He bent over me to assess my wounds. Even he was taken aback at the violence perpetrated against me. He had the privilege to work in his private surgery rooms, with none of these uncontrolled bloody rips and tears of the flesh. He asked Catherine to move aside and nodded to the chief ER surgeon, whom he had seen occasionally at local Rotary lunches. He touched my shoulder gently. I did not recognize this new touch. I had no idea how fortunate I was to be under the care of this decorated doctor.
“Don’t worry, everything will be all right. I am Doctor Roberts, your plastic surgeon. I will fix your face and your back so everything will be hardly noticeable.”
“Are you going to work on my nose?” I whispered.
“Yes, of course, yes. But first I have to stitch it back on your face, young lady.”
“Well, as long as you are going to work on my nose, could you take out the roman hump while you are at it?”
Catching his professional composure, and letting out a faint chuckle, he replied, “Now, don’t you worry. We can take care of that roman hump a little later, and you will never know the difference!” (Over the years, the good doctor would tell my story over and over again. Here was this young woman, completely slashed and with little hope of surviving the attack, according to the head ER surgeon’s prognosis. And yet, she was worried about the hump in her nose! “I’ll be!” he ends the story, and still shakes his head to this day.)
As he gingerly set my nose back in place, he began to work his skill on my face. He had gotten so far as an initial setting, ready to begin more precise work, when the surgeon in charge reappeared. “Doctor Roberts, I hate to interrupt you, but we need to determine if this patient has any internal bleeding.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that hadn’t been done yet. I can’t believe she doesn’t have any internal injuries,” he said as he turned his head and spoke quietly to Dr. Garza so I wouldn’t hear just how dire my situation really was. Honestly, it was beyond remarkable that I was still alert and conscious. Dr. Roberts stepped aside to allow the surgeon some room to work. The surgeon positioned himself above my torso and touched my belly button gently. “Can you hear me, Mirabelle?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I want to see if you have any internal bleeding, so I want to make an incision, right about here,” he said, touching my lower abdomen.
“I’m not bleeding inside. And I don’t want another cut in my body because I know I’m in really bad shape.”
Both doctors turned to look at each other, and then back to me with slight nods of disbelief.
“How do you know you don’t have any internal bleeding, Mirabelle?”
“I would feel it inside if I did and I don’t!” I asserted with all the emphasis I could muster. Needless to say, both surgeons were incredulous. In all their experience, neither could conjure up a scenario where a multiple stab wound victim—there were at least twelve wounds that they could count so far—would have no internal injuries. It wasn’t possible.
I continued, “I have some pain breathing and it’s hard to breathe, but other than that, I’m okay.”
The ER surgeon stepped up. “Mirabelle, if you don’t have any internal injuries that will be wonderful. But if you do and we don’t find out right now, the repercussions may be very severe.”
“How severe?” I persisted.
“Worse than the wounds you have now because blood inside your system can cause extreme problems later.” He was growing somewhat impatient with my impertinence. He really needed to start now and look inside.
“How long a cut will you make?”
“Just a small incision, right under your belly button.”
“You will never really see it after it heals,” added Dr. Roberts helpfully. Feeling outnumbered and overwhelmed, I finally acquiesced, and Catherine administered the Xylocaine as a local anesthetic. The ER surgeon made his incision with a fine surgical knife and inserted the plastic probe inside my tummy, maneuvering slowly between my internal organs. Dr. Roberts looked on. The ER surgeon kept probing deeper, up toward my kidneys and on to my lungs. The vacuum pump connected to the clear plastic probe hummed quietly. Both doctors watched the clear line intently for red blood to be sucked from inside but no blood came. They looked at each other quizzically with expressions that seemed to say, “Does she really not have any internal bleeding? With all those stab wounds? Could it be possible?” The ER surgeon maneuvered the probe more to the left, then to the right.
“Mirabelle, this is good news. You do not have any internal bleeding. You are a very lucky young woman!”
“Thanks, doctor. I knew that, though.” I smiled as I recalled the Light and the Voice from the hotel room.
Dr. Roberts stepped back into the process and began the careful work of reattaching my nose to my face. When he had stabilized my nose, he then carefully turned me over, with the help of the ER staff, and wondered where to begin. I felt a liquid poured on my back and I howled. It burned like fire; was it raw alcohol? I pleaded for some painkiller. Something, anything.
Then the medical team began cutting an incision on my side so they could insert a probe into my lungs. I heard and felt the sawing of my ribs, the cutting into my lungs. I think I fainted momentarily. Enduring that procedure was the hardest part up to that point. You can imagine, lying there and having to hear your lungs being punched and sawed into, and being able to feel it the whole time. Soon thereafter, they gave me a sleeping drug and I drifted into unconsciousness.
According to conversations I had later with the ER nurse, much earlier Leroy had been escorted to the rear of the emergency room and was attended by another ER staff physician. By now, the rumor mill had informed this young doctor that this was the assailant of the woman who was the center of attention of the ER staff. The officer removed Leroy’s cuffs and his hand and arm were examined. “Some stitches will be required,” thought the doctor, but he was really taken aback at how much damage I, Leroy’s victim, was able to deliver given the shape I was in! After a few minutes, he was through. The white bandage was a sharp contrast on Leroy’s black skin. The officer waited patiently until the last bandage was secured, then took Leroy into formal custody. While he was waiting, he got the call from his lieutenant. “We found the bloody knife under the hotel bed. Book the bastard!” Unable to come up with the $50,000 bail, Leroy was held at the city jail on a charge of attempted murder.
My condition had stabilized after my surgical procedures and I was sent to the ICU, still under close watch. I stayed for three days. My blood pressure was good enough, I was conscious, but I still had trouble breathing. The reason for this difficulty was the several puncture wounds I had suffered in my lungs. Even though I survived this ordeal with no internal bleeding, my lungs looked like pin cushions as a result of the assailant’s knife. The medical staff glumly announced, “She’s not out of the woods yet.”
13
NO BACKGROUND
Around the capital city the police radios had been more or less quiet as midnight approached. Members of the press corps monitoring the waves were quiet as well, some scratching away on the latest New York Times crossword puzzle. Occasionally there would be a drunken pedestrian arrest on the waves, but it was only interesting if it was a legislator too tipsy after a long dinner hosted by a well-funded lobbyist. Then there was a police call and an emergency medical services call and the press around the city perked up at the new development.
Mike Cox worked the night beat at the American Statesman and was the first reporter to arrive when the wounded woman was transported on a stretcher from the ambulance into the hospital. He only caught a glimpse of her bloody face. Mike waved over a homicide detective that he knew from high school and asked him what was going on.
“Bad deal, Mike. A guest at the hotel downtown was stabbed in her room by a hotel guy.”
“What do you mean, hotel guy?”
“Well, he looked like a room service guy. He had on a white shirt and black pants and vest with his name badge—so yeah, we think he wa
s a hotel employee.”
“Did you see him?”
“Sure, we cuffed him at the scene and he’s in a patrol car now coming over here.”
“Why here?” Mike was jotting hurriedly on his long note pad.
“Not sure; he had some blood on him, but I gotta tell ya, there was blood everywhere—later, Mike!”
Mike checked his watch—it was nearly two o’clock. He went back to the hotel to find the reception area in a chaotic state. He spotted the night manager to get a statement.
“Did a hotel employee stab a guest of yours?” Mike asked the direct question.
“No comment.” The hotel management was clearly trying to protect its options and public image. The night manager seemed to reevaluate his response. “Johnson used to work here in housekeeping, but we fired him a week ago.” Mike made a note of the change of comment.
Inside her office, Deborah May was devastated. She had been called out of her slumber by the junior security officer and was on-site surveying the brutal aftermath. The reports from upstairs horrified her. She unlocked her office door and nearly staggered to her knees when she flipped on the light. On her desk in plain sight was a paper that could bring her ruin.
Leroy Johnson had not been performing up to task over the previous week. He had seemed listless, distracted in his duties. There was one complaint from another employee who thought he may have smelled a faint marijuana odor coming from his body. When she had had a moment to check back into the file she had put together when she hired Leroy, she noticed that the form for former employment was not there. Her stomach had lurched and she dug further in the few papers that were there. “Oh, Mary and Joseph! No one followed up on a background check,” she whispered to herself. This was not good, not good at all. She already had grounds to fire him, and firing him would get this incriminating file out of view. If she could get him out of the hotel, no one would have to know that the background check had been overlooked.
It took two seconds for her to get a blank dismissal form, fill it out in triplicate, and tear out the pink copy. She wrote a quick note to her assistant to place this paperwork in his punch card slot before she left for the night.
That pink slip was never delivered to its intended employee. That pink slip was the one still lying there on her desk. She stared, unbelievingly, at the document that was probably going to be her professional undoing. She cradled her face in her hands and wept, not only for her hotel guest who may or may not live but also for herself and, most of all, her daughter, who would suffer the consequences. Deborah would surely be fired, and if she had the courage, she would come clean with the management and tell them herself, face-to-face.
To her surprise a newspaper journalist forced the issue. A firm knock on her door only momentarily preceded the security guard slipping into her office.
“We got a nosy reporter in the reception area wanting to verify if it was one of our guys that did this. I know it was Johnson, ’cause I saw him in the room, but I thought that guy was out of here already.” His eyes met hers and they both looked down on her desk. “Oh, no. Oh, dear God, no.” His voice was shaking and he reached out to steady himself on an office chair.
“Well, was he fired or not?”
Deborah May knew she was on the line and what she said might very well impact her position in the hotel as well as her work in the human relations profession at large. So she stuck to the technical truth. “I signed Leroy Johnson’s dismissal form this afternoon. Before I left and before he got here. It was supposed to be in his time clock slot before he clocked in at 6:00 p.m.” Her eyes met his in a kind of helpless gaze. “But as you can see, it is still here, so he did not get the notice—which means he clocked in this evening.” That is as far as she could go. She could not let herself say, “as our employee.”
“Oh dear God, I don’t think this woman is going to pull through,” he repeated, more to himself than to anyone else.
14
HOMECOMING
About five o’clock that evening my family finally arrived at the hospital, and the morning edition of the local newspaper already featured some splashy headlines on both the front and the inside Metro section, complete with photographs of my heroes and my assailant. The hotel management was claiming they had fired Leroy that afternoon for undisclosed reasons. Obviously, he had come to work that evening at the hotel. But the facts would be sorted out in a court of law sometime later.
The community in south Texas was shocked. I was a well-known public figure, active in economic development, so the news traveled fast. I had gone to the capital city to lobby and testify and had joined several dignitaries, including the publisher of my hometown paper. The story was even carried in the Spanish newspaper that served the neighboring Mexican metropolis. My boss remarked in the paper the next day, “It’s just sickening when something like this happens. Not only is Mirabelle a great asset to our town, she is also a good friend.”
I was unaware of all the press attention I was about to receive. The morphine drips had me in and out of consciousness for several days. What I was conscious of was this strange feeling an inch below my left lung that had a fuzzy feeling, like when a person’s hand falls asleep. I rubbed along the area and there was no pain at all, only a prickly feeling. I asked the doctors to look at and even x-ray it, but there was no indication of injury from a medical perspective. (A few months later, it was to have profound implications for my spiritual connection, which began from the Light that emanated from above on the night of the attack.)
My family was all here, including my errant dad. The woozy sensations started to fade and the pain of healing set in like a vengeance. The expressions of sympathy, be they cards, flowers, or visitors, began to flood in. Hundreds of notes and letters arrived at my hospital room. My mother read most of them to me as I could only make out the front of the cards with my damaged eyes. I was too scared to look in a mirror. I could not see at all from my left eye.
But oh, the flowers. Flowers were everywhere. I breathed the floral fragrances as deeply as my re-attached nose and punctured lungs would allow. And they kept coming. A huge arrangement was from the governor’s office. My close circle of gay designer friends got together and sent a new spectacular arrangement every single day! My room overflowed with notes of concern and well wishes. Flowers were stationed on tables outside my door. “Every arrangement is for you, Mirabelle, and there are more outside. You must have a ton of friends and well-wishers. I have never seen anything like this!” my mother exclaimed.
I was simply overwhelmed. I finally began to open myself up to the crescendo of love energy that was being given to me but had not been able to recognize or feel because of the constant pain or the shadow curtain of the morphine. Tears came and came. As did a certain gratefulness for all this unexpected—and, in my mind, undeserved—warmth and support from family, friends, work associates, and even strangers. It felt like the warmth of God, like the Light from above. This time it was of this earth, not beyond. Here. Now. Still the tears came. Maybe … it was another way God directed to cleanse and heal my tortured eyes, looking back on it all. The fact I was alive remained a mystery to those who surrounded me.
My physical wounds healed superficially over the course of a few days—less than a week. The deep wounds inside my muscles were still painful. Still, I felt impatient to leave the care of the hospital and its helpful staff. When it became known that I was about ready to leave, my mother received a call from one of the wealthiest families in her hometown. Though my mom knew the name, she did not know the man with the slight Southern drawl speaking to her on the other end of the line. “I would like to offer the services of my King Air to get Mirabelle and her family home, with your permission, ma’am.”
My mother was a little baffled, but she was always on the lookout for practical solutions to anything. “How terribly kind of you to think of us, Lanny. We would like that very much! I had not worked out how I was going to get her on the commercial airline yet, so t
his is really very thoughtful.”
“Here is the number to call when you are ready,” Lanny explained. “Let the pilot know when you want to go. Give him a little time to get the plane and the flight plans ready and leave the rest to me. I am so glad Mira-belle made it—she is a friend to me and this community!” Mom smiled deep down. She was proud of her daughter and relieved.
On a clear afternoon, I waved good-bye to the hospital staff who had cared for me so well. “Keep the flowers.” They were still being delivered to my room. “Please send the note cards so I can thank them when I am able.” I tentatively turned from my bed and, with the help of two male orderlies, slipped into the wheelchair. Damn, it hurt to move. But I did, and made it to the private plane and finally to the private airstrip at home.
I was unprepared, though, for what I saw through the tinted windows of the van that drove me home. There were no less than three billboards that the community had erected welcoming me back! WELCOME HOME! WE ARE GLAD YOU ARE ONE TOUGH LADY! GET WELL SOON, MIRABELLE—WE NEED YOU! My family could not get over it, either, never having seen anything like it before.
Grandma reminded me that I was very special and very loved. “Now don’t you forget that, Mirabelle. Times will be tough later on; hold onto this. In my life I have never seen such a demonstration of support, even when your Uncle Mike was mayor!”
15
FEAR DANCE
This dream has been a part of my psyche for as long as I can recall. I really think it is from part of another life or it is part of my soul life that reincarnates.
The glamorous scene was unexpected. I was on a dimly lit path and saw a long set of stairs toward a sprawling illuminated dance floor. The dancers were gliding to a waltz tempo in costumes that recalled Venice in a golden age. The music swirled and pulled me toward the dancers. Like Cinderella’s transformation, my street clothes gave way to a full-length gown as I stepped up toward the piazza floor made of large alternating (chessboard) squares with Salvador Dalí curves rather than rigid right angles.
Blood on the Threshold Page 5