Nearly four years after a brutal attack, Carol Armstrong has made amazing progress. But her family and her life can never go back to before.

BY JENNIFER BERRY HAWES
The Post and Courier 03/26/06

When I first met Carol Armstrong three years ago, I met a woman nearly dead. I met a woman recovering from a vicious beating that broke nearly every bone in her face, that killed a large portion of her brain and left her mostly incapable of acting as a mother or wife. A stranger attacked Carol on a warm night in June 2002. He stole her car and left her dying in a slosh of blood outside the medical building she'd just finished cleaning. The trauma induced a stroke that caused her brain to swell. The swelling was so severe that her husband had but two choices for her: death or a life, mostly blind, in a wheelchair. Three years ago, I wrote a story about Carol and her doting husband, James. It was called "A Moment in Time." When people in our community read the story, they wrote checks — mostly small, personal ones — that totaled nearly $40,000. Fish restaurant and others held fundraisers.

Carol became something of a local celebrity, though she was unable to realize it. Then, time passed along. The checks trickled, though her medical bills continued. The celebrity waned. Carol faced life in a wheelchair, month after month after month. I recently met up with Carol again. This time, I met a Carol who wheeled up to me and held out her hand, who smiled and welcomed me to the nursing home where she spends her days. I met a Carol who talked about God and her children and the husband who has very much stuck by her side. I met a Carol whose big blue eyes with the superlong eyelashes focused right on me. I met a Carol very much alive.

Carol is, of course, thankful to God and her husband for keeping her alive to see her boys, who today are 13 and 8. But today Carol is angry. She's angry about all the things she cannot do, the life she cannot live no matter how hard she tries. Part of her, she says, is dead. She feels half-dead anyway. Carol wants to stick a Barbie doll inside a box and bury it as a funeral of sorts for the Carol whom I can never meet and who she will never, ever be again.

The thing about Carol is that she doesn't see how amazing she is. It's just not her style, not then and not now.

A moment in time

Maybe it's good that Carol remembers so little about what got her to today. Back then, she was a 37-year-old mother who cleaned office buildings at night. She remembers that much. It was to earn a little extra money. She used the money to buy a porch swing for her and James and to plant crape myrtles around it. She still could be home for her boys during the day. They'd hardly know she was gone. That June night, she'd kissed 4-year-old Alexander goodbye. She'd thanked James for the blueberry cobbler he'd made because she loved it. She'd reminded Jaime, who was 9, to study before bed. And the old Carol left the house. She was setting the security alarm at a medical office building in North Charleston when a man named Hugh Bolin III smashed her in the head. Over and over. Back at Carol's home in an Ashley Phosphate subdivision, the boys had fallen asleep. James typed a bit on the computer. The clock read 10:45 p.m. He almost called her cell phone because she usually headed home about that time. James waited until 11 p.m. to call. No answer. He figured she was inside the building and the signal was weak. He went to bed. At 2 a.m., he sat up in bed with a jolt. He called again. And again. She never worked so late. Finally, James drove to the office building. He pulled in and didn't see her car. He drove away. He missed Carol crumpled on the sidewalk near the back door. James returned home. At 5 a.m., the phone rang. A police officer had found Carol's purse way out on Folly Road. James panicked. He called his mother, Lynda, who drove to the office building. There she found Carol so swollen that she didn't really look like Carol at all. Lynda dialed 911. One of Carol's carotid arteries had gotten blocked, choking off blood to the right half of her brain. As the tissue died, her brain began to swell, pressing the living tissue against her skull.

An ambulance whisked Carol to the Medical University of South Carolina, where a neurosurgeon removed a portion of her skull the size of James' entire hand and planted it inside her abdomen to try and keep the bone alive. Hopefully, her brain tissue would expand through the hole, easing the pressure on the part still living. James, a quiet-spoken software designer, soon learned that Carol's brain continued to swell. The neurosurgeon proposed removing almost all of the right side of Carol's brain to try and save her. Doing nothing would be more risky, he warned. James went to Carol. He held her hand. He felt sure she was still in there. Around the same time, police captured Bolin, a muscular unemployed 26-year-old who had eluded police for three days along the East Coast. Bolin sobbed at his bond hearing.

James softly told the judge, "Our family's life is going to change forever because of this." Carol endured everything from life-threatening infections that invaded her brain to major surgeries to repair her shattered facial bones and to replace her skull. She turned 38 in the hospital. James brought her a teddy bear and sprayed it with his cologne. The bear, and James, became her security. When the rest of her body lay motionless, her eyes watched him everywhere he went. As she recuperated, Carol moved to a rehab hospital in Georgia and then to Life Care Center of Charleston, a skilled nursing facility about 100 yards away from James' work. She learned to sit up for a few seconds. She could say a few words. But Carol often was confused, and her short-term memory was weak. Her eyes wandered. Her face mostly looked blank. She didn't smile. Finally, six months after the attack, Carol returned home to her boys in a wheelchair, unable to move her left side.

But she was alive. And from the comfort of home one day, Carol wrote the names of her family members on cups, spelled correctly. She asked for a hymnal in church when the congregation sang. With James' help, she could hop on her right leg a few steps. She even got to meet Gov. Mark Sanford, who attended a fundraiser in her honor. Carol remembers none of that.

Today's Carol

Carol still lives in the home she left that June night. She can't wheel over the carpet very well, and the halls are too narrow for her chair. She can't get to the boys' rooms at all. A wheelchair-equipped van sits parked outside. The battery is dead, and something is wrong with the engine. They cannot afford to fix it. Carol spends most of her time at the kitchen table or in the living room. From there, she watches what this has done to her family.

It's a Wednesday night like any other, and Alexander fidgets at the kitchen table, ticked off by the homework Carol has ordered him to do. He's a friendly 8-year-old with blond hair and a blessing of energy. Lots of energy.

James bustles around the kitchen starting dinner. He picks up the living room a bit. He won't relax until after the boys are in bed and Carol's needs are met. Carol sits in her wheelchair wondering how she can help. She wheels up to the kitchen table across from Alexander. In some ways, she looks so much like the old Carol. Her hair drapes down her back, dark and wavy. Her eyes watch Alexander intently. She tries not to show it, but her gut tightens, waiting for the fight that often erupts at homework time.

Alexander starts to read the sheet in front of him. He has to choose the right word for a blank in a sentence. The sentence needs a word that has to do with writing. One word is paragraph. Then he hits a word he doesn't know. He fidgets with frustration. "Tell me the word," Carol urges. Alexander doesn't answer. "Spell it for me." He doesn't answer. Carol reaches her good arm across their wide kitchen table. She can't reach Alexander or the paper. She feels the anger boiling. "Give me the paper so I can see it." "You can't see!" Alexander finally hollers. "You can't read, Mom!" "If I can see it, I can read it!" she yells back. She sends Alexander to his room before he — and she — escalate more. It's true that Carol cannot see at all out of one eye and only out of half of the other. But if she can position the paper just right, she can see to read. "He thinks I'm stupid," she mutters.

Amazing Carol

Alexander was just 4 when the stranger attacked Carol, when suddenly Mommy was gone for a long time and when she came home, she needed more help than he did. His older brother, Jaime, remembers when Carol walked him to school, when she helped him catch bugs and took him to the movies. Carol isn't sure how he's handling it all. Jaime is a quiet soul, more like his father. But Alexander is feisty, like his mom. He, too, is angry.

"I wish you were like you were before!" he's shouted at her more than once.

"This is the way I'll be until the day I die," she shouted back the last time.

One time, Alexander ran inside their house hollering that a stranger was in the garage. The house alarm beeped. Carol froze. The phone was not near her. How would she protect Alexander and herself?

Her heart squeezed. Then James walked in. It had been him all along, and Alexander knew it. Carol wants so badly to have a loving mother-son relationship. But on the first day of school, Alexander wouldn't let her come inside with him. He said the other kids would laugh at her.

"I still wait for that miracle so I can wake up one morning and run into his room and pick him up and hug him," she says. "But I can't do that."

Carol rattles off a list of "cannots." She cannot put the dishes away. She cannot do the laundry. She cannot drive a car. She cannot make dinner. She cannot garden or chase after her boys. And because she cannot, Carol finds herself lecturing from her chair. Sometimes she lashes out at the people she loves. She knows that they all need counseling. She needs to grieve for the half of her that's dead. She wants her boys not to hate. She wants to give James a break. "My family is falling apart, and it's because of me," she says.

They can't afford a counselor. So they get by. When she lets Alexander out of his room after the homework fight, he runs outside to the treehouse in back that's falling apart from neglect. He zips past a TV cabinet that stores, among other things, a reproduction of Carol's skull that her doctors made. James picks it up and pulls off the hand-size piece that the neurosurgeon cut out. The cut goes from just above her ear to nearly halfway around the back of her head and up to the top center of her skull. All that brain tissue is gone.

That is what makes Carol so amazing. But she doesn't see it.

Daily grind It's a glorious spring day outside of Life Care Center of Charleston, the nursing home where, at 41, Carol spends each weekday. She volunteers here, so the facility gives her a place to stay while James works after he drops her off. An ambulance sits parked outside. Inside, a large group of residents sits in an elegant dining hall where the tables are pushed aside so lots of wheelchairs can squeeze in side by side.

It's karaoke day. Carol watches a woman up front lead the group of elderly people singing songs from their heydays, from an era where many have returned in their minds, songs from before Carol was born.

The woman croons an old Sinatra tune: "I ask you very confidentially, ain't she sweet ..." Some of the residents are sleeping in their wheelchairs, several sing, many watch quietly. Staff members walk around with microphones to pick up the sounds of those crooning along. An EMS crew walks by a picture window in front, pushing a stretcher loaded with gear. "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" comes on, and Carol claps her good hand onto her left. The woman beside her watches and begins to clap gingerly. Several people smile, a few swing their arms to the music and many join in.

"I don't care if I never get back! So it's root, root, root ..."

The songs end, and Carol tries to maneuver her wheelchair out of the crowded room. She pushes one wheel with her right arm, and struggles to propel her chair forward with her right foot. A woman wheels up to Carol, her face contorted with fear, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I feel like I'm old!" she wails. "My family is far away! They're supposed to be here, and they're not." Carol answers gently. "They'll come, they love you."

She wheels over, grasps the woman's hand and leans as close as her body and wheelchair will allow. The woman looks at Carol like a child to a mother.

Then Carol turns to propel her chair as fast as possible to find a tissue.

"I can't keep up with you!" the woman hollers and begins to sob again.

A staff member walks up and takes the woman to lunch.

Carol feels guilty. "Nothing I say can make her happy."

Back to life

Carol doesn't remember the attack. She doesn't remember being in the hospital or coming to Life Care Center.

Her memories after the attack begin just over a year ago around Christmas 2004. She remembers how she and James had so little money that they had to accept other people's gifts of generosity for their kids. She remembers saying goodbye to her father, who died in October.

She doesn't care to remember much else. She cares to walk.

If she could change anything, Carol would rise up out of her wheelchair. She wants to help James and her boys. She wants to push the people around who are stuck in wheelchairs at the nursing home.

"I don't feel whole," she says. She thinks about that for a minute. "But I could be dead. I am thankful for that." She thinks some more. Carol is a devout member of the Church of Latter-day Saints. She believes in a living God with a purpose for each life. She prays a lot. She tries to be patient, tries to put all this in the Lord's hands. "But I do hope for a miracle."

Carol wants to feel sadness and cry, but her brain injury won't allow it. Instead, she gets mad. And she feels guilty. What if she had been home with her family that June night? How will this scar her boys? Can she ever forgive the man who did this, for trying to kill her, even though the Bible says she must? In a way, Carol is not helping herself. She wants desperately to be normal again. Being stubborn has gotten her this far. Now she wonders if it's getting in the way. "I need to move on."

Trying to forgive

Several months ago, Carol wheeled herself up to her computer and typed a letter in all capital letters to the man who did this to her. She wants to work on the letter a little more and then send it to his prison cell:

Dear Mr. Hugh Bolin,

The part of all this that really upsets me is what effect this has had on my youngest son. He is seven and a half now, and he gets so mad he beats his fist on the arm of the couch and yells, "I hate the man who did this to you mom!!!" I try to get to him and place my right hand on his hand. I can feel it trembling. He is almost in tears. I tell him, "Honey you shouldn't hate the man, but what he did. We will both have to forgive him one day." My son gave me a puzzled look. "But why mom, he hurt you really bad!" I calmly reply, "Jesus would want us both to do that." He still shakes his head and has a puzzled look on his face. I tried to hug him but it is hard with one arm to reach for him. I explained to him, "We can work up to the forgiving part. It would have to be real and heart felt or the lord would not take away the hurt."

Some of my friends think I am crazy for sending you this letter. Well, I do what I need to do. I want to be rid of my pain I carry with me everyday. My oldest son is now thirteen. He had the chance to play soccer at the start of the school year. He declined because he knew getting to practice would be hard since I can not drive a car anymore!!!!

Take care, may my swollen and bloody face not haunt your dreams. And in case you do have bad dreams; take it up with the Lord. It might do wonders for you. I am sure they have a chaplain there at the jail. If not, ask for a pastor. I am sure they will help you get one to aid you.

I need to go now, duty calls,

Carol Armstrong.

Making progress

The occupational therapists at Life Care Center are on a mission. They've already applied to get Carol on the ABC show "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition."  Now, they tell her that they have their sights set on WCIV Channel 4's $100,000 Home Makeover Contest. Carol grabs a 4-pound dumbbell and begins to do curls. She hasn't heard of the contest. "You tell them your sob story," a therapist says. "I don't have a sob story!" Carol insists.

Still, the people here have helped Carol through her amazing progress. They also know that her house is too small and that her family cannot afford the changes it needs. Carol receives no state or federal assistance. Yet, she cannot work. James' salary must cover the costs of her care and medications while supporting a family of four.

The staff here knows that the Armstrongs' insurance no longer pays for Carol to get therapy. She used to come three or four times a week. Now, she goes to physical therapy once a week using the last of the money donated to her. She goes to occupational therapy and works out on her own.

She wheels over to physical therapy. Zorba Breshers, a physical therapy assistant, greets her and helps her to "the dance." She wraps her right arm around his neck, and he helps her pivot on her right foot until she's perched on a wide bench. Out of her wheelchair, Carol looks like she could get up and walk out the door. Breshers rolls her a giant bouncy green ball. Carol leans to kick it back to him. "The best part of my day is playing ball with Zorba," Carol smiles. It makes her remember playing high school soccer, "When I was able to run and play and have fun." Zorba ignores the complaint. "Kick harder!" he insists. Ashley Vincent, a physical therapist, remembers when Carol could not even propel herself in a wheelchair. She'd have to wait for someone to push her wherever she wanted to go. "Really?" Carol asks.

Amazing Carol, really Carol warned me not to make her sound like some sort of hero. "I'm just plain old Carol," she shrugged.

I explained how three years ago, she barely could sit up or talk. I explained how she barely recognized anyone and couldn't remember the day or year. I explained how amazing it was to really meet her this time.

She doesn't see it that way. She shrugs again. "There's nothing special about me."

Reach Jennifer Hawes at jhawes@postandcourier.com or 937-5489