But I soon realized my exhaustion, and fell asleep with the sounds of Spanish words forming a mental haze. The next words I heard, about an hour later, were, “Mr. Shannon, your sister-in-law is ready to go home.” Those were actually very reassuring words. I awoke and managed a smile before falling in line behind the nurse on the way to Martha’s room.
She was smiling. “I hope you’re ready for this,” Martha said. I went to her bed and took her hand, mostly to steady myself. I knew it was important to not say the wrong thing, not the words she might remember forever. So I said, “That looks pretty good.”
Half her hair was gone. It looked like a Mohawk haircut, except the barber was called away before he could finish.
“Why didn’t they just cut it all off?” I asked.
“The doctor said it was less shocking to patients and this is the way they do it now.”
“What doctor? Nablani?” I asked.
“Well, I said doctor, but I don’t know who it was. He said he was on Nablani’s team. Looked young, probably a resident,” Martha said.
I just stared. Finally I asked, “What else did they do?”
“They just made marks, and stuck some pins in my head,” she said. “Didn’t hurt.”
I looked closely and could see the small blue marks that outlined the operation. Then I noticed the pin holes on her forehead, one on each side. I realized that in any situation where we have no real experience, we are victims of our private knowledge, right or wrong. All I could see was George Patton. I had seen an old black and white movie that portrayed Patton’s shocking death at the end of World War II. It showed him in the back seat of a 1940 sedan, driven by his loyal young aide. But the driver came to a railroad track, had to brake fast, and threw the general forward with such ferocity that he broke his neck. The next scene was in an Army hospital and the great Patton with his pearl handled pistols was lying in bed, with a square wooden brace around his head, with pins in each corner that were stuck in his head and held it from any possible movement. And that’s the way he died. My god, I could see those little pin holes in Martha’s forehead and I realized the operation tomorrow would require just such a brace as the power saws tore into her head like a dental drill and the side of her head was removed. I shuddered and hoped Martha did not notice. We never said a word about it.
The next day we arrived at the hospital and the doctors put Martha on a gurney, said goodbye, and wheeled her down the hallway, presumably to the operating room. It was so fast I hardly realized it was happening. I stumbled to the little waiting room, trying to figure out the logistics. She would have to be anesthetized, which would take a couple of hours I supposed, the operation itself was supposed to take eight to ten hours, then recovery in the intensive care ward, assuming everything went all right. So it would be seven or eight o’clock at night before this was over. I started through the newspapers.
But there is loneliness like no other in a hospital waiting room. The faces are all strangers. Families of patients suffering all sorts of ailments, and one cannot avoid the speculation. Then you hear the conversations in piecemeal, of family heartaches, or friends who were at the movies only yesterday, and today they have a death sentence. How can that be? At what moment can it be when a single cell of cancer stands up in one’s body and says, I’m here, the next several months of your life are destroyed in a haze of chemotherapy and radiation and weakness of mind and body. How does that happen? What does it mean for free will, and disease avoidance, and “taking care of yourself” in any way? It’s so arbitrary and capricious that it destroys your confidence in the living. Then you are a victim of the disease as much as the patient. And finally, in that last painful moment of self pity and tearful fear of the world around you, you realize that no one shares these fears but your family. You realize that family is that small group of people who cloister around you in the remote corners of life and hold on to keep you warm, or take you to a bed, or find you a home, or give you food. It is a rescue so basic that you can never forget it, or live without it. And in Good Conscience Hospital, as the strangers moved through this little waiting room with me, the air passed out of my lungs until I was gasping. And only the two ladies on the couch beside me kept the decorum, kept me from yielding to my own shrinking and garbled thoughts until I screamed to an unholy god that had let me down.
I had no family but Martha and Mindy, who would never know her father, and might never know her mother. And I hoped she would never know what I felt at that moment: “I am so alone.”
But then I looked down the hall, past the blood pressure machines and past the nurses’ station with ghostly figures responding to red lights and bells, and two figures emerged from the elevators. They looked familiar. I squinted, closing one eye. And sure enough, it was a friend.
Pete and Lillian Wildman turned the corner and hurried toward the waiting room. I got up to tuck my shirt in my pants, arrange my hair, and otherwise look presentable. This was unexpected. Philadelphia is at least a three hour drive from Parkers, and would require a day’s commitment to visit. Pete and Lil hadn’t even called. They just took a chance. I had told everyone that the operation was today, and I probably named the hospital. But I never offered times, or a specific location, or an invitation. Yet my eyes were big as saucers and I felt like Mom and Dad had come down from heaven for a visit.
“Neddie,” Lil shouted from the area of the nurses’ station. “How are you?”
She was still about five steps from the waiting room, and one of the nurses shushed her as she walked by.
I gave her a big hug and it was good to feel her hands on my back. Nothing reserved. No peck on the cheek or social grasp. It was an honest to goodness family greeting that said “we care about you and Martha.” I suddenly realized how long it had been since I had received one of these unrestrained hugs, without calculation or equivocation. I reached behind Lil’s back and grabbed Pete’s hand. His face was aglow. I couldn’t tell whether he was excited to see me or just red burned from the sun and wind after a day on the water. I didn’t care.
“Pete!” I exclaimed. “How are you buddy? They took Martha in about 8:00 o’clock this morning. I haven’t heard a thing.”
Lil backed away and searched my face for stress. When people hear brain tumor, they automatically think cancer, and ultimately death. And when I try to explain that this tumor isn’t cancerous, but could still kill Martha in several different ways, it only introduces more confusion and greater fear. So I quit striving for clarity and accepted “reassurance.”
“All we can do it wait,” I said. “Come sit down. Or we can go get a cup of coffee.”
“Neddie,” Lil said, “I know you’re not a big social animal. But you must know that you and Martha have many friends in Parkers. And some of them are coming. You don’t have to do anything, just accept our friendship.”
“Today?” I asked. “They’re coming today? But we won’t know anything till tonight.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lil said. “They’ll stay all night if they have to.
You’ve got us so get ready.”
“Who’s coming?” I asked.
“We better just wait and see. I don’t want you to get agitated and then nobody shows up. But let’s wait on getting coffee for a while just to see who comes.”
“Fine,” I said, and sat down on the couch facing the windows.
By the time Martha came out of the intensive care unit 12 hours later, seventeen people from Parkers, Maryland were waiting for her. The last couple to arrive was Judge Humboldt and Effie, the Calico Cat. I had never met the judge before, although I had often worried he might be a stuffed shirt. As a lawyer, I knew plenty of judges and I couldn’t imagine taking a one of them out crabbing. I couldn’t even imagine a one of them in blue jeans. But here came Judge Humboldt in jeans, docksider shoes and a blue button down shirt. He had a crew cut for hair, rare even in Parkers, and was unfailingly polite.
“It’s great to meet you Judge,” I said.
>
“What’s Martha’s status?” he asked, no doubt aware of his purpose in accompanying Effie to Philadelphia, and perhaps a little impatient to get the results. More like a judge, I thought. But he asked, “Have you talked to the doctor about swelling, or any side effects?”
“No, I haven’t seen anybody,” I said.
Effie grasped my arm to focus a question. “Ned, I want to help you with the insurance companies. Anything I can do. We’ve been through enough of this to know you can spend a year or more just directing bills to primary providers, and secondary providers, and then going back a third time with challenges.”
“Thanks Effie,” I said. “That’s the kind of help I need.”
Mansfield Burlington and Marilyn had been here since mid morning. It was great to have their support, mature and helpful. Most importantly, they entertained themselves, going to every cafeteria and snack bar in the hospital. They could give recommendations on best desserts, soggiest lettuce, freshest tuna salad, and strongest coffee.
Burl stepped up behind Effie. “That’s the kind of help we all need. As we were leaving Parkers just this morning, there was a poster on the telephone pole that said, ‘Need Health Insurance, Call Us Today.’ You know health care is in trouble when you can buy it off a telephone pole.”
“Actually, our area has a strong history of health care,” Effie said. “Over in Deale, they used to have an organization called The African Americans United Sons and Daughters of Holland.”
“Who was Holland?” I asked, wanting to stay in the conversation.
“I don’t remember,” Effie said, “but the organization was for poor black people who needed medical help. At the beginning of the 19th century, all blacks were poor, at least in South County, and so they incorporated in 1905 to help each other pay medical bills. It cost 25 cents a month till 1957 when they raised it to 50 cents. Sick members of the organization were given $2 a week for the first month of their illness and after that they passed the hat. These people took care of their own. And today in Parkers we still take care of our own. So we’re staying until we know Martha is going to be all right.”
“How long did the Holland organization last?” I asked.
“That’s the most amazing thing,” Effie said. “The Holland group lasted until 1983. Can you imagine that, until 1983. We had men on the moon for twenty years before that, and these people were still helping each other pay the bills. That’s our history, Mr. Ned, and we have seventeen people here today to continue the tradition.”
Just as I was ready to explore the traditions of South County, a doctor in blue operating pants and cap walked into the room. He had to excuse himself around Effie, then pulled his hat off and asked for Mr. Shannon. His black curly hair was glistening, presumably from perspiration. I hoped not from the operation. I hadn’t seen him since our interview days before, and at one point had wondered if he was even here, but I pushed it from my mind.
“Mr. Shannon,” Dr. Nablani said as the Parkerites put down their golf and entertainment magazines to listen. “Your wife is fine. She’s in recovery. She had a craniotomy, so we have to keep her still for several hours. But she’s alert, although groggy. You can probably see her in an hour or two, but she won’t go to her room, so your friends probably can’t see her till tomorrow. The nurses may let you in the intensive care unit two at a time.”
“She lived.” That’s all I could think. I thought about telling Nablani that Mrs. Shannon isn’t my wife, but who cares.
He nodded to Burl and the rest, then turned and left.
The next morning, after a round of coffee in the waiting room, the Parkerites started telling stories about their night in the Philly Arms, a small hotel near the hospital, selected mostly for its location so no one would get lost. It didn’t have a restaurant, so the group convened at the chain seafood house across the street. I wondered why a bunch of watermen would not take this opportunity to have steaks, or something different from their normal fare. Burl said one of the watermen actually got angry because no oysters were on the menu. As Burl said, “Hell, ole Charlie probably eats 20 gallon of oysters a year and now he wants one more plate in Philadelphia.” Effie said, “Now we’re going to call you Oyster Charlie.” Everyone was laughing, including Charlie, when the nurse popped in to say, “I’ll take you in two at a time. Mr. Shannon first.”
Martha was sleeping, which gave me a chance to examine her bandages without her awareness. Her head was totally wrapped from just above her eyebrows to the top of her head. Again I wondered why they left a half head of hair, when it was all covered with tape. Maybe they cut more of it off during the operation. Martha looked fine. I searched for the pin holes, but they must have been under the tape. I could see her breathing, and that was reassuring. And then, as silently as a floating leaf, her eyes opened. There was recognition, but no smile or movement of any kind. The nurse beside me said, “We don’t think she can talk yet.”
Over the next half hour, I gently prodded the nurse to explore Martha’s condition, but to no avail. I sat in the corner of the waiting room and dozed. Dreaming, I could see into Martha’s head, without the tumor. In my mind’s eye, it was a large hole with dangling nerve ends that had slowly moved to the side of the brain by years and years of tumor growth, and now they found themselves dangling into an open cave like stalagmites of the brain, waiting to stretch their legs and resume the functions that had been suppressed. And it seemed natural that every function would now be jumbled, so that speech would be slurred, and vision blurred, and hearing lost, and words stifled. Please God, I prayed, just straighten them all out and let Martha be whole again. Finally the nurses decided to wheel Martha to her private room instead of bringing all her friends to the ICU. As she passed through the hallway, her eyes were open but there was no other sign of recognition. She was a lifeless form under a sea of bandages and I wondered how long it would take to resolve the mysteries of her mind. It was my first moment of hopelessness.
Her bed with the protective rails up and two nurses and myself in tow, moved away from intensive care to the room. We passed the waiting room with seventeen Parkerites lined against the wall, straining to see Martha’s condition. Her eyes had closed and the group said nothing.
“Let us get her settled,” I said. “And I’ll come get you.”
It was another hour before Martha opened her eyes and recognized me.
I asked how she felt, but there was no response. Then her lips moved, but no words emerged. My heart sank as I imagined all of her sensory abilities similarly impaired. I tried to think what to say, to guess what she would want to know.
“Mindy is fine Martha,” I said. “I’ll call her aunt as soon as we talk to the doctors. You can talk to Mindy…” and then I realized she couldn’t.
Martha fidgeted, and opened her mouth. But she couldn’t talk. Her tongue was swollen to the point that even breathing was difficult. I assumed that would go down, but no one had mentioned a tongue problem.
“Martha, you have all kinds of friends here. They came yesterday, stayed the night, and they want to see you. Some of them need to go home this afternoon. Can I just bring them in to see you’re alive and well?”
I could see her eyes try to smile, although her mouth and face remained fixed. Her nurse advised waiting for the doctors, who she promised to find, and she left the room. I touched Martha’s hand. Her fingers closed on mine and held tight. This moment must have been as frightening for her as for me. Things were happening or not happening and we had no idea why.
A young Egyptian doctor came in, shorter that Nablani, but smiling. I thought I had seen him with the group that took Martha into surgery, but with the masks, I couldn’t be sure.
“I’m Dr. Nassif,” he said. “I work with Dr. Nablani. He had to rush off to the airport. Going to Turkey for a lecture on meningioma. Back next week. In the meantime, I’ll take good care of Mrs. Shannon.”
“How is she, doctor?” I asked. It seemed strange to talk about Martha in fron
t of her, especially when she couldn’t talk. But I was determined to ask the questions for her.”
“First,” Nassif said, “she is in very good shape. All of our team feels she is capable of a full recovery, but it will take some time. There is swelling in her tongue, but it will go down, and she should be able to talk by tomorrow. Most importantly, there has been very little swelling in the brain, but she needs to stay very still.”
Nassif moved to her side. “Mrs. Shannon,” he said, “I need to ask you some questions. Can you just squeeze my hand, once for yes, and twice for no?” He took her hand and she squeezed it once. My God, I thought, I’m breathless over the first instruction. It was my first realization that paralysis could be a permanent situation. How would Martha take care of herself, of Mindy? What would be my responsibility? I told myself not to jump to conclusions, not to hurry things.
Then Nassif started the questions. “Can you see me?” Two squeezes from her hesitant fingers. He reached forward and put one hand over her left eye. “Better?” One squeeze.
“I think she has double vision, and probably blurry.” Nassif never looked away from her face, studying every twitch and possible movement. I didn’t see any, but maybe he could.
Death in the Polka Dot Shoes Page 20