Waking Up Jimmy

This is a story about an extraordinary, ordinary guy—my 55 year-old brother, Jimmy.  Until a couple of years ago, Jim (he prefers that) walked nine miles one-way to his dishwashing job, four days a week. He became recognizable on the route, and often received rides from good Samaritans who became friends.

Today, he works two cleaning jobs, goes to church weekly, helps elderly ladies in his apartment complex, enjoys a good football game, and has been known to have a cold beer after work. Wherever Jimmy goes, people gravitate towards him because he inspires the best in us.

In 1989, Jimmy drove his truck off the road, went through the windshield, and struck his head on a tree. He was airlifted to the nearest trauma center and operated on. He came out of surgery, sleeping, and he continued to sleep. Jimmy was in a coma—another four-letter word that packs a punch.

The doctors, nurses, and therapists all said the same thing—brain injuries are unpredictable. There was no way of knowing if Jim would wake up. Intuitively, we decided the best thing for Jimmy was to keep him company in the darkened hospital room amidst the hiss, ping, and click of machines that helped him breathe and monitored other bodily functions. We talked to Jim, played endless loops of his favorite—Tom Petty’s “Free Falling,” and created an aromatherapy kit of homely smells—“This is bacon.” “Mint from Grampa’s garden.”

But Jimmy kept sleeping for three weeks. One night, when I was on watch, I felt Jimmy—his essence, his soul—separate from his prone body, pale and frail. We had a one-sided vocal heart-to-heart. “You need to make a decision. Wake up and stay with us or move on. We’ll love you and support you no matter which you choose.”

The next day, Jimmy’s eyelids flickered and his fingers twitched.

“These are good signs,” said the neurologist, “he might wake up.” No sooner did the doctor leave, than Jim sat upright in bed, opened his eyes, and said, “I love you, too.” That’s the day Jimmy taught us that we are more than flesh. We are spirit.

Jim had a long recovery—over a year. He told my sister he remembered hovering above, watching the paramedics cut a bloody shirt off his body. He told me how he “saw the light,” how it was seductive, and yet he decided he wasn’t ready to be part of it.

Today, nearly thirty years later, Jimmy doesn’t live in Manhattan or LA. He lives in a small town in Michigan. A treat for him is Red Lobster, not Chez Panisse. He doesn’t drive a car. He shops at Walmart. He’s ordinary. But Jimmy saw “the light” and he carries a bit of it with him as he pushes a broom, or grabs a bag of onion rings at the Dairy Queen, or weeds the garden on his hands and knees. He’s different, and fortunately for us, he lets everyone who crosses his path know that they, too, are extraordinary.