In an instant the front tire of my husband’s mountain bike—going at a decent clip—comes upon an ordinary (not formidable) rock at just the angle to violently twist its wheel. The bike stops and sends Will’s body careening over the handlebars through the air. All this in a flash that on another day—may have held a yawn, a sigh, or a daydream.
When I arrive at UCLA Emergency, I am informed that Will had been unconscious on the Santa Monica mountaintop for eight minutes. He has broken his arm and a few ribs, but having been unconscious, he requires an overnight stay. No one yet knows the lining of his carotid has been torn.
He is placed in the tauma unit and his neurological responses are tested every half hour to monitor his brain activity. I sit beside him and we search the television for his rescue. It’s the Fourth of July, a slow news day, and Will’s dramatic helicopter lift from the mountain is big news. He drifts and grows sleepy so I leave his bedside to search for a newspaper.
I buy a paper and a packaged sandwich from the cafeteria. I remember I have to go home soon to walk our dogs.
As I cross the threshold of Will’s room, a strange sound comes from somewhere within me. I witness my husband having a seizure.
His face is white, a waxy mask and his eyes are vacant and flat. His hands, like the fists of a raging child, clench in knots and foreign sounds—guttural and unfamiliar—come from him. Not the bright, articulate man who shares my life or the man who, five minutes ago, smiling dreamily, searched for his story on local television. I scream for the nurse who—with one look at my face—runs past me, all business. I hear her shout and repeat his name as a red light whirls over the door of his room and an alarm sounds. Overhead lights flood the bed and within seconds a huddle of doctors fills the room. I call to Will who scrambles naked—his gown has come undone—across the bed on all fours, cornered like an animal in some other consciousness while white light drenches him in a spotlight.
A social worker and a chaplain are dispatched to calm me. They want me to have a seat, lower my voice (is that me?) and have some water. I don’t want water and I don’t want to sit. I want to ditch this popsicle stand with Will and host the barbecue for friends we had planned. Our plans should prevail. It’s the only answer to this gnarly problem. We should be eating Will’s grilled salmon and watching fireworks over the canyon from our deck. I yell for someone to tell me what is going on, what is happening to my husband.
To assure me, they repeat good news: he is breathing. There is a lesser chance of brain damage if he breathes. Brain Damage. My husband’s I.Q. is 160. He is a writer. He accesses words. Articulates ideas. Uses his brain. Wait a minute, here. He was riding his bike. Wearing his helmet. He would have called to tell me he’d be late, but he was unconscious. What do you mean Brain Damage?
Half a dozen women surround me like a teepee. They plead. I am upsetting other patients and their families. Doctor’s whiz in and out of Will’s room. They have stopped calling to him, stopped trying to reach him. The ladies press me for phone numbers: his parents, my parents, friends. I can’t remember numbers I’ve called a hundred times.
I insist that the teepee of women leave me alone. And do not touch me. Do Not Touch Me. Somehow touching me is tied in my mind to Will not being all right.
Will is transferred to the Intensive Care Unit on the neurological floor. This creates a competition between the trauma doctors and the neurosurgeons. Each claim him as theirs. After all this is a teaching hospital and they want the best cases for their students.
