The Emotional Struggle

By Brandon Ryan

This book is my honest attempt at confession—a huge confession, requiring everything that had been lodged in the chambers of my soul to aid in expression. Drawing them out, I have broken the locks that kept my deepest thoughts stored away. This book means so much to me, but I know my stories. I feel them, just as you must living with yours. Yet this is just as much for you as it is for me. I typed this entire book with my left hand, solely the first finger of my left hand; it was for you.
The Emotional Struggle has been a dream of mine, and it has been nearly three years in the making. It started with a year of writing everyday trying to perfect what was going to be a chance to inspire people; to understand that no matter how bad life can be at times, there is always a way out. And life can get better.
But in order to get better, in order to leave the past behind, you have to fight. You have to hold your head high and know that there is a purpose for breathing at this very moment. There is always an open invitation of grace waiting for you in the pierced hands of a man who gave himself up for all humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 16, 2007
• ISBN: 9781434348128

Book preview

Introduction

Welcome to the Emotional Struggle

My Mom always told me I should write a book. Honestly, I shrugged off the suggestion. I thought, What does a twenty-two year old know?  I ran from the idea of typing out the stories of my life, thinking no one would ever take the time to read them. It wasn’t until I experienced the difficult moments, the painful moments (that ache in places I never thought possible) that I had a story to tell. And you, you have something to share with people, with those who may be somewhat like you or maybe not like you at all; but what you have to share is worthwhile.

This book, these chapters, pages, and stories are my honest attempt at confession—a huge confession, requiring everything that had been lodged in the chambers of my soul to aid in expression. Drawing them out, I have broken the locks that kept my deepest thoughts stored away. This book means so much to me, but I know my stories. I feel them, just as you must feel yours. Yet this is just as much for you as it is for me. I typed this entire book with my left hand, solely the first finger of my left hand; it was for you.

When you finish reading this take a few moments to reflect on your own life, where you’ve been and what you’ve done. You are not alone; I can promise you that. I’ve hurt people and done things that I’m entirely ashamed of. But, you know what? I can’t change what I’ve done, and I do not want to. What’s done is done. We all have to learn to let go and not beat ourselves up for missing the mark.

Again, this is to show you the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of the life I’ve lived, and to show you what life can be like if you let love, hope, mercy, compassion, perseverance, and forgiveness be your building blocks. You will not be the same again; I am not the same.

In prayer there is a connection between what God does and what you do. You can’t get forgiveness from God, for instance, without also forgiving others. If you refuse to do your part, you cut yourself off from God’s part.

~Matthew 6:14 (The Message)

What are so many people searching for? Do people really know what their deepest desires are anymore? Is it the American dream of greed for wealth, a nice house, car, power, a spouse and children? So many people are trying to exceed those who went before them. Why?

We live in a spiritually and emotionally depraved world. This means starvation and poverty. That means loneliness, rejection, fear, envy, bitterness, and self-centeredness.

Are we nearsighted? Have we become blind to suicide, the third leading cause of death among teenagers? Have we lost sight of how precious and valuable life is? Can we even put a finger on the causes for such pain and agony? Is it good versus evil? Is it the consequence of our parents’ sin? Or is it because of our sins? While broadcasted by society, many people haven’t considered these questions. I am thankful for those that do. If we really want answers, we must first be ready and willing to except the truth. Prepare to discover my truth.

Hospital

Home Away From House

I, Brandon Lee Ryan, have been through many of life’s hardest struggles. Born with Cerebral Palsy, the uphill battle started early. September 18, 1984 was the day my mother gave birth to her first and only boy. I breathed my first free breath in a hospital at Wurtsmith Air Force Base, Michigan. I was transferred soon after to Saginaw General Hospital. The initial problem that Dr. Chai-Yakarn Soontharotoke encountered was as follows:

Brandon is three and one half months old according to gestational age. He was born thirty-one weeks gestation, suffering from severe respiratory distress with respiratory failure that required mechanical respiratory support. There was evidence of prenatal hypoxia. During the neonatal course he was found to have evidence of intraventricular hemorrhage with mild-to-moderate dilatation of the ventricle.

You don’t need to know Latin or even human anatomy to interpret that my health was in question; the words severe, distress, and failure should at least serve as situation clues. Let me translate.

Intraventricular means within the ventricles. Hemorrhage means excessive bleeding. Intraventricular hemorrhage (IVH) is bleeding inside or around the ventricles, the spaces in the brain containing cerebral (relating to the brain) spinal fluid. IVH is most common in premature babies, especially those weighing very little at birth, less than three pounds, four ounces.¹

So, turning technical jargon into laymen’s terms, I was born prematurely. And one of the affects was excessive internal bleeding. Not fun stuff.

Kimberly Ryan, my mother, was twenty-seven when I was born. She had previously given birth to my sister Jessica. Jessica is now twenty-seven years old and married to her husband Nic.

My mother vowed to be a stay-at-home mom and proceeded to offer daycare to other children as well. My dad served twenty-one years in the United States Air Force and taught Martial Arts in his spare time. His spare time became the foundation for my life, as I’ll explain further in the story.

The affects of Cerebral Palsy drastically limited my range of motion. Growing up my disability made my body very stiff, which resulted in an all out war for whoever was dressing me. The stiffness often made it hard for them to slide my right arm through any form of T-shirt. To counteract my spastic tendencies, I was medicated with Valium. The doctors’ main purpose with the prescription was to relax my body so that everyday activities such as getting dressed would not be as difficult.

Going through kindergarten and grade school was awkward. Not only did I have to deal with other kids my age, as every child does, but there weren’t many kids that looked like me externally. There were probably two other kids around that had various physical aliments worse than mine.

It was easy to be around others who were physically challenged. When we occupied the same space, in those moments, we were on the same level. Our frequencies traveled with equal wavelengths, and seemed to meet in the middle.

I remember being bound to a wheelchair during school hours for part of my childhood. At the start of each school day, we had a regular morning routine. The mornings that everyone loved were, of course, the regular ones. I’d get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, and go sit in front of the TV. Most days it was The Power Rangers and I. The bus came around 7:45 AM.

I can’t quite remember my elementary school bus driver’s name, perhaps Debbie. Either way, she would lower down a really nifty lift that always caught my attention as it unfolded. She would press a switch and the lift would slowly lower. As it hit the ground, it made a crunchy, skin crawling sound. The bus was number twelve. This bus also shaped the memories of my childhood.

The wheelchair was larger than I was, perhaps even five times my size. I couldn’t see over it, because the back piece towered over my head. In order for me to see over it, I had to pull myself up. I couldn’t reach the wheels because they were small and too far from my elevated hands. Living in and out of this wheel chair was a blessing and a curse all rolled into one: a blessing because when the time came for everyone to be seated at their desks, I already had mine, and a curse because when recess came, every kid in the class pelted out to the playground while I remained strapped to my chair, watching my classmates enjoy the freedom of running like chickens with their heads cut off. They played soccer, climbed monkey bars, and slid down the slides at full speed. I sat.

Do I seem bitter or even a bit jealous? Indeed I was, not only of their activities, but also their attire. While kids were wearing normal shoes and socks, I was wearing Ankle-Foot Orthoses (AFO’s). Each AFO covered my ankle and calf, positioning my foot forward. While they might seem beneficial to the common eye, they weren’t entirely. They often left welts on my feet. The AFO’s were made in such a way that two metal screws were positioned next to my ankle. I remember sitting in class sometimes, just begging the teacher or my assistant to take my braces off for maybe five minutes. But because my doctor said so, I had to wear them, even if that meant intense discomfort.

When school was over, the bus driver delivered me to my parents. And first thing, my mom or dad would lift me out of that larger-than-life wheelchair and place me onto the nice comfortable couch in our living room. Then, it was off with my braces, which felt like heaven on foot, as the soothing air wisped over my sweaty hurting feet.

Throughout my childhood, I endured a great amount of physical pain. My very first operation was a rhizotomy. The purpose of that operation was to improve my posture, allowing me to sit up straight and to relieve the tightness in my leg muscles, improving plasticity. For this procedure, a surgeon makes an incision approximately six inches long over the lower area of the spinal chord. Next, the nerves that cause the muscles to tighten are found and cut.

Arriving at Children’s Hospital early in the morning, I really had no idea what I was in for except a lot of pain. The hospital was cold and silent, so silent that if at any time a pin dropped to the floor, the noise could have woken the entire hospital.

From the entryway my family and I went into a giant elevator that took us to the pre-operating room. When we arrived at our destination, we opened the brown wooden door to a world of bright colors, toys, a TV, and a very, very comfortable waterbed. I remember being let down from my wheelchair to play with the toys for a while, then going over to the nice comfortable waterbed and lying down. It was like home, but not exactly home. It was still home-like, if you know what I mean. I recall a nurse calling for me, Brandon Ryan. Keep in mind that I was still extremely young (six or seven years old), so I really had to go with the flow of things.

My dad picked me up and put me back into my larger-than-life wheelchair, and then we were off, following the nurse into a room that wasn’t as colorful as the room we had been in before. I remember the nurse saying to me, I’m going to prick your finger, is that ok? I remember nodding my head, trying not to show the fact that my heart was in my stomach.

Next, I sensed rubbing alcohol living up to its name, as the nurse applied it to my finger. I glanced at the needle the nurse had with her. As my eyes fixed onto it she said, Oh don’t worry, it’s not a big needle. It’s just a small one, as if that offered me any comfort.

The next thing I knew, my mom was covering my eyes saying, Don’t look! My entire body quivered because I knew that the small needle was getting closer to my finger. Then the nurse said, OK; on the count of three. Ready? I shook my head forcefully. The nurse counted aloud, One, Two, Three. Poke!

As the needle jabbed my skin, my body convulsed from the feeling. A few moments later my mom removed her hands from my eyes. The nurse used a small cotton ball to stop the bleeding and placed a bandage on my finger.

I went back to the bright-colored playroom to sit with my family, waiting for the time when I would have to be strong. I felt like I had to become a man faster than any boy. Before I knew it, my doctor’s assistant came in to get me. While his exact words do not come to mind, I understood that the time had arrived.

My family accompanied me to a different room with a single hospital bed and dim ambient lighting. The same nurse who had poked my finger (with the small needle) instructed me to get up on the bed. She gave me an ugly white hospital gown (I kid you not; it was ugly. Not that it matters, honestly). My mom helped me put the gown on.

Then the nurse came back, telling me to take some medicine that would help me relax. I don’t remember exactly how the medicine tasted, but I’m sure it was gross. I laid down a bit, with only the operation on my mind, not really knowing how much pain waited to test my endurance. All the pondering must have swept the remaining time away, because before I knew it, the time had finally come.

The nurse entered the room once again. This time she raised the sidebars on the hospital bed, almost trapping me inside. My feet were wrapped in blankets. I was wheeled down a series of hallways. And during those moments, what sticks out in my mind most is lying in that hospital bed, wailing, crying loudly as I waited outside of the operating room (OR).

Everyone was waiting for the surgeons, Dr. Hellbush and his team, to finish the preparations. For some reason—maybe it was the medicine—all that I remember is someone saying, Brandon, calm down. Everything will be okay. Nonetheless, I cried. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. When the operating room was ready I was wheeled in, and immediately I asked a nurse standing next to me, Where is my doctor? He’ll be here soon, she reassured. A few short minutes later, I heard a voice say, Hi Brandon. As I slowly rolled my head to the left, I realized that it was Dr. Esposito. I must admit, at seven years old, hearing a calming voice like his really did slow my anxious racing heart.

Another nurse stood over me, holding an oxygen mask. As she placed the mask over my nose and mouth, she explained, This will help you go to sleep. Next, she instructed, Count back from a hundred. And as I did what she directed me to, I was out cold!

The operation lasted about eight hours. Of course, I was asleep for the entire duration. However, I awoke to a nurse saying, Brandon, wake up. Brandon, can you hear me? Her questions were rather annoying because my throat had dried to the extent that I could barely speak, let alone reply intelligently. After not eating anything for twenty-four hours, the feeling wasn’t very pleasant. Upon fully awakening, I remember being moved to ICU (The Intensive Care Unit). Once in the room, I looked to my right to see a newborn smile at me.

My dad sat next to my bed, as I lay there motionless, afraid to move. Even the slightest gesture roused my nervous system to that deep six-inch cut on my back. I don’t remember much about being in the ICU except for being tired, hungry, and eager to move to my own room where I could possibly get some rest. My dad told me that I should consider taking a nap, and only a few moments later my eye lids closed for what seemed to be several hours but was really only about five minutes. Upon waking up my dad mentioned something about eating a steak. I must say, that did sound delightful.

I knew that my hopes for my own room were fulfilled when we went back into the enormous elevator. Arriving on the correct floor, we were led down several hallways with grotesque green carpet, down another straight hallway, ending with an extremely large door, all to get to my room. As we entered, I observed how the room was wide open. It was furnished with a small TV attached near the summit of two walls, in the front corner of the room.

As I lay there, my mom opened the curtains. The sun broke through as if it had been held captive by darkness, and my eyes made their adjustments. I glanced out the window, and my gaze fixed on the most amazing store in a young kid’s life, Toys R Us. Yes, that’s right. That was my favorite store in the whole wide world, and nothing could compare. There in that room more time elapsed (I’m not sure exactly how long). I waited, again not knowing why. Little did I know, I was waiting to encounter a physical sensation I would never forget.

The hospital bed was elevated so that I sat up slightly. Sitting all the way upright would have increased my senses’ awareness of the cuts and changes made during the operation, which would have been too painful for me to bear. But soon I would be asked to move.

Dr Esposito came into the room and said something to the effect of, Its time we sit you up out of bed. That shocked me. I had just gotten out of my first operation; I was still tired and cranky because my stomach was empty; was I expected to endure more? The only thing I was allowed to consume was perhaps some 7UP or some ice chips. But with those options, and me in my situation, I wanted every ounce I could get. I never knew 7UP could taste so good. With my throat as dry as it was, all I wanted to do was down the entire can at once; but wisely and carefully my mom gave me small sips, one at a time. The idea of my doctor wanting to sit me up in bed so soon was clearly outrageous, at least in my mind. One would think that I needed some down time from mobility, but that wasn’t the case.

Honestly, I do not remember each person involved in moving me off and to the side of my hospital bed. I do recall it taking several nurses plus my mom and dad. The entire process hurt. All it really required was scooting me to the side of my bed and then hanging my legs over the edge.

Do you remember the fear that I described having upon going into the operation (until the very last second)? That same terrible fear came rushing over me again. It was as if I had a bounty on my head or I was on death row, something life threatening. A lump developed in my throat and my eyes started stinging as the tears formed. Then it happened. A nurse elevated my bed to the point that I was sitting upright. I could feel the insigne (area where the operation had been performed) stretch with every second of movement.

Next in the procession was a nurse who cradled her arm under mine, slowly rotating me to my right. I wore agony on my face with every passing second. Only moments later several nurses came in. Then a few more came. And before I could catch my breath, nurses were pulling me up until I sat completely straight. The tears burst from behind my eyes like a scene from Water World with Kevin Costner. I began to scream as loud as a metal-band vocalist.

I remember grabbing the nurses’ white lab coats, still screaming and crying my heart out, trying to expel the pain of the experience. The part that hurt most was when all the nurses finally managed to bring my legs over the edge. As my legs hung over, the pain intensified with each breath. It felt like having several knives dug into my back with no intention of stopping. I don’t remember much about the moments that followed that vivid and overwhelming scene.

Physical Therapy

Trying and Truing of the Physique

The next chapter in my life brought physical therapy. I always hated the words; they meant that I had to bare pain by myself. Alone. Even with all the caring faces around me, no one could understand the pain of my recovery but me. Who expects someone to go through so much at such a young age? If I wanted to get better, if I wanted to be stronger, then I had to be a fighter. I either had to fight through all the pain or just roll over and die. I had those options to face every day.

Allow me to take you back into my hospital room only a few hours after my tendon-lengthening surgery. I lay there in my bed with both legs upright; my doctor came into my room to check on me. He said that my legs would naturally straighten by themselves. I wanted to believe him, but in the back of my mind, I just knew that was clearly not the case. Even when my doctor tried to gently move one of my legs down, even the slightest bit, the pain was indescribable. Physical therapy required more than mere movement. Getting me out of the hospital bed was a task in and of itself, as I tell you this story its like I’m back in that very room.

I can remember the extreme agony I felt the moment my feet hit the floor. It was as if all my weight pressed down on my