Read Online Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead by Brian Boyle, Bill Katovsky - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brian Boyle, Bill Katovsky
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these young doctors are vacant stares. I’m nothing but an anonymous body to them, perhaps someone they might read about one day in medical journals. I feel sorry for their future patients. I want them all to leave.
Dr. Catevenis concludes his brief talk by saying, “You’re doing good Brian; keep it up, buddy. I will be back to check on you soon.” A good, thoughtful, and considerate physician, he gives me a thumbs-up gesture and leads away his young charges.
Debbie returns with another small clear plastic tube to help me speak. Fantastic! This is my big chance to redeem myself. When the tube is reinserted, I cough violently. My lungs rattle and crackle, but the sensation seems different, with the coughing more rhythmic. Way down in my lungs, a pocket of air develops, rising up through me like a geyser. I feel a word forming, and I see Dr. Catevenis walking around the corner. He stops right in front of my room, and the long-awaited moment takes place before his very eyes.
“Hello,” I announce in a scratchy voice. I want to say more but the attempt fizzles in a drawn-out hissing.
“Brian, you did it!” he says in complete astonishment. “You’re talking!”
That word, “hello,” I know is just the start of more to come. One day I will put entire sentences together.
Debbie is doing a gleeful jig. She hugs Dr. Catevenis. Several nurses come into my room. Everyone is beaming. It feels like a party. I want to add to the merriment and proclaim, Thank you everyone for keeping me alive . But for now, that lone “hello” will have to suffice.
Debbie, with the help of another nurse, moves me back to the bed. She reattaches a few IVs and checks to make sure my catheter is in place. She turns on the television and places the remote control next to my ear. The remote has speakers built into it. NBC is showing highlights from the 2004 Olympics in Athens. I look forward to watching the swimming.
As much as I love watching them, I admit to harboring jealousy toward these Olympic athletes. Here they perform on the world stage, healthy men and women, doing what they love, representing their countries and living their dreams. I was also an athlete. Now my sole competition is with my body. The Athens athletes are concerned about going faster, higher, stronger than their peers. Me? Don’t I deserve a gold medal for saying my first word?
Debbie finishes her day shift and says goodbye. I look at her and smile and slightly nod my head. She is such a nice woman. Before she goes, she asks me if I need anything. I direct my eyes toward the radio, and she knows right away what I want. She turns it on. I give her a thumbs-up in gratitude. The song playing is “Rooster,” by Alice in Chains, one of my all-time favorite songs. As soon as I hear the music, my body is temporarily in a state of total peace, almost as if I’m back to my old self again. I silently sing along with the lyrics: Ain’t found a way to kill me yet . . . This song neatly defines who I am, in this bed, in this hospital room.
Tony walks into my room. He’s my respiratory therapist. I like him. He has a dark complexion, is bald, and has a gentle but motivating personality. He says that everyone is talking about how I said my first word. He examines my tracheostomy tube. “Okay, so what I’m going to do is pick up where Debbie left off,” he says. “I talked it over with the doctors, and we decided to try an alternative method of having you speak. I think you’ll probably like it better.” He’s addressing me as if I’m a dog, not truly capable of fully understanding what he’s saying.
After he removes the yucky fluid buildup in my lungs, he carefully places a small buttonlike piece of equipment on the outer hub of the tracheostomy tube. The one-way valve, he tells me, will open to let air in when I breathe. The valve closes during exhaling, causing air to leave and permitting speech.
He steps back several feet. I nervously open my mouth and
Dr. Catevenis concludes his brief talk by saying, “You’re doing good Brian; keep it up, buddy. I will be back to check on you soon.” A good, thoughtful, and considerate physician, he gives me a thumbs-up gesture and leads away his young charges.
Debbie returns with another small clear plastic tube to help me speak. Fantastic! This is my big chance to redeem myself. When the tube is reinserted, I cough violently. My lungs rattle and crackle, but the sensation seems different, with the coughing more rhythmic. Way down in my lungs, a pocket of air develops, rising up through me like a geyser. I feel a word forming, and I see Dr. Catevenis walking around the corner. He stops right in front of my room, and the long-awaited moment takes place before his very eyes.
“Hello,” I announce in a scratchy voice. I want to say more but the attempt fizzles in a drawn-out hissing.
“Brian, you did it!” he says in complete astonishment. “You’re talking!”
That word, “hello,” I know is just the start of more to come. One day I will put entire sentences together.
Debbie is doing a gleeful jig. She hugs Dr. Catevenis. Several nurses come into my room. Everyone is beaming. It feels like a party. I want to add to the merriment and proclaim, Thank you everyone for keeping me alive . But for now, that lone “hello” will have to suffice.
Debbie, with the help of another nurse, moves me back to the bed. She reattaches a few IVs and checks to make sure my catheter is in place. She turns on the television and places the remote control next to my ear. The remote has speakers built into it. NBC is showing highlights from the 2004 Olympics in Athens. I look forward to watching the swimming.
As much as I love watching them, I admit to harboring jealousy toward these Olympic athletes. Here they perform on the world stage, healthy men and women, doing what they love, representing their countries and living their dreams. I was also an athlete. Now my sole competition is with my body. The Athens athletes are concerned about going faster, higher, stronger than their peers. Me? Don’t I deserve a gold medal for saying my first word?
Debbie finishes her day shift and says goodbye. I look at her and smile and slightly nod my head. She is such a nice woman. Before she goes, she asks me if I need anything. I direct my eyes toward the radio, and she knows right away what I want. She turns it on. I give her a thumbs-up in gratitude. The song playing is “Rooster,” by Alice in Chains, one of my all-time favorite songs. As soon as I hear the music, my body is temporarily in a state of total peace, almost as if I’m back to my old self again. I silently sing along with the lyrics: Ain’t found a way to kill me yet . . . This song neatly defines who I am, in this bed, in this hospital room.
Tony walks into my room. He’s my respiratory therapist. I like him. He has a dark complexion, is bald, and has a gentle but motivating personality. He says that everyone is talking about how I said my first word. He examines my tracheostomy tube. “Okay, so what I’m going to do is pick up where Debbie left off,” he says. “I talked it over with the doctors, and we decided to try an alternative method of having you speak. I think you’ll probably like it better.” He’s addressing me as if I’m a dog, not truly capable of fully understanding what he’s saying.
After he removes the yucky fluid buildup in my lungs, he carefully places a small buttonlike piece of equipment on the outer hub of the tracheostomy tube. The one-way valve, he tells me, will open to let air in when I breathe. The valve closes during exhaling, causing air to leave and permitting speech.
He steps back several feet. I nervously open my mouth and
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