Brian didn’t know how long he had been unconscious after the car accident, but since he had survived a hurricane that seemed to have come out of nowhere, he assumed it had been at least a few days. It was hard to keep track of time in the ICU; he had so far been unable to open his eyes by himself and had caught only brief glimpses of his surroundings when they were pried open by the people taking care of him, who would shine a bright light into them for several seconds before lowering his eyelids again. While these exams seemed to occur regularly, Brian couldn’t say for sure how often they happened without the help of a clock. Instead, his sense of time stemmed from the embarrassment he experienced each morning during his daily bed bath.
On the day he’d regained consciousness, he had woken up right in the middle of this humiliating ritual. He was horrified to find himself lying flat on his back in a hospital bed, fully unclothed, his naked body being wiped down with a wet washcloth that was not nearly warm enough by hands that were not his own. Even worse - far worse - was the disturbing discovery that he had no control over his own hands, nor any other part of his body. When he tried to push the stranger’s hands off of him, nothing happened. His attempts to roll away, sit up, lift his head, or even open his eyes were equally unsuccessful.
That was when Brian had realized he was not just a patient, but a prisoner, being held captive inside his own body. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe by himself. That had become abundantly clear during the power outage, when the ventilator had failed and he’d faced the prospect of suffocating. Without fully realizing what was happening, he had felt the last of the air leak out of his lungs, and when he tried to take another breath on his own, nothing happened. He found he was unable to move any of the muscles beneath his rib cage that controlled his breathing; his diaphragm had been immobilized right along with the rest of his body. Therefore, his lungs simply would not reinflate; they remained hopelessly empty, his chest refusing to rise. In his mind, the ventilator hose had become a boa constrictor, slowly squeezing the life out of him as it coiled around his chest. The only thing worse than the crushing pressure was the panic. It was truly terrifying to feel the last few minutes of his earthly existence slipping away and be utterly powerless to save himself.
Instead, it had taken an entire team of nurses and doctors to save him. Dani. Elizabeth. Patrick. Rob. Brian had made it a point to listen for and learn their names as they’d worked together to keep him alive through the long night, taking turns pumping air into his lungs with their own hands. For hours, he had been at their mercy, completely dependent on them to deliver each breath of oxygen his body needed. How long could they keep going, he’d wondered, before they got too tired to continue and decided to give up on him? Desperately, he had prayed for his Holy Father to give them the strength they needed to persevere until the power was restored, and by the grace of God, his silent prayers had been answered. He was still alive when the generators started working again. Only then had he been able to relax enough to let his racing mind rest.
Two more days had passed since then, and they’d both started the same way: with a lukewarm bed bath, followed by a full-body examination that was even worse than the daily wipedown. Every morning, as Dr. Rob made his rounds, he stopped by Brian’s bed and asked him a series of questions, poking and prodding different parts of Brian’s body as he assessed his ability to respond. Each time, Brian found himself humiliated and frustrated by his own failure.
“Can you open your eyes for me, Brian?” Rob would ask, and Brian would think, Well, sure I can. But whenever he tried to lift his eyelids, they stubbornly refused to rise, as if his lashes were laced tightly together. They weren’t really, of course; Rob was able to force Brian’s eyes open easily enough with one finger. “Follow my light,” he would say, shining his pen light into each eye, but Brian found it difficult to focus on the bright beam as it moved from side to side, out of his line of sight. Before his eyes could adjust, the doctor would pull his lids down again like a pair of blackout drapes, plunging him back into darkness.
By his count, Brian had been living this way for at four days, but it felt much longer. Being imprisoned inside his paralyzed body made the time pass impossibly slowly, for there was nothing to do except sleep, pray, and eavesdrop on other people’s conversations. He had never felt more isolated.
His only comfort was knowing Nick was nearby. Even if he couldn’t communicate with him, it helped to hear Nick’s voice. At least it let him know he wasn’t really alone. He wished there was a way he could return the favor and reassure Nick that he wasn’t alone, either.
From what Brian had been able to piece together, he knew that Nick’s heart condition had worsened and that he was in need of a transplant. How he had gotten so sick so suddenly, Brian was not sure, but he still suspected that Nick, in the midst of his grief and depression, must have gone back to abusing alcohol or drugs. What else could have caused such a dramatic decline in his health in the two months since the tour had wrapped?
Of course, Nick could have been hiding some of his symptoms on the road, but there was no way he would have been able to perform five shows a week with his heart in as bad of shape as it seemed to be in now. Brian remembered how hard it had been to keep up with their rigorous dance routines before his own heart surgery, when the congenital hole in his heart had made it work twice as hard to pump enough oxygenated blood to the rest of his body to meet the demands he was putting on it. He’d felt tired all the time, and though he should have been in the best shape of his life, he had often found himself so short of breath, he could barely sing. Brian was sure he would have noticed if Nick had been struggling the same way.
There was no denying how dire Nick’s condition was now. Brian had heard his heart monitor blasting its high-pitched alarm, bringing the doctors and nurses rushing into the room to resuscitate him. He’d lain there, listening helplessly as they assembled around Nick’s bed, barking out orders and frightening phrases like “No pulse.” At that point, all Brian had been able to do was pray and hope his Holy Father would listen to the frantic thoughts in his head. So far, his prayers had been answered, and Nick was still alive. But for how much longer?
His life is in God’s hands now, Brian told himself. Whatever happens is the Lord’s will, and I have to accept that. But he couldn’t help taking the words he’d heard Nick whisper to him and trying to project them back to his friend. Hang in there, Frack. He wished Nick could hear his thoughts the way his Holy Father could. But unless he discovered some hidden telepathic powers, Brian had no way of communicating with Nick or anyone else. He could only lie there and listen to their conversations, growing more and more frustrated when he continued to fail every test they performed on him.
“Can you open your eyes for me, Brian?” Dr. Rob asked on his fourth day of consciousness, pushing painfully on his forehead. Brian fought to follow the command, but his eyelids wouldn’t even flutter. He felt Rob’s fingers pinch and poke him, trying to cause enough pain to trigger a reaction, but although Brian’s nerves were firing, sending frantic signals to and from his brain, he still couldn’t move a muscle. It was as if there was a complete disconnect between his brain and the rest of his body. Nothing was working the way it was supposed to.
“He’s not getting any better, is he?” he heard Nick ask, as Rob rubbed his knuckles roughly over the center of Brian’s chest, right where his sternum had once been sawed apart and wired back together during his open heart surgery. It hurt, and he wanted to wince and wriggle away. But try as he might, his body remained motionless.
“Not that I can tell,” Rob replied. “His vitals are stable, but he’s still not responding to commands or painful stimuli.”
Brian hated when they talked about him like he couldn’t hear them. I’m right here! he cried inside his own head. Can’t you tell how hard I’m trying to respond? He could hear the soft beeping of the monitor he was hooked up to accelerate as his heart hammered against his rib cage and felt annoyed that neither of them seemed to notice.
“When do you think he’ll start doing that?” Nick wanted to know. Wondering the same thing himself, Brian waited anxiously for the doctor’s answer. He wasn’t prepared for what he heard next.
“Honestly, I hoped he would have started to show some signs of improvement by now. Comas can last indefinitely, but the longer he stays like this, the lower his chances of making a meaningful recovery. If his Glasgow score doesn’t start going up soon, we may have some hard decisions to make.
No, thought Brian desperately. Please don’t give up on me. I’m not brain dead! He didn’t understand how his doctor could think he was comatose when he was aware of everything happening around him. Even though he was incapable of opening his eyes, he was still conscious. Why couldn’t anyone tell?
“I’m not pulling the plug on my best friend!” Nick replied fiercely. “You don’t know Brian like I do. He’s a fighter. He’ll pull through. He always does.”
Brian felt a surge of gratitude toward Nick. At least his brother believed in him. Thanks, Frack.
“I really hope you’re right, man,” said Rob.
Brian hoped so, too. He hated being helpless, trapped inside a body that seemed to be broken. What if, this time, it couldn’t be fixed? He didn’t know which would be worse: dying without ever speaking to his family again, or living this way forever.
Listening to Rob and Nick discuss his need for a tracheostomy overwhelmed him with fear and frustration. The body on the bed didn’t even feel like his own. Surely, it had to belong to someone else, some other poor soul who needed help breathing through a hole in his neck. They couldn’t be talking about Brian, for Brian had always been strong. Nevertheless, Nick consented to the procedure on his behalf, and before he knew it, Brian was being prepped for surgery.
Not right now?! he thought with dismay. Panic set in as he heard people assembling surgical instruments at the side of his bed. If his breath could have caught in his throat, it would have. Please don’t cut me open, he begged silently, wanting to cringe at the sound of sharp blades scraping against stainless steel.
He focused his concentration on the incompetent lungs inside his broken body, trying to gain control over his breathing. Come on… just take a breath, he encouraged them in between the forced bursts of oxygen from the ventilator. He tried to hold onto these breaths before exhaling, but found he could not. Despite his best efforts to exercise his free will, his lungs deflated and remained flaccid and empty until the ventilator filled them with air again.
Forced to accept the fact that he still had absolutely no ability to breathe on his own, Brian surrendered to his fate. He hated feeling so helpless, but the sad reality was that without the ventilator, he would suffocate and die in a matter of minutes. Whether he wanted one or not, he was going to get a tracheostomy. He just prayed it wouldn’t be as unpleasant as it sounded.
But it was worse. So much worse.
Am I supposed to be awake? Brian wondered, as they strapped his head to the bed to hold it still while they removed his neck brace. Then they lay something lightweight and soft over his face, blocking out the bright, fluorescent light that filtered through his closed eyelids. He wanted to wince when he felt one of them swab something cold and wet over his skin from his chin to his chest, but of course, he couldn’t move. He lay motionless as a pair of gloved hands poked and prodded his exposed neck, dragging a dull object across his skin. He could tell by the smell that it was a permanent marker; the doctor was drawing on him, perhaps plotting the line he would soon be cutting along. The fact that Brian was still fully aware of what was going on, able to feel everything yet completely unable to communicate his thoughts and feelings, was beginning to worry him. Shouldn’t the anesthesia be kicking in by now? he asked himself, his heart beating faster.
“Scalpel, please,” said Rob.
Brian’s blood pressure skyrocketed. No, wait! he wanted to scream. I’m awake! I’M AWAKE!!! In the background, he heard an alarm go off on his bedside monitor as his vital signs went haywire, which should have alerted them to the fact that something was wrong. Instead, the alarm was silenced without acknowledgment.
“Do you want the ten blade or the fifteen?” Dani asked as casually as if she were offering the choice between coffee or tea.
“The ten blade’s fine.”
Please, no… NO... NOOO!!! Pain suddenly began to radiate up and down Brian’s neck as he felt something sharp slice through his skin. But still, he couldn’t scream, nor wince, nor twist away. Try as he might, he wasn’t able to do anything to raise the alarm or resist.
“Retractors,” said Rob. Then the pulling began. Brian tried to block out the pain, but found it impossible. He pictured a cavernous hole in his neck, expanding as rapidly as a rip in a pair of blue jeans when Rob’s fingers poked through it. Frantic distress signals fired through Brian’s nervous system as the doctor deepened the incision and widened the opening.
Why can’t they tell I’m conscious, that I can feel everything?! Brian wondered, his heart jackhammering against his ribs. Couldn’t Rob or Dani feel his pulse pounding just a few inches from where their fingers were probing? Hadn’t they noticed the beads of perspiration erupting from his pores, the tears leaking out from under his eyelids? No, of course not - his face was covered, most of his body hidden behind surgical drapes. Their attention was focused fully on the exposed flesh at the front of his neck.
“Ready for the Bovie,” Rob ordered next. Brian braced himself, but there was no way to prepare for the white-hot pain that seared the inside of his throat or the pungent smell of burning flesh that filled his nostrils. They were cauterizing the blood vessels and tissues inside his neck, he realized, rocked by a sudden wave of nausea. Thankfully, there was nothing in his stomach to throw up; he hadn’t eaten solid food in days. That didn’t stop him from feeling queasy, though.
Please, just let me pass out, he implored his Holy Father. He had been so eager to escape his dark prison, but now he welcomed the darkness. He wanted nothing more than to drift back to sleep and not wake up until this nightmare was over. But God did not grant his wish. Brian remained fully conscious for the rest of the procedure, able to hear and feel everything that was happening to him, yet unable to respond. He felt the rush of cool air deep inside his throat as they cut open his trachea, the pain of a needle piercing his flesh as they stitched the torn flaps to his skin, and the sensation of suffocating as they pulled out his breathing tube.
For a few seconds, as his lungs deflated and didn’t refill, Brian thought he was about to die. At first, he was frightened, but the fear quickly faded away, replaced by a sense of peace in the promise that his pain would soon be gone for good. He prayed that death would take him quickly, hoping to find himself in Heaven with all the loved ones he had lost. From darkness to light, he thought. Tears poured from his eyes as he fought against the unrelenting waves of pain and panic, trying to summon strength from the final words of his Savior: Father, into Your hands, I commend my spirit.
Then he felt the trach tube being forced into the freshly-cut hole in his throat. They connected the ventilator to it, and before Brian could be spirited away, oxygen began flowing into his lungs once more. In spite of his agony, he felt a sense of relief.
“How’s his end tidal CO2?” he heard Rob ask Dani.
“Right in the normal range,” she replied.
Next Brian felt a shock of cold as a stethoscope was applied to one side of his chest, then the other. “Bilateral breath sounds,” Rob said. “The tube’s in place. Time to suture. Get me a 2-0 silk…”
It’s almost over, Brian told himself, bracing himself for more pain as the trach tube was stitched to his skin. Tears trickled down the sides of his face, ending up in his ears. He was powerless to wipe them away.
Gradually, the sharp pain subsided as they finished the procedure. It was replaced by a dull ache that radiated from the opening in his neck. Brian wished he could ask for a painkiller - not that it would make much difference. Whatever they had given him before clearly hadn’t worked.
He tried to relax and take his mind off his discomfort, but it was impossible to forget the traumatic experience he had just endured. He kept reliving it in his head until he could no longer tell whether his pain was real or remembered. His nerves were shot, his mind exhausted, but he could not seem to rest. The longer he lay awake, the more he wished to return to the state of oblivion he’d been in before he had woken up. He had been better off not knowing what was happening to him.
***
