by Laurie Loft
“Nothing wrong with looking at a calendar,” the doctor commented to his posse. “That’s what you or I would do if we didn’t know the date, and that’s what SLP will train patients with memory problems to do.”
Memory problems? And what was SLP? ”There’s nothing the matter with my memory.”
“That’s what we’re assessing,” the doctor said. “Can you tell me what you did yesterday?”
“I just woke up yesterday evening. My mother was here. I spoke with her. Went back to sleep. C’est tout. Er, that’s all.”
There was another significant look from the doctor to the members of his posse. Heads nodded. Notes were taken. “What?” Todd demanded, annoyed.
“Do you remember what you had for lunch yesterday?”
“Is that a trick question? Nothing! I wasn’t awake yet!”
“No tricks,” the doctor said. “But you were awake yesterday, and have been for several days. You’re having short-term memory issues.”
Todd started to protest. Disoriented, he rubbed at his good eye until sparks popped behind his eyelid.
“Do you know why you’re here, Todd?”
“My mother informed me that I’ve lost an eye.” He reached to touch the bandage. “You’re not here to tell me you’ve found it?”
Someone in the posse laughed again, but the doctor seemed to feel the need to explain. “Lost in the sense that it was too badly damaged to save.” The posse members nudged one another. “The remainder of the eye was removed.”
Todd stared. Did they think he was so out of it, or was the doctor completely lacking a sense of humor? “What kind of doctor are you?”
More significant looks. “Dr. Kampf, neurosurgeon. We’ve met, but I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”
“And your posse?” Todd gestured at the group.
“My . . .? This is a teaching hospital, and I agreed to take these students on my rounds today. If it bothers you, I’ll ask them to step out.”
Impatient for details, Todd waved his hand. “It’s fine. Please go on. You operated on my eye, then?”
“No, that was the ophthalmologist.” He turned to his posse and explained, “The brain often reacts to surgery as to an injury, and his memory has been disturbed. Painkillers and sedatives don’t help, of course.”
“So my brain has had a reaction to the—” Todd had to swallow before he could go on “—the removal of my eye?”
“No, to the removal of the tumor.”
Todd was too stunned to gasp. His mother had said nothing about a tumor. “My eye had a tumor?”
“No, you had a brain tumor. Let me explain—”
“Are you saying I’ve had brain surgery?”
The surgeon folded his arms and leaned forward, smiling and nodding the while. “An X-ray was taken to assess the damage to your orbital bones.” A long finger made a circling motion around one eye. “There wasn’t any, but a mass was found in your frontal lobe.” He tapped his forehead, between his eyebrows. “CT scan and MRI followed. It was determined to be a meningioma, a tumor of the lining of your brain. It had to come out. It was close to your optic nerve and would’ve grown around it, threatening the sight in your remaining eye.”
“Jesus.” Todd felt his head. His hair had a lank, unwashed feel, but it was still there, all of it, as far as he could tell.
As if divining what Todd was looking for, the surgeon continued. “A craniotomy was not required. The placement and size of the tumor allowed an endonasal approach.” He went on explaining the surgical procedure, but Todd’s concentration was wrecked, and it all sounded like gibberish, so he blurted the question uppermost in his mind.
“Cancer?”
“No,” the surgeon said. “Nonmalignant. It was a slow-growing tumor that wouldn’t have made its presence known for years, and then the size of it would’ve required a craniotomy. It was a lucky chance that an X-ray found it early.”
“I should thank him,” Todd muttered, rubbing his forehead.
“In the ICU, after the surgery, you suffered an episode, a—”
A disturbance moved through the posse, like to that seen in water agitated by a passing speedboat, and Sebby appeared in the wake. Recognizable to Todd even with uncorrected eyesight, the small figure emerged from the midst of the students.
“Excuse me,” Sebby said, glancing neither right nor left. “Better this morning, Todd? Coffee?” He came close, sliding in front of the surgeon, who was forced to step back. He carried a familiar thermos in his brown hands.
“French Press!” Todd exclaimed. “Oh, hell yes!”
Looking over the breakfast tray, a tiny frown knitted between Sebby’s eyebrows. “You ate their breakfast? Oh, Todd. I brought you migas.” He produced a plastic container and set it next to the tray.
The surgeon held up a hand, as if to seize the contraband. “He needs to limit his caffeine intake.”
“It’s decaf.” Sebby unscrewed the thermos. “But good decaf,” he assured Todd. The aroma wafted from the poured cup and filled the room, nudging out the clinical smells. Several posse members craned their necks and sniffed. Todd grinned. Eat your hearts out! Sebby pressed the cup into Todd’s ready hand. “Here y’go, buddy.”
Todd blinked. Sebby smiled blandly and retreated, seating himself in the far corner. “I’m not interrupting.” He nodded at the surgeon.
The surgeon cleared his throat. “Ahhh, yes. You suffered an episode—”
Sebby interrupted. “Are you explaining this to him again?”
“Excuse me, an ‘episode’?” Todd urged.
“A seizure,” the surgeon elaborated. “They occur in about—”
Once again, Sebby interrupted. “What’s the point of upsetting him every time? Wait till he can remember, then tell him!”
The surgeon turned to Sebby. “He’s demonstrating improvement in that area.”
“A seizure?” Todd repeated.
“Drink your coffee while it’s hot, Todd,” Sebby encouraged.
“By what or whom was I seized? Were my Fourth Amendment rights violated?”
“Convulsion,” the surgeon explained, turning back to Todd. “They occur in about three percent of brain surgery patients.”
“Jesus. But . . . but . . .” Todd could not think of the first thing to ask.
“It’s all right, Todd,” Sebby said. “Please don’t upset yourself.”
Looking at his watch, the surgeon cleared his throat and went on, as if reciting. “Dilantin was administered and breathing tube reinserted. A subsequent CT scan showed intracranial bleeding at the surgical site. Whether the bleeding caused the seizure or the seizure the bleeding is anybody’s guess.” The surgeon grinned, as if brain bleeding were the coolest thing ever. “Brain swelling and a little bleeding after surgery is expected, of course, but you’ve had more than we like to see. We’re giving you Decadron for the swelling. It’s a steroid.” In an aside, he spoke to his posse, using clinical terms in the same way a computer technician would talk about SQL servers or a partitioned DOS.
“Will there be permanent damage?” Todd interrupted.
The surgeon blinked as if distracted. “Shouldn’t be. I’m pleased with your progress. I expect your memory problems to clear up as the brain heals itself and the swelling goes down, though it might take weeks. The location of the swelling, here in the frontal lobe”—and he tapped his forehead again—“can affect memory and decision making.”
It was a frightening thought. What might he have done in the last few days that he’d forgotten?
Sebby piped up. “Don’t worry, Todd. You haven’t embarrassed yourself. Much.”
The smile in Sebby’s voice was audible, but his visage was too blurry to allow for dimple viewing. Todd twisted his hands in the blanket.
“Any questions?” As Dr. Kampf glanced at his watch and stepped back, his smile became a pasted-on expression.
“I don’t know. I’m . . . overwhelmed.” Todd groped for something to ask as the surgeo
n paused in the doorway.
“Understandable. Well, unless there are more complications, which I don’t expect, your doctor will be taking over your care.” Off he went, and the posse followed.
Sebby remained where he was, and silence fell. From the hallway came the sounds of bleeping nurse calls and Dr. Kampf briefing his students on the next patient.
“Sebastián,” Todd implored, “does my condition necessitate that you keep your distance?”
“I’m keeping my distance out of respect to your momma,” Sebby said softly. “And you, I suppose.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Todd could not make out Sebby’s expression, but he could see him shake his head and look away. “Did something happen? Did I do or say something I don’t remember?”
“No.” Sebby stared at the thermos, which was tucked between his knees. He twisted the lid back and forth. “You’re fine. Everything’s fine, and you’re going to get better. Please don’t worry.” Sebby’s voice puckered with anxiety, and Todd’s heart went out to him. As though Sebby had not been through enough, Todd had to go and add unnecessary complications. He cleared his throat.
“I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have gone all vigilante the other day. I never intended to get into a fight.”
Sebby’s head came up. “You remember that now?”
“Of course I do!” Todd cried. “I remember everything up until the moment I was knocked down.”
“Well, yesterday you didn’t.” His voice became thoughtful. “He must be right. You are getting better.”
The idea was too disconcerting to be encouraging. “I’m not too fragile for an embrace, am I?” And he held out his arms.
Sebby rose but, head lowered, made a beeline for the door. “I have to get to work. I just stopped by to press some coffee for you. I’ll bring you lunch, kay? Nos vemos.”
Todd concluded that Sebby was irritated with him. He hated for Sebby to go to additional trouble for his sake. “French Press, wait! There’s no need. I’m certain my board here includes meals. You needn’t go to any—”
Sebby stopped dead. “I’m not letting you eat hospital food! You need to eat organic, and also foods that promote healing, and—and brain food! I’ll bring you something good. And more coffee. Bye, Todd.”
He was gone as quickly as the surgeon before him, as if not hearing Todd’s appeal and not seeing Todd’s reaching arms. The weight of all he’d learned in the last fifteen minutes settled on him. And, damn! He hadn’t even asked about his eye!
Todd napped and was woken by a woman in bright-green spectacles.
“Much more alert today,” she noted. Her mouth quirked between the parentheses of etched smile lines.
Todd eyed her, from her french-braided platinum hair to her sensible shoes. “You’re Sebby’s doctor. Doctor . . . Doctor . . .”
“Roodnitsky,” she supplied. “Your doctor, also.” She straightened.
“Oh. Of course. You treated my shoulder.”
She was from Ukraine, Todd remembered. Seating herself at the wall computer, she scrolled through screens that Todd assumed made up his chart.
“Things look well.” She turned away from the computer and gave her attention to Todd. “Tell me, who is president of the United States?”
“I am,” Todd said. “I’m also Napoleon. And on weekends I’m Kim Kardashian.”
Dr. Roodnitsky clucked. “You use humor to cover uncertainty. Still memory issues.”
“I use humor to cover irritation,” Todd retorted, scooting backward to sit up straight. He folded his arms. “Very well, ask me your questions. I’ll put a cap in it.”
She proceeded to prod at his memory, but was both more thorough and more patient than the surgeon had been. “Much more alert,” she said again. “Rehab will evaluate you so you can transfer to acute rehab as soon as possible.”
Todd absorbed that for several seconds. “I’m no addict, so what in hell is ‘acute rehab’?”
“You will receive intensive therapy. Loss of an eye means loss of depth perception. You would need therapy for this alone, though it could be outpatient. Add to this: insult to brain, which affects balance, memory, thought—brain is confused and angry, and must be coaxed to heal and relearn. One to two weeks.”
“One to two additional weeks in the hospital?”
“Acute rehab is a separate wing of the hospital, yes.”
“The surgeon said nothing about rehab.”
Dr. Roodnitsky waved one hand. “Surgeons. They care only to operate. It is fun for them. Recovery, it is dull. Takes too long.” She went on to discuss his eye in a businesslike manner, her words clicking along like abacus beads and adding up to no big deal. “Ophthalmologist will explain more, but I will give you the basics. The eye was too damaged to save. Pieces of eyeglass lens and also pieces of frame were driven deep into the eye. Eye was removed. Enucleation, it’s called. Implant was put in place—”
“Already?” Both Todd’s hands flew to his damaged eye. “How could they? Doesn’t one have to be ordered and matched and fitted? If I even want one. I don’t want one, I—” He cut off. Perhaps he had approved it and forgotten.
“An implant is not prosthesis. You are thinking a false eye is round like a marble. It isn’t. You can’t pop it out and have an empty socket like in movies.”
The words empty socket sent a shudder through Todd, and gooseflesh rose on his bare arms. “Explain.”
“Implant takes place of eyeball in socket to hold shape of eyelid, so eyelid does not become sunken. It’s sewn in and membrane sewn over it. If you look in mirror, you will see pink membrane, like inner eyelid. Not so bad. If you choose to get prosthesis, false eye, it is thin and curved to fit over membrane and under eyelid. Like large contact lens.”
“I don’t want it!” The exclamation came out more harshly than Todd intended, and he moderated his voice. “I prefer an eye patch.”
Dr. Roodnitsky nodded. “The ophthalmologist will discuss options with you.”
Todd resisted the impulse to curl up and pull the blankets over his head. “How many times have you explained this to me already?”
“Hm.” She pursed her lips and referred to the chart. “Upon admission, ophthalmologist explained the procedure. After surgeries, you slept several days. Seizure makes sleepiness. After that, we talked, but you were too groggy to understand. Then each day you ask and we talk.” She smiled at Todd’s expression. “Normal for this kind of surgery, not remembering.”
“What if tomorrow I don’t recall this conversation?”
“Then I will explain again.” She regarded him sternly. “I worried for you, young man. But, yes, you are tough. So maybe one week.”
“You might mention to Sebby how tough I am.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “He does not agree.”
When his lunch tray arrived, Todd hesitated, mindful of Sebby’s admonition against the hospital fare, but a nurse entered with medications and instructed that they be taken with food, and so Todd dug into the chicken a la king.
“Todd!”
Startled, he looked up from his half-demolished meal. In the doorway stood Sebby, bearing the thermos and a foil-covered plate. “Don’t eat that! Did you forget I was bringing you lunch? Oh, Todd, it’s okay. I should’ve called to remind you.” He stepped forward and nudged Todd’s tray aside with the plate.
“I didn’t forget. But the flesh is weak.” He reached for Sebby’s hand, but Sebby drew back and pushed the wheeled dining stand closer to Todd.
“It’s cold salmon. I’ll bring you something hot for dinner, though.” He paused. “You like fish, no? Fish is brain food.”
“What, with all that mercury?” Todd quipped, covering his hurt with cynicism.
Sebby frowned. “It’s wild Yukon Coho salmon. I order it online directly from a fisherman in Alaska. No mercury.” He folded his arms.
“Pardon me for insinuating that Sebastián would ever serve me anything unhealthful.” Todd ripped off a section of th
e foil and regarded the salmon fillet, which was a lovely shade of coral and sprinkled with herbs. “Sebby you don’t have to go to so much trouble. I’m sure the hospital food is fine. After all, they feed ailing invalids.”
Sebby huffed. “The food is cooked in humongous quantities! It’s cafeteria food, highly processed, no fresh ingredients.”
“Even the salad?”
“Do you know what they spray on the lettuce to keep it from wilting? You might as well eat Windex. Anyway, I brought you green beans from the garden.” Sebby retreated to the corner chair. Todd forked a bit of salmon. He twirled the fork, and the bit fell back to the plate.
“Won’t you eat it, Todd?” Sebby’s voice was anxious. “Not hungry anymore?”
Todd squinted at Sebby, his memory supplying the wounded puppy eyes that his myopia made impossible to discern. “I will eat,” he said humbly, and began to do so, hardly tasting the seasoned fish.
“Stop sighing,” Sebby ordered.
Between bites, Todd asked, “How long can you stay?”
“I just want to make sure you eat. Then I’ll go.” Sebby turned his head to see the clock.
“I’ll eat slowly, then.” Intending to chew each bite fifty times, Todd counted to twenty before swallowing, watching Sebby shift impatiently. “I can’t see you, you know.” He felt a change in the air, like a dart of electricity, and he noted how Sebby ceased his fidgeting, how his chin jerked up.
“Yes. Your glasses are broken.”
“If you moved closer, I could make out your face.”
“My face is the same as always.”
“Unlike mine.” As Todd tapped at his bandage, a thought occurred to him, and he stared down at his food, appetite having fled. Perhaps Sebby no longer found him attractive. Todd rubbed his jaw, feeling the soft bristles signifying neglect. He smoothed back his unwashed hair.