening, cold robotic voice says: “Please hold your breath for thirty seconds.” I try to obey the machine’s stern command but can’t hold my breath. My lungs are expanding and contracting on their own.
“Please hold your breath for thirty seconds,” the voice repeats. Hey, can you give me a moment? I want to yell, I can’t do this! Take the damn scan already! I try to hold my breath again, but can’t. My heart and brain are racing to see which can go faster, and my heart takes the lead. The neon lights fade, the buzzing gets louder. Liquid fire returns to my left arm. I’m nauseous and dizzy.
The machine spits me back out. Perhaps it didn’t like my taste.
I am naked. A soft breeze flows over m
e. My body is rigid, stiff as a plank of wood. The room is quiet, except for the beeping I heard when I was back in that other room. I drift off because my mind prefers to go on standby.
Then I hear a soft whisper from an elderly woman. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.” My right hand is slightly raised, as if someone is holding it. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” I can’t see her because my eyes are taped shut. All I see is the gloomy, dark hue inside my eyelids. The voice continues, “Now and at the hour of our death.” She begins reciting the rosary. Why is she saying this? And how did she know I’m Catholic? As she recites each line, darkness descends once more, like a welcoming friend offering me escape.
I emerge from what must be deep sleep. I’m not sure how long I have been out. I don’t even know what to call it when everything goes dark and my mind turns off. Another day or two or three has passed; I can’t tell. Fortunately, my eyelids are no longer taped closed. My vision is blurry, but I notice a large white space above me. Yes, the ceiling. It seems familiar. I’m back in the first room.
But why is my heart racing? I’m sweating profusely, or is it blood? Maybe both? I’m drenched in some disgusting broth and it feels like it’s oozing out of my left side. I want to look down, but I can’t move my head, though I have a peculiar prickly sensation running from head to toe. The pain is like a thousand needles stabbing me. My skin is getting hotter, and I feel at any moment my body will burst into flames. But at the same time, I am chilled, as if there are ice packs jammed under my arms and legs.
