Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead

by Brian Boyle

  For two consecutive months, I focus my energy and attention on walking. It means freedom from my two-wheel fortress of dependent mobility. Even though I have to stop to take a break every few minutes, I find immense joy and pleasure in walking on my own two feet. With constant exercises, stretches, plyometrics, and an incredible amount of balance drills, I’m finally able to permanently graduate from the wheelchair to a cane. It’s a relief not having to ask my mom or dad for a sandwich or to grab a clean T-shirt from my room.

  Within several weeks, I no longer need a cane to move around. As my legs get stronger, there comes additional motivation to speed up rehab, as if a chain reaction has been set into motion. I decide to immerse myself in the atmosphere of a real gym. When I was on my high school swim team, I did a lot of cardio work. I would ride the stationary bike, run on the treadmill, and do hundreds of ab crunches. In order to get more muscular for discus throwing, I would do bench press sets, pushups, dumbbell workouts, and a lot of powerlifting to build mass. I’d spend hours pumping iron.

  My Uncle Joe helps me out at the gym. He works for the Verizon telephone networking system and travels around the area surveying various telephone poles and other communication systems that need his evaluation and approval. During his lunch breaks, he goes to a nearby gym called the Sport & Health Club. So on Tuesdays after therapy, my mom drops me off at the club, which is located only two minutes away from the rehab center. We work out together for about an hour and a half, even though I struggle to lift the lightest weights. My first set of bench presses is with a 25-pound barbell—225 pounds less than I was lifting in June right before the accident. Still, it feels good to be back in a gym, to hear the clanging of iron on iron, the grunts of fellow lifters, the thud when a heavy weight hits the floor.

  Now, because of the success of outpatient therapy, there has been a lot of recovery in the nerves in my left shoulder from Cameele’s E-stem device. Tosheeda is a miracle worker, helping me regain leg strength. She has me do many of the same drills and regimens that I did on the track team: stretching, high-knee exercises, and simple plyometrics.

  One late afternoon, my dad takes me to the high school track for some additional walking. The exercise also benefits him. Ever since his panic attack, he’s been taking the antidepressant Zoloft, which has improved his mood. Our first and only lap takes forever, but the track’s rubber surface cushions my fragile knees and ankles.

  Each week we return to the track. I usually add another lap each time. My dad walks alongside me, which works out well because it gives us more time to talk. We walk at an extremely slow pace. But that’s okay. The greatest part is that I am upright, mobile, and not confined to a bed, chair, or cane. Distances are now measured in hundreds of yards rather than several-dozen feet. We seldom discuss the accident. Instead, we focus on my future, since I’m not going to college. I’ve decided that once my physical therapy is over, I want to learn more about the concrete business. I already know how to operate a concrete pump truck. I’d be following in the footsteps of the family construction business. My dad was always proud of my academic achievements, so it was his dream for me to go to college because he never had the opportunity. But now, I’d rather be around my dad on his different job sites because it’d be therapeutic for him as well.

  On our fifth visit to the track, I hear the distant boom of thunder as rain begins falling around us like heavy teardrops. Curiosity consumes me with a burning desire to walk faster. My dad asks me if everything is okay. I nod yes and continue to press on, quickening my pace, almost to the point of losing balance. The faster leg rotations are accompanied by an unexpected lift off from my forefeet as they hit the ground. My walking turns into a slow jog.

  I visualize the scene in Forrest Gump when he is running away from the bullies as his leg braces fall away. I’m fleeing from the tragedy of July 6 that stole my life. With my unnatural, awkward running style—the slow-to-mend pelvis still causes pain—I must look like an uncoordinated fool. But who cares! I am running! Rain begins splashing upward from the track. My deep gasps play a duet with the sound of each foot striking the wet surface. Walking was once impossible, and now I run.

  I jog for another lap before exhaustion finally sets in. I rest my weary body against a fence. Sweat mixes with rain on my face. My dad walks over to me and proudly puts his arms around my shoulder. We both laugh. It’s laughter that neither of us wants to cease. I tell him that two laps are good for a start, but what about some day running a mile? My dad starts giggling with happiness. “Brian, don’t get too ahead of yourself.” It’s great to hear the merriment in his voice again.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE INTERSECTION

  Driving back from the track one afternoon, I ask my dad for a favor. I want to see the intersection where the accident took place. This will be my first time back there since July 6. He hesitates, but then agrees to the inevitable. He knows I need this closure even though I don’t have any recollection of that day.

  We take a right onto Ripley Road and follow the winding, two-lane country road for about a mile. The sharp bends come up pretty quickly. We pass over a series of freshly painted rumble strips letting drivers know that a stop sign is ahead at the intersection of Ripley and Poorhouse. We drive a bit further and I see the intersection sign followed by a stop sign. We have arrived at my private Ground Zero. My hands begin to shake. We are both quiet. One would think by our silence that we are paying our respects to the deceased in a cemetery.

  My dad parks his truck by the intersection near the grassy embankment that the driver on Ripley sees when he looks to the left, which is the same view I had in the Camaro. The view to the right is worse. The embankments are so overgrown with foliage that you can’t see anything until you pull out a few feet beyond the stop sign which then places you directly in the path of oncoming traffic.

  We get out of the truck and walk around the accident scene together. I break the silence by asking my dad if he ever spoke to the other driver.

  “We never heard from him,” he says in anger. “I talked to the investigating officer several times the first week of the accident and all he said was that you were ‘smoking tires’ and that he was still looking into what happened. I never heard from him after that and none of my phone calls were ever returned.”

  “Smoking tires? I don’t even know how to do that.”

  My dad responds, “That’s because your car is not even able to do that unless you power-brake it.”

  “Power-brake? What the hell is that?”

  My dad looks at me. “Exactly.”

  “Why would the police even suggest something so false?”

  My father thinks they wanted to place the blame on me. But neither of us can guess why.

  I ask my dad if he knows anything about the driver. He knows nothing, not even his name. “Cops wouldn’t tell us,” he says.

  My father’s rage is palpable. Yet I don’t feel any anger toward this mystery driver who wrecked my life and Camaro. How can I? I don’t remember the crash. In a way, this phantom driver doesn’t even exist. But my scars and damaged body do. The sadness of my parents watching me suffer in the hospital exists. They have been traumatized by the entire ordeal. The local law authorities made it even worse for them by stonewalling and then making up facts.

  We watch a green Mustang pull up to the stop sign, coming from the same direction that I was driving from on the day of the accident. The driver has to nose forward several feet to see if any vehicles are approaching from the left. The front bumper is practically in the middle of the intersection. He finally determines that the road is clear and continues driving on Ripley.

  Dad says, “See what I mean about this intersection? It’s a safety hazard that the county should have fixed long ago.” He tells me that my grandfather and Aunt Kati and Uncle Tom tried to find out what really happened that day. Kati called the investigating officer in July. Apparently, the phone call didn’t go well, because as soon as she began asking questions
, he became very angry, saying that it was all my fault and that I could have killed someone. He wanted to issue me a fine for failing to remain stopped at the stop sign. He told my aunt that he didn’t know if it was a suicide attempt.

  I can’t believe this nonsense. Suicidal? Me?

  “It gets worse,” my dad says. “The officer then said that the truck driver mentioned you were playing a game of chicken with him. This was bogus. Aunt Kati also asked him about the police report that said that you were not trapped in the car and that you climbed out of the car all by yourself. And can you believe that the officer said the dump truck driver had to hold you down on the ground because you were combative and flailing about? The investigating officer told your aunt that the truck driver saved your life, which was a lie. She then spoke to another policeman who wasn’t involved in the case; fortunately, he was supportive. He said that he couldn’t believe that they hadn’t put a stoplight at that intersection because it’s known to be a dangerous, accident-prone intersection. Something just wasn’t right.”

  Along the side of the road and strewn in the weeds, I look down and see tiny fragments of glass, black paint shards from the Camaro, and a surgical glove with dark bloodstains. Could that be my blood? I bend over and pick up a four-inch piece of a broken outside mirror. I feel its sharp jagged edges. I assume it came from the Camaro.

  I walk over to the telephone pole and sit down on a small hill that overlooks the intersection. I stare out at Poorhouse Road, still holding the glass shard. I consider all the what-ifs from that day. If I had swum one additional lap and left the pool one minute later, would the accident still have happened? Or, if the truck driver had an extra cup of coffee at lunch, would we still have met in the middle of Ripley and Poorhouse?

  I feel a sharp pinch on my right index finger. I’ve cut myself on the glass. A small drop of blood has smeared the mirror. The incision is no bigger than a nasty paper cut. I look at the blood, my blood, reconsidering my own mortality. I had almost bled out that day.

  I tell my dad that I’m ready to go home.

  CHAPTER 22

  RETURN TO PRINCE GEORGE’S HOSPITAL

  My parents take me over to my Uncle Chip and Aunt Lisa’s house in Springfield, Virginia. He’s my mom’s brother-in-law and works in music management. They want to celebrate my recovery. When I was in the hospital, they created a website so friends and family could check my status.

  After dinner, Chip surprises me with the entire collection of the 2004 Athens Olympic Games on VHS. I didn’t get to watch much of the Olympics in the hospital, and I only remembered bits and pieces viewed through the thick fog of medication.

  My hero from the Games is Gary Hall Jr., who swims the fifty-meter freestyle. I already knew that he won gold, but I have to see the race again. I might never swim again due to my damaged heart, weak lungs, severe nerve damage to my left shoulder, shattered pelvis, and fluid buildup in my lungs, but I’m still inspired by him, especially after that email he sent me.

  The fifty-meter freestyle is nothing but pure strength, speed, and adrenaline—and that’s why I liked the short distance so much, though in high school it was fifty yards. You need complete confidence and to have your body and mind in total sync before stepping onto the blocks. That combination will get you to the wall before your competitors. Gary is proof of this winning attitude. At age twenty-nine, he touched first in 21.93, beating his Olympic competitors by an eyelash.

  I rewind the tape and notice that I missed Gary’s prerace interview, which shows clips of him racing at the 2000 Sydney Olympics. He says, “The world’s fastest swimmers are in the fifty-meter freestyle. If you are talking about pure speed, I can swim faster than anybody in the world. I’ve defied doubters time and time again. At first they said I was lazy, undisciplined. This time they’re saying, ‘Oh you’re too old; you can’t do it.’ I won’t go away that easy, so tell me I can’t do it. I dare you.”

  I press the pause button and think about what Gary has just said. If he defied the doubters who believed he could not win, then what’s stopping me from getting back in the pool? Not to race, but just to swim again.

  Gary’s words replay in my mind. That’s it, I decide, I’m getting back in the pool. I’m not going to let my injuries limit me. Like Gary, I want to defy the odds.

  The next day during my physical therapy, I confide my plan to Carroll, who is thrilled. She says that the best way to get back in the pool would be to transition my yoga and tai chi into the more aquatic version called ai chi, which could be done at an indoor pool. She tells me that when I come back on Thursday for my occupational therapy, she will bring her ai chi VHS tape for me to borrow.

  On the drive home from therapy, I explain to my mom why I want to return to swimming. She seems surprised and worried at the same time because of what the doctors had told her. She says that when we get home, she’ll schedule an appointment with my doctors to see if we can get their permission.

  After we eat lunch, I take a short nap. When I wake, my mom provides unexpected good news. She says that when I was asleep, Andre Barbins, the swim coach from St. Mary’s College of Maryland, called asking to see how I was doing because he and the team had been following my progress since the accident. I can’t believe the coincidence. He wants to visit and bring the captain of the men’s swim team, Julio Zarate. I ask my mom how soon. She looks at me and smiles, “How about tomorrow?”

  That night it’s hard to sleep. I’m not sure what’s wrong; maybe I’m nervous about seeing the coach. My pulse is higher than normal and my breathing is different, labored, like there’s a small dog lying on my chest.

  Halfway through the night, I have to sit up in my bed to get a full breath of air. I hope it’s just a case of anxiety and not something more serious.

  The next day, I wake up feeling drowsy and restless from lack of sleep. There’s still the pressure on my chest when I breathe and my pulse is racing. In any case, I get ready for Coach Barbins and Julio by putting on my St. Mary’s swim team T-shirt.

  The first time I met them was in the spring of my senior year about two months before graduation. I was looking at swimming programs at several colleges. When my parents met with Coach Barbins, we felt a genuine connection with him. The school was also only a one-hour drive from home. I soon signed my acceptance papers and would start my freshman year in the fall as one of his top recruits. The accident snuffed out that dream. More than likely, simply being able to float on my back in the pool will be the full extent of my new swimming career.

  After lunch, I hear the doorbell ring. It’s Coach Barbins and Julio. I struggle to walk to the door, trying to mask my labored breathing because I know my mom can easily detect the slightest problem or ailment and she would insist on taking me to the doctor right away.

  We’re happy to see Coach Barbins and Julio who present me with T-shirts, a personal letter that the entire team signed, swim caps, training suits, and goggles.

  We sit down in the living room and talk about my recovery and my future plans. I mention I’d like to start working with my dad in concrete construction after my physical therapy is over and how I plan to get my Commercial Driver’s License in the spring. Right before they leave, Coach Barbins tells me that even though I wasn’t able to go to college this semester and swim, I’m still on the team. I hold back tears when I hear this kind offer.

  I walk out on the back porch, quietly gasping for breath, and sit down. Mom joins me. “Do you really think I could swim one day?” I ask.

  “Honestly, I know you can,” she replies without hesitating.

  “Yeah, but I mean at a collegiate level?” I say hesitantly, realizing the question’s weight.

  “Absolutely. I believe that not only will you get back in the pool again, but you’ll be great. Look how far you have come already.”

  “Okay then, let’s set up an appointment to get approval from the doctors.”

  My breathing gets worse at bedtime. I have to sit up the entire night just to
capture a small breath of air each time. It feels like I’m drowning and that at any minute I will lose consciousness, have a stroke, or suffer a heart attack. Why are my heart and lungs failing?

  In the morning, as I struggle to eat a bowl of cereal at breakfast, I tell my parents about my breathing difficulties. As expected, my mom immediately calls 911.

  While I wait for the ambulance to arrive, I shuffle into the bathroom. My balance and equilibrium have deteriorated to the point where I have to hold onto the walls as I move through my house. My vision is distorted and crowded with flickering sparks of light. I close the door behind me and study myself in the mirror. This is it. I’ve come this far, and now I sense that death has finally caught up to me; it had been slyly waiting in ambush the entire time. It was foolish to think that I could cheat this relentless adversary. Tears begin streaming down my hollow cheeks as Intensive Care memories resurface. Once again, I’m in bed looking up at the all-too-familiar sight of my saddened parents. That image morphs to something bleaker: they are dressed in black and standing over my grave. The tears stream faster. I rest my head in my hands, wishing that things would be different. I don’t want to die.

  I hear the ambulance’s siren, so I hurry to dry my tears and limp back to the living room where I sit on the couch and wait for the two young EMTs to cart me away. But first they check my vital signs. My blood pressure and pulse are extremely high. I’m given an oxygen mask and hooked up to a blood pressure machine. They then lift me onto a gurney and wheel me out the door and into the back of the ambulance. My mom sits in the passenger seat up front, while my dad drives behind us in his truck.