Dear Marcus: A Letter to the Man Who Shot Me

by Jerry McGill

  That being said, when my six months were up and I was faced with the reality of leaving that hospital and moving out into the world on my own, with just my mother and sister as my support, I found myself facing a whole new challenge: fear of the unknown.

  INT. HOSPITAL ROOM—DAY

  JEROME, wearing sweatpants and a polo shirt, is putting things into a bag. DONNA, a nurse, white, late twenties, enters. SUBTITLE: CH-CH-CH-CHANGES!

  DONNA

  Hey, look at that handsome fella. How ya doing, buddy? You ready to do this?

  JEROME

  Yeah.

  DONNA

  So, how does it feel?

  JEROME

  It feels good. Strange.

  DONNA

  I bet. You a little bit nervous?

  JEROME

  A lot.

  DONNA

  You’ll be great, kiddo. You’ll see—being home will be so much nicer than being cooped up in here. You about ready? Your mother is down the hall signing the last of the paperwork.

  JEROME

  Yeah, I’m ready. I just need a few more minutes.

  DONNA

  Okay, be quick though. We got another kid moving in here today. Drunk-driving accident.

  DONNA rubs JEROME’S head, then leaves. JEROME looks around his empty room.

  nine

  A strange thing happens to you when you spend too much time in the hospital, Marcus. You get used to the place, to the rhythms and pulse of it. The consistency of the monotony sucks you in. You become complacent and somewhat dependent on the routine. You come to crave the womb just a little too much.

  In one of my favorite films, The Shawshank Redemption, the setting is a prison. One of the characters has been an inmate there for most of his life. When the time eventually comes for his release he becomes very concerned that he won’t be able to live in the real world, so accustomed has he grown to life in prison. When he does get liberated he is not quite sure what do with himself. He feels like a stranger in the outside world, like he doesn’t belong. Eventually he realizes that he can’t make it on the outside and with remarkable calmness, he hangs himself. After six months in the hospital I could easily relate to the angst that character must have felt.

  When I had arrived at St. Vincent’s that first evening of January there had been snow on the ground and the temperature was down near freezing. I was a novice to the ways of the medical world. I had been to a hospital once, for an ear infection, back when I was in the first grade. I was only there for a few hours, sent home with ear drops and aspirin. How quickly things change. In mere seconds the world as you know it can dissolve away like salt in water. Now that I was poised to leave the hospital everything had changed; there was green in the trees and flowers on bushes. The fresh scent of summer lingered blissfully in the air, calling New Yorkers to shed their clothing and their frustrations. It was June.

  Saying good-bye to the staff was one of the hardest parts of leaving. That overworked, sometimes loving, sometimes infuriating group of women and men had successfully steered me through the most difficult transition I would ever make. I owed them so much. Some of them truly were like family. Over the course of six months I had learned little things about them; the things that really matter. I knew what made them laugh. What disgusted them. They shared stories about their lives, their families, their dreams. I had seen many of them cry. In a hospital, the capacity to touch and be touched is so heightened. The caregivers and the cared for go through so much together that at times it is easy to forget where the professional line sits.

  Donna, a favored nurse of mine, the Italian Stallion, as I had nicknamed her (I have this annoying habit of nicknaming people I feel close to), accompanied me on my first and only official “night out” from the hospital. About four months into my stay I was invited by I.S. 70 to come back to school for the opening night performance of a play that my dear friend Juliet was starring in. I was nervous about making the trip back to school as I had literally not been outdoors in several months. Also, the last time I had been in school now seemed like a lifetime ago—I was a whole new person. I felt so much safer about it all when Donna stepped up and agreed to go with me on her night off.

  I had a wonderful time at the play. The principal made a special announcement before the curtain rose, asking everyone in the audience to welcome back a very special student to the school. Of course she was referring to me, Marcus. The audience gave me a huge round of applause. It was as if they all knew me and were all pulling for me. It was rather touching. The show was an entertaining musical comedy, the kind that I might have been in myself had things gone the way I originally planned them. And it was a real trip being back at the school again. All of these people shaking my hand, embracing me, wanting to reconnect with me. When it was all over I felt like Cinderella at the end of the ball because I had to be back at the hospital by midnight. Donna and I stopped off at my favorite pizza joint to get a slice and a soda before heading back to St. Vinny’s. We joked afterward about it being our first date.

  Anna (Anna Banana as I called her) was a tiny woman—the kind who gave you the impression that if a strong enough wind came along she’d be swept off her feet and into the air. Anna had the distinct honor of being the first woman to ever give me a bath (besides my mother, of course). After months of washing up in bed with a steel basin, lukewarm water, liquid soap, and a washcloth, I remarked to her one morning how nice it would be to take a bath again someday.

  Anna took note of that and arranged for me to go down to one of the floors where there was a large, deep whirlpool bathtub. With assistance from two other nurses she lifted my scrawny body up out of the wheelchair and into the awaiting warm bath. She stayed by my side the whole time since my balance was pretty lousy and I didn’t feel secure on my own. She held me up with one tiny arm and gave me a full-body wash with the other. I remember feeling so refreshed once I left that tub, like the proverbial new man—refreshed and wanting more.

  Deirdre (Big Dee) was the head supervisor down in the Rehabilitation Department. She had her own office and oftentimes before and after my therapy session I could be found in Dee’s office just shooting the breeze. Dee was one of those supervoluptuous women with pouty lips and a figure that rivaled Marilyn Monroe’s. To say she turned heads when walking down the hall was an understatement.

  Dee was a busy woman but she always made time for me. We had chemistry, she and I did, and I liked to think that had we met at a different time and under different circumstances we probably could have had something special. Despite our age difference she entertained me, even flirted with me. She was great fun to hang out with and she never spoke down to me. She treated me like a young man. She even cursed around me, and I loved it. I won’t forget the way her face lit up when I came into her office. If she was with someone, she always excused herself from their company to give me a quick peck on the cheek. She made me feel like I was her little man.

  There was also Little Mikey, the janitor, who periodically snuck in Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and M&Ms for me. There was Margo, the head nurse of the student nurses. She was always tough on them, sweet with me. There was Rachel, the graveyard-shift nurse who was there for me all of those early nights when I was still in shock, suffering from insomnia, wondering where I was and how I got there. There was Diana (Preggo), who became my Kentucky Fried Chicken connection. Once every few weeks she picked up a three-piece meal for me along with her own order before coming in. We both craved original recipe.

  And of course there was Debra (Fenny). Debra was my favorite nurse of all time, and it was with her that I went through what was probably one of the greatest learning experiences I ever had at that hospital. Even today I still look back on her and the lesson she taught me.

  I had this video game, you see—a small but noisy handheld version of Ms. Pac-Man. That game was all the rage back then and someone had given it to me as a gift. This game gave me great pleasure during the day and I brought it with me almost eve
rywhere I went. However, I wasn’t allowed to bring it to therapy sessions, so I’d have to leave it in my room. Hospitals can be hectic places filled with human traffic; hundreds of people can pass your room in a day. I came back to my room one afternoon to find that my Ms. Pac-Man game was gone; most likely it had been stolen.

  I was furious. Not only had my space been violated by a total stranger, but now I was without my greatest time passer other than the television. I started to act out, blaming the nursing staff for allowing such a horrible thing to happen. I became a real pain in the ass, difficult and distant with them. Even my favorite nurses fell victim to my wrath. One night Debra was giving me my medicine and we got into it. She had jokingly referred to me as a brat and I responded accordingly.

  “What do you care anyway?” I spat back at her.

  “Excuse me? What did you say?”

  “You heard me,” I said, louder now. “What do you care about me?”

  Debra watched me, an incredulous look on her face. “What, do you think nobody cares about you here, is that it?”

  “That’s right. You all have your own lives and your own families. I’m just your job, so what do you care if something bad happens to me?”

  I was pouting, being overly dramatic in that manipulative way that seems to come naturally to kids. It didn’t go over well with Debra.

  “How can you sit there and say that? I don’t believe you. Look at me. Look at me.”

  I looked up into her pretty face. Debra had crystal blue eyes. “Do you have any idea how much what happened to you breaks my heart? Do you know that I sometimes leave this place and just go home and lie on the couch, unable to move? Unable to do anything because it just sickens me that you have to be here?”

  I had never seen Debra like this before: this serious, this intense. It actually scared me a little. I felt bad for having brought it up, but she was not yet ready to let it go.

  “I can’t believe you, Jerome. The depression I have gone through—continue to go through—and for you to sit there and tell me I don’t care. The other night I went home and my boyfriend wanted to go out and do something fun but I couldn’t because I had just left here. Just left you. And I … you have no idea the effect your life has had on so many of us.”

  She walked out of the room. I could hear the pain building in her voice, catching in her throat like a bitter plum, and now she was gone because she didn’t want to cry in front of me. She wanted to be strong for me. And so I was left with just her words hanging in the air, thick as tar. I was pretty disappointed with myself. I had managed to upset and offend one of my favorite people in the world. It turns out she did care. According to her they all cared. It had never occurred to me, so myopic was my view of others, so wrapped up was I in my own pathos, that someone else might actually care enough about me to be depressed once they left my bedside. I just assumed that everyone who left me went on to live happy lives and my pain and suffering were things I alone bore. It was comforting to know that someone else cared. It was also the beginning of something. It was the beginning of my looking outside my own little narcissistic world and seeing that other people had things hard, too.

  A few minutes later Debra returned with a bag in her hand. She placed it down on my lap.

  “Open it,” she said in a very demanding tone.

  I looked up at her and complied. I knew better than to mess with her anymore. To my surprise there was a brand-new Ms. Pac-Man game in the bag, still in its shiny new box. I looked up at her, not knowing what to say.

  “All of us teamed up and pooled our money together to buy you a new one. We were supposed to give it to you at your birthday party next week, but I wanted you to see this now. I wanted you to see just how much people cared about you.”

  I sat there speechless.

  “So now you’ll have to promise me that you will at least act surprised when we give it to you next week. Can you do that much?”

  I nodded, my shame bubbling up inside of me.

  “Good. Then this is our secret. This is not just a job to me, Jerome. Not to any of us. We all love you.”

  She took the bag back from me and walked out of the room.

  That next week the nursing staff threw a surprise party for me in the children’s recreation room. When they presented me with a nicely gift-wrapped box and a card I played dumb and smiled a huge, Kool-Aid smile as I tore off the wrapping paper and discovered my new Ms. Pac-Man game. Debra winked at me from the corner of the room.

  These moments, these people—they sit quietly in the deepest, warmest chambers of my heart and soul. Every now and then they peek out and wave hello or tap me on the shoulder as if to say, “Hey, don’t forget what took place here.” And I know I never will.

  For me, one of the most disappointing aspects of the entire experience was that I never really got to fully thank those folks for all they did for me. I wish so much that they knew how much I appreciate everything. It’s almost like I feel incomplete as a person never having said these things to them. However, I know that nursing, like teaching, is one of those thankless professions in which the person going into it does so not because they want or need instant gratification. No, they do so because they earnestly care; many of them feel a calling to the work. They have accepted that the path of life is such that the person may not reap the fruits of their experience together until years, maybe decades later. It is selfless work that requires much heart and great inner strength. I can only hope they know how much I love them.

  You might ask, Marcus, why I didn’t just go back and tell them myself? Well, I tried, let me tell you. Years after my release when I was doing well, living on my own, working and going to college, I would pass by St. Vincent’s and pop into the place for a little catching up. But there is a reason why they say you can’t go home again. So much had changed in just a few years. Nearly everyone I knew and cared about had moved on to other hospitals or to new phases of their lives.

  Debra had gotten married and moved to Denver with her new husband. Dr. Dempsey had started his own private practice in sports medicine. Irit and her husband had moved to Israel. Cheryl had taken a position with a new hospital. Donna and Anna had both decided to stay at home full-time with their children. Little Mikey had died of lung cancer. Margo was still there but she had a new crop of nurses to train and could barely spare a minute to talk to me. Things change, people change. In a hospital there is always an endless stream of new stories being written daily. Old patients, even beloved ones like myself, have to fall by the wayside to make way for the new. I realized quickly that at St. Vincent’s Hospital, the book on Jerome McGill had closed long ago.

  INT. DRUGSTORE, MANHATTAN—DAY

  JEROME, sixteen, and IRENE, white, twenty-six, stroll down an aisle together. SUBTITLE: THERE’S A FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING

  IRENE

  Ah … here we are.

  She removes a box of condoms from the shelf.

  IRENE

  Do you have any of these on you?

  JEROME

  These? Uh … no, umm … I didn’t know …

  IRENE

  You are planning on coming over tonight, right?

  JEROME

  Coming over? To your place?

  IRENE

  Yes, to my place. I sure as hell can’t afford a hotel. Are you okay with this?

  JEROME

  Yeah, yeah, of course. I just, uh …

  IRENE

  I thought we discussed this.

  JEROME

  We did. We did.

  IRENE

  Good, then let’s go.

  She walks away with the box in her hand. Jerome catches his breath. He looks like he may be sick.

  ten

  Do you have any special methods or coping mechanisms that you use for dealing with your anger, Marcus? I’m assuming that you get angry, because not everybody does, you know. Nowadays, I don’t ever really get angry anymore. I process things so much better today than I did in the past. But I us
ed to get angry often, and at sometimes unexpected things. I recall one sunny afternoon when Cheryl took me out for an ice cream after our therapy session. It was my first time going outside in months and I was so excited. Because it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, I kept my hospital gown on, and we went across the street to a popular ice cream parlor.

  To my surprise, some old classmates of mine were there, and when they approached me to say hello, I was gripped with an unexpected feeling of embarrassment. I suddenly felt that in my hospital gown and with my nappy hair, I wasn’t good enough to be among “normal” people. I desperately wanted to be away from them, from the entire public eye. As soon as my friends left, I told Cheryl that we needed to go. Once we were back in the safety of the hospital, I lashed out at her for putting me in that position.

  “Why would you let me go out that way?” I tore into her. “Why wouldn’t you tell me I looked this way?” My reaction was totally uncalled-for as it truly wasn’t her fault, but I couldn’t really control my behavior.

  At other times it was over even sillier things. If I asked my sister to bring me chocolate chip cookies when she came to visit and she brought oatmeal instead I got mad and ripped into her for being “stupid” and “never listening.” I was acting out. Releasing aggression and tension that had been metastasizing for a long time in that frozen body of mine. I tried to “turn that frown upside down” whenever I could help it but it wasn’t always easy, you know? I hated myself for getting angry. I’d always believed that anger couldn’t get anyone very far in life. I found it a most unappealing trait in others, and I tried to channel all my negative energy into a positive force for myself as well as for those around me.