by Brian Boyle
I still hear the fan’s whirr. Every now and then, a small alarm goes off, and then a beeping begins. It seems like a nurse comes in every fifteen minutes. I can only guess, since time has no meaning. The nurses keep telling me that I’ve been in a serious car accident, but I have no recollection of an accident. The last thing I remember is my family’s Fourth of July picnic held on July 3.
The picnic takes place every year and is organized by my dad’s concrete construction company. My mom and I always tag along as my dad’s guests, but even so, he spends most of the time reintroducing us to his coworkers. The day is warm and sunny. I smell hot dogs and hamburgers cooking on the grill. Kids are playing and laughing in the background. Layered over those sounds are several conversations taking place among the adults.
I step away from the crowd and walk toward a large grassy field. I want to get away from all the commotion and reflect on my plans for the fall. I’m looking forward to attending St. Mary’s College of Maryland—which is only an hour away from home. In the spring of my high school senior year, my parents and I met with their swim coach, Andre Barbins. I had a 4.0 grade point average, took several advanced placement courses, and was captain of my high school swim team, which was top-ranked in the state. Andre told me that I was going to be one of his top recruits. For the first few weeks of summer, I trained in the pool at the local recreation center while helping my dad with odd jobs like landscaping or going out to work sites with him.
I walk back to the crowded picnic and stay for the fireworks. That’s the last thing I remember from the picnic, or anything else, before everything turns blank. My memory ceases from that point on.
I take a closer inspection of the room. The ceiling is etched in my brain; I’ve grown accustomed to its speckled pattern. One afternoon, when nurses are changing my gown and have turned me over, I see the room is crowded with at least a dozen electrical monitors.
A nurse enters my room. “Brian, honey, can you blink for me today?” she asks in a tone suggesting that she really isn’t expecting an answer. I try to blink, but it’s impossible. She gently rolls me on my right side while she checks a tube connected with the left part of my stomach. I now have a new view of the right side of the room that I haven’t seen before. I realize that the fan is not a fan at all. I look closer at the small label that says Ventilator in big bold letters. I have a machine breathing for me. That’s why I couldn’t hold my breath in the CAT scan machine. If all these machines are keeping me alive, what does that mean? The white ceiling dims to charcoal.
CHAPTER 3
A NEW KIND OF LIVING HELL
One morning, the sliding glass door to my room is open. My bed is raised at a slight incline, but my angle of view is limited since I can’t move my head or eyes. Doctors and nurses are walking around in white coats and light blue scrubs. I recognize one whose face I saw on his identification card, Dr. James Catevenis. He checks on me frequently. He’s drinking coffee, talking to a nurse who looks like she had a rough morning. Orderlies and nurses roll along people of all ages, some still connected to IVs, on gurneys.
A middle-aged woman and her daughter stop by my open door to ask a nurse a question. The daughter peeks into my room; then her eyes widen and she shouts, “Mommy, there’s a monster in that room!” The woman glances at me and then says to her, “Oh, good Lord, honey, don’t look at him.” She grabs her daughter and rushes off. My mind sinks in absolute shame. I’m no longer human, just a half creature kept alive by machines like in a horror film. What have I done to deserve such harsh, unjust punishment?
An alarm goes off and everyone rushes to the room on my right. It blares for several minutes before ceasing. Soon, a gurney with a white sheet covering the body appears in the hallway. I’m starting to envy ICU patients en route to the morgue. At least their suffering is over and they are at peace. What if I have to spend the rest of my life trapped like this? Why should it be otherwise? I have all the time in the world to ponder this matter.
Every time a nurse or doctor enters my room, I can only stare at them like a wax figure. Motionless as a corpse, I can’t talk, nod, lift a finger, or blink. When the doctors look right at me, they seem to be trying to read my mind. What I would give to have a simple conversation with these strangers. Instead, I’m lifeless, unmoving, unresponsive—a silent body trapped in a bed, with my arms spread out like a crucifixion on a mattress.
A nurse approaches holding a syringe. “Brian, you’ve been on a lot of really heavy medication, but we are going to try to wean your body off of all of that,” she says. “We want you to get nice and healthy and strong. I’m going to just take some blood right now. Just a slight pinch and it will all be over.”
The needle stings, and then she walks out of my room carrying a big bag of my blood. Several moments later, she returns and disappears behind my bed. Then, out of nowhere, vibrations start coming from under the bed, and I hear the pumping sound of hydraulics. My bed starts to move, reclining then rotating left. Am I going to slide off? I try to grab the sheets, but my stiff wooden fingers won’t cooperate. With my body weight shifting, I feel pressure on my elbows, forehead, hips, and calves, wherever I’m strapped to the bed. The bed halts until I’m facing the wall at a ninety-degree angle. Blood rushes to my body’s left side, causing an odd tingling sensation.
With this new view, I take in part of the room I’ve never seen before. It’s all so foreign. I feel like a traveler arriving on a deserted island, exploring new exotic sights, sounds, and smells. I’m giddy. There are so many new things to examine.
The floor is made of shiny pinkish tiles with random specks of dark blue, purple, and brown colors. There’s a wooden chair with an aqua-green cushion. I wonder how many people have sat in that chair over the years. Behind the chair is a tan-colored table with several drawers and a metal sink built into it. I’m not sure how big the sink is, but I can see the faucet and the container of soap next to it. I deeply crave a drink of water. The inside of my mouth is raw and dry as sandpaper. There are small white boxes on the left side of the sink containing bandages and latex gloves. The wall is an off-white color with a five-inch purple section in its middle. There’s a white bulletin board with a card pinned next to it: Room 19—Brian Boyle.
Okay, so I’m in Room 19. I still want to know what day it is and how I got in here in the first place. I want to know where my parents are and why I’m hooked up to these machines, and why my bed just rotated. Does anyone realize that I am not brain-dead? I want to scream!
For some reason, my body begins to shake. I can’t control these tremors that begin to escalate in intensity. I’m shaking like a rag doll in a dog’s mouth. As my teeth grind, my mouth foams up. I taste the awful metallic tang of blood, and feel the disgusting broth of bloodied saliva dripping down the left side of my face. I’m drifting in and out of consciousness; everything is hazy. Then everything calms down, although iron-tasting foam continues to leak from my mouth.
I’m exhausted, spent. My only thought is finding relief from this torture where I’m indifferently punished by a nameless, cruel force.
I’m staring listlessly at the wall. Time passes. Then something bizarre happens. My eyes move! I don’t know how this occurred, or if it was simply an assortment of neurons randomly and suddenly firing away deep inside the brain, but my eyes are finally able to slowly move within their sockets. They are no longer frozen.
The hydraulic system underneath the bed starts back up and I’m returned to the original flat position, but with a slight incline. While I still can’t move my head, my eyeballs are free to roam, to take in more sights of the room. I don’t know how long this visual freedom will last, so I hurry to take advantage of the new opportunity. I notice a clock above the door and small television set in the upper right corner of my room. After a while, my bed rotates back to the left.
Now I can see the bulletin board covered with photos. Many are of me from my high school graduation; others are from various swim meets. That’s odd. Who
put them there? There are also photos of my parents, relatives, and friends. Thinking of the life I used to have makes me sad. Tears well up around my lids and the salty liquid trickles down my cheeks, joining the trail of blood, foam, and saliva.
My body begins to tremble again, and then I’m violently shaking all over. I wait for the terrorizing frenzy to pass. After a minute or so, I’m finally released from its wicked grip. My pulse is rapid. What is wrong?
Suddenly, I blink! I try to blink again, but my eyelids feel heavy and restrained. I struggle to shut my eyes, and then try to reopen them. This takes awhile; I feel like a crane operator hoisting a steel beam with his eyelids. Finally, they are open. But relief is short-lived when I notice a treelike contraption by the bed—a nest of tubes, medical equipment, and containers filled with reddish liquid that’s light in color and has a thick, slimy, gooey appearance. The mysterious stuff fills several plastic containers. A bright red tube comes out of the top of one these slimefilled containers, and interweaves with other wires and containers, then continues right down to the side of my body. Is this the medical brew keeping me alive? I look away in disgust. At that instant, a bubbling noise erupts from one of those containers and several teaspoons of liquid ooze into the tube, making a light gurgling noise.
CHAPTER 4
I RECOGNIZE MY PARENTS
I’m constantly thirsty. I can’t remember the last time I had something to drink. My mouth is kept permanently open for a tube that goes down my throat, and some type of cool liquid is always dribbling down my chin. I can’t even swallow; this is pathetic. How I yearn for a big glass of ice-cold water. My tongue feels like a shriveled-up piece of useless flesh. I thought the human body couldn’t survive more than a few days without water. What’s even worse is when the nurses and doctors wash their hands in the sink in my room. Listening to the water pour out from the small faucet, just a few feet away from my bed, is pure torment.
One day, a new nurse shows up. She is about five feet tall, short brown hair, thin, with a friendly disposition. She holds a clear plastic bottle and a yellow sponge. She walks up to me, not saying anything, and pours liquid from the bottle onto the sponge. I can’t read the label but the liquid is clear. Wow, that’s a strong odor. It smells like rubbing alcohol. She starts rubbing the damp sponge onto my legs, feet, arms, and the rest of my body. It tingles. I wonder what would happen if she gave me a swig of rubbing alcohol? This is how desperate my thirst is. When she leaves, my mind fixates on the out-of-reach sink.
I’m awake. I don’t know how long I was out. What I dread most are the terrifying dreams that can come at any time whenever I descend into what might loosely be called sleep. These dreams are unlike any I ever had during my old life. They’re more vivid, with brighter colors and more extreme events. Could the medication be affecting my dreams? And exactly what medications are they?
Because I’m caught in a precarious limbo between life and death, it’s not easy to detect what’s real or a dream. They often swap places without warning, which only leaves me more anxious and baffled. What I would give to step outside my body for the briefest moment and look at the figure lying motionless in Room 19. Maybe I would find some answers.
I have a dream that I am sitting up right in a chair. I’m no longer in the hospital room, but at the airport. Passengers are waiting to board and people are walking through the corridors as they exit the planes. The airport looks familiar. A sign says Reagan National Airport. I have my portable CD player and I’m wearing headphones. I hear the smooth reggae rhythms of Bob Marley. I turn the volume up.
I’m wearing a damp white cotton T-shirt along with a pair of black mesh shorts with silver stripes. I reek of chlorine and my hair is wet. I bounce my Teva-clad right foot to the rhythm of the Jamaican music, but my heel is rubbing against something. I look down and notice a small black duffel bag under my chair. I guess I’m taking this with me onto the plane. Yet where am I going? Or have I already arrived and I’m waiting for someone? The next track on the CD is a good one. I love “Satisfy My Soul.”
I pick up the bag and search its contents. There’s a water bottle, wet black swimsuit, damp blue-striped towel, and a pair of goggles. Did I just come from swim practice? There is a feminine voice on the intercom that says one of the planes from American Airlines is boarding in twenty minutes. I don’t have a ticket. I check the pockets in my shirt and look in my bag again, nothing. A hint of tension is building in my stomach because something doesn’t feel right about this whole situation.
The lights throughout the airport concourse start to dim, and then shut off completely. Only sunlight illuminates the inside of the airport. An air-horn siren starts to go off, and I jump out of my seat and run to the exit, gripping my CD player.
Adrenaline pumping, I sprint around people, trying to reach a safer location. Wait! I forgot my bag. I have to go back and retrieve it. I find it, but pause. People are moving toward the exit. I can barely hear Marley, and now everything begins to move in slow motion. Then everything and everyone disappear. All I see is white. I’m now enclosed in a large white tube or some sort of bubble, and a strong blinding light is shining right at me. I don’t know where I am, but I don’t feel frightened; I sense that I’m not alone. I hear soft voices. An unfamiliar boy sits to my left, talking on a cell phone. He has short brown hair and is wearing a blue T-shirt. To my right are many boys and girls in chairs. It’s almost like we are all gathered in a large waiting room, but what exactly are we waiting for? There must be hundreds of these young kids, and they all seem to be my age. The atmosphere is calm and relaxing.
The boy to my left with the phone asks if I need to use it or if he could call anyone for me. I tell him to call my parents. Seconds later, he reaches my parents and asks me what I would like him to say. I reply, “Could you tell my parents that I love them?”
Then I hear: “Brian, son, your mom and I want you to know that everything is going to be okay.”
Dad? Could his voice not be part of my dream? Then where is he? I see a shadowy figure looming by my feet. I study his face. Dad? Is that you? It is! You’re here! At long last! For the first time since my mind went blank, I see him in my room. I want to ask, “Where’s Mom? Is she with you?” But I can’t speak or blink or show any sign of communication to let him know that I recognize him. Excited, my pulse quickens and the machines start their pinging and beeping.
“Calm down son, it’s okay,” he says. He struggles to speak. Someone is standing behind him. Mom? I see her blonde hair. I can only shout to myself, Mom, it’s you! Oh, Mom, you’re here! I’m so happy. The beeping and buzzing machines get louder.
Two nurses flank my mom. They are holding her upright. She can barely look at me. Her face is hidden behind a veil of crumpled tissues that she holds in a trembling hand. In fact, her entire body is quivering. Mom, don’t be upset, I want to say. Yet, I can only look at her with a frozen unblinking expression. She suddenly rushes out of the room.
My dad, however, stays at my side. I hear Bob Marley playing. That must be why I was hearing reggae in my dream. Dad starts gently rubbing my feet, massaging the toes as if they are made of glass. He’s quiet, subdued, and looks like he has aged ten years since the July picnic. He barely maintains eye contact with me for more than a few seconds before glancing away. I watch a tear slide down his left cheek. He tells me that I’m in Prince George’s Hospital, that I was in a bad car accident, that I have a few broken bones, and that I will be able to leave the hospital in several days. I sense that it’s much worse than several broken bones, and his tense, pained look confirms my suspicion.
CHAPTER 5
ANGELS IN THE HALLWAY
The next time my parents visit, I want to let them know that I’m right here. Their son might be buried inside the rigid shell of his unresponsive body, but his mind remains active, alert, internally engaged, though a bit dulled from the drugs or mysterious brown liquid pumped into his side. Yet how can I convey this, since I can’t speak or even no
d my head? My reality is this: I’m cut off from the world. Remove the lifesupport machines and I am dead.
Am I in what is known as a vegetative state? But surely this can’t be the case; I’m aware of what is happening all around me. A cauliflower or artichoke doesn’t ask itself what it’s like to be picked in the field only to end up on someone’s plate. But I’m scared that doctors and nurses seem to presume I’m a vegetable. “You used to be known as Brian Boyle, but that’s all changed. Sorry buddy, but there’s little difference between you and the leafy greens in the produce aisle.”
I wait for my parents, still uncertain about what to do. As usual, my dad approaches the bed while my mom stands by the open door with two nurses. He says hi and begins to massage my feet. “Brian, can you move your feet?” he asks. “Come on son, wiggle your toes at least.” I try to find some kind of sensation in my feet, but nothing. “Okay, well, how about blinking? Let’s try that. Blink if you want me to keep rubbing your feet.”
I stare at him, listening to the sad desperation in his voice. I have to blink. He needs this sign very much. I struggle to shut my eyes. It takes several seconds for the reflex to begin. With my eyes closed, I pause. A few moments later, I will myself to open my eyes. It’s like I’m pushing a heavy boulder uphill with my eyelids. As soon as they open, he looks as if he has just witnessed a miracle. “Yes! You did it! I’m so proud of you!” he says. I blink again, this time in half as much time. It’s getting easier. I continue to stare at him.
“JoAnne, watch this!” yells my dad. “You’re not going to believe what Brian just did. He blinked!” My mom approaches my bed, looking more shell-shocked than curious.
