April 7th, 2010, by Karen

I came home from work just like any other day.

I knew that Jim would be working later than usual because his grades were due and he was helping out with the spring musical at school.

I was feeling antsy so I called up our friend and neighbor, Cindy, to go for a walk.

I couldn’t shake this feeling of foreboding and agitation.

Where was this coming from? I thought.

I finished my vigorous walk around the neighborhood with Cindy and cobbled together some kind of light dinner for myself.

Still suspecting nothing even though Jim wasn’t home yet.

The land line startled me with its ringing.

My heart skipped a beat.

Something told me to stop what I was doing and answer the phone! (and we always let the land line go, relying upon our cell phones anymore)

Is this the wife of James Kleyle?

Yes.

Your husband broke his neck.

What.

This is Dr. So-and-So, I am a surgeon at Baltimore Shock Trauma.  Your husband was in a car accident and he has broken his neck.  And then there was some medical jargon about where his neck was broken (things that I now understand but didn’t then) and that they needed to do surgery and required my consent.  Then he explained all of the legal stuff to me such as “you do understand that there is a risk that your husband could die on the operating table.  Do we have your permission to perform this surgery?”

Yes, I croak, at this point going into the shock which I would remain in, and would save me from the enormity of what I was about to do later in the evening.

When the surgeon was about to give me directions, my brother walked in the door, thank God.  I rattled off to him what was happening and handed him the phone. At this point speaking English and hearing English became far away and foreign to me.

Here!  Find out how to get there while I call Mom and Dad and Cindy, I barked.

I am in the car with Cindy and my brother who is driving us.  And my parents are also on their way in their car.

We arrive at the R. Adams Cowley Shock Trauma Center in Baltimore and go to the reception desk which is being held down by some tough looking chicks who mean business.

By now this eerie, surreal calm has come over me and will serve me well in this place of gloom and doom where the only reason visitors are there is to learn about and/or see their critically injured loved ones. In fact every single time I visited Shock Trauma the heavy hearts of close family and friends hung in the air as thick as black tar molasses. That kind of human stress energy was palpable.

Each person swimming in their own living hell.

Anyway.  At this point my brother charges forward and asks the very busy ladies at the desk, where we can see or find out about patient, James Kleyle. One of the women does not respond well to my brother and she becomes agitated with his curtness.  An argument ensues between them and at this point there is another stressed out family standing near us awaiting information about their loved one, too.

Suddenly, I wave a hand over them while calmly stating, “Some people react differently to stressful situations, so could we start over and please, if you could – and we know that you are very busy – but we would like to find out about a patient who was MedEvaced here, James Kleyle.  I am his wife.”

I don’t know where in the hell that came from but again, shock can be a wonderful thing to help one get through.

The woman’s face softened and she even smiled a bit.  The family standing near us softened, too and the man nodded toward me in quiet understanding.

Let me find out where he is and when you can see him.  She immediately picks up the phone and listens intently.

The surgeon is going to come down to speak with you momentarily.

The surgeon, in blue scrubs to include the scrunchy hair cover thing (which meant:  he was prepping to perform delicate surgery on my husband), approached me because everyone else respectfully stood a step or two behind me.

Let’s go in here.

We were quickly ushered into a shoebox sized, nondescript room which afforded a family privacy to hear any devastating and complicated medical news that a surgeon would need to deliver. (The Cry Box or Breakdown Box, I thought)

I recall the surgeon having sharp features but I can’t remember his name nor would I recognize his face if I ever laid eyes on him again.  This was the initial surgery to stabilize Jim’s fractured neck.  There would be another major surgery to further shore up his neck the next day.  This surgery would be done by the head of neurosurgery at the R Adams Cowley Shock Trauma Center in Baltimore.  That factoid did little to comfort me at the moment because I was about to hear the gravest of news.

Your husband could be paralyzed from the neck down and quite possibly require a ventilator for breathing. He may have said something encouraging after that but I don’t know what that was.  I do recall that he was very kind and not cold at all. He also encouraged questions but we’d been given enough information and I wanted him operating on my husband.

Again with the serene calm.  I know that you will do your best for my husband and I appreciate everything that you are doing and about to do.  Whatever the outcome, we will deal with it.  Jim will still be Jim no matter what.

I saw the surgeon flinch a little at that. I’d like to think that he may have thought I was in shock or delusional.  I was in shock but I meant it.

And then I did something completely unexpected.

Do you accept hugs?

And I hugged this stranger who was going to fix my husband’s neck.

And then we waited into the night for what seemed like eons. Everyone else got things to eat but all I could muster was a soda.

I do not recall if the surgeon came to get us or if we pressed the ladies who worked at the reception desk.  All I remember is riding up the elevator to Neurotrauma Critical Care 4.

There he was lying there so fragile and helpless.  He was attached to all of these tubes and monitors which took up his entire room.  The room was not designed to be attractive nor cozy but to stabilize the patient and afford the nurses, doctors, and respiratory therapists easy access to that patient who was centrally located within the room.

The sight of all of this overwhelmed my parents and our dear friend Cindy and they each broke down into tears and had to step back.

Not me.  Through the continued serene calm (of shock) I not only addressed my husband (who was lying there with his eyes closed), but I kissed him and told him that I loved him.  And then I proceeded to comfort each and every one of them.

It’s going to be OK, I soothed.

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