become infected. With the floor of my skull in pieces, my brain was sagging into my nose, not the cleanest place for a brain to be. As cerebrospinal fluid drained out of my nose, Kallman’s biggest fear was that I’d contract meningitis or some other potentially lethal infection.
Thoroughly spent, he stumbled back to his office late that afternoon, unshaven and in the same jeans and sweatshirt he’d thrown on around 4:30 that morning. His colleagues and staff were waiting for him, anxious to hear all about it. He filled them in, then pulled out photographs of my face, one taken in the emergency room soon after he arrived, another after he’d cleaned me up and pieced me back together. That’s when it hit him, what such devastating injuries would mean to a twenty-five-year-old man in the prime of his life. He knew nothing about me other than my name, but he did know that if I beat the odds and survived, I would wake up from my coma blind, disfigured, and possibly brain damaged.
Kallman was too fried to fight it. A lump rose in his throat and tears welled up in his eyes.
COURTESY OF JAMES KALLMAN
Dr. James Kallman and his wife, Sara Methratta,
in Denali National Park.
CHAPTER 7
Circling the Wagons
While Dr. Kallman hovered over the ruins of my life, down in California my brother Brian was waking up to a day that would morph into the unimaginable, and nothing in our family would ever be the same.
Off from his seasonal job at a ski resort in the Sierras, he was hanging outat the family getaway, a country home called Arboleda in the hills above San Juan Bautista, with our friend Jeremy Grinkey, who was caretaking the place. Growing up, my role in the family had been peacemaker, while Brian’s had been warrior-protector. Our division of labor had mostly to do with him being two years older than me, but also my dicey start in life as a sickly preemie with pencil-thin legs.
I worked hard to outgrow my childhood frailties, including allergies to just about everything. By the fifth grade I had immersed myself in sports, especially swimming, and was proud of how long I could hold my breath. Too proud. Showing off for a group of girls one time, I held my breath so long I managed to pass out. By the time I was in middle school and living in Malaysia, on top of playing conventional sports, I was a member of a high-octane hip-hop dance group that had me twirling girls over my head, and was a devout practitioner of Taekwondo, earning my black belt at fifteen. Not only had I long outgrown my mom’s nickname for me as a baby, “Bird Legs,” but my gym teacher started calling me “D’animal.” Still, Brian saw it as his job to shield me from harm, a duty that started on the playground and evolved as we got older into running interference when my mom got in my face or grounded me for stupid infractions, like putting my socks in the laundry hamper all wadded up after she’d repeatedly asked me not to.
The morning Dr. Kallman sewed up my face, Brian shuffled into the kitchen around ten to make coffee. He noticed the light flashingon the answering machine, pushed the “play” button, and wandered toward the coffeepot. The urgency in the man’s voice stopped him in his tracks. An Alaska state trooper was trying to get in touch with the family of Dan Bigley. Something about a serious accident. Something about a medevac to Anchorage’s Providence hospital.
“What? Jeremy!” he hollered down the hall. “I think something’s happened to Dan! You’ve got to come hear this.”
Jeremy hurried into the kitchen. Brian hit the play button again.
“Am I hearing this right? What the hell is this guy saying?”
Time didn’t stand still, it swirled like a cyclone inside his head. He played the message one more time before, hands trembling, he dialed the number the trooper had left on the machine. The woman who answered put him on hold, then came back and said something about a bear. A bear? What does she mean, a bear? There’s
Thoroughly spent, he stumbled back to his office late that afternoon, unshaven and in the same jeans and sweatshirt he’d thrown on around 4:30 that morning. His colleagues and staff were waiting for him, anxious to hear all about it. He filled them in, then pulled out photographs of my face, one taken in the emergency room soon after he arrived, another after he’d cleaned me up and pieced me back together. That’s when it hit him, what such devastating injuries would mean to a twenty-five-year-old man in the prime of his life. He knew nothing about me other than my name, but he did know that if I beat the odds and survived, I would wake up from my coma blind, disfigured, and possibly brain damaged.
Kallman was too fried to fight it. A lump rose in his throat and tears welled up in his eyes.
COURTESY OF JAMES KALLMAN
Dr. James Kallman and his wife, Sara Methratta,
in Denali National Park.
CHAPTER 7
Circling the Wagons
While Dr. Kallman hovered over the ruins of my life, down in California my brother Brian was waking up to a day that would morph into the unimaginable, and nothing in our family would ever be the same.
Off from his seasonal job at a ski resort in the Sierras, he was hanging outat the family getaway, a country home called Arboleda in the hills above San Juan Bautista, with our friend Jeremy Grinkey, who was caretaking the place. Growing up, my role in the family had been peacemaker, while Brian’s had been warrior-protector. Our division of labor had mostly to do with him being two years older than me, but also my dicey start in life as a sickly preemie with pencil-thin legs.
I worked hard to outgrow my childhood frailties, including allergies to just about everything. By the fifth grade I had immersed myself in sports, especially swimming, and was proud of how long I could hold my breath. Too proud. Showing off for a group of girls one time, I held my breath so long I managed to pass out. By the time I was in middle school and living in Malaysia, on top of playing conventional sports, I was a member of a high-octane hip-hop dance group that had me twirling girls over my head, and was a devout practitioner of Taekwondo, earning my black belt at fifteen. Not only had I long outgrown my mom’s nickname for me as a baby, “Bird Legs,” but my gym teacher started calling me “D’animal.” Still, Brian saw it as his job to shield me from harm, a duty that started on the playground and evolved as we got older into running interference when my mom got in my face or grounded me for stupid infractions, like putting my socks in the laundry hamper all wadded up after she’d repeatedly asked me not to.
The morning Dr. Kallman sewed up my face, Brian shuffled into the kitchen around ten to make coffee. He noticed the light flashingon the answering machine, pushed the “play” button, and wandered toward the coffeepot. The urgency in the man’s voice stopped him in his tracks. An Alaska state trooper was trying to get in touch with the family of Dan Bigley. Something about a serious accident. Something about a medevac to Anchorage’s Providence hospital.
“What? Jeremy!” he hollered down the hall. “I think something’s happened to Dan! You’ve got to come hear this.”
Jeremy hurried into the kitchen. Brian hit the play button again.
“Am I hearing this right? What the hell is this guy saying?”
Time didn’t stand still, it swirled like a cyclone inside his head. He played the message one more time before, hands trembling, he dialed the number the trooper had left on the machine. The woman who answered put him on hold, then came back and said something about a bear. A bear? What does she mean, a bear? There’s
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