SAN MARCOS: High school football player's recovery slow

Scott Eveland suffered brain trauma

By TERI FIGUEROA - Staff Writer | Tuesday, September 9, 2008 8:07 PM PDT ∞

SAN MARCOS ---- The body that made Scott Eveland a varsity linebacker a year ago now holds him captive. Much of the time, it will not respond.

It's through his eyes that he lives now. Eyes that serve as his primary means to communicate, to answer questions.

Three blinks means yes. No blinks, no.


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Sunday will mark a year since Eveland staggered off the football field early in the second quarter during a game at Mission Hills High School.

The popular player had suffered a traumatic brain injury. The cause, when and how it happened, remains unclear. But before the game was over, Eveland lay on an operating table, his skull cap removed as doctors battled to save his life.

Eveland's collapse in front of a crowd at his school's stadium in San Marcos sent shockwaves through the region, where more than 1,400 teenagers from about 30 local high schools suit up each autumn week to play varsity football.

And his story and struggles kept the cause celeb in the news, as his family battled with insurance companies to keep him in the hospital. The companies, bowing to public pressure, and then to orders from state officials, let him stay for months.

Now, a year after his collapse on the field, the determination that led him to the top of his class is fueling his fight to recover.

"Slowly, but surely, he is coming back," his mother, Diane Luth, said Monday. "I ask him, are you as smart as you used to be, and he always blinks three times: Yes."

'They need help'

Eveland, 18, moved back to his family's two-story San Marcos home in May after eight months in area hospitals and a number of brain surgeries.

"He has gotten so much better since he has been home," Luth said. "It's a slow, steady process."

The family dining room serves as a therapy room, with a large mat, a frame to help him stand and more medical gear. Five feet away from the equipment is his last high school photo, a smiling, strong teenager.

His mother is his primary caregiver. Diane Luth can no longer hold a job outside of the home ---- even though the family is overwhelmed with medical bills.

"She gets no time for herself. None. Zip," family friend Martha Butler whispered during a visit this week. "She is unbelievable, her constant faith in Scott and her determination to make him all he can be again.

"They need help. It's so much bigger than them."

Twice a week, friends bring over dinner for the family, which includes Eveland's younger brother Craig, a water polo player at Mission Hills High.

Before the injury, Eveland was a remarkable teenager by all accounts, an honors student who idolized Ronald Reagan and plastered photos of Bill O'Reilly on his MySpace page, a staunchly conservative Republican not old enough to vote.

He is still remarkable, his family says. Perhaps even moreso.

The day broadcaster Tim Russert died, the teenager would not let anyone change the TV channel, his stepfather Paul Luth said. And when his family starting talking presidential politics a few weeks ago, Eveland somehow lifted his head and stared.

Sometimes, he can make facial expressions. When he is irritated or thinks something is silly, he rolls his eyes. Teenage spirit.

Eveland was able to speak a little bit earlier this year, around February and March. But that has stopped ---- no one knows why ---- save for a few words, and only on occasion, although the frequency is increasing.

Three weeks ago, Eveland was able to mutter "I love you" to his mother and stepfather, who has raised him since he was a small boy.

Sometimes, if Eveland's hand is hanging off the wheelchair, Bernie, one of the family's small dogs, will position himself next to it. Eveland's family watches with glee as he pets the dog.

On Monday, he gave his stepfather a big thumbs-up and a smile.

"Two weeks ago, I had given up," Paul Luth said of his emotional ebb and flow. "I said it was time to put him in a nursing home. This week, I'd say that was crazy."

In the days that followed his collapse, the school and the community rallied behind the young man who loves sushi, James Bond and the '80s rock band Journey.

Eveland's once numerous visitors have dwindled to just a few. But one girl, Brittany Daley, still comes by every Monday and sings to him. And the last few times, Luth said, her son tried to mouth along to the words of Daley's songs.

'He's in there'

"We just need to get Scotty better," Luth said. "The way to get Scott better is to keep the therapy going."

But therapy is expensive. And the plan to cover the therapist home visits ends next month.

By that time, the family hopes, Eveland will be enrolled in school. Like all disabled people, Eveland can be educated by public schools until the day he turns 22. But they do not provide physical therapy, and Luth is hoping to find a volunteer therapist to step in after next month.

On Tuesday, as his therapists struggled and grunted to place him in a sitting position, four people working with the San Marcos Unified School District were there to observe him. They will meet to come up with an education plan.

They watched as Eveland communicated "yes" to a query posed by his mother. It took five seconds for him to blink his eyes three times as rapidly as he could, but he did it.

His eye blinks, meant, yes, mom, I will try to arm wrestle you.

"OK, Scotty, open your hand," his mother urged. "Open those fingers."

Eveland was propped in a frame encasing his body to help him stand. A therapist stood behind Eveland, holding up his head ---- he could not do it himself.

His right hand lay on a small tray. At his mother's urging, the fingers of his clenched fist pried open about a half-inch.

Luth slipped her hand into her son's. Gently, she lifted it, and settled in.

A second therapist rubbed Eveland's bicep. "This muscle," she said. "Focus on this muscle." For a second, he pushed. His mom said she felt it.

"Things are starting to connect (in his brain)," Luth later told the school folks.

"Do you ever see facial expressions?" one asked.

"Yes, yes. He does smile," Luth said. "Before, it was blank, no muscle movements. But now, we will get a one-sided smile. And once in a while, both sides."

Later, the therapists placed Eveland on his therapy mat and propped him against a beanbag.

The school officials placed before him a laptop, equipped with a small yellow pad instead of a mouse. If Eveland can lift his index finger, as he has in the past, if he can just touch the pad, the "page" of the electronic audio book on the computer will turn, and the computer will read it aloud.

If he can touch the pad. If he can lift his finger.

The room falls silent as the crowd of professionals watched.

On this day, he cannot do it.

More and more, Eveland can do what is asked of him. Like Monday, when he was able to lift his knee at his mother's request as she struggled to dress him. He even pushed his heel into his tennis shoe.

"He's in there," Luth said. "There's no doubt in my mind that he is in there."

Contact staff writer Teri Figueroa at (760) 740-5442 or tfigueroa@nctimes.com.