"we're all scarred"

"There are studies that look at the factors determining prognosis after cardiac arrest. The most important thing is to determine whether his brainstem is working. There are some reflexes we test, and he had two of them. When we shine a light in his eyes, the pupils get smaller. When we put water in his eyes, he blinks. Two of the reflexes, he didn't have. When we moved his mouth tube, he didn't cough. When we put water in his ears, his eyes didn't move in the direction we would expect. Based on these, his chance of recovery is small. I know this is a really emotional time for you. But I want to be factual, and blunt, and I don't want to lie to you. I also don't want to take away hope. We will check him again when 72 hours have passed since he collapsed, and after all the effects of the sedative drugs we've given him have worn off."

One is thin and able to stiffen herself before hearing, such that her back is as straight as her lips except for at the corners, holding herself against the possibilities, and never releases. The other talks.

..."We've heard of people who have strokes, and their brain has been damaged, but afterwards they recover somehow and are still able to use their brain...?"

"The brain can't regenerate. When one part of the brain is damaged, the rest of the brain that is still working uses other pathways to recover. With a stroke it is usually one part of the brain that's affected. The difference with him is that his brain has been globally affected by the loss of oxygen. We will have to see how much of the brain was affected."

..."We'll test him again on day 3...?"

"Yes." Turning to walk away, he remembers: "And don't talk in front of him. We don't know how much he hears."

****

He's been on three Vietnam tours, and when he returned, he was knocked off a telephone pole by a haphazard car navigated by two underage drivers who too small to reach the pedals with feet used their hands instead, hit by said car, and dragged by said car. He broke too much for me to remember. Eighteen months in the hospital and forty years later, he speaks to all of us with salted candor and a sweetness more tactile than his bristly face.

****
Today someone mentions him, "...if he survives and makes it..."

When we first saw him in the morning, his daughter is sitting next to him reading Harry Potter. We subject him to all sorts of random maneuvers; he's not completely aware but he tries to oblige. He really, really tries. When we see him in the afternoon he's still intubated and can't speak, and his arms are tied to the bed. He intermittently nods in response. He tries to write, but in the end there's no communication. We ask him to do more sorts of things, the majority of which the confines of this place restrict him from doing. Open your mouth, say ahhh. Squeeze my fingers. He lends himself to us, for whatever it is that we're doing. When we applaud a task completed (he keeps his arms up against our pressure, he presses his feet down on our hands)--"Great!!"--and break out unconsciously in smile, he raises and shakes his fists in victory. Sometimes he rewards us with a thumbs up in both hands. When we shake his hand goodbye, he holds on tight. When we let go, he grabs again and squeezes long and tight, and the brave tenderness wraps around. When asked if he likes the classical music his family has left playing for him, he smiles around his tube, his teeth releasing the plastic and revealing the dark space of his mouth.