Moving Forward in Reverse

by Scott Martin

  My jaw went slack. The thought of having the university support me while I earned my Advanced National Diploma in coaching, a goal I’d set for myself before contracting the illness, had never crossed my mind. Clearly Marilyn hadn’t forgotten, though.

  ‘Thank you.’ She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly in acknowledgment. Still a little dumbfounded, I started to leave, turning towards the door when a thought struck which stopped me in my tracks: One last thing to do while I still had some sway over the program.

  ‘Oh, and Sean can run this program,’ I told her, referencing one of my assistant coaches. ‘I recommend that you hire him in my stead.’

  I thought I could feel her eyes on my back as I left, but when I snuck a glance over my shoulder as I turned the corner, she was looking down at my letter on her desk.

  ~~~

  The following week, I returned to the Soccer Office one last time to pack my things. Ironic that I was leaving at the time I’d always intended to go. Different terms, but still my timeline, I supposed. Build a strong program, then move up the ladder in three to five years. I could still remember the fearless, determined coach who had set those goals. If only he’d had any idea of where that road would actually lead him.

  I smiled. He’d never have let it stop him.

  With two boxes on the floor at my feet, I shut the door on the Soccer Office, and then, with one final farewell pat on the door, I put the University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire behind me.

  I left with no regrets, but over time, one would grow: To this day, I still wish I had written to the graduated players, thanking them for their dedication and support in helping me transition back from the hospital. It was my first season back with all of them which set the bar.

  I wasn’t sad when I returned to my off-campus apartment. I wasn’t angry or even disappointed. I felt nothing, empty.

  ~~~

  When the phone rang a few days later, I dreaded another check-up call. My having resigned from UWEC only made those already concerned for my well-being even more anxious. I was too tired to explain how little it mattered to another concerned ear.

  My mother’s voice on the other end of the line held none of the exaggeratedly upbeat tones people had begun to adopt around me. She sounded as deflated as I felt.

  ‘Mom?’ I asked, all thoughts of my well-being dispelled by concern for hers. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Don…’ she said, her voice thick and hoarse.

  She paused.

  I waited, listening to her ragged breathing.

  ‘Don- Don has cancer. It’s terminal. You need to come home.’

  ~~~

  I found him seated in the living room chair at their house in Janesville, wearing his usual plaid button-up shirt and suspendered slacks. The clothes were the only part of him that looked the same. A defeated semblance of the man I’d known was slumped in that chair. It was as if someone had turned the lights off and what I was seeing was merely a shadowed outline of the real man. A red pail sat at his feet, I assumed in case he needed to vomit – a common side effect for chemo patients.

  I pulled a wooden chair from the dining room and sat next to him. He peered up at me with dejected eyes and murmured, ‘Hi, Scotty. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Don. I see that chemo isn’t fun.’

  With an even more defeated look he responded, ‘Not fun at all. Your mother had to clean up my mess right over there when I couldn’t hold my bowels. She has to help me too much.’ I could sympathize with that feeling, and had no intention of giving one of the fake optimisms that typically followed. No rah-rah speech or false bravado. Don deserved better. He deserved honesty.

  ‘Don,’ I said, ‘I came to tell you how much respect I have for you. Not many people can handle my mother.’ He chuckled, a phlegmy sound deep in his lungs.

  ‘After I woke up from the coma, you came to the hospital and shaved my face every day,’ I said, drawing out the vowels and enunciating the consonants in ‘every’ and ‘day’. I wanted – no: I needed for him to know that what he did for me, both in the hospital and out, was invaluable and inimitable.

  ‘Well, you couldn’t do it yourself,’ he interjected. ‘And you needed to keep your looks up for all the good looking nurses you had.’

  I smiled and felt the sting of impending tears. ‘That I did, Don. That I did…

  I respect you, Don, and I love you. You’re a good man.’

  I stood from my chair feeling both lighter and weaker at having said those things. Lighter for knowing that now he knew exactly how I felt; weaker for the farewell shadowing what I said.

  I placed my right hand delicately on his thin shoulder, leaned down and kissed the top of his head. It was the last time I would see Don alive.

  18

  I Trusted You, Damn It!

  No one sat behind the defense, whereas on my side of the room with the prosecution, there sat my entire family.

  If only trials were popularity contests, I thought as I watched the defense’s second chair, a frumpy man in a poorly fitted suit named Robert Junig, rifle through the jumble of papers stuffed into his faded leather satchel.

  Dr. Peters was sitting at the end of the table, his three attorneys a buffer between him and the prosecution. It had been nearly four years since I’d last seen him. Perhaps it was merely fanciful thinking, but the years didn’t seem to have worn on him well. He looked older and slighter than I remembered. Of course, he was being taken to court for negligent care, so the stress may have had a thing or two to do with the lines now creasing his face.

  All in all, I was feeling rather confident in my situation when the call to please rise boomed from the front of the courtroom. Judge Thomas H. Barland, a slim, white-haired man with bags that fell like ripples in a lake beneath his eyes, strode into the room. We could all be seated, he said. It was 9:00 AM on Monday, June 16, 1997 and court was now in session.

  I resumed my seat in one of the tall-backed, black leather office chairs at the prosecution’s table, straightened the yellow legal pad Mike Schumacher had given me, and settled in for the opening statements. As the prosecution, we were entitled to go first, so in his suave, leisurely way, Mike stood from our table and approached the jurors. With him he carried thirteen pieces of five inch by twenty-four inch poster board. He passed one to each juror and Judge Barland. The jurors looked with wide eyes from Mike to the poster in their hands, trying not to bump each other as they jostled theirs into a less awkward position. What they now held was a timeline of my life, beginning July 13, 1993 when the strep bacteria were first identified through my second surgery on “the bad foot” just over a year ago.

  Compiling the events of the chronologies had been an experience for both Mike and I. For him, it was a fact-finding mission that I believe opened his eyes to just how precarious and strenuous my situation had been. It was appalling how one little bacterium could be discovered on a Tuesday morning and by Friday of that same week, the muscles of the infected individual could have deteriorated to such an extent that doctors deemed him unlikely to survive.

  Assembling the sizable documents had led me down a slightly different path. I knew the facts of my case – or as much as I cared to know. I had survived; the degree to which my body had suffered in the meantime was of little consequence now. The only affliction I cared to acquaint myself with was that of the people who now sat behind me in a show of unwavering support, the people who had stationed themselves outside my hospital room for hours and days on end.

  From my niece Marie to my big brother, Jeff, the vivid collection of their individual experiences had mosaicked in my mind to create something far more intricate than a simple chronology of events. As the groundwork for the prosecution and defense’s cases were laid, I kept replaying the stories I was told.

  ~~~

  Marie

  (Niece)

  I was 12 at the time. Most of what I remember is sitting in the waiting room, just about every day. I knew the hospital hallways like t
he back of my hand. When the waiting room was full of new people, my mom, Aunt Lisa and I would sit in the hallway on the floor. I remember someone giving us strange looks because we'd be laughing. Aunt Lisa always tried to keep us laughing.

  So we'd be camped out on the floor down the hall from your room if we couldn't be in there. And we'd all just hope that laughter really was the best medicine. And somehow you'd hear us laughing, pulling for you, hoping for you, and you'd know that you had to keep fighting.

  It was the anniversary of the Star Wars movies. So that was the only thing on TV that whole summer. That was the first time I had seen all three and as silly as it seems, I know that's why I'm so obsessed with the movies now because something about it was comforting. Watching it with my uncles and brothers . . . the only thing to keep our mind off what none of us wanted to think about. And I guess I associate it with the fact that you made it. I'd probably hate Star Wars if something else had happened.

  ~~~

  Both sides played off the same key point: blood tests. From Mike the jury was told that blood tests conducted on my first visit to the ER, Saturday, July 10th, could have diagnosed the bacteria and enabled physicians to begin treatment early enough to possibly save my hands and feet. He referred to me as Scott and made sure each and every juror knew who I was and what I had undergone.

  Attorney Brad Wentworth of the defense was a lanky man with long fingers and a smooth style that reminded me of Mick Fleetwood of Fleetwood Mac, only I pegged Wentworth for a guitarist rather than a drummer. He sauntered to the front of the courtroom in a crisp suit styled just casually enough to be approachable without also being disrespectful. According to him, I was ‘this unfortunate man’ for whom the consequences would have been the same regardless of whether blood tests had been performed by Dr. Peters on Saturday.

  In a detached way, it was fascinating to see how the two attorneys slanted the story, choosing the right phrases, the ideal terms to sway the emotions of the jury.

  In reality, sitting in that courtroom, it was irritating to be just an ‘unfortunate man.’ After listening to the way Wentworth cast a verbal shadow over me, I wanted to stand up and parade myself and each of my family members before the court. See me? I wanted to command. See my family? Let them tell you how things really were. Then you can determine how unfortunate I am and what should or should not have been done.

  ~~~

  Brian

  (Nephew)

  On my first trip to the hospital, my brother, Chris and I were waiting in the car for our parents and he said, “You know what’s going to happen to Uncle Scott, right?” And I just said, “You don’t know that.” I don’t really remember much about the whole thing before that, but I do know everyone’s mood was pretty low.

  When finally in the hospital, it was my turn to go see you and my mom tried to prepare me for what I would see . . . Lots of tubes that breathed for you. Being my usual self I was trying to crack jokes on the walk to your room and that was when I knew it was bad because it just made my mom say “Brian!” and she started to cry. Then we got to your room and it was much worse than I thought; it looked like you were being raised by a magician . . . up and down; up and down with the breathing machine. Your eyes were taped shut but I could still see them and they were all yellow. Your fingers were starting to turn purple. My mom told me to say something to let you know I was there and be loud so you could hear me but I couldn’t really say anything and when I did it was just a whisper of “Hi, Uncle Scott. ”

  ~~~

  When the defense decided to cross examine my mom, I grinned and scribbled Mistake! on my notepad. I tilted it toward Mike seated beside me and circled the word. He glanced at what I had written and I watched his eyebrows furrow.. He’ll understand soon enough, I thought.

  It was the third chair for the defense, Mark Winchell, who was granted the seemingly benign task of interrogating my seventy-year-old mother. I watched the youngest attorney in the courtroom approach the stand and leaned back in my seat to enjoy the show.

  Five minutes in, a shine had developed along his forehead and his once fluffy brown hair was beginning to mat itself to his face. As he continually found himself unable to wrangle this tough-as-nails mother of six, dark sweat stains sprouted on the underarm areas of his navy blue suit coat. Mike jotted something on his own notepad and angled it towards me. I glanced down. You’re right! was etched on the edge of the yellow paper. He circled it and smiled when I met his eyes with a cocky gleam to my expression.

  ‘Your son told the doctor that he was suffering from heat exhaustion,’ Winchell informed my mother, trying yet again to corner her. His voice was a few decibels shy of assertive and no match for the volume or ferocity of Mom’s reproach.

  ‘Scott’s not a doctor!’ she snipped back. Her whole body seemed to be vibrating with indignant fury. There was no way this mother lion was going to allow them to pin anything on her son. Scott is the victim here, she proclaimed behind her words. Don’t you forget that.

  I rocked slightly in my desk chair, basking in the abundance of pride I felt for my mom. Thirty-nine years as her son and she could still astound me.

  As I watched Winchell squirm at her feet, though, my thoughts began to drift. She was on fire – that much was clear – and prepared to fight tooth and nail to defend me. But beneath the flames that sparked menacingly in her eyes, was a pain so deep and hardened that not even the light of her fury could mask it fully. In those moments, looking at the strongest woman I knew, I saw the most everlasting suffering.

  ~~~

  Mom

  When you finally got up on that Sunday morning, as you entered the kitchen, you got about to the island and threw up about a gallon of plain liquid. It hit mostly at the sink. That was when I said you have to go back to the hospital.

  Shortly after Dr. Ramsey saw you he said you have to be in the Intensive Care section because you had a bad case of sepsis and must be watched very carefully.

  That is where we met Lindy. She was there and was a wonderful, caring nurse. She finally persuaded me to go home after midnight, promising me that she would call me if there were any changes. She did call early the next morning, telling me I should call the family, which I did, and everyone came as soon as they could get there. I called my church and had the Pastor come for prayers. We were all sitting on the floor in the hall because we were such a big bunch.

  It was a few days and then your hands started to turn black. I used to stand by your bed and rub your hands, hoping that would get some life back into them.

  One doctor suggested that I should let you go. Of course I refused to do that.

  ~~~

  On the second day of the trial, Judge Barland reported that Juror 7 had fallen ill and could not continue with the trial.

  ‘I hope her temperature is taken and blood tests run,’ the judge commented, tongue in cheek. I bit back a startled laugh as Brad Wentworth leapt from his chair.

  ‘I object!’ he proclaimed in full courtroom-drama style. ‘Will the court reporter please note my objection and I would like it documented that Judge Barland’s last statement may be used if a mistrial is sought.’

  Like a classroom where a student has just dared to challenge the teacher, the cavernous room became absorbed in silence; everyone waiting in awe for what would come next. The judge sighed and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, Well, you can’t take a joke. Peering out at the court before him, he acquiesced.

  ‘The jury will disregard my previous statement.’

  With the matter legally resolved but nowhere near forgotten, the trial was resumed. Mike and I glanced at each other with wide eyes. I lowered my head as a grin split across my face. As far as signs went, that one seemed a pretty good indication of how my case was proceeding.

  When Dr. Peters took the stand I subconsciously sat a little straighter in the high-backed chair. Above all else, this was the man I had been waiting to hear from. Even knowing his answers would be mere echoes of what the defense had
been parroting all day, I couldn’t subdue the anticipation I felt as I watched him approach the witness box.

  Over the lunch break, my mom had poked her head into the courtroom to find it occupied by Dr. Peters and his defense team. When Mom returned to where the rest of us were waiting out the lunch hour in an adjacent chamber, she snidely reported that he was ‘sitting up there practicing his answers like a peacock. ’

  Rehearsing won’t do this little pheasant much good once Mike gets to him, I thought and waited for the Defense to finish their script so the real fun could begin.

  The ‘fun,’ as it turned out, lasted a full hour and thirty minutes. Mike grilled the young doctor relentlessly. The specific questions asked and answers given escape me now, but I do recall the abhorrence I felt as I gazed upon Dr. Peters in the witness box.

  Through the research done by the team at Herrick and Hart, I learned that the day I met Dr. Peters in the ER, he had been a mere two days off the graduation stage. Two days out of medical school and they let him run an ER. But youth was no excuse for what his negligence had done to me and my family; he was a certified medical doctor and should have known better. If anything, his juvenility and seemingly inordinate amount of responsibility suggested the whole of the medical profession should have been sitting on that stand beside him.

  My seat at the Prosecution table was situated directly across from the witness box. I never once took my eyes off of Dr. Peters for the duration of his stay there. I hoped he could feel even a glimmer of the loathing and disgust I was casting his way. Because of him I would forever distrust one of the most benevolent facets of our society, the very people whom you are meant to trust above all else whose hands so often cradle your life: physicians.

  I trusted you, damn it! I longed to yell as the mechanical fingers of the myos clenched into their rendition of fists. I trusted you and I nearly died because of it.