Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead (17 page)

M
y 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.

At the Civista Medical Center, I’m rushed into a small room where a nurse begins taking blood samples. She hooks me up to an IV. Five minutes later, a doctor comes in and kindly introduces himself. He requests that I get a CAT scan and chest X-ray. My parents tell him that I suffered severe trauma to my body organs in a motor-vehicle accident over the summer.

I go through all the tests; then we wait. About two hours later, the doctor returns. He’s holding a clipboard with papers. He appears confused. Two other doctors also enter the room, both with similarly puzzled expressions. The first doctor says, “Um, Mr. Boyle, we’ve been looking over your recent scans and we were just wondering what exactly happened to you? Most of your internal organs are not in their correct locations and frankly we have just never seen something like this before. You have nodules and scar tissue all over your lungs, and your heart looks like it has recently undergone a lot of hard work.”

My parents explain what happened in greater detail, and everyone comes to the same conclusion that it makes better sense for me to be transferred to Prince George’s Hospital where all my medical records are still being held.

My parents help me to the truck and we drive to the hospital. The last time I made the trip here was aboard a helicopter, barely clinging to life.

My parents register me in the regular emergency room. This is a first for all of us, since the medevac helicopter had landed on the hospital roof and I was whisked away to the trauma unit. Judging by the crowded room, it looks like it will be a long wait. A young guy who arrives right behind me is a gunshot victim. He’s bent over while holding a dark-withblood towel over his mouth, with a half-filled bucket at his feet. A buddy is supporting him because he seems as if he’s about to pass out.

We wait and wait. All the seats are filled. The air grows stale. It begins to affect my breathing, which is getting more raspy and labored. My heart speeds up. I’m soon gasping for air and motion to my mom that I need help. She jumps up and races over to the front desk. Seconds later, a nurse escorts us to a curtained space within one of the general examination rooms. After I get my blood drawn, I’m injected with an antibiotic solution that slows down my heart and eases my breathing somewhat.

As we wait for a doctor, another nurse comes by to check my vital signs. She says that she remembers me from the summer. She also mentions that a number of staff working in the emergency room tonight might also recall when I was last here at the hospital. She wasn’t kidding. Every few minutes, a nurse or hospital employee stops by to introduce him- or herself to me. Some turn emotional talking to us. What’s always left unsaid but hangs in the room like a powerful unseen force is that they thought I should be dead.

My parents remember most of their names. I’m amazed by how many people were involved in keeping me alive. I thank them all. It doesn’t matter what department they work in or whether they are a top doctor or someone who works part-time in the gift shop; they all played a role in saving me from oblivion.

With all these unexpected well-wishers, I begin to feel dizzy; the only thing that I’ve eaten all day is a bowl of cereal for breakfast. It’s early evening and my stomach has been making annoying noises for the past hour. I ask one of the nurses if I can have something to eat and she walks around the hall and returns with two hospital trays full of food. I thank her and start scarfing down the food. It may be bland hospital grub but it’s filling me up.

Bloated yet content, I feel more relaxed. My parents duck out for coffee when the doctor arrives. It’s Dr. Daee, the surgeon who first opened me up in the trauma unit. He is chiefly responsible for my continued existence in this world. Within minutes of arriving in the medevac, he made an incision in my chest to see what was wrong and where to start. There was no time to take preliminary X-rays or CAT scans.

Dr. Daee says that he just came from surgery and that he will set me up in the cardiology department to make sure that whatever illness I have will be taken care of quickly, efficiently, and effectively. He adds that he’s not surprised to see me back in the hospital because my immune system had been severely weakened from being on life support for so long.

When my parents return and see Dr. Daee, they both give him a big hug. He reassures them that whatever is wrong with me, it’s not life threatening. Relief washes over all of us.

Dr. Daee has to meet with the family of the young man he just operated on, so we say our goodbyes.

It takes another half hour for my room to be made up in the cardiology department. A nurse introduces himself to us, pushing a wheelchair that he wants me to sit in. I politely decline his offer, because I can walk on my own, though in reality, I probably should sit down. But it’s been my burning desire since the day I left Intensive Care to come back here one day and say hello to everyone while walking on my own. So I take baby steps, huffing and puffing with each short stride, bracketed by the nurse and my parents. He directs us to my room where we are told that only one of my parents can stay overnight with me. After I say goodbye to my dad, the nurse comes back in the room and wraps a heart monitor around my neck and then reconnects my IV to a bag of antibiotics as I lie down on the bed. Another nurse brings in an extra blanket, sheet, and pillow for my mom who will sleep in the recliner chair near the window.

I’m concerned about Mom’s emotional state. Did she know that we’d be back in the hospital so soon? What if I really take a turn for the worse? How will she hold up? I’m more frightened for her sake than for my own.

T
here’s not much to do while I’m being checked over in the cardiology department. Patients are not allowed to leave the floor because our heart rates are constantly monitored. So I’ve been doing a lot of reading, including biographies of Steve Prefontaine and Lance Armstrong.

Steve, also known as Pre, was America’s first running superstar, a James Dean rebel in Nikes, with trademark long hair and mustache. When someone once told him that another runner might beat him in a race, he replied that they would first have to bleed. He died tragically at age twenty-four in a car crash. Pre grew up in Coos Bay, Oregon, near where the fatal wreck occurred. The small marina near my house is called Goose Bay. Just a small rhyming coincidence, but it makes me wonder why he died and I lived.

The word must have spread throughout the hospital that I’m back because familiar and unfamiliar faces begin showing up in my room. “Brian, is that you?” many ask in disbelief. Visitors include nurses, physician’s assistants, cleaning ladies, physical and respiratory therapists, and several ICU doctors. It feels like a happy family reunion.

Each one played a part in bringing me back to life, so I go out of my way to tell them how much my parents and I appreciate everything that they did for me. The only thing that I feel bad about is that I wanted everyone to see me walking again, rather than seeing me bedridden.

Dr. Daee looks in on me several times. Dr. Nafisy also stops by. He is the doctor who moved my still-beating heart across my chest when I first arrived in shock trauma. A special aura surrounds him, as if his touch alone heals patients of their illnesses and injuries. Nurses call him “the man with the golden hands.”

On the fifth day, Dr. Daee informs me that my breathing problems and elevated heart rate are due to a bacterial infection that caused fluid to build up around my heart and in my lungs. He writes out several prescriptions.

As we wait for my dad to pick us up, there’s something I must do. I visit the ICU floor. There are many people who want to say hello. I’m surprised by all the attention I receive—many of the staff have to wait to greet me. Tears moisten many of their eyes.

I ask to see my old room—Room 19. I’m told it’s empty, which comes as a relief since I would have hated to see someone suffering there, like I did for over ten weeks. I walk tentatively to the room, and slide open the glass door. The room is all too familiar—same bed, clock on the wall above the door, television in the upper right corner, aqua-cushioned chair, sink that was off-limits to my parched throat, and the high-tech throne of now-silent medical equipment. The window blinds are open and sunshine floods into the room. I approach the sunlit bed. This is where I should have died. I place my left hand on the clean white pillow that awaits the head of the next patient.

Outside the room, my mom is talking to Dr. Catevenis and Dr. Boyce, the ICU directors. I walk out and greet them. They say that I am the most critical patient they’ve seen who has survived. Both are serious men. I never saw either one smile until my health started to improve. Then, every time they passed my room, these two doctors were all smiles.

As we are about to leave, instead of saying goodbye to Dr. Catevenis, I say “hello.” He instantly remembers that as the first word I said when I emerged from my coma. He grins and nods proudly.

When we get home that night, my mom reminds me what Dr. Daee told us: I must stay off my feet and relax as much as possible, which means that I won’t be going to physical therapy for at least a week.

I take this period to work on my art. Ever since I was a young child, I would draw, color, sketch, and paint—anywhere and on anything. That was how I expressed my emotions. Because I don’t have any memory of the accident and can only recall hazy, disjointed periods from when I was in the coma, I want to see if I’m able to pry loose these hidden, repressed memories through art. Perhaps through this self-expression, I will find deeply buried answers that have been eluding me.

There was no sense of time when I was comatose. Randomness was the mental ordering principle as my body was mechanically kept alive. Unmoored from reality, my mind naturally played tricks. To illustrate this hallucinatory period, I use symbolic colors and images, disorienting compositions of blurred first-person perspectives. The use of black and white delineates a shifting boundary between life and death, while red represents the medium connecting both states.

When I start drawing, I don’t have a fixed idea in place but simply allow the subconscious to guide my hand. The most amazing thing happens: memory fragments push their way to the surface, which I transform into a visually symbolic representation. These images then tell my story, decipherable to no one but myself.

I call this drawing “Time is of the Essence”:

After a week of bed rest, I’m anxious to return to the school track to continue walking and jogging. But what I most want to do is get in the pool. After several conversations with my family practice doctor, Jaleh Daee, who is the wife of my main surgeon, we decide that I must first pass two physical tests—a chest X-ray and pulmonary exam for repiratory function—before getting my toes wet. She says that my healing is incomplete and I must wait another month.

Two days before Christmas, both test results come back positive. Later the same day, my parents and I head over to the nearby Henry E. Lackey high school aquatic center. The last time I was here was on July 6, the day of the accident.

The pool is crowded, but I find an open lane. I’m wearing the swimsuit and goggles that the St. Mary’s swim team gave me. I stand at the edge of the pool and look down into the water. My father is filming me with a DVD camera. I’m actually nervous—will I sink or swim? I notice several pairs of eyes staring at all the scars on my shoulders, chest, and stomach. Despite my discomfort at the gawking, I want to give these people a show.

I would prefer to dive into the water, but my balance is still shaky. So I lean over and fall into the pool. I plummet right to the bottom, but I have no intention of immediately surfacing. The sensation is too wonderful. I feel both weightless and free from all pain.

After about fifteen seconds, I push off the pool bottom with my feet. When I surface, I begin to tread water, something I wasn’t sure I would be able to do. I look over at my parents who are clapping their hands, smiling. I slowly lift my right arm a few inches above the water and use my left arm to scull beneath my body to support my weight, which slightly propels me forward. I repeat the movement, while lowering my head into the water and giving a few easy flutter kicks with my feet. Then it happens—I’m swimming! Once again, the impossible has been made possible. My body moves through the water, while I partially lift my head to breathe on the left and then right. My arms knife through the water. It’s not some aquatic magic trick that I am performing; there are no illusions. This is real and it is beautiful, a defiance of doubters and physical limitations.

I swim halfway across the pool, then stop to hang onto the lane rope and catch my breath. I swim back to the wall and take another rest. I repeat this several times until I feel ready for my first lap. I kick off from the wall and begin swimming. When I make it to the other end, I’m winded. My damaged left shoulder aches and I hold on to the edge of the pool.

It takes the remainder of my dwindling strength to climb out of the pool. After a quick shower in the men’s locker room, I walk back out on the pool deck to meet my parents. We leave the pool center laughing and in great spirits. The last time I exited these doors, I was on my way to an unanticipated appointment with a dump truck.

I return to the pool later in the week with my good buddy Sam Fleming, who is a year younger than me. He went to a rival high school and swam the fifty-meter breaststroke. He was fast, really fast. We first met at an afternoon practice at my summer league pool. He was quiet with a tenacious attitude. Even though he’s currently in the middle of a competitive swim season, he wants to help out as my new coach.

We spend most of our time treading water and doing light strength-training exercises on the pool deck. We follow this routine for weeks, and slowly but surely, I build the stamina to swim continuous laps. We don’t stop there—in time, we train five days a week. We work out with weights at the local college, including a mixture of plyometrics, stretching, and slow running.

All of this sounds unbelievable. I have become a swimmer again, despite everything that conspired against me. With my still-damaged lungs and the ever-present pain in my left shoulder, I’m much slower in the water than I used to be. But I don’t mind, because when my body is in the pool, I am moving. That is what really counts. Not too long ago, I was motionless, strapped down in a hospital bed. When I’m swimming, I feel like the freest person on the planet.