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TwitThisA Mother's Promise
Jean: Brooke opened her eyes. She couldn't speak, but her expression told me what I needed to know. Her eyes weren't blank or vacant; they were full of questions."Brooke, it's Mommy, I love you. Do you know it's me?"
I could see the fear and sadness in her eyes. "Brooke, blink your eyes once if you understand me."
I stared at her, my heart pounding. She blinked -- a deliberate blink that told me she comprehended exactly what I was saying. Tears streamed out of the corners of her eyes and ran down to her ears.
"Honey, we still have our little girl," I said to Ed, who was standing on the other side of the bed.
"Brooke, do you know what happened to you? You were hit by a car coming home from Murphy. Do you remember that?"
She blinked twice, signaling no.
"You're in Stony Brook hospital," I told her, "and everybody here is trying to get you better."
"Your mother and I are here, and we're not leaving," Ed said.
"You're not alone. We're going to get through this together," I said.
Brooke: My heart was breaking, but I didn't want to show it. I didn't want to make things any more difficult than they already were.
My day was a procession of doctors. They were in my room constantly, which wouldn't have been so bad if they weren't so pessimistic. One doctor came by every morning and stuck pins in me. He asked over and over, "Ellison, do you feel this?" He didn't even know my first name, and didn't seem to understand that I couldn't answer him.
The doctors talked about me as if I wasn't even there. One orthopedic surgeon was discussing the torn ligaments in my knee. An intern asked if it would require surgical repair. The surgeon said it was of little consequence because I would have no use of the leg anyway due to my spinal-cord injury.
My father almost lost it that day. He told them we understood the severity of my injuries: I was paralyzed from the neck down and couldn't even breathe on my own. But, he said, if they ever discussed my situation again in anything less than an optimistic manner, they would be in need of orthopedic surgeons themselves.
Jean: After a week in the ICU, Brooke was still not breathing on her own. The surgeons had to perform a tracheotomy and insert a breathing tube into her throat.
At this point Brooke could start moving her lips, and we could attempt to lipread. Although it was still difficult and confusing, communication began to improve. Brooke had so many questions. I was frantically trying to understand everything she had to say. "Am I ..." Brooke mouthed. She was moving her lips but still could not make a sound.
"Am I?" I prompted. "Going to ..." she continued.
"Going to," I repeated. What did she want to know? Am I going to be able to breathe again? Am I going to be paralyzed? Am I going to die? I was afraid to hear the last part of her question.
"Be left back?" she said.
"Be left back?" I repeated, completely surprised.
Of all the questions she could have asked, I was so relieved to hear that one. I told her she would recover, she would come home, she would return to school.
"Promise?" Brooke mouthed again.
How could I promise anything at this point? I would be damned, though, if I wasn't going to be hopeful and positive. "I promise," I said.
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