Page Utilities
Glenys Carl, Pan Books (page 1 of 13) Page 1 of 13
Five
If Scott's story were a Hollywood film, he would awaken with a yawn and a lazy smile, casually reach out for my hand, and ask for a huge dish of chocolate ice-cream. But films are fiction, and not how someone wakes after three months in the deep freeze of a head-injury coma. Muscles atrophy and lose mass. Tendons and ligaments contract, causing knees to bend and arms to crook. In a prone position, the body's blood is evenly dispersed. The heart relaxes and nearly forgets how to pump, so that even the smallest movement can lead to over-exertion and rapid exhaustion. Lacking stimulation, the brain shuts down to the point where even simple thoughts require great effort. Sometimes a part of memory is erased, as if a videotape has been passed over a magnet. Waking from a deep coma takes weeks, sometimes months, of tedious therapy with uncertain consequences. As well as suffering from the after-effects of the coma, Scott has damaged nerve and brain tissue from the fall.
The first sign of Scott's awakening is the imperceptible flicker of an eye. I am sitting on his bed, his hand loosely cupped in mine, when I catch the flicker. Shifting forward to focus intently on his face, I watch and wait for what feels like an eternity.
There again, another flicker, but this time it is more a shallow blink. He blinks once, then again, and one of his lids is partially open. It is only a crack, but I see his eye. Is he looking my way? My heart races, my breath quickens and turns shallow. My hands perspire. For months Scott has lain with tightly closed eyes, till I began to doubt even their colour. Now suddenly, finally, he is opening from that world. Could my butterfly be emerging from his chrysalis?
Firmly I grasp his hand. 'Scotty,' I whisper, 'can you hear me? If you can, squeeze my hand.'
I await his response while fighting to calm my chills and control the roar of my own rapid breathing, for fear of missing another sign. After several minutes, I slowly repeat my command and wait again in the vacuum of expectation. Then I feel it. A squeezing pressure on my hand, so slight it might have been a feather landing on my skin. But the pressure is unmistakable and deliberate. My heart leaps.
'How are you doing this morning, Glenys?' a quiet voice says from behind. I didn't hear Dr Croches enter. But I dare not turn around. Scott and I are communicating. It is more than that: I am sending him my energy, refuelling my son's spirit with mine, and giving him the strength and desire to break the bonds of his sleep. To turn away now might set him back.
'Scotty's waking up,' I hear myself say. 'He opened an eye. I've been talking to him, and he responded, he squeezed my hand.'
Dr Croches moves to Scott's side, leaning across the bed to pass his hand in front of Scott's face, checking for eye response. Noticing nothing, he gently lifts Scott's eyelid. His eye seems fixed in an unfocused stare, but his brown iris constricts in reaction to light. Dr Croches steps away from the bed and crosses his arms, deep in thought.
'I guess there are miracles,' he says quietly, more an inner thought than an outer comment. I feel the warm touch of his hand on my shoulder, a silent affirmation that I have been right all along, that my faith has been true, and we have surmounted unbelievable odds.
But my thoughts are elsewhere, sorting through unknowns. My son has begun to wake up, but to what? Where is the joy in this small victory when such a heavy burden remains? Has he returned a vegetable? Will he ever walk again, or even talk? How long before the hospital evicts us? Scott's visa has long expired, so I know it's just a matter of time. Where could we go? Live in the moment, my inner self commands. Do what you can today, trust you'll be able to handle the morrow.
The next day brings even more stress. Unannounced, the immigration doctor appears, a burly no-nonsense man. He walks briskly into Scott's room and stands at the end of his bed looking through a sheaf of papers, which I imagine to be Scotty's medical records. Clearing his throat with a loud harumph, and without turning my way or looking me in the eyes, he begins to speak. In the silent confines of the room, his voice roars.
'So what are we going to do with this young man? Obviously he is in no condition to go anywhere, but his visa has expired, and that means he's here illegally. You are also here illegally. So pray tell me, what are we going to do?' Moving to the side of the bed, his eyes run the length of Scott's immobile frame while he nervously tugs at the tip of his chin. 'His visa has expired and our records show that you do not have acceptable insurance for rehabilitation. That's a problem. Yes, that's certainly a problem. He is certainly not well enough to travel.' He glances at his sheaf of papers, then leaves the room, saying, 'I'll be back. I'll call you.'
When the doctor departs, I sit for a long time staring at the wall over Scott's head. What can I do? Immigration has already informed me they will not renew Scott's or my visa. If we did have renewed visas, we could claim additional benefits, but the Australian government will hear nothing of it. Where could we go? I have no idea. But, it hasn't happened yet, has it? I resolve to make the most of the time I have.
Gradually Scott gathers strength. Within days both his eyes open. He remains too weak to move his head, but as his brain re-engages, his eyes shift and blink as they slowly roam the room to gather and process intelligence before exhaustion sets in and he drifts back into sleep. Other times he opens his eyes only to stare into the ceiling, disengaged, unblinking and unfocused, as if his mind is unable to escape the gravitational pull of his alternate world.
I tell him, 'Do not be afraid. You cannot speak yet because you have a tracheotomy tube in place. When the doctors remove it, you will be able to talk. You were hurt, Scott, but you are now beginning to get better. I want you to feel safe, and concentrate on getting better.'
From Hold My Hand: A Mother's Journey by Glenys Carl. Pan Books, Pan Macmillan LTD, England, 2005. All rights reserved.