Read Online Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead by Brian Boyle, Bill Katovsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Brian Boyle, Bill Katovsky
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water. I’d tell my physical therapist that I don’t like being awakened at six in the morning by having my chest tapped with her hand. I’d tell strangers in the hospital corridor who stare at me in fright to look away! I’d ask the nurse for a blanket when I’m cold. I’d tell my parents to take me outside in a gurney or wheelchair.
Regaining the ability to talk is the key that will unlock my dungeon’s door. Yet whenever I try saying anything, no sound comes out. Even when I attempt to mouth words, no one understands what I want to say. Nurses and doctors always react with the same puzzled look.
Talking seems easy to do. Just exhale some air from your lungs, move your tongue and lips a little here and there, and you create syllables and, from there, words, and then entire sentences. I can’t even say “Daddy” or “Mama” like most one-year-olds. How long will I remain voiceless? The rest of my life? Why can’t anyone hear me?
CHAPTER 11
“HELLO”
I’m in the angry chair when the nurse named Debbie comes into my room. She says that she is going to try to get me to speak. I blink to let her know that I understand, and I blink again with a faint smile to let her know that I’m excited. She is going to insert a small clear catheter into the hub of the tracheostomy tube at the base of my throat. This procedure will force me to cough, which is when I’m supposed to say something. It seems simple enough. I hope the process works.
The tube tickles and scrapes my throat. Rather than cough, I gag. My eyes begin to tear up, while my breathing turns heavy with the pain. I don’t want Debbie to try again; there has to be another way of getting me to speak. But she can’t know what I’m thinking, and so, with kind, motherly assurance, she places her hand on my chest to calm me down. Several minutes later, she reinserts the tube, and this time I’m able to stifle the gag reflex and make a faint gurgling noise.
Debbie attempts several more times but she’s becoming tired. She’s also concerned about my discomfort. She pauses, wiping away beads of sweat that have collected on her forehead. “You can do it. Just say something, even a few letters will do.” The only noise coming from my throat is raspy, gargling coughing. It sounds animal-like, not human. After several more tries, Debbie finally takes a much-needed break. It’s hard to tell which one of us is more exhausted.
She delicately pulls the device out of the breathing tube opening and lets me rest. I blink rapidly to let her know we should continue. Debbie walks to the other side of the room and quietly says to another nurse named Faye, “Do you really think he is even capable of talking again?”
I sure can! I want to shout. Please don’t give up on me. Come on—give me one more chance. I’m getting the hang of it. I know I am. But maybe Debbie is right. This realization drains me of hope. You moron! You were given the chance to talk and you blew it! My head droops forward in despair. I feel defeated and ashamed.
I then notice a group of people approaching my room. It’s Dr. Catevenis leading a small group of people in white lab coats. They all look to be in their mid-to-late twenties. Medical students? Interns? They gather around my bed. Dr. Catevenis explains to them how proud he is of my progress. I want to hide under the bed. These strangers are staring at me like I’m a caged, wounded animal.
Dr. Catevenis asks if I can say hello to his group. I slowly lift my right arm and wave my hand, welcoming them to my cell. I even add a faint smile for hospitality’s sake. It’s always important to be a gracious host.
I study the reactions of these young doctors, but can’t read their expressions. Or rather, I see nothing on their faces. Just stone. No returned greeting or acknowledgment, not even a small nod. Here I am, lingering half-alive between human and machine, but I still can express empathy and kindness. Yet all I receive from
Regaining the ability to talk is the key that will unlock my dungeon’s door. Yet whenever I try saying anything, no sound comes out. Even when I attempt to mouth words, no one understands what I want to say. Nurses and doctors always react with the same puzzled look.
Talking seems easy to do. Just exhale some air from your lungs, move your tongue and lips a little here and there, and you create syllables and, from there, words, and then entire sentences. I can’t even say “Daddy” or “Mama” like most one-year-olds. How long will I remain voiceless? The rest of my life? Why can’t anyone hear me?
CHAPTER 11
“HELLO”
I’m in the angry chair when the nurse named Debbie comes into my room. She says that she is going to try to get me to speak. I blink to let her know that I understand, and I blink again with a faint smile to let her know that I’m excited. She is going to insert a small clear catheter into the hub of the tracheostomy tube at the base of my throat. This procedure will force me to cough, which is when I’m supposed to say something. It seems simple enough. I hope the process works.
The tube tickles and scrapes my throat. Rather than cough, I gag. My eyes begin to tear up, while my breathing turns heavy with the pain. I don’t want Debbie to try again; there has to be another way of getting me to speak. But she can’t know what I’m thinking, and so, with kind, motherly assurance, she places her hand on my chest to calm me down. Several minutes later, she reinserts the tube, and this time I’m able to stifle the gag reflex and make a faint gurgling noise.
Debbie attempts several more times but she’s becoming tired. She’s also concerned about my discomfort. She pauses, wiping away beads of sweat that have collected on her forehead. “You can do it. Just say something, even a few letters will do.” The only noise coming from my throat is raspy, gargling coughing. It sounds animal-like, not human. After several more tries, Debbie finally takes a much-needed break. It’s hard to tell which one of us is more exhausted.
She delicately pulls the device out of the breathing tube opening and lets me rest. I blink rapidly to let her know we should continue. Debbie walks to the other side of the room and quietly says to another nurse named Faye, “Do you really think he is even capable of talking again?”
I sure can! I want to shout. Please don’t give up on me. Come on—give me one more chance. I’m getting the hang of it. I know I am. But maybe Debbie is right. This realization drains me of hope. You moron! You were given the chance to talk and you blew it! My head droops forward in despair. I feel defeated and ashamed.
I then notice a group of people approaching my room. It’s Dr. Catevenis leading a small group of people in white lab coats. They all look to be in their mid-to-late twenties. Medical students? Interns? They gather around my bed. Dr. Catevenis explains to them how proud he is of my progress. I want to hide under the bed. These strangers are staring at me like I’m a caged, wounded animal.
Dr. Catevenis asks if I can say hello to his group. I slowly lift my right arm and wave my hand, welcoming them to my cell. I even add a faint smile for hospitality’s sake. It’s always important to be a gracious host.
I study the reactions of these young doctors, but can’t read their expressions. Or rather, I see nothing on their faces. Just stone. No returned greeting or acknowledgment, not even a small nod. Here I am, lingering half-alive between human and machine, but I still can express empathy and kindness. Yet all I receive from
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