Miss Becky's Blog

A Time to Heal ... continued

Here is the continuation of the true story, "A Time to Heal", about Greg & Lauren, (pictured below) who both worked in the World Trade Center, but only Lauren was there the morning of September 11th. Fortunately, she was late for work that day, but was burned badly and is still in the hospital fighting for her life. Here the story continues:

COMING AROUND . . . mid-to-late October 2001. The doctors have been backing off on Lauren's sedation, slowly bringing her back toward awareness. On the 13th, I saw her try to form words. She wasn't able to make any sounds; her vocal cords could not vibrate because the tracheal rube diverted air away from her larynx. But she was doing more than breathing reflexively. Her mouth opened wide and her lower jaw moved slightly to the side, as if she were pausing before trying to speak.

Then, when I reached the hospital on the 14th, her eyes were open. Not just a bit, but most of the way. The swelling that was present in her face just days earlier was mostly gone, and she looked more like herself than at any point since September 11. I leaned over, looked her right in the eyes and said, "Honey, it's Greg, and I love you."

Her eyes moved ever so slightly, and then the barest, most subtle upturn came at the corners of her mouth; Lauren was trying to smile. I told her again that I loved her and that Tyler loved her. Then I said, "It's great to see you," and I burst into tears--the first happy tears for what seemed like a thousand years.

For more than a month, what mattered when I walked into her room were her blood pressure, heart rate and other vital signs as they appeared on the screens above and beside her bed. I would also get a report from the nurse. Then I would know how she was doing, and whether it was time to play a CD or pick up a book and start reading to her.

Now the screens and the numbers aren't the focus anymore. The focus is her face, her eyes and her perfect teeth, visible again now that the ventilator tube is out of her mouth (she had a tracheostomy recently so that a breathing tube could be inserted in her neck). Most of all, as of today, there's the way she can shape her features to try to communicate. She made it clear that she was smiling. Several times the smile worked its way into her cheekbones and her eyes gently narrowed.

There was a hint of the other difficult aspect of the journey. Twice, tears were visible in her eyes--once when her nurse spoke to her of how lucky she was, and the other time when I listed the people who were praying for her and rooting for her.

I had a lot to tell her: Tyler has taken his first stumble-steps. He was holding on to the babyproofed coffee table, saw his bouncy seat, let go of the table, took two steps, and made it to the bouncy seat. He has no fear of walking, that's certain; in a way, he was just like his mother. She took her first steps back from a dream, and he took his first free steps on his own.

On October 27, Tyler celebrated his first birthday. I threw a party for him and 11 or 12 of his closest friends at our home. Lauren was, but now, far more aware. On October 30, I asked her if she wanted to see the video of the baby's birthday, and she immediately nodded yes. So I held out the camcorder and played the video. And I watched her smiling as she looked at her son.

NEW STRIDES . . . Early November 2001. With Lauren's limited ability to communicate, her eyes have become very expressive. She grins and her eyes widen when she thinks something is fun. I've also become aware of how expressive hand gestures are--even with her hands in splints wrapped to her arms with gauze.

Itching has become a real problem. It's what happens when burns heal, and Lauren has it all over her body. Of course, we can't scratch; her skin is too delicate and in the process of some serious healing. The nurses order Benadryl and a special cream to help stop the itching. We can also tap our fingertips on the area, though after her most recent surgery some of these spots are under think dressings. All in all, Lauren is handling the situation okay.

Her determination is strong. With instruction and coaching from the physical and occupational therapists, she does arm range-of-motion exercises, lifting both arms in a coordinated fashion. She also does exaggerated facial expressions for reebad and scar control. When she first winked at me, I wondered why. Then she slinked the other eye, opened her mouth, puffed her cheeks and raised her eyebrows. She also works her legs, all while lying in a critical-care bed.

Then came something incredible. When I entered her room on November 11, Lauren said, "Hi, Greg." It was the softest whisper, and I wasn't even sure I'd heard it; took a second to register that the rush of air had been my name. I said, "Are you talking?" And her eyes smiled as she whispered, "Yes."

I looked at her and said, "That's wonderful. I am so ..." The lump in my throat stopped me for a moment. I took off my glasses, dried my eyes and told her the word I'd meant to say; "happy."

Lauren could talk because she had received a smaller tracheal tube, which could be capped. I was able to lean close to her and understand her perfectly. Even though she speaks with only a windy whisper, she sounds like herself--so she has made another enormous leap to reclaim who she is.

We talked about Tyler. She told me she loved the tape of his birthday party, one of the first things I'd shown her after she truly woke up. We spoke about many things, but especially about how wonderful it was just to be able to communicate, we got a big chunk of our relationship back right then.

Soon after that came another milestone: Lauren took her first steps. I arrived at the hospital about three seconds after it happened. In actual linear measurements, there were not strides but mere shuffles. She was helped into a sitting position, placed her feet on the floor, shuffled a couple of feet to the lounge chair and sat down.

When I entered her room, Lauren was seated there, surrounded by her court of occupational and physical therapists and attendant family members. The window curtain was up, and on this impossibly sunny autumn afternoon in New York the room glowed with the happiness of everyone within. Lauren's accomplishments were described to me . . . And when she saw me, she gave me her best smile.

A little later, when the therapists were gone and she was back in her bed, she started to ask me what happened on September 11. Her first question: "Was it an act of terror?" I told her yes. Anger and anguish flooded her face. She screamed softly, "I'm going to get those bastards," and beat her right forearm, in its cast, into the bed, as if pounding her attackers.

I said firmly, Lauren, listen to me: George W. Bush declared war on the terrorists and any country that harbors them. The United States has gone to war to get the people who did this to you.

She went on. She remembered that the World Trade Center looked as if it would fall. She asked me, "Was anyone hurt at Cantor?" (Cantor was the company she worked for, whose office was very near the place where the plane hit the building. Had she been in her office, she would have died as well.) Yes, I said.

"Did people die?" Yes.

"Anyone I know?"

Forgive me, but right then and there I lied to Lauren; I told her, I'm not sure. I didn't think she needed the entire load dropped on her right then: that her boss and 657 other Cantor employees had died without hope of rescue.

I said, Let's talk about that another time. And she agreed to wait.

(To be continued)