For the Rest of My Life

by Harry Kraus

  Claire nodded knowingly. She’d spent enough time with head-injury patients during her internship to have seen it before.

  Back at John’s bedside, Hannah continued. “He’s leaking spinal fluid from his nose.” He pointed to the cloth mustache. “That’s what the bandage is for: collecting cerebral spinal fluid. We’ll keep his head elevated, keep him on antibiotics, and the leak will most likely seal on its own.”

  “Was he responsive when he came in?”

  “He responded to pain and he was a bit combative.” He shrugged.

  “It is not unusual.”

  “How long will you leave him on the ventilator?”

  “Only a day or two. He got hard to manage, thrashing about, so we’ve sedated him to help him tolerate the ventilator and protect him from dangerous rises in his intracerebral pressures.”

  “The nurse mentioned a femur fracture.”

  He spoke softly. “Right. The orthopods want to rod his left femur but we wanted to complete his neuro workup first. It looks like his foot is okay. It’s a typical mid-shaft fracture, easy to fix for the bone docs, but by the time we okayed him for surgery, they were busy with another.” Dr. Hannah put his hands on his hips. “That’s the way it is around here. They’ll get to him in an hour or two.”

  She nodded and slipped the sheet back to uncover John’s feet, laying her hand on the top of his left foot near the ankle. He still had a strong pulse in spite of the break.

  “When will you know about his brain?” She bit her lower lip, already knowing the answer, but asking hopefully just the same.

  “Not until it’s safe to take him off the ventilator.” He shifted his feet. “Hard to say. I’m guessing a day or two.”

  A nurse walked to the bedside. “OR estimates they’ll be calling for him in two hours. It’s time for my hourly assessment. Could you wait in the waiting room again?”

  Claire scribbled a name and number on a piece of paper. “Here’s where I’ll be staying.” She pointed at the number. “It’s the Holiday Inn down the block. Call me if there are any changes, and as soon as he’s going to surgery. I want to be here when he goes in.”

  The nurse nodded. “Of course.”

  Claire turned to leave and limped to the doors of the ICU with her hand holding her stomach. Each hour beyond her attack seemed to bring more pain. It was either pain which she had ignored in the intensity of the fight or the kind of pain which is always worse the second day.

  As the doors closed behind her, she heard the nurse’s voice. “She must have been in the accident too.”

  Claire limped to the Holiday Inn trying to remember the last time she’d eaten anything solid. She rubbed her stomach. I ate lunch at the office the day before my appendectomy. No wonder I’m exhausted.

  When was the last time I had a good night’s rest? She shook her head. The days and nights were a blur, and it took too much energy and effort to remember.

  Once in her room, she slipped off her shoes and closed the drapes. Then she lowered herself to the bed. She turned off the bedside lamp and stared at the ceiling. In spite of her exhaustion, every noise in the hall brought her to alertness and quickened her heart. Images of her attacker interrupted every attempt she made to surrender to sleep. She turned the light back on and doublechecked the locks. After lying down again, she closed her eyes, but every time she did, Cyrus was there.

  After twenty minutes, she searched the hotel room, looking carefully in the bathroom behind the curtain, even dropping to her knees to check beneath the bed.

  The phone rang at one P.M. They were preparing John for transport to surgery. If she wanted to see him before he left, she’d better hurry.

  She looked at the woman staring back at her in the bathroom mirror. “You need makeup,” she muttered. Applying lipstick during the walk to the ICU would have to do.

  Claire arrived in the ICU ten minutes later, where all John’s IV lines and monitoring apparatus had been arranged for transport. She knew all about the spaghetti tangle the lines could get in during a move to and from the OR. It was always the ICU nurse’s nightmare to untangle the mess after transport to and from OR or X ray. “Any changes?”

  The nurse shook her head. “We’ve kept him sedated. We’ll let him wake up after surgery and see how he is.”

  Claire nodded and kissed John’s cheek. Tears stung her eyes. “I love you,” she whispered.

  An orthopedic resident clapped his hands together. “Let’s roll.”

  Claire backed up to let them move him out. Just to move a patient like John took a coordinated team. A respiratory therapist ventilated him with a manual bag, a nurse jealously guarded the IVs and watched the cardiac monitor, and a surgical intern and an orderly walked at the head and foot of the bed to push it along.

  She stood staring at the spot where the stretcher had disappeared, feeling suddenly very alone. She walked into the hall where she shared hugs with John’s parents, Tony and Christine.

  Tony held her shoulders and looked into her face. “How are you holding up?”

  She bit her lip. “Okay,” she offered.

  Christine slipped her arm around Claire’s waist. “You shouldn’t need to stay at a hotel. You belong with us.”

  “I know I’m welcome, but I need to be near John.”

  They waited in the ICU waiting room, flipping through outdated magazines. Images of her brother Clay in the ICU, the dreadful waiting as he declined in spite of the efforts of his physicians, added to the ache in the pit of her stomach. In a few minutes they were joined by Phil Carl-son, pastor of Community Chapel, the same man who had performed Clay’s funeral only a few months ago. He was flanked by Lucy and Margo. She stood to be enveloped in a bear hug by the gentle man.

  “They’ve just taken him to surgery to fix a fractured femur. They still don’t know about his brain.”

  The trio nodded soberly.

  Pastor Phil held up his hands, palms open. “Time to pray.”

  Claire listened in a daze, hardly able to believe what was happening.

  After the prayer, Lucy put her arm around her. “Can you eat? Let’s get something in the cafeteria.”

  “I want to wait for John.”

  Phil nodded his head toward the hall. “You have time. Besides, you need to stay strong for John.”

  Stay strong for John. She conceded. “Let’s go.”

  By five P.M., John was back from surgery, and Claire began an evening vigil at his bedside. The sedative medication and all narcotics were withheld. Nothing was to be given after anesthesia. It was time to let him wake up and see how alert he could be off medications.

  Claire expected John to do something by an hour, even if it were an attempt for him to breathe on his own above the set ventilator rate. But instead, one hour became two, two became three, and by nine P.M., John hadn’t so much as twitched. As the hours rolled on, attention around John intensified and Claire’s anxiety rose. “Why isn’t he waking up?”

  “Maybe the anesthetic is just hanging around longer than usual,” the nurse offered.

  A new head CT revealed no evidence of change. There was no interval bleeding and no new signs of swelling. The anesthesiology resident and attending stopped by and questioned John’s parents about family history of reactions to anesthesia. They had both undergone elective surgery without any anesthetic problems.

  Ryan Hannah, the neurosurgery chairman, scratched his head after a careful examination. “His pupils are still pinpoint. So I think he’ll come around. He must be sensitive to the narcotics.”

  Claire liked everything he said except the “I think.” She wanted assurances that John would be okay, that he would return to being the same man she knew and loved. But at this point, no one would or could give her that reassurance.

  “We can get an EEG tomorrow,” Dr. Hannah suggested.

  To see if he’s brain dead. Claire nodded soberly.

  By midnight, Tony gently insisted that Claire get some rest. The nurses promised to call her
at the hotel if John made any turn for the worse.

  It was only a block, but Tony and Christine drove, and Claire cried. In their presence, she had always been treated, and felt like, a daughter.

  “Will you be okay?” Christine asked.

  She nodded her silent response.

  After a hug, she retreated to her room.

  John’s life was balanced on a razor-sharp edge. Claire hadn’t had a complete night’s sleep for three days. She was numb. She undressed and looked at the three Band-Aids on her abdomen. On the day after surgery, she had barely given her own post-operative state a second thought.

  She looked at a Gideon-placed Bible on the nightstand. “You’ve gotten me through tough times before,” she whispered. “Through Clay’s death, through the discovery of Huntington’s disease in Daddy, through Brett’s betrayal, and through giving John up once before . . .” Her voice cracked.

  She thought back to her last conversation with John and dropped her eyes to the floor and slumped on the edge of the bed.

  “I came back here because I thought I could win your trust. Apparently, I was wrong.”

  “Go ahead, John. You’ve given it atest. You’ve tried living around me. It didn’t work. Now try living without me again.”

  She fell sideways onto the bed and curled up, hugging one of the large pillows. Weeping, she prayed, “Please God, give me another chance.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Claire slept fitfully with the lights on, waking frequently from imagined dangers lurking in the hotel closets. She watched the eerie green glowing numbers of the clock change from twelve to one to two and three before her mind allowed her body more than one hour of uninterrupted sleep. The following morning, Claire awoke with the first rays of sunlight streaming through the thin curtain liner, feeling more exhausted than renewed. She hadn’t been called all night. She hoped that was good news. She showered and was preparing to leave when the phone rang.

  It was Christine, John’s mother. “John’s nurse just called. He’s waking up. He’s been moving his arms and legs. She thinks they’ll get the tube out of his throat this morning.”

  Why didn’t the nurse call me? “That’s great.” Claire took a deep breath. “I’m on my way to see him now.”

  “We can pick you up.”

  “I want to walk. I’m feeling fine.”

  Ten minutes later, Claire purchased a tall cup of coffee from a street vendor in front of the hospital. Five minutes after that, she was at John’s bedside.

  She squeezed his hand.

  He opened his eyes. Recognition flashed. His eyes got bigger. He stared at Claire and wiggled his head, working his tongue along the endo-tracheal tube and the tape that held it in place.

  “Easy, John,” she coached, as her voice began to thicken. “It’s a tube in your windpipe to help you breathe. You had a car accident.” She sniffed. He knows me!

  He shook his head again, this time a bit more enthusiastically.

  A nurse came up behind Claire. “When he woke up,” she said, pointing to the wrist and ankle restraints, “he really woke up.”

  “He’s fighting the tube. He should be taken off the ventilator.”

  “We’ll have to wait for the neurosurgery team to round.”

  Claire held her tongue. The nurse should be able to call a doc to get an order to remove the tube. “Why wasn’t I told about his improvement?”

  The nurse squinted. “You’re his wife?”

  “His girlfriend.”

  “Oh, we have a policy of only calling blood relatives with information. Mr. Cerelli’s parents were given the updates.”

  She looked at her watch, then looked up to see Ryan Hannah and his entourage of residents and students come through the double doors. Claire stood aside as Dr. Hannah quizzed the team on everything from expected outcomes from closed head injuries to ventilator management. After they moved on to the next patient beyond John, an intern held back to pull out John’s endotracheal tube.

  “Cough,” he instructed as he slipped out the tube. John looked at Claire. “Where am I?”

  “Brighton. At the University Hospital.”

  “What happened?”

  “You had a car accident. You rolled your Mustang in front of my house.”

  “My Mustang? How is it?”

  “Totaled, John, but you’re okay.”

  A four-letter word slipped from his lips. “I loved that car!” Tears welled in his eyes, before he cursed again.

  She frowned. “It can be replaced. At least you’re okay.” She looked up to see Tony and Christine. “John, your parents are here.”

  “My car!”

  Christine cradled her son’s face. “Oh, John, we thought we’d lost you.” Christine started crying.

  John tugged against the wrist restraints. “Untie my hands, would you?”

  Christine put her hands to her mouth and looked at Claire. “Do you think we should?”

  “I’m sure it’s okay. They just wanted to keep him from pulling out the tube. Now that it’s out, I’m sure it doesn’t matter.”

  “Take the restraints home, Claire. I can tie you to the bed and—”

  “John!” Claire gasped.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “What?”

  Claire felt her cheeks redden and exchanged glances with Christine. Then she undid the wrist restraints.

  John pulled away the gauze from under his nose, then touched his scalp. “What happened to my hair?” Tears began to well in his eyes again.

  “You were in a car accident, John. You have a skull fracture and a concussion. Your scalp was badly cut. They had to shave part of your hair to repair the laceration.”

  He explored his head with his fingers. “I want a mirror.”

  Tony smiled. “Believe me, son. You don’t want a mirror.”

  John dropped another curse word as casually as an overworked sailor.

  This time it was Tony and Claire who traded concerned glances. As the hour passed, John burped loudly, passed gas, cursed, and scratched private places without regard to those around.

  By the afternoon, when Pastor Phil and his wife, Debbie, were visiting, John chose the middle of a prayer of thanksgiving to use the urinal, and did so in front of the pastor’s wife without asking to be excused. When they finished praying, John asked Debbie to set the still-warm container on the bedside table because he couldn’t reach.

  Claire was mortified and quickly covered John up again with a sheet and took the urinal herself. Clearly this was John. He had the same appearance, the same voice, the same sense of humor, but whatever proper inhibitions he had garnered in his upbringing had vanished with the blow to his head.

  By noon, John had been unreasonable to the nurses, commented to Claire about the young nurse’s anatomy, and picked his nose quite successfully right in front of her.

  When she protested, John just didn’t get it. He acted as if everyone did those things. Claire tested his memory and it seemed intact, right up until his trip back to Stoney Creek. At that point, he became concerned. “You had surgery, didn’t you?”

  She nodded and waited for him to express some concern, but it never came.

  When she joined Tony and Christine in the ICU waiting area a few minutes later, John’s mother was in tears. Claire had little comfort to offer.

  She sat in the chair beside Christine and cried tears of her own. It was as if someone had stolen the John they knew and substituted a Beavis and Butthead version.

  Ryan Hannah met with them in the afternoon. “John has lost some of his social inhibitions,” he began. “But this is very common following frontal lobe contusions.”

  Claire folded her hands together. “This will go away . . . right?”

  “Most do.”

  She hated the way he left room for John to be a permanent social misfit.

  “He may normalize over a few days to weeks or . . .” The neurosurgeon shrugged. “Rare cases have been known to have trouble adjusting back into nor
mal society without significant problems.”

  “He doesn’t act like he’s doing anything abnormal.”

  “Exactly,” explained Dr. Hannah. “For now, he’s lost the ability to understand that certain things are socially unacceptable.”

  Christine wiped her eyes. “He was always so polite.”

  Dr. Hannah nodded. “He still is, Ms. Cerelli. He’s the same man, but he’s suffering from a frontal brain contusion.”

  Tony Cerelli touched Claire’s shoulder. “I know this seems horrible, but remember only yesterday, we didn’t even know if he would survive. If he survived, we had no reassurance that he wouldn’t be a total vegetable.”

  Dr. Hannah agreed. “This is good news, really. I’d much rather be discussing these minor personality problems than whether John might never walk, talk, or swallow again.” He hung his head. “Some weeks it seems that’s all I do.”

  Tony shook the neurosurgeon’s hand. “It’s just the first day. He’ll get better.”

  Claire watched with moist eyes. It was just like Tony to be encouraging the surgeon. Tony, the eternal optimist.

  Dr. Hannah excused himself and Tony sat beside Claire. “Why don’t you slip back to your hotel room? We’ll watch John. You need your rest.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t sleep alone in that room.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  Christine flanked Claire on the other side. “We’ve been so concerned about John, we haven’t even talked about you. Did you sleep last night?”

  “Very little.” Claire dropped her head in her hands. “Every time I close my eyes, I see . . .”

  “The attack? Do you want to talk about it?”

  She shook her head and just started to cry. She fell into Christine’s embrace and sobbed with all the emotions she’d been holding in as her attention had been focused on John.

  Christine rocked her like a child, holding her head to her chest and brushing her tears away. Claire cried for the disgrace she felt as a victim, for the hatred she felt toward Cyrus, for the fear that held her captive. She cried for her father whom she’d let down and for John and the loss of his dignity.