Read Online Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead by Brian Boyle, Bill Katovsky - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brian Boyle, Bill Katovsky
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exhale. In amazement, several words come sputtering out of my mouth in a distorted high-pitched sound. “Hello, Tony . . . oh my God, I am talking! I am actually talking! Can you believe it?” Tony looks dumbfounded. He runs out of the room, grabbing nurses and pushing them into my room. I greet them all by name. “Hey Nurse Faye, Victoria, Eileen, Mary Kate . . . where’s Dr. Catevenis?”
It seems like the entire ICU staff on my floor—doctors, nurses, physical therapists, respiratory therapists, medical school students, interns, security guards, nutritionists, maintenance workers—have all rushed into my room. They all want to witness the miracle. I greet as many as I can by name. Everyone looks to be in a state of shock. I’m the only one talking for a change. Not a torrent of words, but enough to cause many to start crying. It’s like they have witnessed a corpse climb out of his grave. I owe my life to these people.
The big man, Dr. Catevenis, joins the crowd. I say “hello” again. He then turns around and begins waving his arms as if he is directing traffic. I glance up at the clock; it is 11:00. Visiting hour.
My dad threads his way through everyone. He rushes to my bed to see what is going on.
“Hey Dad! Where’s Mom?” He looks at me, speechless, and tears start running down his cheeks. He wants to say something but he is too choked up. I’m the one who has the words now. “Dad, I promise everything is going to be fine.”
My mom enters the room. “Hi Mom!” I say. She has the same reaction as my dad, astounded and tearful.
She tenderly places her hand over my right hand. “Hello handsome,” she answers.
CHAPTER 12
QUESTION TIME
N ow that I can finally converse, it feels like a jailbreak for my mind. Newly freed, I’m determined to ask questions that have circled in my mind like birds of prey hunting for food. Number one priority is finding out why I am here. I keep hearing those two words “car accident,” but I have no recollection of being in one. I drive a black 1994 Camaro that I bought from my mom for $2,500. It’s a vanity muscle car, but its V6 engine wasn’t build for speed. I’m a safe and cautious driver, with no arrests, citations, warnings, or even a single speeding ticket. My friends say I drive like a granny. So how could I have been in a crash, and not just some fender bender? I never raced, drove drunk, or did anything that many eighteen-year-olds often do that raises their parents’ auto insurance rates. And if I was driving, what happened to the Camaro or the other driver? Were there any passengers with me? What time of day did the accident happen? Why can’t I make sense of any of this? What is preventing me from remembering?
Before the morning nurse arrives, I begin rehearsing the battery of questions that I will ask her. I hope she obliges and answers them. All I want is the truth. It’s time I find out the facts. Then I reconsider this strategy. She might feel like she has to protect me from knowing too much if the doctors think it might cause agitation and impede my recovery. But my parents will level with me, won’t they? So I will wait until visiting hour before I become Perry Mason.
Meanwhile, I fantasize about water. I’m told that I can’t have a sip of water until I pass the swallowing test. Swallowing test? I guess they want to see if I can drink under their supervision. I will have to just wait and suffer.
I’m pleased to see that the morning nurse is Victoria. She is tall, around five feet eleven, and has blonde hair that’s usually tied up in a ponytail. She has cared for me numerous times and is always smiling. We exchange small talk at long last. She prepares me for the day’s first physical therapy session. My blood is taken, IVs reset, gown changed, and hair combed. I find out that I’m no longer on morphine, though I’m still on the ventilator because my lungs are weak.
My main physical therapist, Francine, walks in and is excited
It seems like the entire ICU staff on my floor—doctors, nurses, physical therapists, respiratory therapists, medical school students, interns, security guards, nutritionists, maintenance workers—have all rushed into my room. They all want to witness the miracle. I greet as many as I can by name. Everyone looks to be in a state of shock. I’m the only one talking for a change. Not a torrent of words, but enough to cause many to start crying. It’s like they have witnessed a corpse climb out of his grave. I owe my life to these people.
The big man, Dr. Catevenis, joins the crowd. I say “hello” again. He then turns around and begins waving his arms as if he is directing traffic. I glance up at the clock; it is 11:00. Visiting hour.
My dad threads his way through everyone. He rushes to my bed to see what is going on.
“Hey Dad! Where’s Mom?” He looks at me, speechless, and tears start running down his cheeks. He wants to say something but he is too choked up. I’m the one who has the words now. “Dad, I promise everything is going to be fine.”
My mom enters the room. “Hi Mom!” I say. She has the same reaction as my dad, astounded and tearful.
She tenderly places her hand over my right hand. “Hello handsome,” she answers.
CHAPTER 12
QUESTION TIME
N ow that I can finally converse, it feels like a jailbreak for my mind. Newly freed, I’m determined to ask questions that have circled in my mind like birds of prey hunting for food. Number one priority is finding out why I am here. I keep hearing those two words “car accident,” but I have no recollection of being in one. I drive a black 1994 Camaro that I bought from my mom for $2,500. It’s a vanity muscle car, but its V6 engine wasn’t build for speed. I’m a safe and cautious driver, with no arrests, citations, warnings, or even a single speeding ticket. My friends say I drive like a granny. So how could I have been in a crash, and not just some fender bender? I never raced, drove drunk, or did anything that many eighteen-year-olds often do that raises their parents’ auto insurance rates. And if I was driving, what happened to the Camaro or the other driver? Were there any passengers with me? What time of day did the accident happen? Why can’t I make sense of any of this? What is preventing me from remembering?
Before the morning nurse arrives, I begin rehearsing the battery of questions that I will ask her. I hope she obliges and answers them. All I want is the truth. It’s time I find out the facts. Then I reconsider this strategy. She might feel like she has to protect me from knowing too much if the doctors think it might cause agitation and impede my recovery. But my parents will level with me, won’t they? So I will wait until visiting hour before I become Perry Mason.
Meanwhile, I fantasize about water. I’m told that I can’t have a sip of water until I pass the swallowing test. Swallowing test? I guess they want to see if I can drink under their supervision. I will have to just wait and suffer.
I’m pleased to see that the morning nurse is Victoria. She is tall, around five feet eleven, and has blonde hair that’s usually tied up in a ponytail. She has cared for me numerous times and is always smiling. We exchange small talk at long last. She prepares me for the day’s first physical therapy session. My blood is taken, IVs reset, gown changed, and hair combed. I find out that I’m no longer on morphine, though I’m still on the ventilator because my lungs are weak.
My main physical therapist, Francine, walks in and is excited
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