Authors: Neva Brown
Pauline’s breath caught in her throat when she finally made herself look at Casey’s head.
“Are you all right?” the nurse asked.
Pauline frowned. “Why did they shave off her hair and put ice around her head?”
The nurse talked as she adjusted every little thing about the equipment. “She had a deep gash on the right side of her head that had to be sutured. A tube had to be inserted to drain the fluid buildup causing pressure on her brain. The tiny wires you see were put in to help conduct the cold from the ice around her head to reduce swelling.”
Shock and the effort to cope with things alien to his world made Jake oblivious to anyone else’s needs. Intravenous tubes, wires, and a close-fitting neck brace made the pale person on the bed look like someone from outer space, not his daughter. Something inside him crumbled. His dreams—gone forever.
Jake’s low, rumbling voice startled the nurse and Pauline. “Will she be mentally handicapped for the rest of her life?”
“Right now there is no way to know. The doctors are doing all they can to keep that from happening. When Dr. Newton makes his rounds in the morning, you can talk with him.”
“Why’s she in that moving bed?” Pauline asked.
The nurse finished marking a chart. “To help circulation while she is unconscious. May I suggest that you go get some rest? You’ve had a long night. We’ll call if there is a change in Casey’s condition.”
Three days later, Jake went back to the ranch. He told Pauline to stay. Casey remained in ICU, but the nurses allowed Pauline to sit with her unconscious daughter part of the time. At times, Pauline tried to talk to the unresponsive Casey, but she didn’t know what to say. They had never been close. Most of the time, she just sat and watched the ever-moving bed.
While Pauline kept her vigil, Jake and Tres signed the charges filed against the wealthy oilman’s son, Jody Witten, who had thrown the firecrackers.
Witnesses said as Jody became drunk, he talked about how ranchers acted like they were royalty. He’d boasted his dad could buy out any one of the ranchers and never miss the money. One of his contemporaries said, “We’re used to his crude bragging, so we didn’t pay any attention when he said he was going to have some fun.”
Forty-three days after the incident, Casey opened her eyes. She saw a woman in a wheelchair sitting by her bed. She blinked and looked again. Was her mind still playing tricks on her? For days, she’d heard voices but nobody seemed to hear her. She couldn’t get anyone to tell her what was going on. A dark-haired woman with an engaging smile loomed up into her vision.
“Casey, it’s wonderful to see you awake! I’m Amy, your nurse. You have a tube in your throat, so don’t try to talk. It will hurt. I’ll call the doctor to see if we can remove it.”
Casey tried to move her hand, only to discover it firmly strapped to the bed. Panicked, Casey made guttural sounds around the tube, struggling with all her might to get loose.
Amy rubbed her hand across Casey’s. “Don’t be frightened. You’ve been unconscious. You’re tied to the bed so you wouldn’t fall off as the bed moved.” She flipped the switch to stop the bed’s movement as she talked. “We need to leave your hands strapped until the doctor comes so you can’t touch the paraphernalia in your head.” She gave Casey an encouraging pat on the arm. “He’ll tell you what has been going on while you’ve been asleep.”
The doctor strode through the door with loping steps. “I’m Dr. Newton. Glad you’re awake.” He didn’t touch her as he watched every flicker of Casey’s eyes. “The nurse will get this tube out, then we can talk. But the neck and head brace has to stay on for a while longer.” He shined a tiny beam of light into her eyes. “Things look good. I know having your hands restrained is a little scary but we can’t have you messy up our handiwork, you know.” He grinned. “We’ll get some pictures to see if the tube and wires in your head can be removed. If they can, then we can turn you loose.”
Casey felt panic roar to life like a monster deep inside. She stifled a scream but jerked frantically at the restraints. Her eyes darted this way and that.
Why didn’t she recognize anything or any of these people?
She felt the doctor hold one of her arms with a gentle, firm hand. He smiled, giving her arm a reassuring pat.
“We’ll get you down for an MRI. Be patient a little longer.” He patted her shoulder as he turned to talk to Amy. He looked back at Casey. “I’ll be back. Dr. Halson will be by before long. He’s the bone specialist who fixed your leg and hip and helped fit the brace on your neck. Tell the nurse if you have pain so she can give you something for it.”
Casey gagged as the nurse slipped the tube out of her throat. But she could swallow and breathe more easily. Her first words were raspy, coming from her raw throat. But she wanted to ask questions.
She saw Pauline sitting in the wheelchair beside her. “Did you get hurt, too?”
“No.”
“Sorry. I just assumed because you were in a wheelchair . . .” Pauline looked up at the nurse in confusion, then looked back at Casey. “No, remember, I had Lyme Disease? It caused arthritis and now I need to use a wheelchair.”
“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Casey, do you remember getting hurt?”
Casey was quiet for a moment. “No.”
“Do you remember falling off a horse?” Pauline asked.
Casey struggled to move. “Why was I on a horse?”
Pauline’s eyes widened in dismay. “Do you know who I am?”
Casey stared at the woman. “Am I supposed to?”
“I’m your mother.”
Fear made her Casey’s heart beat faster. She grew quiet, very still, then said, “That’s Amy, I’m Casey, you’re my mother, and Dr. Newton is the doctor. I got hurt on a horse.”
Amy stepped between Pauline and Casey. She took Casey’s hand and rubbed it gently. “Don’t fret about not remembering things. When someone has been unconscious for as long you have, it takes time for memories to return.”
As two aides wheeled her along toward the MRI area, Casey lay still, watching the ceiling lights flash by. She winced every time she tried to swallow. Little did she know that the pain in her throat was insignificant compared to the pain to come as rehabilitation therapy began.
Tres had made arrangement with the hospital for a computer printout to be sent to him each day. He’d learned long ago, money makes lots of things possible. Every night he perused the printout that recounted Casey’s care and progress for the day. The day she’d regained consciousness, he wanted to get into his granddad’s Cessna and fly to San Angelo. But he didn’t. He doubted she would be glad to see him. If she couldn’t remember her parents, she certainly would not remember him. The thought made his heart squeeze a little.
But she’s alive.
Daily, Tres shared the information with Jake, who never commented but seemed to rage in silence about what had happened.
Three weeks after Casey regained consciousness; Tres noticed a flattening-out of her progress in therapy and noted behaviors he could not associate with the Casey he knew. Temper tantrums. Crying jags until she had to be sedated. Refusal to try to do rehab exercises. These notations became more plentiful day-by-day. He had to see for himself what was going on. His invitation to Jake to go with him was refused. Tres didn’t understand Jake’s way of thinking, but accepted that he was coping the best he knew how.
As Tres stepped off the elevator in the private wing of the hospital, he saw a tall, frail figure with just a short fluff of auburn hair, leaning on a walker between therapists. She was sobbing. “I can’t walk any more. I need a wheelchair like Pauline.”
The therapists coaxed her to try harder.
She screamed in a fit of temper that would have done any two-year-old justice. “. . . done enough. I hurt.”
Tres quickened his steps, every protective instinct in his body on alert. “May I carry you to your room? I’ve come a long way to see you.”
The therapists grew silent while Casey, still seething, looked at him, then said, “Please carry.”
He scooped her up into his arms. He could feel her muscles quiver and the knots in her legs and arms shake with fatigue as she reached around his neck and turned her face to his chest. Tears dampened his shirt, seeping into his very soul.
An embarrassed Pauline greeted him as he came through the door of Casey’s room. “I’m sorry, Tres, she gets so cross when she gets tired.”
When he started to lay Casey on the bed, she tightened her grip on his neck. “No, don’t like bed,” she said, still sobbing.
Tres sat down in the recliner, settling her comfortably in his lap. “Why don’t you like your bed?”
“Just don’t.” Her crying died away to soft, little hiccup sobs reminding him of a child who had been left alone too long after crying for help.
Pauline said, “Her speech is usually better, but when she has one of these spells, she talks like a baby.”
Tres looked at Casey’s mother. “Have you talked to the doctors?”
She shook her head. “No, the therapists say it is just a stage that she’s going through, that it will pass.”
Impatience gouged his outward calm. “Would you mind if I talked to the doctors to see if something can be done to ease her distress?”
Pauline fidgeted, frowning. “No, but you don’t have to bother. As she gets to feeling better, I’m sure she’ll stop acting this way. It’s not like her at all.”
He felt Casey’s arms go slack. Her sobs subsided as she drifted into sleep. He got up and eased her onto the bed.
Amy returned to the room just as he was putting Casey on the bed. “Did something happen?” She turned to Pauline.
Pauline shrugged. “She just had one of her tantrums out in the hall, so Tres carried her in and held her until she went to sleep.”
She introduced Amy to Tres.
Amy felt uncomfortable. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I thought the therapists were supposed to work with her for a full hour.”
Not doing anything to put Amy at ease, Tres asked, “Are you with Casey every day?”
“Yes, I’ve been her day nurse since she regained consciousness. I usually take a break while she is with the therapists.”
Tres curbed his impatience. “Do you think she has stopped improving in the last week or ten days?”
“With this type of injury, there’s no way to know if a patient will continue improving or if improvement will end at some stage due to brain damage.”
Out of patience, Tres tried to be pleasant.
But damnit, he needed to know what could be done to ease Casey’s distress.
“I have Pauline’s permission to talk to her doctors. Can you make arrangements for me to see them?”
His pleasant, yet authoritative, voice elicited a positive response from Amy. “I’ll call their offices and see when they’re available.”
At three that afternoon, Tres sat in a conference room with both Dr. Newton and Dr. Halson. “I have followed Casey’s progress daily. She has made good progress, but now she seems to be distressed and not doing well. Does she need a change?”
Dr. Halson looked up from his notes on Casey. “She will need physical rehabilitation for a long time yet, but that could be done in a private clinic or even at home if a therapist comes every day to work with her. Hospitals aren’t always the ideal place to be for long periods of time.”
Dr. Newton met his gaze. “Casey needs constant supervision and may for some time to come. All indications suggest she will go through developmental stages again just like a child. There’s no way to know if the development will stop somewhere along the way because of brain damage or if she will fully recover in time. You need to take that into consideration as plans are made for her care. Do you have suggestions we should consider?”
Tres didn’t hesitate. “I think she might do better at the ranch than here with so much confinement. My grandfather had to have special care for the last five years of his life so we have a suite of rooms equipped for a heart patient’s needs with an adjoining apartment for a private nurse. Modifications could be made to meet Casey’s needs. Would this be a possibility?”
Dr. Newton hedged. “I understand your ranch is some distance from medical help. That might present a problem.”
“The ranch has a plane and a helicopter for fast transportation. We still have the RV my grandfather had equipped like an emergency room so he could travel.”
Dr. Newton chortled. “I remember J.D. Spencer. He arrived in that rig once when I was in the emergency room working on car crash patients. By the time they got here, the nurse had him stabilized, and your grandfather was raising Cain about a wasted trip, loud enough for everyone in the ER to hear. If you could find someone for Casey as good as your grandfather’s nurse, your plan might work.”
For a second Tres longed to hear his grandfather ranting. But he tucked the pang of grief away and spoke to the issue at hand. “I’ll talk to Brad, J.D.’s nurse. He may know someone qualified to take care of Casey.”
The two doctors and Tres shook hands and went their separate ways. Tres returned to talk to Pauline, who was still flustered because Casey was causing the boss so much trouble. But she agreed to his plan.
Tres called Brad. Over dinner they talked about Casey’s needs and who might be willing to go to the ranch for an extended period of time. Brad mentioned two qualified people but was not sure they would consider being so far away from the city lights. Finally he said, “I’d like to go work with her but Vera, my younger sister, has just come to stay with me while her husband is overseas doing a tour of duty in the Middle East.”
Tres heard a hint of homesickness in Brad’s voice. The ranch had been home to him for a little over five years during the time he had tended to J.D. “Would your sister be averse to living at the ranch?”
The spark of interest in Brad’s eyes brightened. “I’m not sure. She’s a licensed vocational nurse and needs to work since her husband’s just an enlisted man.”
“With her training, it sounds like she’d be ideal to help Casey relearn personal hygiene and how to take care of herself. You could do the physical, occupational, and speech therapy the doctors say she has to have. Could we meet with Vera and the three of us talk about the possibilities?”