CHAPTER 2
THE ACCIDENT
July 23, 1999 was like any other day at work. I was processing paperwork and organizing projects that needed to be done. The phone rang, and when I picked it up, the lady on the other end of the phone identified herself as Carolyn. She was the social worker from a hospital in Phoenix, Arizona. She asked to speak to Carol Freeman. I told her she had reached the right person and asked if I could help her. She said she was calling from the Critical Care Unit and that Sharon, my daughter, had been in an accident and she was in the Critical Care Unit. I asked what had happened, but she could only verify what little information she had other than the fact that Sharon was critically injured, on life support, and the doctors did not know at this point if she was going to live much longer. I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my chest, my heart was pounding, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt like someone had just stabbed me in the chest. I started to cry, and between the sobs, I told Carolyn I would be there as soon as I could get a flight out of Portland. My hands were shaking as I tried to put the phone back on the cradle. I immediately called Ron, told him briefly about the phone call and that I would meet him at home. When I arrived, I was greeted at the door by my son Chris who was home from college for the summer. I hugged him and cried uncontrollably. Ron, Chris, and I were on the first flight out of Portland at 7 am the next morning. The plane ride seemed to take forever, and I wondered if we would get there in time to see her alive. We arrived in Phoenix at one o’clock and headed straight to the hospital. The Critical Care Unit was on the second floor. I failed to notice the sign that asked all visitors to use the buzzer and announce who they were. Having worked in a hospital before, I knew what button to push to get beyond the cold steel gray doors and into the Critical Care Unit. I quickly pushed the button and the doors opened exposing the hallway and glassed private rooms with patients in very serious condition. The patient rooms were equipped with monitoring devices and each patient was hooked up to machines that were keeping them alive. I passed the nursing station, and there was a wall of television screens monitoring each patient’s vital signs. I quickly looked at the board next to the nurses’ station with the patients’ names on it. Freeman, Sharon, Room 7 was written on the board. The room was at the end of the hallway, and as we entered the room, there were two nurses entering data into a computer. They both looked surprised when they saw us, not expecting we would just walk in without them being notified in advance of our arrival. I immediately went over to see Sharon. Her red hair was still long, as she had always worn it. Her eyes were closed, and she looked like she was sleeping, except she was in a coma and being kept alive by a ventilator and numerous tubes connected to her heart, lungs, and head to monitor every vital function of her being. Her body was as cold as ice, and I thought she was already dead. She was still wearing a neck brace, which had been put on by the paramedics at the time of the accident. I was in total shock and disbelief. This could not be happening. I felt like I was living in a nightmare and could not wake up. Ron, normally a very strong, controlled individual broke down in tears. Chris stared at his sister in disbelief. Our emotions ran between anger, denial, and shock. We were totally unprepared for what we saw. The nurse in the room who was the first to see us said someone should have prepared us before we came into the room, and she immediately paged the hospital chaplain. The chaplain was in the room within minutes. She was a slim, dark-haired young female in a very professional business suit. I knew having worked in a hospital when the chaplain is asked to speak with the family the chances of the patient surviving are not good. We went to a conference room down the hall with the chaplain and Carolyn, the social worker who had telephoned me the day before. The chaplain shared with us the information surrounding the accident which was very sketchy. The chaplain left the room after giving us her card and asking us to call anytime we wanted to talk.
The social worker then told us that according to the hospital records, on July 21, 1999 in the early morning hours, the Scottsdale police were called for a domestic violence disturbance to Sharon’s apartment complex. Sharon and her boyfriend had gotten into an argument. When the police arrived on the scene, they checked their computer information to see if either one of them had any outstanding warrants. Sharon’s name came up on their computer screen. She had an outstanding warrant for failure to pay restitution charges for a DWI, which had occurred three years before when she had hit a utility pole in Phoenix. She had not paid the restitution for about six months. Sharon was then taken to the emergency room of the local hospital after complaining to the policeman of abdominal pain and stating her boyfriend had hit her with a bat. Further information revealed that the emergency room doctor released Sharon to the custody of the police since they could find no internal injuries. Sharon was transferred to the Phoenix jail. She remained in jail from 7:30 am until 11:30 pm. At 11:30 pm it was reported she had a seizure, fell backward, hitting her head on the cement floor, and paramedics were called. The paramedics transported her to the closest hospital. Because of the severity of her head injury and the fact she was not responding, she was air- evacuated by helicopter to a specialty hospital for head trauma. The chief neurosurgeon on call that day was assigned Sharon’s case. We thanked the chaplain and social worker for their information and decided to meet with the neurosurgeon as soon as we could.
We stayed with Sharon the rest of the day. The nurses explained to us all the monitoring equipment, her present state, and what we could expect, good and bad. We checked into a nearby hotel that evening totally exhausted emotionally and physically. I couldn’t sleep, and I called Michelle the Shamanic practitioner I had been seeing. I asked her if she would please journey to Sharon’s spirit and help her to return from her coma. She said she would and took the phone number of our hotel room.
A few hours later Michelle called back and told us she had contacted Sharon’s spirit and her spirit did not want to come back. Sharon told her that life here was too difficult for her and not a life she would want to come back to. Michelle said she tried to encourage her to come back and perhaps through her own experience make a difference in someone else’s life. The reply she got was she would think about it.
The next day we met with the neurosurgeon, who showed us the CAT scan, an X-ray of the brain. He asked us how long Sharon had the cyst that was on her brain. Ron and I looked at each other in astonishment. We had never been told by any doctor nor had we been told by Sharon that she had a cyst on her brain. The neurosurgeon went on to say that the cyst looked like it had been there quite some time, perhaps from birth, and was most likely the cause of all her bizarre behavior mimicking a bipolar personality disorder. Ron and I were in total disbelief that this was not detected much earlier by other physicians that had seen her, all diagnosing her with a bipolar disorder. None of her previous doctors had suggested a CAT scan or had given any indication that her bizarre behavior might be due to a physical problem. I remember her initial diagnosis was made by a psychiatrist and based on a written test Sharon had taken. Once the diagnosis of a bipolar disorder was made, each doctor she saw thereafter treated her for that diagnosis and never questioned there might be another cause.
The neurosurgeon went into detail on her prognosis and course of treatment. Medically, she was not stable, still in critical condition from her head injury. In addition, she had pneumonia and a blood infection. The next ten days would determine whether she would live or die. If she did live, he gave her a 65 to 70 percent chance of being “normal” with a 30 percent disability.
The words of the neurosurgeon echoed in my mine, “brain cyst.” My emotions ranged from disbelief of what was being told to me, to anger at the physicians treating her for a bipolar disorder, to guilt at my not insisting on a complete physical exam and CAT scan. Sharon had never exhibited symptoms of what I thought would be associated with a brain disorder. I was angry that the doctors based their diagnosis solely on a written test and interview. I became determined at that time that I would tell people who knew of someone diagnosed with a bipolar disorder that they encourage them to request a complete physical and CAT scan to first rule out a physical problem.
We spent the next ten days next to her bedside, leaving only to eat, sleep, and spend time in the hospital chapel praying for a miracle. My emotions during the next ten days ranged from what I thought was apathy toward the hospital staff who worked each day in the Critical Care Unit to heartfelt gratitude to those who were treating Sharon with care and compassion. I relied on sleeping pills prescribed by the neurosurgeon to help me sleep and coffee to keep me awake. I was living a nightmare with no way to wake up.
One morning a group of interns came in to see Sharon, shook their heads with a grim look, took some notes, and walked out never saying a word to me. To them it was just another hopeless case, but to me it was my little girl and a part of me was dying. I decided with Ron’s encouragement not to acknowledge their pessimism. Miracles do happen, and I was determined to remain hopeful. I hung on to the smallest glimmer of hope: a smiling nurse, other people on the floor who seemed to be improving, stories from others whose relatives and friends were on the same unit who offered encouragement. We met on an almost daily basis with the internist, trauma doctor, pulmonary specialist, and neurosurgeon, all of whom were very nice though didn’t present us with a hopeful prognosis.
On day three, we met once again with Carolyn, the social worker who advised us that we might want to seek the advice of an attorney regarding Sharon’s accident because she felt we weren’t getting complete information surrounding the accident. She gave us the name of an attorney, and the next day we made an appointment to see her. At first the attorney felt we were typical distraught parents trying to find someone to blame for this tragedy. She gave us the name of a private investigator, Don, who worked with the firm, and if he felt there was enough information, he would relay it to her, and she would see if the case was worth pursuing. We met with him the following day and learned a great deal about the problems within the Phoenix jail system. We enlisted his help. Next, we proceeded to fill out the paperwork and make an appointment to appear before a judge to obtain guardianship for Sharon since she was now an incapacitated adult.
Seven days passed, and the doctors told us Sharon had to undergo surgery. They couldn’t leave the ventilating tube in any longer because it might damage her vocal cords. She was biting down so hard on the tube she had broken a tooth. Sharon’s condition showed no signs of improvement though she looked like she was sleeping except for the constant hum of the ventilator. They had tried several times to wean Sharon from the ventilator with some success, but she was still receiving oxygen continuously.
I was anxious and afraid of Sharon having to undergo surgery while still in a coma, but the doctors convinced me it was something that needed to be done. I consented to the surgery and continued to pray for a miracle.
That night I had a very vivid dream. I saw a woman with dark hair. She had a tube in her mouth, and her eyes were closed. A hand appeared in the dream and took out the tube, and the woman opened her eyes. Not knowing what this meant, I just dismissed it. The next day Sharon underwent the surgery. I spent most of the day in the hospital chapel praying that she would survive the surgery. Later in the day, I went back to Sharon’s room. She had just come out of surgery. She was alive but still in the coma. Ron and I spent the rest of that day sitting in Sharon’s room waiting.
The next morning, I walked into Sharon’s room and felt a rush of joy and anticipation. Her eyes were open. Finally, something positive had happened, though it lasted a brief period of time. Her eyes were staring straight ahead, and she couldn’t blink or focus on anything. She was propped up in a chair but couldn’t lift her head. Her lifeless body seemed like a rag doll that could be put into a position and would remain that way until someone decided to move her. I thought of the dream I’d had a few days earlier and wondered if in some way someone was trying to prepare me for what was ahead.
Sharon remained in Critical Care for another ten days and was then transferred to the sixth floor. She was still in a coma. The move I thought was hopeful, but again my emotions started to tumble when she started to experience severe seizures. Sharon would shake violently, her face would turn red, her pulse and temperature would rise rapidly, and then she would start sweating profusely. The first time I saw this happening, I rushed to the nurses’ station in a panic. A nurse immediately followed me into the room and called the neurosurgeon. I felt so helpless and anxious knowing there was nothing I could do but knowing something was terribly wrong. The neurosurgeon told me it was a “phase” that patients in a coma can experience, and he felt it would pass. One of these episodes began again a few days later and lasted much longer. The nurse immediately called the neurosurgeon again, and three nurses rushed into the room and wheeled Sharon’s bed out of the room and onto the nearest elevator. I began to cry once again. In the panic of the situation they told Ron and me she was being taken for an emergency CAT scan. The CAT scan showed no signs of improvement and no new developments.
After ten days, our son Chris had to return to Portland because of his job. After four weeks my husband had exhausted all of his leave benefits at work. He had made the decision to return to Portland and wanted me to return also. I adamantly refused to go feeling that I had to stay with Sharon. The nursing staff at the hospital assured us they would notify us immediately should anything happen but that her condition could go on like this for months, and Sharon’s condition was not medically stable enough yet to return to Portland. It was the toughest decision I had to make in my entire life, but reluctantly I decided to return with my husband and to my job in Portland.
Before we left, one of the nurses in the Critical Care Unit recognized how distraught I was at having to leave and told me it would be helpful to record a tape for Sharon and they would play it each day for her. With tears in my eyes, I recorded the message to Sharon about how much we loved her and wanted her to come back to us. I told her what had happened. I wanted her to know about the cyst that was discovered and what was happening on a daily basis at the hospital. I told her who her doctors were and how well she was being taken care of. Ron also spoke on the tape. It was a very emotional experience for us both, and at the same time, we knew if she heard our voices each day she would know we were with her.
Friends and family kept assuring me it was the right decision to return to Portland and going back to work would help me to try and get back to a normal schedule and maybe it would give me something to do besides think of Sharon. I felt nothing would ever be normal again. Ron, seeing I was very emotionally distraught at the thought of going back to Portland and leaving Sharon’s bedside, told me we would go back to Phoenix every ten days and stay for four days. Ron and I boarded the plane the next day, and I cried all the way back to Portland feeling guilty because I was leaving my little girl. I felt hopeless, helpless, and depressed. It didn’t help at all knowing we would be back in ten days. All I wanted to do was stay, but I tried to be hopeful that in ten days Sharon’s condition would improve.
I returned to work the following day and found it impossible to focus on my work. All I could think about was Sharon. I called the nursing station several times each day to check on her progress and each time was told there was no improvement.