Bruce Bennett
Kathy Bicknell
smiles as she holds her son Casey during a weekend visit to the family
home in Stuart. He is receiving treatment for traumatic brain injury at
Florida Institute for Neurologic Rehabilitation in Wauchula, where he stays during the week. (Bruce R. Bennett/The Palm Beach Post)
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Bruce Bennett
Casey Bicknell. Family photo
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Bruce Bennett
Barry
Bicknell (left) and Michael Munz (right) spend time in the Bicknells’
pool with Casey (center) during a weekend visit. “Casey is a water nut, ”
said his dad. “He loves to get in the pool. He lights up.” (Bruce R.
Bennett/The Palm Beach Post)
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Bruce Bennett
Barry Bicknell
(left) encourages his son Casey (right) during a physical therapy
session with Rebecca Schillo (far left) at Florida Institute for
Neurologic Rehabilitation in Wauchula. Here, Casey gives his dad a mock
punch on the jaw. “It blows me away that he can smile through all this,”
said Barry. “That’s his personality. (Bruce R. Bennett/The Palm Beach
Post)
Champion Martin County High School swimmer receives diploma almost three years after debilitating accident
Family of 18-year-old in near-fatal crash at Palm Beach International Raceway fights to keep his care
Man, 18, in serious condition after crash at Palm Beach International Raceway
By Leslie Gray Streeter
Palm Beach Post Staff Writer
“Kick, Casey. Kick.”
Casey
has been at this all day. The kicking. The answering of questions. The
repetitious, non-stop demands to master some task, and then do it again.
And again.
He pauses, obviously exhausted, and it’s clear that he doesn’t want to do it anymore. But that’s not an option.
“Come
on, Casey,” his father says, his tone never wavering, even as his boy
begins to sweat tiny beads from under his tousled blond bangs. “You can
do this. Kick.”
Casey doesn’t say anything, and his bright blue
eyes don’t quite make contact. But under that sweet, blond angel face,
you can almost feel his response. And it’s not cuddly.
“That’s OK,” his father says. “You still have to try. Kick, Casey.”
A never-give-up family
“In
our old world,” is how Barry Bicknell describes it nowadays. In that
world, his 21-year-old son Casey could have knocked out those kicks in
his sleep, or under water. A lean, champion swimmer, Casey Bicknell
lived in the pool so much that he jokingly attributed his “Best Hair”
award in the 2010 Martin County High School yearbook to all the chlorine. He was full of jokes and school spirit, crowded by friends. The life of the party.
In
his new world, Casey Bicknell still loves the water. But now, he’s
supported in the pool not by his hard-earned muscles but by a special
lift that can lower him from his wheelchair. The class that voted for
him has graduated and moved onto college, while Casey struggles for
speech, and stares at a computer screen, trying to figure out whether
the image he sees is a giraffe or a cat.
Three years ago, Casey’s
future seemed limitless – college, a career in civil engineering, maybe
marriage, kids, and endless hours in the sunshine. But that was before
he got in a car crash at Palm Beach International Raceway that nearly
killed him and caused a traumatic brain injury. Now, words like “future”
and “plans” are much more humble, measured in words spoken and kicks completed. The world is full of “if,” not “when.” It’s a world no one predicted.
But
anyone who’s ever known the Bicknells could have predicted how they’d
respond, this group of improbably good-looking and driven Type-A’s -
“Triple A,” their friend Joe Petroski says. By moving forward. Always
forward. But with more reliance on the kindness of others – “Casey’s
angels,” Barry calls them - than those driven, old-world Bicknells ever
would have considered accepting.
“He’s so lucky to have that
family,” says Casey’s former chemistry teacher, Patty Bros. “It’s
amazing to be here in this community. They’re never gonna give up on
him.”
On Jan. 6, 2010, the family was all together, as usual, at
the western Palm Beach County speed track to watch Casey participate in
an organized drag race. His parents had bought him a 2006 Corvette
because he’d kept his grades up and been responsible. And “since it was a
race car, and race cars are supposed to go fast,” Barry suggested he
see what that car could do.
With video cameras in hand, the
Bicknells watched Casey’s Corvette challenge another car. The speeds
went up to 108.86 mph by the close of the 1/4 mile race, but Casey’s car
didn’t stop at the end of the track. Instead, it went past the racing
area, into a gravel pit and hit a stack of tires. (Lawsuits over the
crash were filed by the Bicknells in 2011, but are still pending.)
Casey’s body was barely touched, but his brain was another story.
The
doctors later told his father that the injuries were so grave that they
wondered whether they should try to save him. He suffered severe head
trauma, requiring two hemicraniectomies, or skull cap removal.
Nearly
three years later, he is not yet that old Casey - and might never be.
He is still unable to walk, and relies on his wheelchair, but spends
time in a standing device and is able to follow commands, like his
kicking exercises. He can follow people with his eyes, and can form a
few words depending on his medication.
But he laughs. And smiles. And gives lots and lots of fist bumps.
A life split apart
The Bicknells weren’t prepared — who could be? — for life after Casey’s accident.
After
a month in ICU at St Mary’s in West Palm, a year in an Atlanta rehab
and a short, heartbreaking stint trying to care for him at their sunny
Stuart home, the incredibly close family now spends much of its time
apart. Daughter Brittany is at Florida Gulf Coast University in Fort
Myers. Wife Kathy, 51, lives her days on the road as a pharmaceutical
rep.
And five days a week, Barry, 54, and Casey can be found three
hours from home in remote, tiny Wauchula, their days a tightly
scheduled, never-ending maze of appointments and therapy. Here, on the
massive campus of Florida Institute for Neurologic Rehabilitation
(FINR), the former athlete fights to control his muscles, to swallow, to
try to speak.
Through it all, the first coach Casey ever had –
his dad – is there beside him, behind him, in front of him. “I can push
him in ways they can’t,” Barry says.
And when his exhausted boy is
settled into his room, the former high-flying vice president for
Wachovia drives tiredly back to the single-wide trailer he lives in a
few miles away, to reflect on the day’s progress and setbacks, to call
Kathy and catch up on emails. To sleep and get up and do it again.
The
Bicknells used to spend weekends on their boat. Barry drove a Mercedes
Benz . They are both for sale – “These are things now, that in our new
world no longer fit,” he says. “Now I need a wheelchair accessible van
to move from Point A to Point B.”
After this week of coaching and
watching, and cheering and pushing, Barry will load his son into that
functional van and drive them both back to Stuart, where his mother,
sister and dog Bailey are waiting for him. He might get a massage, have
his teeth cleaned, get checked on and worked on. He will visit with
friends and family, in his old familiar room, in view of that sunny
pool. And then on Sunday, his dad will load him back into the van and
drive him back to Wauchula, so their exhausting week of work and
discovery can start all over again.
It never ends. It’s not what
they wanted. But if you tell Barry Bicknell that he’s heroic, or
unusually dedicated, he stops the praise with a silent hand and a head
shake.
“This is all-in,” he says simply, “If he’s having a good
day. I’m having a good day. It’s just what you do. Our old world can’t
come back. You don’t get a do-over.”
A community rallies around Casey
Traumas
come in unpredictable waves. First comes the initial emergency, its
violent touch and go crush of fervent prayers, last-chance surgeries and
big words being thrown out to explain conditions you can’t comprehend.
Those days are a sleepless mess of fumbling for phone calls you don’t
want to take, of squirming in hard chairs waiting for footsteps that
might deliver news you don’t want. Your days are not your own. Neither
are your thoughts.
“Of course, I blamed myself. I must be
punished. I must fall on my sword. I couldn’t let it go,” Barry admits.
“When your son’s hurt, you have to be able to take Kryptonite. You must
be willing to take that bullet for them. I thought ‘I’ll just fix
this.’”
Then, things stabilize into a weird sameness, and it
begins to dawn on you that this might not be a phase. “The doctors said
‘We saved his life. Now the hardest decisions are ahead of you,’” Barry
remembers.
In this new world, the Bicknells are experts in
traumatic brain injuries. But in the waning, desperate hours of their
old one, as the doctors at St. Mary’s Medical Center fought to keep
their son alive, they couldn’t grasp it.
”I thought, ‘So, my son
will be back to us in six months?’” Barry remembers asking. Wasn’t a
brain like anything else, like a foot or a hand? Couldn’t you just fix
it?
“I thought he’d just open his eyes and say ‘Mom,’” Kathy says. “They kept letting us know that we would have to be patient.”
“I used to say ‘There are no problems. Only solutions,’” Barry remembers. He laughs. “Now, I know we don’t control anything.”
Back
at Martin County High School, the shaken community rallied around him.
The female co-holder of the “Best Hair” title cut her crowning glory and
donated it to Locks of Love in Casey’s honor. Because he was wearing
his beloved letter-man jacket when he crashed, the school gave him a new
one.
“Casey was a good, all-around kid, the kind you want at your
school,” says Jan Hunt, who was Casey’s principal. “It stunned the
whole school. Students like to think that they’re invincible. Something
like this brings (reality) back home.”
While spending six months
at Atlanta’s Shepherd Center for initial rehab, other friends helped
out, without the Bicknells even noticing. One set took care of their dog
Bailey, so stressed that she began losing clumps of hair. Jesus Burgos,
whose lawn care business had never serviced the Bicknells “because
Casey used to do it,” noticed that the grass was unkempt and, after
finding out why, mowed it himself.
Meanwhile, Joe Keating of
Keating-Moore Construction, who had custom-fitted the Bicknell’s
canal-front home to a sunny open plan, got busy re-fitting it to their
new needs, including building an outdoor shower for Casey that, when his
caddy of accessories isn’t out there, looks like an ordinary pool
shower. “I said ‘What do we owe you?’ and Joe said ‘You owe me nothing,’” Barry says.
Having
their home refitted for Casey’s new journey cemented things for Kathy
“when we walked in for the first time, and saw the ramps and the shower.
Then, it was real,” she says.
They intended to care for Barry at
home. They had always done well, and Kathy’s benefits were good, so
Barry’s leave from Wachovia turned permanent, and he became President of
Casey, Inc. That’s what insurance was for, right? Yeah. This is the
part where those simple words like “plans” lose their meaning, become
gobbledygook. Even though their insurance, on paper, covered a certain
number of hours of physical and occupational therapy at him, the reality
was something else.
Without the constant therapy that he needed
to progress and to avoid spasticity or a permanent tightening of muscle,
Casey was retreating into a ball, curling up. “We watched that progress
go away. We got scared, because he was drawing in,” Barry says.
They
found the remote Florida Institute for Neurologic Rehabilitation in
Wauchula, in Hardee County, about 31 miles from Lakeland — “Drive to the
middle of nowhere and then go four more miles,” Barry jokes - and
decided that their family must split up, at least several days a week,
for Casey’s sake. The thought was agonizing for Kathy - “I’m Mama Bear,
and he’s Baby Bear. I had to trust him to strangers,” she says. “But I
had to do the right thing for my son. When I met the team up there, I
know right away they were going to treat him like their baby.”
He motivates the motivators
At
FINR, Casey wakes up at 8 a.m. to reggae music. His schedule is pretty
grueling, with occupational, speech and physical therapy from 9 a.m. to 3
p.m., almost a standard work day. And it is work - “It’s not a lot of
fun activity,” Barry says. “It does exhaust him.”
It’s not easy to watch your kid struggle, but work has to be done - “I know you’re so tired,” Barry says when they take a break.
On
this day, Casey’s getting his cast off. His leg isn’t broken, but one
is applied frequently to reposition it and avoid spasticity. “There’s
going to be a loud noise,” physical therapist Dr. Sarah Bense warns
Casey, as the whir of the small saw starts. His eyes flash slightly, but
he stays still.
“We know that he understands,” says Rebecca
Mitchell, speech language pathologist. “He feels empowered, that he can
make decisions in his life.”
At first, the Bicknells were hoping
that Casey might be able to take traditional classes and perhaps earn a
GED, but he’s not there. His speech therapist, Leslie Brewer, takes him
through an individual education plan, including reading comprehension.
Because he’s easily distracted, she turns him towards the wall, away
from the other students in the room and random noises.
But he’s getting it done.
“You
ask him to do something, he does it,” Brewer says. “He’s so social. And
he’s a jokester. He always wants to see what’s going on. It’s difficult
teaching (clients) motivation. He motivates us.”
The folks at
FINR have seen not only a breadth of client conditions, but of personal
situations as well. Sometimes, families drop them off and rarely, if
ever, check in. Barry Bicknell, they say, is remarkable. “Mr. Barry is
willing to try anything, if he thinks it’s going to help,” marvels
Jacquelyn Harrell, his residential services assistant.
Kelley
Denney, his case manager for nearly two years, says that family is
integral as motivation. “He’s the voice of Casey. A lot pf people don’t
have that family support. Barry dives in, head first.”
But Barry
shrugs. “We were a great family to begin with, very supportive of each
other,” he explains. “My son can’t speak. My son requires me to speak
for him.”
For a while, though, it seemed that he was beginning to.
With FINR’s permission, Barry had administered Casey a drug called
CerAxon, essentially “a brain vitamin” that had an immediate effect.
“Casey was vocalizing and making sounds and noises, but he hadn’t
phrased any words. Then he started moving his tongue and lips with what
we thought were words. And then he started saying, breathy, ‘Hhhhiiii,’”
he says. “Then as I was hugging him and telling him ‘I love you,’
shoulder to shoulder, I heard a mumbled ‘I love you.’ And we got ‘Mom’
five or six times.”
But as soon as the miracle began to take
shape, it evaporated. Around September, CerAxon was no longer available
in the United States, and FINR would no longer allow it. So for months, “we were in a period of silence.”
Right
now, Casey communicates through The Tobii machine, which registers his
answers to questions when his eye gaze settles on an image. A metallic
voice audibly confirms his answer. Right now, it’s how he has a
conversation.
“What’s your name?” Barry asks. Casey stares at the screen.
“My name is Casey,” the metallic voice says. “You can call me C.J.”
“Casey,” Barry says, “where’s your sister and your dog?”
“This is my sister, Brittany, and my dog, Bailey,” the voice says.
“I love you, Casey. Tell Dad you love him back.”
“I love you,” the metallic voice says. “I love you.”
“Keep telling me,” Barry says, beaming.
On the home front, a team of angels
“Open up big, Casey!”
It seems that this kid has so many angels in his life, he even has one as a dental hygienist.
“Big, big, big!” Suzy Angel instructs, as Casey complies. It’s a Saturday morning, back
home in Stuart. Not exactly normal hours, but every three months, Angel
and Dr. Steven Leikin, the family’s dentist, come in to clean Casey’s
teeth. As part of Casey’s home team, the Bicknells say they find them
inspirational. But inspiration is mutual.
“I love coming in here and listening to Barry talk,” Leikin says.
Casey’s
home team includes massage therapist Tiffany Davis, Sue Ellis of the
Martin County Pain Clinic, health care aide Rona Singh, and Joe
Petroski, a Stuart energy healer. There’s a time, Barry’s brother Jack
says, where they would not have been comfortable accepting all this
help.
“They were very self-sufficient. They’ve tried to maintain
that, as much as possible,” he says. “But they have needs beyond that. I
can only imagine how hard that is to lose so much of their privacy. But
they inspire me.”
Before, the Bicknells’ weekends were full of
activity and travel, although workaholic Type-A’s don’t vacation easy –
Barry was accepting so many work-related packages and phone calls on
their trips, even in the Caribbean, that Kathy finally booked them on a
cruise where they couldn’t be reached. Now, their “special night is
ordering in Pei Wei,” Barry says.
The home team also includes
Brittany, who comes home every other weekend, and best friend Michael
Munz, who’s known Casey since they were three or four years old. “I see
him whenever I come home, three or four times a month,” says Munz, who
is at University of Central Florida.
For his sister, who “used to
do everything” with her brother, she’s coping with a dramatic change in
the person she calls “my best friend.
“But I hear his laugh, and I know he’s trying to talk to me. He was definitely the funny one. He still is.”
Michael
agrees. “He’ll give me a fist bump. Brittany and I sometimes hold up
our fist, and he won’t do it right away, and then he’ll start laughing.
And we realize he’s toying with us!”
Faith has always been a part
of the Bicknells’ lives, but the accident and its aftermath tested that.
“We call ourselves ‘good Christians,’ and we were in God’s face daily,
asking for everything right now,” Barry says. “‘Come on, God! Where is
that miracle?’”
The miracle, the Bicknells have discovered, has
come not in one overwhelming flash but in small victories: Recognition.
Endurance. A smile. “I drive all the way up here from Lantana for that
smile,” says his aunt, Marylou Keleher.
The family was hoping he’d
be walking by now. But there are victories - his right side is getting
stronger, and he’s lifting with ten-pound weights, “which he loves!”
Kathy says.
Recently, Barry found another drug, with the same key
ingredient as Ceraxon, called Nuraxon. Soon, “Casey was again making
sounds. We haven’t heard a word from him yet, but we’re calling him
Gabby, because he will not shut up. I told him ‘I can’t believe I’d ever
have to tell you to shut up!’”
As Casey’s journey continues, life
continues. Kathy and Barry did recently take a 28th anniversary trip to
Pelican Cove Resort in Islamorada get away. But away from home doesn’t
mean away from that nagging tug of “What if” that you can’t do anything
about.
“It was bittersweet,” Kathy admits. “I remember being pregnant down there with Brittany. We took a lot of trips there.”
This is part of the new world, where nothing is like you thought it would be.
“Recovery
now means that I have my son. I’m not getting my Casey back,” Barry
says. “But I do have my son. He is aware. He is laughing. And we’re not
done with him.”
At last, a dream achieved
Throughout
Casey’s recovery, one thing has nagged at the Bicknells. At the time of
his accident, Casey was about five months and two credits away from
earning his high school diploma, because of the extra credits he’d
gotten from AP courses.
Barry started contacting everyone that he
could to see about awarding him his diploma. At question was whether
he’d be granted a regular diploma, which the family wanted – “It’s not
like he’s going to try to use it to go to college,” Barry says plainly.
“When your kid works so hard, and he gets down to the one yard line, and
didn’t get to spike the ball, and can’t finish it, it’s hard.”
But, finally, after months of trying, the goalposts are in sight. Casey is graduating.
“I’m
thrilled. So is Casey,” Barry says on this early December weekend,
standing in the balloon-filled media center at Martin County High
School. He leans down, pats his son on the shoulder of his blue gown,
matching the cap tilted on his blond head. “You’re graduating!”
Al
Fabrizio is now the principal at Martin High. He wasn’t Casey’s
principal, but he knew who he was. And after talking to Barry about it,
he says the decision was easy – “One of the fundamental questions I
always ask is ‘Is this good for kids?’ and if it is, we do it. In these
circumstances, it was a very easy answer.”
In the end, Casey was
awarded a special diploma through the county’s Challenger School
program, one he’d earned enough credits for. It wasn’t what they wanted.
But this is not a day for regrets. Casey smiles slightly, gives out
some fist bumps. The room is filled with supporters – Casey’s angels,
flying in from different parts of his life but all here to wish him
well.
Kathy wheels Casey to the front of the room, as everybody
stands. “Pomp and Circumstance” begins to play, and fades out as
Principal Fabrizio welcomes the crowd and introduces Barry. It’s a
tradition for parents to buy pages in their children’s high school year
books reflecting on their accomplishments and congratulating them. Back
in 2010, when they were expecting to be attending a much different
graduation, the Bicknells dedicated one to Casey.
They could not have known that it would be two years before that event would come to pass.
“’We
are excited as we watch you take your next big step,’” Barry reads,
keeping the smile on his face even with a catch in his throat. “’Your
future is in good hands – your own.’”
He clears his throat. Eyes in the room are dabbed.
“It’s
still amazing how that has a double meaning now for our family,” Barry
says. “We’re here to honor you, Casey. We can’t wait to see what you
will accomplish next.”
The diploma is conferred, and handed to
Casey, who beams, grips it tight, offers a fist bump. The tears
continue. As music plays, the Bicknells wheel their graduate back down
the aisle. Some of the family prepare to go back to the house, as
Casey’s excitement has now given way to a little tiredness – “He’s a
little overwhelmed now,” Barry says. “It’s a lot.”
But, on this day, there’s a feeling of closure.
“Casey’s worked so hard,” Barry says, beaming. “And now he gets to spike the ball.”
And as for the rest of the game?
“I keep telling him, ‘Don’t give up. It’s coming.’”
http://www.palmbeachpost.com/news/lifestyles/health/caseys-journey/nTnZC/