by Harry Kraus
“Call blood bank and get another unit of packed cells. I’ll call him as soon as the scans are out. When they break to give contrast, I want you in that room squeezing an IV bag.”
“I’m on it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She paused. “I think we need to keep Stratford happy. I don’t think his home is a cheery place just now.”
“What gives?”
“His wife just blew up at him in the ER. Right in front of everyone.” Cindy shook her head. “Maybe I’ll have to comfort him.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
Cindy leaned towards the window and looked at patient Renner. “Pressure’s down to sixty. We need more blood. Stop the scanner. I need to get to my patient.”
“Fifteen seconds,” responded the technician.
“I’m going in there.”
The tech shrugged. “It’s your ovaries. I’ll be done in ten.”
She walked to the door and held the handle until the tech counted down to zero, then rushed to Renner’s bedside.
Ulrich called the blood bank and watched the CT images come up on the screen. “Call neurosurg,” he yelled. “This guy’s got an intracranial bleed.”
Cindy joined him. “It’s an epidural.”
The CT tech nodded. “Starting the abdominal scan.”
“This guy needs a craniotomy,” Ulrich said.
“Something else is brewing. I’ll bet he has a belly full of blood.”
In a moment, Cindy started smiling, pointing at the screen. “Look at that! You can see an arterial blush. That’s an actively bleeding spleen.” She picked up the phone.
In a moment, she spoke again. “Dr. Stratford. Looks like it’s going to be crowded in the operating room. Our patient is hypotensive with a ruptured spleen and a large epidural hematoma.” She nodded and replied, “Yes, sir.” She hung up the phone and pointed a finger in Ulrich’s face. “Take a lesson. As an intern you only need to know six phrases.” She lifted a finger to begin. “Yes sir, no sir, my fault sir, yes ma’am, no ma’am, and my fault ma’am.”
Ulrich nodded. “Yes ma’am,” he said, smiling.
Cindy didn’t smile back. She barked instead. “Now, let’s roll!”
I paced the hospital halls trying to quiet the internal rumblings I’d spewed out on Henry in the emergency room. I’d thought plenty of curse words in my life, but other than at a college party when my tongue had been sufficiently lubricated, I’d kept them inside. We daughters of pastors don’t curse, and we certainly don’t call our husbands insensitive pigs.
He had it coming, I thought. I shouldn’t feel guilty for giving him what he deserved.
But I did feel guilty. I sighed. Guilt. My modus operandi since I’d put my mother in a wheelchair.
And I despised the way everyone in the emergency room stared at me. Like I was a freak on a circus stage. I’d come into the king’s lair and dared insult him.
I stomped down a long hallway following a sign directing me to radiology. I’d spent my whole life on stage. First as the minister’s daughter, and then as the surgeon’s wife. And I was a compliant actress, good at playing the roles assigned to me. I shook my head. I was done with stage life. I wanted to join the audience and gawk at someone else for a change. I’d been trying to break free from passivity since I was a teen. Today was my latest and most desperate attempt. But today, like every other time, I’d fallen back into captivity. I was a slave to the stage, and I sensed the director wasn’t happy.
Wearing a mask turned me into a volcano. I’d been dormant for years, with lava somewhere beneath the calm. But not today. The plates had shifted, and rage found a vent through my smiles.
I looked up to see the doors to the CT scanner open. A patient on a stretcher was the center of attention, pushed through the doorway by two resident physicians. The patient’s face was a bloated plum topped with hair gelled with matted blood and attached to a body by a cervical collar from chin to chest. A white tube exited puffy lips. Jack?
I recognized the tall blonde.
“Is that Jack Renner?” I asked.
The female stood between the stretcher and me and addressed me formally. “Mrs. Stratford, that is confidential information, isn’t it?” She spoke as if I was a child.
I sent darts back in her direction. What was in her craw? “He’s a friend of ours. He’s a member of Dr. Stratford’s church,” I said, invoking my husband’s name.
Her face twisted with sarcasm. “You mean the insensitive pig?” She pulled the stretcher forward, brushing against me. “Your husband is one of the most compassionate men I’ve ever met.”
I felt heat in my cheeks. Don’t mess with me today! I clenched my teeth. I should have known that the residents would defend their lord. I pivoted and watched her hair bouncing off with my dying boyfriend. I knew her color. I’d worn it just that morning.
“Where are you taking him?”
The resident snipped, “We’ve got work to do here. Why don’t you visit your mother? Dr. Stratford says you go to the nursing home whenever you feel guilty.”
The gall of this woman! How could she mouth off to the wife of the head of trauma? I strained to see her name tag. Cindy Something. I opened my mouth to respond, but couldn’t think of anything with a PG rating.
I followed helplessly. “You’ll regret this!” I called.
She ignored me. A twenty-something man with a wide girth pushed with one hand and held up a bag of IV fluid with the other. He looked back at me. “We’re off to the OR. It will be a few hours until we know anything.”
I slowed and let the stretcher pull ahead. There was nothing I could do here, and so far, all I’d managed to do was make a huge scene. Twice.
I headed back out of town, north on 29, letting tears flow. I thought again about visiting my mother, but decided Cindy Short-timer was right. I would only be doing penance for the mess I’d made of things today. Besides, my mother wasn’t expecting me for a week. A week I was supposed to be spending in Jamaica with Jack.
I slowed at Azalea Drive to turn right and saw that the Accord was about to be loaded onto the back of a wrecker truck. It was charcoal black, unrecognizable. I pulled over and got out of the car. I had to know.
I walked up to the car and reached through the glassless window on the driver’s side. The turn signal knob was deformed, a melted glob. I touched it, then pulled it down. It clicked. I pushed it back up.
I sniffed. Jack was going home to pack.
I wanted to cry again. For joy over his decision or for sorrow that he was fighting for his life. I had no idea what was wrong with him, but the image of his bloody, swollen body was etched in my memory.
I brushed back a tear and smiled at a man from Ray’s Wrecker Service.
At least Jack’s in good hands. Henry Stratford is the best.
I walked back to my silver Mercedes and drove home to pray.
CHAPTER 6
Contemplating what might prove to be the world’s shortest affair, I watered the golden willows. What had it been, ten minutes tops? I let the water run slowly for a full five minutes on each of the six trees at the front edge of the lawn. Short of fidgeting in the waiting room, it was all I could think of doing to kill time while Jack was in the operating room. It was my tribute to him, linking me to something he had started. Letting the water flow was the closest thing to prayer I could do without feeling guilty for trying to seduce him.
I pressed my thumb over the end of the hose and let the wind carry the spray towards a bed of azaleas, another project of Jack’s. I used to love them, but now every branch swayed in the wind, each bud a fist shaking in the face of God.
After thirty minutes, I’d watered the lawn, but not my soul. I still had at least an hour before Jack was out of surgery if the intern’s predictions were true. I changed and headed for Dogwood Acres Nursing Home.
At the nursing home, I quietly entered the large front visiting room to see my mother’s wheelchair parked in f
ront of the TV. Her back was to me. Instead of approaching, I straightened my spine and walked directly into the administrator’s office.
I paused at the desk of his receptionist, a girl barely out of high school, chubby and destined for mediocrity. “May I help you?” she asked, smiling.
I looked at the bag of fast food on her desk and thought about introducing her to fresh vegetables, but stopped short when I saw her dimples. This girl seemed genuinely happy. I ate salads for lunch and hated my life. Maybe I should be eating fried cholesterol and smiling. “I’m here to see Mr. Williams.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
I looked past her through the partially open door. Mr. Williams had both elbows on his desk with his lips fondling a disgusting mound of cow on a bun. He too was smiling. I decided I hated them both. “No,” I said, walking past. “I’ll only be a minute.”
I pushed open the door. Here in this facility, I’d always found it easier to escape passivity. In fact, my guilt over putting my mother here made the leap into aggression seem the normal thing, even for me. Here, it seemed, my aggression was justified. I was making up for past sins by standing up for my mother’s rights.
His chair jerked upright. “Mrs. Stratford, what a nice — ”
Skip the social pleasantries, I thought. You respect me because I donated a new piano for the front room. But only because I loved to listen to Jack. Momentarily distracted by the mayonnaise on his cheek, I cleared my throat. “I want Mother moved to the east wing.”
“But east is full,” he began. “I can’t — ”
“Give her the O’Cleary room. I read her obituary just this morning.”
“But Mrs. Thompson is already scheduled to move into that room.”
“Mrs. Thompson hasn’t known where she is for ten years. My mother needs a room with a view of the lake.” I stared down at the administrator, who carefully set aside his burger on an unfolded foil wrapper. It was a precise and gentle movement, something I’d reserve for a Faberge egg.
“Harry Thompson is already moving his mother’s things.”
“Tell him there’s been a change of plans. My mother has been here six years. She deserves that room.” I kept my eyes on Mr. Williams’ face, which reddened above his tie.
My mother wouldn’t speak for herself. I had to be her advocate.
I could see his turmoil. But after a moment, he relaxed, the crisis passed, and the wrinkles on his forehead melted. He must have remembered our last few battles and decided fighting with me wasn’t worth the misery. At my tally it was Wendi Stratford, seven; Dogwood Acres administration, zero. “OK,” he said, “I’ll make it happen.” He looked back at his burger. I could see he wanted to take a bite but was reluctant in front of me. Perhaps that’s why he’d conceded so quickly. I’d have to remember that. Interrupt his lunch and he’d give me anything.
“Thank you,” I said.
As I reached the door, he cleared his throat and I turned back.
“Did you get contact lenses or something?”
Men! I tried to be pleasant. I’d gone from long, blonde, and straight to off-the-ears wavy brunette, and he couldn’t tell. I smiled. “Nice of you to notice,” I said, winking. What an idiot.
I walked back to the front room and surprised my mother from behind. I hugged her boney shoulders and graced her cheek with a kiss. “Hi, Mom,” I said. “My plans changed. I’m not going out of town after all.” I knelt in front of her and took her hands in mine. She closed her hand around a Kleenex. Crumpled facial tissues, a Ruth trademark, so necessary when she drooled. “Would you like to go back to your room and continue where we left off?”
She smiled, her face breaking into an uneven soil. The right, wrinkled, plowed with life’s grief. The left, flaccid from paralysis, smooth, twenty years of worry erased in one traumatic moment. Her eyes communicated her joy. She nodded. “Oh Wendi,” she exclaimed. “Wonderful.”
I wheeled her to her room, a retreat with a hospital bed, a nightstand, and a worn leather recliner that she refused to have recovered. It sat next to the window and absorbed the afternoon sun. The one stand-out feature was the wooden shelving along the wall opposite her bed. Burdened with books, the shelves proudly displayed a long road we’d traveled together. Twain, Dickens, and Tolstoy crowded shoulder to shoulder with Jane Austen and James Fenimore Cooper. We’d been far away in time with Homer’s The Iliad, solved crimes with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and felt the closeness of African humidity in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Ruth and I had blushed through The Canterbury Tales and plodded through War and Peace. I picked up F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Beautiful and Damned and opened to chapter four.
I thought about the book and the deceptive nature of desire. Fitzgerald was looking into my soul. I smiled, quelling my turmoil, and glanced at my watch. “Now, where were we?”
Dr. Henry Stratford stood opposite his chief resident, a shared body open between them. They worked as an efficient team, exposing, tying, dissecting, and packing away warm intestines to visualize and care for the flood of bleeding from Jack Renner’s liver and spleen. They shared air, but not germs, the masks filtering out even the smallest of microorganisms that are normally spewed into the atmosphere with every breath.
“There, yes, uh-huh, yes, OK, uh-huh.” Henry guided and encouraged his resident’s every movement with running commentary. “Careful, OK, now off. Hemostat,” he said, opening his palm to allow the scrub technician to hand him an instrument. “Metzenbaums, tie.” He lifted the shattered spleen, squeezing the irregular edges together. He looked up at the blood-pressure recording. Eighty-two. His voice was like that of someone talking about the need for rain or a dislike of black olives. Without a hint of tension, he spoke of the critical decision in front of them. “OK, Dr. Swanson. What next? Splenorrhaphy? Splenectomy?”
“We’ve already packed the liver. He’s unstable. I say take it out.”
The attending surgeon smiled behind his mask. “Of course. Right angle,” he said, holding out his hand. He pointed to the splenic artery as it snaked beyond the tail of the pancreas. “Take the artery here.”
“Tie,” said Cindy.
“Good,” he said, watching her slide the knot down over the vessel. “When did you change your hair?”
“I didn’t think you noticed.”
“I notice everything.”
The anesthesiologist’s voice came from behind a sterile drape at the head of the table. “Make it snappy, Stratford. I’m giving this guy zero anesthesia at this point and his pressure is in the pits.”
Henry didn’t raise his voice above his normal cool. “Just give more blood, Newton. Just give more blood.”
When I arrived in the surgery waiting room, my father, John Aldridge, greeted me warmly. Of course, I thought, my father the pastor would be here, wouldn’t he? Somehow I hadn’t thought that I’d have to deal with him today of all days.
My feelings for my father were complicated, and being with him only made me more aware of my own inability to believe. He was the world’s kindest man, and I loved him for it. If only being kind would win him my respect. My father was a perfect man of the cloth. He was sacrificial in service, followed the will of God as best he knew it, and preached of things too wonderful for me to believe. And for that, I thought him the King of Naïve.
“Hi, Dad.” I gave him a hug. “Any word about Jack?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.” He still had his arm around me and turned me to face a man and woman sitting in the middle of a row of vinyl chairs. “This is Steve and Miriam Renner, Jack’s parents.” He lifted his hand towards a younger woman sitting beside Miriam. “And this is Yolanda Pate, Jack’s fiancée.”
My mouth went dry. Fiancée? I had no idea. Somehow making myself move in the midst of my shock, I reached out my hand to Jack’s parents. “I’m Wendi Stratford. I — ” I shrugged. “I’m one of Jack’s piano students.”
Daddy put his arm around me again, giving me a squeeze. “My daughter. Her
husband’s Dr. Stratford, the one who is operating on Jack.”
I smiled pleasantly. Of course. The pastor’s daughter, the surgeon’s wife. I almost forgot my identity.
I sat down on a chair in a row opposite the trio and tried to look outwardly controlled. Inwardly, I scolded myself again. I’d been envisioning a future with Jack, playing a mental fantasy without really knowing his life. He never mentioned being engaged! I offered a weak smile. “Jack had just finished giving me a piano lesson. I walked out onto the back deck after he left and heard the accident at the bottom of the hill.”
Steve Renner looked like Jack plus thirty pounds with white hair. His wife was still brunette, with black-rimmed glasses sitting halfway down the slope of her skinny nose. Her hands were knotted in her lap, lying on an open magazine. “Did you see anything?” she asked.
“The flash of a side of a silver truck.” I paused before adding, “Nothing else.”
Yolanda, Jack’s fiancée, had long blonde hair and streaked mascara. She wears her hair just like I did. Until this morning. Her eyes met mine as I judged her Miss Virginia features. “I’m finishing my degree at Mary Baldwin. Jack and I were planning a tour of France for our honeymoon. He never liked the thought of just going to the Poconos like everyone else. They have heart-shaped tubs and everything. But Jack wanted to experience history and art,” she added, waving her hand in the air.
TMI, sweetheart. Too much information. I smiled. “Sounds like Jack.”
“I have one more year until I’m done with an elementary education degree. Jack wanted me to go into something we could count on. Music doesn’t always pay the bills, you know.”
I shrugged, thinking about the golden willows Jack had planted for me. “There’s always landscaping.”
“Jack and I met at a sorority function. One of my girlfriends hired him as the entertainment. When he plays, I think I’ve just died and gone to heaven. He wrote a song for me once. I cried for a week. He taped it for me. I think my roommates wanted to strangle me. I must have played it a thousand times.”