Brian's Brain

As I write this, Brian is tossing and turning in a restless state we shall call "sleep," Katie is sitting by his bedside staring at the same page of the same magazine she's been toting since Sunday, I'm on the other side of the hospital bed plunking away at my computer as I try to pass the hours and the anxiety until he is well. Oh yeah, and there's a big, stoic black man sitting on the radiator staring at us, where he is supposed to remain for the next 8 hours, as Brian apparently requires a "sitter." I guess he's on the nurses' shit-list for ripping out his IV and taking off his blood pressure cuff to get up on his own to use the urinal in the middle of last night. The bodyguard/babysitter is a modicum better than the safety belt and wrist restraints that Brian has been sporting the last couple days.

We're nearly 72 hours into the ordeal, and I suppose that means we're about to clear the hurdle of "maximum swelling." His condition has been more or less stable for the past 48 hours, and his CT scans and neuro screens have not indicated any additional bleeding or swelling. I suppose that means it's time to breathe a bit easier, but I'm still feeling suffocated by my fear of the long term ramifications of a head injury.

Flashback three days ago.

Brian was helping to celebrate his good friend and sous-chef Billy's birthday. A group of people continued the party at Brian and Katie's apartment after the bars closed. They were ready for the after-party to end, and Bri told everyone to leave. Some acquaintance, a 20-something island kid, was passed out on the couch. Bri woke him up, told him to leave, and the kid cold-clocked Brian, who fell back onto the unforgiving linoleum. One of their friends had the wherewithall to stabilize his head and call 911.

I got a message from Katie around 8 a.m. West Coast time on Sunday morning.

"Your brother is okay, but he's in the hospital."

Apparently he was flown off Block Island and is currently in the Rhode Island Hospital ER. Here I faced a fork in the road of my maturity: do I call my dad, fill him in on the hazy details, and let him take the helm? Or do I call the hospital myself and then break the news to my dad with a more informed dialogue?

I phoned the hospital, left my name with the ER secretary, and waited for the neurosurgeon to call me back. Time stood still. "Admitted to ICU." "Signficant bleeding." "Left parietal lobe. Central bone fracture." "Left frontal, left parietal, left temporal." "Right midbrain." "Subdural bleed." "Epidural hematoma." "Right mandibular fracture." "Currently sedated. Intubated because won't protect airway." The doctor advised I make the trip to be with Brian.

I called my dad. He mentioned that his phone had been out of service for the last 12 hours. I told him I had bad news. I tried to hold it together, but was sobbing while trying to get the words out.

"Brian's been in an accident," I choked. "He's in the hospital with a head injury."

"Nooo. Nooo. Nooo," Dad wailed.

We cried over the phone to each other for several minutes, eeking out expressions of familial love, worry, logistical plans.

"I can't figure out why I can't seem to protect my family," he cried to me.

More than anything, this is what cut me the deepest. Reminding me of the whole family we once were, and the fragments we remain today, without my mom at the helm.

Alex picked up the phone to buy me a one-way ticket to Providence, I packed a suitcase for an indefinite amount of time, and rushed to the PDX airport to catch my flight to care for my only brother.

I found a window seat next to a nice looking older couple. I stared out the window at the wing, waiting for the plane to take off, trying to cry softly to myself. My heart hurt and I was restless with fear. Could he die? Was he in a coma? What about being uninsured? Can I handle this? I was overcome with a strong sense of reliving the past, in reverse direction, like when Dad called me in Block Island and told us to come home to say our final goodbyes to Mom.

"Are you sick, dear?," the woman asked me suspiciously.

"No, no, I'm just crying," I shrugged and half-smiled to her.

She pat my leg, and I proceeded to divulge my whole life story. Brother's recent brain injury. Mom dead from breast cancer. A brother who died at six mopnths old. My dad's family devotion. My marriage and current pregnancy.

"It's just doesn't seem fair," I whined, regaling my family's hardships throughout the years.

"No one promised it would be," she consoled me.

When we landed, I hugged the nice couple goodbye and thanked them for their support and prayers. Although I might not be a believer myself, I certainly count on good God-fearing folks during trying times.

My heart continued to break as the various phone conversations played like a movie reel in my mind. And then there's the baby. My first, worried thoughts lead me to wonder if the baby will even get to meet Uncle B. And if so, will he be the same Brian I have known and loved for nearly 30 years? I yearned for my own mother, wishing she were here to save the day. It's her job to take care of my brother. And then it's her job to take care of me, too.

When I finally make it to Rhode Island, to the Trauma ICU, I see Brian for the first time. He looks almost childlike. And I am surprised by how normal he really seems. Except for that he is sedated and there are tubes coming out of his mouth, wires attached all over his chest, and his arms are hooked up to IV's administering pain-relieving and coma-inducing drugs. He's under sedation because he "can't protect his own airway." This, along with the fact I know he has a small lesion in his brainstem, feeds my worries about his prognosis. Apparently he was so agitated that he required restraints and then sedation for his own safety. I touch his face gently, pet his hair, and kiss him on his sweaty forehead. I then tape up the two family photos I've brought along so that if and when Bri wakes up, he'll see some familiar and loving faces. Truthfully, though, Brian would much rather first see the face of his beautiful girlfriend rather than his homely family. Katie doesn't want to leave him alone, and I call a cab at 3 am back to the hotel I have booked for the night. I'm worried sick, but relieved I can be here with him, and more tired than anything else. I fall asleep, and dream good dreams about a Brian that is alive and well and a part of my growing family's life.