room is quiet except for the consistent beep and whirr of the machines that measure his vitals. At least he is breathing on his own. I watch his chest rise and fall, his lips parted as he quietly exhales. His body is
working
. It is doing what it needs to do. I have to believe his brain has been healing itself in the four days since the accident. There are so many stories of how a body has coped, compensated, healed and fixed itself completely…
Of course I can’t actually think of any of those stories offhand. So far I have avoided the Internet’s undoubted wealth of information on TBIs. I don’t want to read the Wikipedia entries or search the message boards. I don’t want to join the Yahoo group and introduce myself:
Hi, I’m Maddie. My son Ben suffered a TBI four days ago and we’re just waiting to see if he comes out of his coma. So grateful to have found this group and its support…
God knows I could use some support. But I don’t want to hear other people’s stories and have them walk me through the next days and weeks and months, telling me how it is because they’ve been there. I don’t want to hear the sad stories, the tragedies, the ones whose children didn’t recover completely or even at all. I can’t handle all that information, and I don’t want to be part of that club. So I’ve avoided the Internet; I haven’t even read the brochures some of the staff have given me.
Coping with Traumatic Brain Injury. Your Child and the Intensive Care Unit.
I’m a coward, but at least I know how much I can stand.
Just after lunchtime something finally happens. Ben’s eyelids twitch. They don’t open or even flicker, just a little twitch. I would have missed it except some machine that is monitoring him gives a sudden, louder beep, and I looked up. A nurse comes in and checks the print-out from the machine. Then she looks closely at Ben and says to me, “He’s exhibiting some sign of consciousness.”
What?
I lean forward, even now waiting to see Ben open his eyes, smile at me, and say
Hi, Mom
. I don’t believe in miracles. I haven’t had any in my life. But I want one now.
“His eyelids are twitching,” she explains, and then I see it: tiny muscles beneath the lids moving and jerking.
“What does that mean?” I ask. I am whispering, and I don’t know why.
“It means he is starting to come out of the coma,” she says with a smile and I sink back against the chair, shaky with relief with what’s happening and fear for what’s next. Ben is finally waking up.
I watch him closely for the next six hours, and his eyelids continue to twitch intermittently. His hand jerks several times, wild, unrestrained movements that unnerve me but which the nurse assures me is normal in this phase of recovery. Dr. Velas comes in around dinnertime, smiling widely as she scans Ben’s notes.
“He’s waking up,” she proclaims cheerfully, then turns to me, serious once more. “When he opens his eyes, don’t expect him to recognize you. He’ll have trouble focusing on anything for some time. This is due both to the medication as well as the injury. It’s still going to be a long road ahead.”
I nod, accepting, but not really. Because I’m still, against all odds, against all sense, holding out for a miracle, for this to turn normal and recognizable and
good
.
A little after six the nurse on duty tells me I have a visitor. My heart lifts. Is it Juliet?
Lewis?
I am already smiling, half-standing, imagining him coming into the room, pulling me into a hug, telling me it’s going to be okay. Of course it’s going to be okay.
But it’s not Lewis. It’s his wife. He sent his
wife.
Shock and hurt blaze through me. Is this his unsubtle way of sending me a message? I swallow down the choking sense of disappointment and smile stiffly. “Hi, Joanna.”
I rise from Ben’s bedside and stand there awkwardly; I can’t shake her hand because she is holding a huge fruit basket, tied with a big yellow bow,
working
. It is doing what it needs to do. I have to believe his brain has been healing itself in the four days since the accident. There are so many stories of how a body has coped, compensated, healed and fixed itself completely…
Of course I can’t actually think of any of those stories offhand. So far I have avoided the Internet’s undoubted wealth of information on TBIs. I don’t want to read the Wikipedia entries or search the message boards. I don’t want to join the Yahoo group and introduce myself:
Hi, I’m Maddie. My son Ben suffered a TBI four days ago and we’re just waiting to see if he comes out of his coma. So grateful to have found this group and its support…
God knows I could use some support. But I don’t want to hear other people’s stories and have them walk me through the next days and weeks and months, telling me how it is because they’ve been there. I don’t want to hear the sad stories, the tragedies, the ones whose children didn’t recover completely or even at all. I can’t handle all that information, and I don’t want to be part of that club. So I’ve avoided the Internet; I haven’t even read the brochures some of the staff have given me.
Coping with Traumatic Brain Injury. Your Child and the Intensive Care Unit.
I’m a coward, but at least I know how much I can stand.
Just after lunchtime something finally happens. Ben’s eyelids twitch. They don’t open or even flicker, just a little twitch. I would have missed it except some machine that is monitoring him gives a sudden, louder beep, and I looked up. A nurse comes in and checks the print-out from the machine. Then she looks closely at Ben and says to me, “He’s exhibiting some sign of consciousness.”
What?
I lean forward, even now waiting to see Ben open his eyes, smile at me, and say
Hi, Mom
. I don’t believe in miracles. I haven’t had any in my life. But I want one now.
“His eyelids are twitching,” she explains, and then I see it: tiny muscles beneath the lids moving and jerking.
“What does that mean?” I ask. I am whispering, and I don’t know why.
“It means he is starting to come out of the coma,” she says with a smile and I sink back against the chair, shaky with relief with what’s happening and fear for what’s next. Ben is finally waking up.
I watch him closely for the next six hours, and his eyelids continue to twitch intermittently. His hand jerks several times, wild, unrestrained movements that unnerve me but which the nurse assures me is normal in this phase of recovery. Dr. Velas comes in around dinnertime, smiling widely as she scans Ben’s notes.
“He’s waking up,” she proclaims cheerfully, then turns to me, serious once more. “When he opens his eyes, don’t expect him to recognize you. He’ll have trouble focusing on anything for some time. This is due both to the medication as well as the injury. It’s still going to be a long road ahead.”
I nod, accepting, but not really. Because I’m still, against all odds, against all sense, holding out for a miracle, for this to turn normal and recognizable and
good
.
A little after six the nurse on duty tells me I have a visitor. My heart lifts. Is it Juliet?
Lewis?
I am already smiling, half-standing, imagining him coming into the room, pulling me into a hug, telling me it’s going to be okay. Of course it’s going to be okay.
But it’s not Lewis. It’s his wife. He sent his
wife.
Shock and hurt blaze through me. Is this his unsubtle way of sending me a message? I swallow down the choking sense of disappointment and smile stiffly. “Hi, Joanna.”
I rise from Ben’s bedside and stand there awkwardly; I can’t shake her hand because she is holding a huge fruit basket, tied with a big yellow bow,
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