Inching to recovery

Brad Lively, a 6-foot-5, 275-pound former college tight end, lies on his back on a padded adjustable bed in a small rehab room inside the Fitness Plus workout facility. His right foot is planted flat against a raised surface.

His face, which looks younger than his 38 years, quivers in pain and determination as he scoots his upper body farther down the table, forcing his rear end closer to his heel. He scoots an inch. An exhale. Another inch. A grimace. Another inch. Another shade of red.

Physical trainer Neal Tanner holds a clear plastic tool, like a bendable protractor, against Lively's leg, measuring it closely for range of motion.

Lively strains even more as sweat beads on his forehead.

This is Lively's daily afternoon routine now. But as tough as the work is, his life is 112 degrees better than it was 11 months ago.

A year ago on June 14, Lively, a sergeant with the Missouri State Highway Patrol, tried to pull over a couple of motorists who were speeding on Interstate 55 near Cape Girardeau.

The story started at 10:07 a.m. on that June 14. Lively only knows what the rest of the public knows about that day, what has been stated in the accident report.

The part of Lively's brain that holds memories shut down that day. His mind won't conjure up what was he was thinking when he stepped out onto the road, trying to wave over speeding vehicles to the shoulder. It doesn't allow him to remember the black sport utility vehicle that pulled over and the red 2004 Oldsmobile Alero that was following the SUV, several hundred feet away. He may never remember the look on the face of the driver, Talisa Jackson of St. Louis, who was trying to stop, trying to avoid him.

He can't replay the moment he raised his arm to protect his face as the vehicle, traveling 29 to 34 miles per hour, snapped his lower legs. He can't recall rolling onto the hood, hitting the windshield and bouncing off the windshield frame. He can't recall what he saw as his then-310-pound body flew 60 feet in the air and landed in the grassy median between the north and southbound lanes. Or how he tried to get up despite his condition.

His only memories of that day come from witnesses and from the patrol's crash investigators who pieced together what happened.

His wife, Tracey, remembers the day much more clearly. She was working at the office of the Kies Eye Center when a friend's auto-mechanic husband, who has a police scanner, heard the emergency call and called his wife at work.

"I don't think it's him," Tracey told her friend when she relayed the information. "He wasn't supposed to go in until 11 or 12."

"They said it was Badge 908," Tracey's co-worker said.

Tracey's heart sank. She knew it was him.

The frantic wife, a nurse for 19 years, raced to the hospital to reach her husband and got there before the helicopter arrived.

He recognized her. He was alert. But in a lot of pain.

The next 72 hours were filled with various terrifying moments.

Muscles, when injured, release a complex substance called myoglobin. Myoglobin is a big compound, difficult for the kidneys to filter in quantity. In the hours following the accident, Brad's kidneys began to shut down because they were overloaded. He was put on blood thinners, and he pulled through.

He was also close to losing his right leg. The bone was crushed, according to Tracey, like a jigsaw puzzle. At first, doctors and EMTs couldn't find a pulse in the foot. Finally, a nurse felt a faint beat and doctors determined the leg could be saved.

Emergency doctors were forced to relieve the pressure from massive swelling. Imagine a hot dog when the skin is broken. Surgeons cut Brad's skin like a hot dog, exposing the muscles. His right leg was a mess.

His jaw was broken, too. Brad figures it happened when his arm and face hit the windshield. They had to wire his jaw shut. He wouldn't eat solid food for weeks.

He also broke four ribs and had a collapsed lung.

And he fractured two vertebrae in his back.

A general surgeon, an orthopedic surgeon, a neurosurgeon and a vascular surgeon all helped perform a multitude of surgeries, involving countless pins, screws and rods.

He spent 11 days in the intensive care unit. Once he was stabilized and the morphine haze lifted, realilty set in. The biggest question was whether he would walk again.

Doctors didn't think so. His doctor predicted a maximum range of motion of about 90 degrees. The normal range is 140 degrees. He would struggle with strength, circulation and feeling. There wasn't any part of his right leg that didn't escape damage. The bones, the muscles, the blood vessels and nerves would all have to heal. It wasn't going to be easy.

Doctors equipped Brad with a stabilizing device for support so his bones would grow back straight. Surgeons drilled screws into his bones. On the outside of his leg, the screws attached to long titanium bars.

Before he could go home, the first thing Brad had to manage was getting himself out of bed and into a wheelchair. He used a board, and with his arms and upper body learned to drag the dead weight of his lower body into the chair.

In the back of his mind, Brad decided he would walk again.

Amazed by support

Brad and Tracey were amazed by the support offered by the community. A golf tournament raised more than $7,500. An entertainment benefit at Notre Dame raised more than $5,000. Tracey's brother took off work and flew down to pour a new concrete pad in the back of the house so Brad could wheel into the house. Fellow troopers mowed his grass and cleaned his pool. Strangers sent fruit baskets and get-well cards and dropped off checks to a bank where an account had been set up for his recovery. His father, a movie buff, dropped off rented movies nearly every day.

Brad doesn't remember anything about June 14, but he remembers vividly the way that his community supported him after the accident.

The highway patrol gave Tracey a box of thank-you cards with the patrol's logo. There were 200 cards in the box. That wasn't enough.

The gestures were overwhelming, and they inspired Brad. His fellow troopers came to his aid on many occasions. He figured he owed it to them to get back to work.

Home life was an adjustment. Tracey gave away a couch and end tables so she could move a hospital bed into the living room. Brad's children, then-4-year-old Savannah and 1-year-old Bronson, were standoffish at first. They couldn't sit in their daddy's lap, but eventually learned that they could cuddle next to him in bed and watch television.

Tracey quit her job to help take care of her husband. She also took care of the children. When Brad was woozy from the medication, she also made his medical decisions.

"I couldn't leave my wife even if I had to," Brad says. "I owe a lot to her. She saved my life."

Depressed at times

On Aug. 13, two months after the accident, Lively was well enough to make it to his first rehab. He was paired up with Tanner, the physical trainer, who started Lively off by building upper body strength.

Lively more or less had been laying in a bed for two months. For a couple weeks during that time, he couldn't eat anything that didn't fit through a straw. So by the time Lively was ready to work his legs back into shape, he was weak.

Lively is generally an upbeat guy with a positive attitude. But there were times during his rehab when he would get depressed, when taking steps seemed impossible.

He incorrectly thought that once his doctor said his legs were strong enough to support his weight, that walking wouldn't be that difficult. But the first time he stood up with the aid of a walker, he felt as if surgeons had mistakenly attached someone else's legs to his body. They wouldn't move, no matter how hard he tried.

On Oct. 20, Lively began work on the parallel bars at the gym. Eventually he made his legs work.

Lively and Tanner kept at it, three days a week at first, one small movement after another. After a while, Lively talked his doctor into letting him work out five days a week. He would stretch and lift weights, and Tanner would test his range of motion. He began an impressive regimen. Five days a week. Two to three hours a day.

First he walked with a walker. Then two crutches. Then one crutch. Then a cane.

It wasn't long before the parallel bars couldn't contain him. Trainers helped him walk around the track once.

He watched other patients come in, some of them children with genetic disorders. He realized they would love to trade spots with him. Those children helped him push a little harder.

His range of motion kept going up. Past 80. Then 85. Then 90.

Last week, Lively's motion reached a new high. One hundred and 12 degrees. His new goal: 120 degrees.

Six weeks ago, he all but ditched the cane. Every day, he walks a mile, eight times around the track with no one there to catch him.

The only aid he uses is a brace around his calf and nerve-damaged foot. His foot tingles as if it were asleep because the nerve still hasn't healed. The brace helps him lift his foot up when he walks so he doesn't trip.

His lower calf is still obviously swollen, but doctors tell him that will continue to improve as his veins and arteries right themselves. He still wears braces on his teeth, too.

Otherwise, he looks great. And so does his future.

Two ultimate goals

Brad has a doctor appointment on June 20. Then, his doctor will let him know if he's healthy enough to go back to work, where he'll begin light duty. He has two ultimate goals: to patrol the highways again and to run a 5K race.

Tracey still gets a little choked up when talking about the accident, the long recovery, the sacrifices that had to be made, her husband's determination and all the community support. Ultimately, though, life has a ring of normalcy about it. Brad helps take care of the children and the house. He still works, only in the gym instead of the highways.

She never used to worry about her husband at work. She said she doesn't know how she'll feel when he gets back into a patrol car again. But it's part of who he is, she says. It's in his blood. She wants to see her husband happy and can't imagine he would be happy doing anything else.

The doctors say he won't be able to play contact sports like softball or basketball anymore. They also say he won't be able to run again.

To that, Lively just grins and chuckles softly as if someone just offered him a challenge. A doctor telling him he won't be able to do something?

Yeah, he's heard that before.

bmiller@semissourian.com

243-6635