by P. D. Cacek
Chapter Sixteen
Helen
Helen came out of the bedroom on tiptoes, walked to the mirror hanging over the hall table and squinted at her reflection.
As instructed by the general surgery pre-operative instruction sheet she’d been given, Helen had to arrive at the hospital without any makeup and stay that way…at least until she was out of recovery.
Not that anyone important was going to see her. The other cardiac patients would have their own problems to worry about and, as much as she hated to admit it, Dr. Stanton was only interested in her heart.
And not in a romantic or even lustful way. Still….
A tiny tingle began in the middle of her shoulder blades and quickly grew to a maddening itch.
The medicated body wash that had come in her ‘pre-op/home use’ package – with overly detailed instructions on how to use it – might be wonderful at killing off 99.9 per cent of her domesticated germs, but it literally made her skin crawl.
Helen carefully opened the front door, turned and pressed her back against the edge. A little shimmy-shimmy and the itch was history.
“Ah!”
“WHAT?”
The indistinct lump that had been part of Helen’s divan suddenly detached itself and stood up. Kate, who’d volunteered to drive Helen to the hospital, had come over the night before with a stack of DVDs to keep her company and get her mind off ‘the thing’.
“What’s wrong? Is it time to go? Where’re your bags?”
Helen closed the door and walked into the living room to open the blinds opposite the divan. The sky had lightened enough that she was able to see pale breakers riding into shore.
“What time is it?”
Helen pulled her cell phone from her walking shorts and thumbed the screen. “5:03. You awake?”
Kate yawned and nodded. “Uh-huh. Coffee on?”
“You can get coffee at the hospital,” Helen said as she kicked the mules under the hall table and toed her feet into the knock-off Crocs she kept for running errands. “I can’t eat or drink anything, remember?”
Kate yawned again and stretched. “Do I have time to change?”
She was still wearing the oversized tee-shirt and cutoffs she’d fallen asleep in.
“No. Just drop me off at the hospital and then you can go home, shower, change, grab breakfast, whatever, and come back later. I’ll be fine…. Oh, God, Kate. Stop it.”
Her friend nodded. “I – I’ll be okay.”
“I know you will,” Helen said, “but I’m going to drive.”
* * *
Helen studied the IV needle that had been inserted into the vein on the back of her right hand. There was some bruising under the tape, but she couldn’t feel the thin piece of hollow metal invading her body, so that was something.
They’d given her a mild sedative after she’d signed another batch of release forms, these from the anesthesiologist, and it seemed to be working perfectly. Her body felt light and easy and peaceful.
She had to remember to ask Dr. Stanton if he’d give her a prescription for them.
“Knock, knock?”
Helen pushed herself higher against the bed’s thin mattress. “Come in, Kate. You get your coffee?”
Her friend walked through the narrow slit in the curtain that isolated Helen from the other pre-operatives in the surgical prep area with a stack of magazines in her arms. “I brought you something to read. Later. When you’re in your room, I mean.”
“All garbage and gossip?”
“Yup.”
“Ah, paradise.”
Kate nodded. “Love the outfit.”
Helen looked down at the blue ties-in-the-front hospital gown. “Ah yes, so chic and comfy.”
“Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”
“A better heart?”
She should have known better than to joke about it, but she’d been drugged so it really wasn’t her fault.
“Oh, God, Helen, don’t say that!” Kate sobbed. “You’re going to be fine!”
One of the prep nurses popped her head into the enclosure. “Is everything okay?”
Helen nodded. “She hasn’t had her coffee yet.”
“No, I’m okay. Sorry,” her friend told the nurse. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right, I understand. Sometimes this is harder on friends and family than it is on the patient.”
Helen was about to argue that point when an orderly walked through the curtains.
“They’re ready for you, Ms. Harmon.”
The nurse and orderly pushed open the curtain divider and began getting the bed ready for transport to the operating room, and suddenly it became all too real. Helen reached out to grab her friend’s hand.
“It’s okay.” Kate’s voice was calm as their roles reversed. “It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”
“Of course she is,” another voice said.
He rose into view like a green-clad sun in a smiley-face surgical cap and Helen wished to God she’d ignored the rules and put on makeup, maybe just mascara and blush.
“I must look awful. Good morning, Dr. Stanton.” She felt Kate squeeze her hand. She squeezed back.
“How are you doing, Helen?”
“Fine.”
“Do you have any questions for me?”
She thought a moment just for show and shook her head. “Can’t think of anything.”
“How long will it take?” Kate asked. “I’m her friend. I drove her here. I’m Kate.”
She let go of Helen’s hand to take his.
“Pleased to meet you, Kate, and to answer your question, the operation should only be an hour or so. When we take Ms. Harmon in, you can go back to the pre-op waiting area. Once she’s out of recovery, you’ll be notified and given her room number. But I have to warn you, she might not be very talkative.”
“That’ll be a change,” her friend said and everyone, except Helen, laughed.
Then very calmly, as if he were reading a bedtime story, Dr. Stanton turned to her and went over each and every detail of the operation again – explaining, without becoming too graphic, how he intended to fix her heart and what she should expect afterward.
“But this isn’t a magic wand, Ms. Harmon, you won’t feel like a teenager again.”
“Thank God.”
He gave her a quick grin. “In fact, at first you’ll feel like hell. From anywhere between twenty-four and forty-eight hours a newborn kitten with asthma could beat you in arm wrestling. You’ll hurt, but we have meds for that, and you’ll wonder if I left a boulder in your chest cavity. Even so that won’t stop us from getting you up and walking much sooner than you think possible.” He paused, letting what he’d said sink in. “It’s going to take time, Helen, a great deal of time before you feel even remotely like yourself again, but you have to remember that’s normal. A lot of people get frustrated during convalescence because they expect too much of themselves. Any unreasonable expectations you put on yourself will only be detrimental to your health.”
“But you don’t know Helen,” Kate said. “She’s the strongest person I know.”
Dr. Stanton looked at Kate, then back to Helen and nodded. “That’s good to hear, because that strength will help. Questions?”
“No,” Helen answered for herself and Kate.
“Okay, then, next time I see you will be in the OR. I’ll be the tall, good-looking one in the mask.” He started to leave, then turned around. “But before I go….” He cleared his throat. “A new patient is about to enter the hospital when he sees two doctors searching through the flower beds. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, ‘have you lost something?’ ‘No,’ one of the doctors replies. ‘We’re doing a heart transplant on an IRS agent and need to find a suitable stone.’” He winked at them. “See you soon.”
Helen smiled and lo
oked at the ceiling as the bed rails were pulled up and snapped in place.
“Okay,” the orderly said, “here we go. Mind your toes.”
Kate backed up into the bunched curtain until the bed was halfway out into the main room, then reached over the rails and took Helen’s hand again.
“You’ll be fine,” she said.
“So will you,” Helen said, “as soon as you get some coffee and eat something.”
Kate nodded. “Okay.”
The ceiling pattern changed above her and Helen heard a click and then a whoosh as a set of automatic doors opened.
“I’m sorry, miss,” the orderly said, presumably to Kate, “but this is as far as you can go. Do you know how to get back to the pre-op visitors’ lounge?”
Kate’s grip tightened on her hand. “Yes.”
“Okay. And the cafeteria should be open now.”
Kate stepped closer to the bed so Helen could see her nod as the bed moved away and the ceiling went from cream to stark white.
“Wait!”
The orderly’s upside-down face hovered over hers. “Is something the matter, Miss Harmon?”
“Yes,” Helen said. “Kate!”
Her friend looked down at her. “What? What is it?”
Helen took a deep breath. “If…if something happens…” deep breath, “…if it does…will you…” slow, dramatic exhale, “…take care of my cat?”
“Of course I—” Kate’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have a cat.”
Helen winked. “Then I guess I’ll be fine.”
“You bitch.”
The orderly was chuckling as he pushed her through the double doors. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“Hey,” she said as he wheeled her into the operating room, “if you can’t torment your friends, who can you torment?”
* * *
Well, that wasn’t so bad.
Helen didn’t remember anything after the anesthesiologist told her he was making her a special cocktail and asked her to count backward from ten. Nine. Eight. Seven….
But the operation had to be over and she’d probably been asleep for hours because Grey’s Anatomy was on a massive flat-screen and it had to be after visiting hours because Kate wasn’t there.
They probably made her go home.
“Rib spreaders,” one of the doctors – she couldn’t tell who it was – said, and Helen watched him insert the instrument and crack open the body on the table.
The TV had great definition. She’d have to ask what model it was.
“Anything?” the doctor asked.
The sound quality was damn near perfect too; she could hear every beeping machine and foot scuff and clinking instrument.
“Still tachycardic, doctor.”
“Dammit. Push epinephrine,” the doctor yelled. “And someone turn off that music!”
Helen recognized the voice but couldn’t place the actor.
“Anything?”
“No, still dropping.” Then. “She’s in v-fib.”
“SHIT! Okay – get me the internal paddles.”
He had to be a guest star.
“Clear!”
But whoever he was, he was a good actor.
Must be a guest star, but he sounds so familiar.
“Anything?”
The camera moved in for a close-up. “No change.”
“Clear!”
Helen wished she’d woken up sooner. She hated not knowing what the story line was.
“We’ve got sinus rhythm,” a voice said.
And a moment later another added: “She’s tachycardic and her pressure’s dropping. 50/30.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” the guest-star surgeon said to the body on the table, “not today. Charge.”
“Doctor, she’s—”
“Clear!”
Helen leaned forward and waited, nodding when the alarm on the cardiac monitor sounded.
“She’s coding.”
Mumbling something under his breath, he readied the paddles. “Charge to max. Clear!”
Zap.
“Nothing.”
There was another dramatic pause and Helen expected a song, something recognizable and melancholy and fitting with the plot – whatever that was – to start as the guest doctor handed the paddles to a nurse and looked down.
“I’m sorry,” he said and took off his mask.
Helen recognized him.
Oh my God.
Dr. Stanton took a deep breath and looked up at the operating room clock.
“Time of death—”
The TV screen and everything else went black.
HELEN LOUISE HARMON
July 7, 1972 – August 24, 2017
“What the hell?”
Dr. Stanton looked at the anesthesiologist. “What?”
“I…I don’t know, but…”
“What?”
The man looked up and shrugged. “Blood pressure’s rising. I don’t…. We got a normal sinus rhythm.”
Dr. Stanton backed away from the table, ripping off his gloves and shouting at the nurses. “Mask! And gloves, come on…hurry.”
“She’s back.”
Well, that’s more like i—
PART FOUR
AUGUST 24, 2017
Chapter Seventeen
Nora felt the floor tilt under her and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.
Henry was dead. He’d died alone while she’d slept and dreamed about him fishing. Henry was dead and he died alone. Dr. Cross told her he was dead.
Henry was supposed to be dead.
“I don’t—”
Henry looked up at them from the bed and ran a hand under his nose, sniffling. It looked like he’d been crying for a long time; his eyes were swollen and bloodshot.
“Where’s my mama?” he asked.
Nora felt Dr. Cross’s arm tighten around her. He’d muttered something low, under his breath, something Nora couldn’t make out over the sudden pounding in her ears.
“But you said….” Her voice sounded muffled, lost in the rush of white noise. “You said he was….”
“I don’t— Miss Nora, I swear to you I—” Dr. Cross said and began pulling her away. “Come with me now, Miss Nora.”
And she almost let him.
“I want my mama,” Henry whimpered in a little-boy voice, as new tears filled and overflowed his eyes. “Where’s my mama?”
Nora shook off the hands holding her like a dog shaking off rain. Henry was hurting and afraid and she couldn’t leave him, not like that, not when he was so afraid.
Especially since she’d never seen him afraid before.
When Dr. Cross first told them about the Alzheimer’s, Nora couldn’t seem to catch her breath but Henry took the news with a nod. It was later that night, after they got home and Nora crumpled into sobs, Henry just sat right down next to her and held her and told her not to fret, that God knew what He was doing and things would work out as best they could.
Henry had never been the type of man to show fear, but he was afraid now, so afraid that he’d even wet himself. Nora recognized the smell hanging in the room’s cool, quiet air a full moment before she noticed the bright yellow stain beginning to seep through the sheet.
“Oh, Henry.”
She took a step closer and felt Dr. Cross’s hand on her arm. “Miss Nora, maybe you should wait outside while I—”
“No, he needs me.” Nora patted the doctor’s hand away and kept walking. “It’s all right, Henry, don’t worry. It was an accident. It’s all right.”
Henry looked at her all round-eyed and quivering-lipped. It was the same look their daughter had when she woke up from a bad dream in the middle of the night.
“Who’s Henry?” he asked as
a tear slipped from the corner of his left eye and followed the path of wrinkles down his leathery cheek to his chin.
She stopped and grabbed onto the bed’s side rail to keep herself upright and strong. This was something new.
“Martin?”
“I don’t know. He was…. Miss Nora, Henry coded. That’s why I came to get—”
“Who’s Henry?” Henry was still using the little-boy voice, but this time there was a touch of petulance in it and a defiant pooch to the quivering lower lip. He was getting angry, but not Hank angry; this was the anger of a frustrated child whom no one was listening to. “Who’s HENRY!?”
It wasn’t just the voice. Henry was acting like a child.
“Well, you’re Henry,” Dr. Cross said, moving Nora back and taking her place, putting himself between them. “And this is Nora.”
Henry looked at her and frowned, his whole face pickling.
“You remember Nora,” Dr. Cross prompted. “She’s your wife.”
Henry’s eyes widened and he started to laugh. It was the light, high-pitched laughter of a child.
“You’re silly. You’re a silly old man.”
Old?
Dr. Cross looked at Nora then back at Henry. “Okay, I’m silly. Can you tell me how do you feel, Henry?”
“My name’s not Henry, it’s Timmy! Timothy Patrick O’Neal! My name’s Timmy and I want my mama! Where’s my mama?” His voice got louder and louder and high-pitched until he began sobbing. “I want my MAMA! Where’s my MAMA?”
When Dr. Cross reached out, Henry pulled the bed sheet over his head and hunkered down under it.
“I WANT MY MAMA! I WANT MY MAMA! I WANT MY MAAAAAMAAAA!”
Suddenly the room was full of nurses and orderlies. Dr. Cross pulled Nora away and handed her off to a nurse as two orderlies rushed forward to bracket the bed and, speaking very softly, tried to coax Henry out from under the sheet. His terrified screams echoed off the room’s pale blue walls.
“MAAAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAAA!”
“Enough!”
She hadn’t shouted or screamed or even raised her voice above what her daughter called her ‘Mama whisper’, but everyone, including her poor, sobbing Henry, heard her.
“Miss Nora….”
“Enough,” Nora repeated to the orderlies as she pulled away from the nurse.