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"Whatever We Get, We'll Accept"
On a chilly Friday afternoon before Christmas in 1986, Donny Herbert had kissed his wife, bear-hugged his three toddler sons, and set off for his first shift as a Buffalo firefighter. It was one of the proudest days of his life. The 25-year-old was the first in his family to join the department.
Over the years he'd proven himself, grabbing awards for bravery and aggressiveness. In 1991, he joined the Rescue 1 unit, responding to structure fires, car crashes and other accidents. That same year, the couple's fourth son, Nicky, was born. With a few days off between tours at the firehouse, Donny relished the one-on-one time with his youngest. They fished together, read together. Donny doted on him, taking Nick everywhere.
Now Linda wasn't sure how to tell the kids that their vibrant, life-loving dad was in a dead-to-the-world fog.
Local TV stations had been showing dramatic film of his rescue. At home, watched over by Linda's mother and sister, the four boys stared in shock at the screen. The family tried to keep their hopes up. "Your dad is getting all the medical care he needs," Linda's sister said. The boys were devastated, except for Nicky, who was too young to understand. He just wanted Dad.
As the hours wore on, Donny clung to life in the hospital. All Linda could do was worry and pray. Please, God, bring him back to us. Please. For her, the next few days ran together in an endless loop of torment and tears.
A full battalion of Buffalo firefighters were on call as a chauffeur and concierge service for Linda, who rushed back and forth between home and the hospital. As New Year's Eve flew by, the doctors diagnosed one of the most unsparing types of head trauma, caused by oxygen deprivation and the blow to the head. Much of Donny's brain, it seemed, had been wiped away.
In early January, his vital signs began to stabilize, and at times he seemed to yawn or even smile. He moved his arms, and sometimes he appeared to be trying to speak. Technically, Donny had now emerged from a comatose state, showing distinct sleeping and waking cycles. While this was encouraging, he was still largely unresponsive to the world around him.
Linda kept praying as cards and letters streamed in from around the city. Father Joe Moreno came by so often with goodies from the local bakery that Linda and the kids began calling him Father Cannoli.
In mid-January, Donny was weaned from the ventilator, and to the doctors' surprise, he breathed remarkably well. By January 19, he had made it through without a single setback or infection. Linda, for her part, had moved from a state of paralyzing shock to exhausted resiliency.
She kept telling others, "Whatever we get, we'll accept. I know there's a reason he's with us." She would take any Donny she could get, no matter what. She sobbed to her best friend, Luanne, "I need him here. In any form."
In early February, Donny was moved into a rehab wing for acute brain-trauma patients. He was conscious but unresponsive. He would stretch his arms and even stand with help. And though he would sometimes open his eyes, he remained in a fog.
By the spring of 1996, Linda had transferred him to Father Baker Manor, a long-term-care nursing facility outside Buffalo. Time passed—one year after another. And Donny Herbert's sons grew up largely without him.
It was early in 2005, during one of her visits with Donny, that Linda noticed he seemed to be crying. The doctors took this as a positive sign: Donny Herbert was still in there somewhere. His heart beat. His blood pumped. His lungs completed their life-giving tasks. His brain, though, was the question. A new doctor that Linda had found on her own, Dr. Jamil Ahmed, had a few remarkable examples from which to draw a little hope. Some patients with traumatic brain injuries had come back from oblivion.
Dr. Ahmed's thinking was that the right combination of neurostimulants might spark Donny's brain into ignition and restore activity where only emptiness and stupor had reigned. An early drug cocktail for Donny included one part antidepressant and a dash of a drug commonly used to treat ADHD. Donny hadn't shown much change, so eventually Dr. Ahmed worked in a drug used to treat Parkinson's, plus metabolic activity-inducing vitamins like B12 and folic acid. As the medical team waited, they kept Donny moving, working his muscles.
Linda, for her part, had struggled with depression and weight problems over the years. Nights were the hardest for her, when she was alone.
On April 30, 2005, the Saturday after she'd given her parents a 50th wedding anniversary party, she awoke exhausted. She needed to shop for a rug, though, having added a sunroom to their house so that when Donny visited, he could sit in his wheelchair and bask in the warm sun.
Linda spoke to Nicky, now 13, and got herself on the road by 11 a.m.
At about 2 p.m., Donny was sitting in his wheelchair in the lounge at Father Baker Manor when suddenly he began to shake his legs violently.
Jessica Mann, a licensed practical nurse, was standing near the station desk when she thought she heard Donny say something. She couldn't be sure, though: No one had ever heard him say anything. She went over to him. She couldn't believe it. Donny Herbert was talking. His first words in nearly ten years—repeated in a rough, slurred voice—were, "Where's Linda?"
At a store in Williamsville, Linda had just bought a beautiful black-and-white rug and put it in the car. She checked her cell phone. She'd missed two calls, one from Father Baker Manor and one from home.
When she dialed home, Nick answered. "The nurse at Father Baker was looking for you," he said. "I gave them your cell phone."
"Yes, they left a message," Linda said. "I'll be home in a little while." She hung up and rang the number at Father Baker.
Soon Linda heard the nurse, Jessica, start to carry on about something. Donny had asked for her. Jessica was going to hand the phone to him.
Linda wasn't sure what to expect. She said loudly, "Hi, Don. It's me, Linda."
"Lin, where are you? Come get me."
Linda froze. It was her husband speaking for sure. "Don, where are you?"
"I'm at 182 Melrose," he replied clearly. His childhood home.
"Okay, I'm coming." To the nurse, she added, "I'm on my way."
As Linda drove toward the thruway, toward Donny, her heart pounded. Her thoughts raced. Will he still be talking when I get there? Does this mean he's better now? How long will it last? I've got to tell the kids.
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