The judge banged his gavel and dismissed proceedings for the night. Perry imagined he could feel the thick atherosclerosis clogging his carotid arteries and wished he’d never smoked. He’d been a young writer, hopeful. Cigarettes had pushed him along, but he hadn’t counted on a culture that vilified bohemian excess. Art was nothing now—the death of civilization instead of a harbinger of vision. The great visionaries now were the budget cutters. They ran for president hatefully and spitefully. Now he was just a client, infantilized, looking forward to being washed and patted dry, then lotioned. He liked the babying too much but he’d earned it—except no one noticed anymore how hard he’d worked to earn it. Only Scott was there to notice, but even Scott could be punitive. Getting older sucked, he thought. The floor was quiet. He looked forward to getting better, determined to. He had to show folks, even those not paying attention, and soon he was moving on his walker with its spindly aluminum supports like a crippled metal spider, clack, clack. Clack. Insurance companies, right-wingers. And his bladder always felt full.
It bothered him that he should have to do it in his diaper. No one came. He rang again.
What time was it? What day? Sometimes he woke thinking he needed to make dinner, he’d let the evening go after too long a nap. But he was too heavy and stiff to get out of bed. He did this every night for a while but when he woke these wonderful therapists came, and they got him up and out of bed and they put him on the walker and he was a great aluminum spider again.
He came home and did laundry. That’s what he began to do every evening for the next couple of weeks and it gave him a rhythm. At Columbia Presbyterian he’d slept in his own clothes the first night, pulling two chairs together and grabbing a pillow to lay over a chair arm and drop his head against in ICU. Perry had gone in for a cardio cath, a routine procedure. They’d wanted to make sure he had no blockages. There weren’t any, was the outrage. Perry had a smaller, more minor stroke a few months before, and they’d just wanted to be sure. Once at a cocktail party, a doctor had said to Scott, swilling booze and laughing, saying it smugly, “Tests only breed more tests.”
There was a certain calm among doctors, Scott observed. It seemed to be holding back a scream, a howl of impotence that masked a confession that would never happen, neither that nor the scream, because it was a calm edging funnily into a whimper that wouldn’t resolve into truth, and the truth was that though they were scientists, which they certainly were, medically trained, a later element came into play which had to do with the unknowable. They were still exploring. It was a pattern, this constant exploring when Scott felt he knew what was wrong, Perry’s diet. His steamrolling appetite, his need to get things into him, and the calm that came over him after that.
During recovery in the cath lab after the cardio catheterization procedure, Perry had been ecstatic that the chambers of his heart were clear, proud that the Lipitor had done its job keeping them from clogging. “There’s nothing wrong,” he’d tittered, and Scott had been relieved, too.
This guy is indestructible, he’d thought. Here we are, and we’ll be going home soon.
“You haven’t eaten anything since seven this morning,” said Scott. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Perry raised his brow expectantly as though suddenly realizing that, yes, he was hungry. He’d never forgotten hunger before, but here he was in bed, coming out of the logy drug haze.
Scott went to the cath lab team and asked for some food and said, “I’ll feed him myself.”
The cath lab had a row of prep/recovery cubicles on either side of a hallway, made more private by curtains you could whish around and snap shut. Most of them were occupied still, but gradually the outpatients in each were emptying out. They’d been there since noon and already it was six. A nurse said she’d bring Perry a sandwich and ginger ale, and Scott went back to Perry’s cubicle and before long the food came and Scott tore off the wrappings and began feeding Perry.
And this was when it was obvious something had gone wrong with the routine procedure.
“Hi can hardly swallow,” said Perry, and Scott got up, put down the food, and stepped out.
The leader of the team liked to joke, jovial, asinine: “What’s wrong, Professor, tired?”
“Can’t. Swallow.”
“Stick out your tongue, Professor. Okay, good. Now follow my finger with your eyes? I need a light. Somebody? Now try to resist here where I push, Professor. And here? And here?”
A nurse came in with a penlight and it was flashed into each of Perry’s eyes.
Scott said, “His pupils are huge.”
“They’re not so big. It’s only the light in here. The eyes haven’t had time to react.”
And it was true, thought Scott, always the same dim, aquatic-dim light.
“It’s the sedative. We see this all the time, patients coming out of the sedative.”
Then Perry calmed down. No more food. But by then the cath lab had emptied out. The team excused themselves to go make notes or sit on their thumbs when they were supposed to be finding their doctor, who’d vanished after the procedure. There wasn’t a real doctor around. The members of the lab team were off in a corner eating their takeout. Scott let his mind go blank.
Perry said, his eyes bugging for the first time, “Where—the— doctor?”
Scott held his hand, trying not to look worried, and said, “I don’t know, sweetheart.”
“Hask, please?”
Scott peeked out. Some of them were texting, doing their emails, finishing their takeout.
It was authority. Perry had been at Stonewall, helping smash parking meters, screaming at the police. Scott had grown up a Me, narcotized by junk food, game shows, sitcoms.
Perry began touching the leads on his chest linked to his vitals and said, “Let’s ket houtta here—the—fuck—hout. I hwant—go— home. This, r’diculous—less—houtta here!”
Scott went back and said, “He wants to go and he will, I warn you. He’s stubborn.”
“He can’t go until the doctor comes and first walks him. The doctor has to walk him.”
“Well you better call the doctor to walk him, because I’m warning you, he’ll just leave.”
“Call the doctor.”
“The doctor’s still in a case. I just frigging called. It’s a family matter, consultation …”
Scott checked his watch. After nine. He said, “I’m warning you, something’s wrong.”
Another member of the team came quickly and then calmly said, “Doctor’s on his way.”
Then it was another half hour. The doctor came in his suit, looking ready to head out to a fancy restaurant, a clothes horse, a popinjay, silk pocket hanky, his hair all aswirl with gel.
“How are you, Professor?”
Perry gasped out his words, smacking at them like globs of paste caught on his lips.
“Well, Professor, before you can go we have to walk you. Can’t walk, can’t go. So!”
Perry prowed his chin, looking desperately up, his eyes yellowishly boiled. The doctor blinked interestedly, a pomaded animal trying to comprehend the nature of his opposite beast.
The team was called to help Perry out of bed. A walker was rolled up to his bedside. He got upright with difficulty, gripped the handles, pushing the walker forward. Scott paced, halted.
“Good, Professor, good!” said the doctor, motioning his hands flamboyantly, and backing away with these conductor-like hand motions. “And a little more and a little more, please, yes?”
They got Perry clear of the cubicle with guidance and he began to push at the handles and walk, but he was weak and hunched. He veered woozily and the surgeon said, “Keep going.”
Perry shrank under the command and stopped, panting. He hung his head, waiting.
“A man like this should be on a walker or at the very least a cane.”
Scott said, “He hasn’t needed one since two weeks after the first stroke. Not once.”
“Look at him! A man like this has no
business—”
“I’m telling you, he wasn’t like this before he came in today.”
“Call neurology!” The doctor tugged and straightened his wide lapels. “We need tests!”
The surgeon waited for the neurology resident who came in her white coat and took notes then moments later he excused himself to go home after a long day. He shook Perry’s hand.
“Don’t worry, you’re in different hands now,” and he vanished in his expensive suit.
“When was the first stroke?” said the resident, a very obese young woman. “And you say you could walk? Left side or right side? Stick out your tongue. Try to resist my hand. Resist?”
The neurology fellow came. He was handsome and blond, tall and difficult to age. The legs of his aqua-green scrubs were narrowly tailored, and when he smiled, Scott looked at Perry.
“He. Took too long. Coming. Why—did he take so long— coming?”
“How much time do we have?” said the fellow to the resident.
“From the first recorded symptoms of onset?” said the resident, checking her notes.
“That’s right.”
“That was three hours ago,” said the resident, rechecking her notes. “So, another hour?”
“That’s pushing it. Have you talked to them about the scan?”
“They’re getting ready for him.”
“We don’t have much time, just under an hour.” The fellow looked at his cell phone. “A scan in fifteen minutes, then put him on the floor. Do we have a bed for him?”
“We talked to the floor. They say they’re ready for him. I’ll call and ask about the scan.”
“We’re cutting it close but it should be just enough time. Mr. Knight, we’re going to give you a scan then look at the results while you’re on the floor resting, then decide about giving you the clot-buster injection. We call it the TPA, the clot-buster. You’ve had a stroke, most probably. I want you to know, I know who you are. I’m going to take care of you, I promise, Mr. Knight.”
For whatever reason, at home now, drinking wine, Scott sat down at the dining table and made notes about what had happened next. Alone in the apartment, he got out a calendar. This was what writing was for nowadays—remembering, getting details down as exactly as possible, in case of lawsuit. The rehab facility was Shangri-la compared to that fucking Rube Goldberg cath lab days before, when and where the diagnostic and the cure had nearly killed his lover. It had almost been too late to get married. The first stroke, months ago, was nothing, two nights in the hospital and nothing. It was a tiny point of memory on a distant dark field next to this mess.
He felt guilty, Perry alone in rehab, sleeping next to his new roommate now—who knew how long a period of recovery Perry had ahead of him this time?
Scott recalled and wrote. He liked being alone in the apartment while he did it. He felt guilty, and feeling guilty made him angry, and feeling angry made him drink wine—wondering what Perry was thinking and feeling at that same moment. He remembered and wrote guiltily.
Perry was afraid for his life, but then he was used to this sensation. It came back to him every once in a while though each time it returned, its sting had a little less potency. Still, he was afraid of dying tonight— without any warning. After the first stroke, he’d wake up at four or five in the morning and go into Scott’s room while Scott lay sleeping and ask Scott to get into bed with him.
He wanted to sleep but they wouldn’t let him sleep. More tests and procedures, no sleep.
Time collapsed. Where was he now? At home, in his own bed? Home was better even if you were dying. And he might be. Dying. Better at home under familiar blankets, slipping. He didn’t feel Scott in the next room. Institutionalized passing. He hadn’t thought of that. He had a suspicion, he’d always had suspicions, but now he needed to trust. His roommate was Mr. Park.
Mr. Park—elevated, Perry imagined—barked up more phlegm.
Perry drew terrible comfort from knowing that Mr. Park’s was a much worse case.
The injection was important. It was key because it could cut healing time. They were in stroke recovery now, the “floor,” and the neurology fellow, Dr. Ryan, explained what could go wrong.
Dr. Ryan said, “In five percent of the cases roughly there may be significant bleeding. In one percent of the cases, given their vulnerability and histories, it could be fatal. Can you write? Your right side has been affected, so with this pen and paper could you give me your signature?”
Perry took the pen, novel device. Its tip wavered in the air and Dr. Ryan guided his hand toward the paper and Perry began to scribble, and Scott said, “It looks like ancient Phoenician.”
Dr. Ryan said, “Give him the TPA.”
An hour later Perry’s gums began to bleed. The blood flowed freely and his lips turned a bright red. Dr. Ryan was called back and he nodded and said, “Yep, that’s Joker mouth.”
After a while the bleeding stopped, and Perry was still alive and still awake but groggy.
Another hour after that, he went to a bed in ICU, where Perry spent the next two nights.
ICU was a technocrat’s dream, all emergency-ready equipment, soft lighting, and calm.
Scott wanted to sleep, but knew Perry was more desperate for sleep. The nurses cleaned Perry then dressed him in a cotton gown. They said, “We’re waiting to send you for an MRI.”
Scott stayed by him. He wanted to slip downstairs, light up, and enjoy a smoke.
Perry took Scott’s hand, his speech temporarily better, and said, “I was so scared then.”
“You came through.”
“I know, but I was so scared.”
“I understand. I’m here. Your voice is better. Your speaking’s clearer, sweetheart.”
Perry squeezed his hand, so tired. Everybody looked so tired, even the nurses and staff.
He pushed two chairs together and got a pillow and nested. They both fell asleep.
A nurse came in and said, “Mr. Knight? Mr. Knight, it’s time for your MRI, honey.”
Scott shook himself awake and straightened his body in the chair but was irrelevant.
The nurse was new and said to Scott, “And who are you? Could I ask you to step out?”
We were all of us waiting for the next thing, which might be the next worse, really bad thing. It might even be death. Scott hated concentrating on himself, but he remembered youthful worries about dying from AIDS. His grandiose fantasies of doing himself in included jumping off a cliff in a beautiful Greek setting. Now he wouldn’t die of AIDS, probably only a middle-age disease affecting his gastric system. He had a host of intestinal ailments that he’d inherited—big deal.
Perry was on the “floor,” in step-down, the stroke unit. In his room were three others but he had a window bed. Out the glass, the magnificent silvery Hudson and the George Washington Bridge. Outside, spring was happening. The trees were green. It amazed him to know that three days had passed and he’d not smelled fresh air, but visually now he had fresh air and sunshine.
Across from him was an extremely old woman, withered and colorless. Her race was no longer distinguishable, though later her son, a tall and muscular black man, would drop in and he would stridently and holleringly address her: “I can’t stay, Ma. I gotta get back to the family.”
Perry could discern her reply, which was all throat-cracks and hisses.
She was family, thought Perry. But that was hours later. Time was weird here. Perry got into the rhythm of nurses’ visits. Two nights in ICU, always on call as a patient hardly sleeping.
Scott came in as the breakfast was delivered. It was yogurt, toast, and nectar-grade juice. Because of his swallowing he couldn’t take straight liquids. Everything was thick, nectar-grade. Scott opened the milk carton and the plastic-wrapped plastic silverware and arranged things for Perry. Across the way, the old woman asked her male nurse of Perry, “Can’t he feed himself?”
“What’s that, ma’am?”
“Can’t that man feed himself? He
ain’t old, can’t he feed himself?”
“I don’t know his case, but maybe he can’t. He’s not my client, ma’am. Now, here …”
Already Perry looked better. He’d slept. His face seemed less putty-colored.
This is exhausting already, Scott thought. He wanted to go home and relax. Relaxing for him meant going home and before he got into the apartment, buying a liter and a half of wine. It was a citrus-flavored pinot grigio. He would drink the whole thing before bed. He knew he had a problem but for now it was a comfortable problem, no stumbling mostly. Just going easily off to bed after finishing the bottle. And cigarettes. The neurologist said that atherosclerosis was the main problem in Perry’s case. For thirty years Perry had smoked three or four packs a day but he wouldn’t ride Scott’s ass about it. He tolerated it gracefully, the way he tolerated hospital care.
Before, Scott drank red wine but then needed something more like soda pop. His system, his gastrointestinal track, couldn’t take red; the tannins, he supposed. The summer before he had gone in for tests and it seemed clear that he needed to lighten up, slow down. He had his father’s reflux and diverticulitis, a hiatal hernia, and a spastic colon to boot. Scott had earned all that.
A bit more himself than before, Perry said, “And how are you, babycakes?”
Scott stirred Perry’s applesauce and said tightly, “I’m fine, just worried about you.”
In the bed next to the old woman was a young man, and who knew why he was here? He was big, a Latino who should not be in any stroke unit. In the late afternoon, he got someone on his cell phone. And when the person on the other end answered, he said, “Yo, what’s up, dawg?”
Scott stood over Perry’s bed. Perry was sneezing chunkily and violently, and Scott waited to hand him a bunch of tissues from Perry’s miniature box, transfixed by the pretty young man.
“I was at home, dig, and I’m watching March Madness, dig? And I get this headache, it’s like a nuclear-ass bomb going off in me and I’m like, what the hell? For the second time, there’s that swelling in my brain. My mom calls the ambulance, so here I am—it’s unreal, dawg, dig?”
Little Reef and Other Stories Page 19