thedrifter
01-22-06, 08:08 AM
January 22, 2006
The Caregivers
One Family's Persistent Hope: That Their Soldier Will Wake Up
By DENISE GRADY
AUGUSTA, Me. - To Laurie, who married him two years ago, Harold Gray is still "the guy I felt like I waited for my whole life." Mercedes, his 6-year-old daughter, likes to think of him racing around the yard, chased by an angry pet goose as she watched and laughed with her two sisters, Isabelle and Natalie. His father, George, calls him "an excellent man," a carpenter and a proud soldier, tough on the outside but with a dream of teaching kindergarten.
Even his former wife, Jessica Gray, the mother of his three girls, describes him with affection: a handsome devil who had a way with women, but a dedicated father and a good sport as a former-husband whose last, impulsive gift to her was a hunting license that she used to bag a six-point buck.
More and more, even though he is alive, Harold Gray's relatives talk about him in the past tense.
On Dec. 26, 2004, Sgt. Gray, then 34, a member of the 133rd Engineer Battalion of the Maine Army National Guard, was driving in a convoy outside Mosul, Iraq, when a bomb blew up underneath his truck.
He has been in hospitals ever since. Blind and severely brain damaged, he cannot speak, move voluntarily or communicate. He is fed through a tube implanted in his stomach. Though he appears unaware of his surroundings, family members say they believe he hears their voices when they visit. But his medical records describe his condition as a "persistent neurovegetative state" from which he is unlikely to emerge.
"They don't think he has any chance for recovery," said Laurie Gray, 37, who drives an hour and half each way from her home in Penobscot to spend nearly every day at his bedside at the Togus Veterans Affairs Medical Center here.
"I've accepted this is the way it could be, but I also haven't given up hope," Ms. Gray said. "You never know, there could be a miracle."
His parents say they too are praying for a miracle. "If you don't have hope, what do you have?" said his mother, Claudette.
At least 1,700 American troops have suffered brain injuries in Iraq, more than half of them moderate to severe. Sgt. Gray represents the far end of the spectrum, though military spokesmen have declined to say how many men and women have been as badly hurt as he.
A month or so after being wounded, he seemed to be on the mend: he could open his left eye and move his right hand when asked to, take a few steps, say a few words. But in late February he developed meningitis, an infection of the membranes around the brain and spinal cord. He never regained consciousness.
In April, doctors operated for a brain abscess and discovered that a cotton ball had been left inside his head after emergency surgery in Iraq. Whether the cotton caused the meningitis is impossible to tell, but objects mistakenly left behind after surgery are a known cause of infection, according to reports in medical journals.
Late in May, Sgt. Gray was transferred to a hospital in Tampa, Fla., that specializes in rehabilitation for brain injury. But after six weeks with no progress, he was sent home to Maine, to the Togus hospital's long-term care unit, essentially a nursing home.
Ms. Gray has decorated his room with photos of him when he was well.
It is hard to reconcile those strong, rugged images with the motionless figure in the bed. There are deep depressions on either side of Sgt. Gray's head where segments of his skull were removed. He is mostly expressionless, though he yawns from time to time, moves his mouth, sleeps, wakes and opens his left eye.
"Have you had him look at you?" his father asked. "That one eye focuses on you like he's looking right through you."
Sgt. Gray needs round-the-clock nursing care. Two people are needed to turn him every two hours day and night to prevent bedsores, and he is incontinent and catheterized. Though not on a respirator, he does need breathing help: air is piped into an opening in his neck. He chokes and gags on his own secretions, and Ms. Gray and the nurses must use suction equipment several times a day to clear out his windpipe.
The longer a person remains in a state like Sgt. Gray's, the smaller the chances of recovery. After a year, very few come out of it; it has been 11 months since Sgt. Gray developed meningitis and became unresponsive.
Asked if Sgt. Gray would want to be kept alive the way he is now, his wife and other family members said he had never wanted to discuss the subject.
"He was a big, tough guy, and nothing was going to happen to him," Laurie Gray said. "But me, knowing Harold like I do, he wouldn't want to be like this."
His former wife, Jessica, said: "He always used to say he wouldn't want to live not knowing anything. If he couldn't function, if he couldn't recognize his kids, he wouldn't want to live."
Laurie Gray said removing her husband's feeding tube was something she could never do. But she has signed a do-not-resuscitate order; if Sgt. Gray's heart or breathing stops, doctors will not try to revive him.
His father agreed with that decision, but Ms. Gray does not know whether his mother is aware of it. Divorces - Sgt. Gray's and that of his parents - have divided the family and led to bitterness over money, control and child support.
Laurie Gray hopes to take her husband home in a few months, to a double-wide mobile home on a quiet road miles from any town, and care for him herself, with help from family, friends and a part-time nurse's aide. Sgt. Gray's mother said she was "totally opposed" to the move, because he needed expert care. But his father said he thought Sgt. Gray would be better off back home.
"He won't ever be the Harold we knew," Mr. Gray said. "If he could just talk to you - but if he can't, we'll take him the way he is."
Ellie
The Caregivers
One Family's Persistent Hope: That Their Soldier Will Wake Up
By DENISE GRADY
AUGUSTA, Me. - To Laurie, who married him two years ago, Harold Gray is still "the guy I felt like I waited for my whole life." Mercedes, his 6-year-old daughter, likes to think of him racing around the yard, chased by an angry pet goose as she watched and laughed with her two sisters, Isabelle and Natalie. His father, George, calls him "an excellent man," a carpenter and a proud soldier, tough on the outside but with a dream of teaching kindergarten.
Even his former wife, Jessica Gray, the mother of his three girls, describes him with affection: a handsome devil who had a way with women, but a dedicated father and a good sport as a former-husband whose last, impulsive gift to her was a hunting license that she used to bag a six-point buck.
More and more, even though he is alive, Harold Gray's relatives talk about him in the past tense.
On Dec. 26, 2004, Sgt. Gray, then 34, a member of the 133rd Engineer Battalion of the Maine Army National Guard, was driving in a convoy outside Mosul, Iraq, when a bomb blew up underneath his truck.
He has been in hospitals ever since. Blind and severely brain damaged, he cannot speak, move voluntarily or communicate. He is fed through a tube implanted in his stomach. Though he appears unaware of his surroundings, family members say they believe he hears their voices when they visit. But his medical records describe his condition as a "persistent neurovegetative state" from which he is unlikely to emerge.
"They don't think he has any chance for recovery," said Laurie Gray, 37, who drives an hour and half each way from her home in Penobscot to spend nearly every day at his bedside at the Togus Veterans Affairs Medical Center here.
"I've accepted this is the way it could be, but I also haven't given up hope," Ms. Gray said. "You never know, there could be a miracle."
His parents say they too are praying for a miracle. "If you don't have hope, what do you have?" said his mother, Claudette.
At least 1,700 American troops have suffered brain injuries in Iraq, more than half of them moderate to severe. Sgt. Gray represents the far end of the spectrum, though military spokesmen have declined to say how many men and women have been as badly hurt as he.
A month or so after being wounded, he seemed to be on the mend: he could open his left eye and move his right hand when asked to, take a few steps, say a few words. But in late February he developed meningitis, an infection of the membranes around the brain and spinal cord. He never regained consciousness.
In April, doctors operated for a brain abscess and discovered that a cotton ball had been left inside his head after emergency surgery in Iraq. Whether the cotton caused the meningitis is impossible to tell, but objects mistakenly left behind after surgery are a known cause of infection, according to reports in medical journals.
Late in May, Sgt. Gray was transferred to a hospital in Tampa, Fla., that specializes in rehabilitation for brain injury. But after six weeks with no progress, he was sent home to Maine, to the Togus hospital's long-term care unit, essentially a nursing home.
Ms. Gray has decorated his room with photos of him when he was well.
It is hard to reconcile those strong, rugged images with the motionless figure in the bed. There are deep depressions on either side of Sgt. Gray's head where segments of his skull were removed. He is mostly expressionless, though he yawns from time to time, moves his mouth, sleeps, wakes and opens his left eye.
"Have you had him look at you?" his father asked. "That one eye focuses on you like he's looking right through you."
Sgt. Gray needs round-the-clock nursing care. Two people are needed to turn him every two hours day and night to prevent bedsores, and he is incontinent and catheterized. Though not on a respirator, he does need breathing help: air is piped into an opening in his neck. He chokes and gags on his own secretions, and Ms. Gray and the nurses must use suction equipment several times a day to clear out his windpipe.
The longer a person remains in a state like Sgt. Gray's, the smaller the chances of recovery. After a year, very few come out of it; it has been 11 months since Sgt. Gray developed meningitis and became unresponsive.
Asked if Sgt. Gray would want to be kept alive the way he is now, his wife and other family members said he had never wanted to discuss the subject.
"He was a big, tough guy, and nothing was going to happen to him," Laurie Gray said. "But me, knowing Harold like I do, he wouldn't want to be like this."
His former wife, Jessica, said: "He always used to say he wouldn't want to live not knowing anything. If he couldn't function, if he couldn't recognize his kids, he wouldn't want to live."
Laurie Gray said removing her husband's feeding tube was something she could never do. But she has signed a do-not-resuscitate order; if Sgt. Gray's heart or breathing stops, doctors will not try to revive him.
His father agreed with that decision, but Ms. Gray does not know whether his mother is aware of it. Divorces - Sgt. Gray's and that of his parents - have divided the family and led to bitterness over money, control and child support.
Laurie Gray hopes to take her husband home in a few months, to a double-wide mobile home on a quiet road miles from any town, and care for him herself, with help from family, friends and a part-time nurse's aide. Sgt. Gray's mother said she was "totally opposed" to the move, because he needed expert care. But his father said he thought Sgt. Gray would be better off back home.
"He won't ever be the Harold we knew," Mr. Gray said. "If he could just talk to you - but if he can't, we'll take him the way he is."
Ellie