Vanessa had a good life. A vibrant, physically fit 32-year-old mother, she and her husband were raising their small children in sunny California. Like any young family, they were filled with hopes and dreams.
Then a pontine stroke severely injured her brainstem. She was completely paralyzed.
As I sat with Vanessa recently in an intensive care unit, it was a difficult trip down memory lane. Before I even walked into her room, I had to shore up my emotions. It had all happened to me in exactly the same way 12 years ago. I was 32-year-old mother living in a beautiful California neighborhood. I went to bed that night thinking about tomorrowys luncheon with my girlfriends.
Instead, I was in an intensive care unit the next morning, trapped in my own immovable body with locked-in syndrome, fighting for every breath.
I knew what Vanessa wanted. She wanted to hug her toddler and run on the beach with her husband. But she couldn't do anything. She was alive and aware, but unable to respond. It was as if she was locked in a glass coffin.
For Vanessa, I represented the potential she so desperately wanted for herself. But would she get it? It depended on luck, God's blessing, her determination, and the healing hands and caring hearts of her nurses, those 24-hour-a-day angels surrounding her.
I wonder if anyone, other than its victims, can understand the hell of locked-in syndrome? The patient sees, feels and hears things: "Shall we remove life support and just let her go? She will be out of her misery." They said that within five feet of my bed. Were they cruel? Inconsiderate? No. They thought I was comatose, unconscious, a vegetable. After all, a vegetable has no feelings.
But I was conscious, trapped in my body and trapped with my racing thoughts. What can I do? I can't do anything!
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