Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  “How do you feel?” I asked as I frantically mopped up the floor with a dish towel.

  “I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience,” he replied. “I barely made it through my call. I thought I’d feel better after I vomited.”

  I disposed of the towels directly into the washing machine. When I returned to the bedroom, I noticed Chad’s left eye was closed. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have a headache.”

  I felt conflicted. On one hand, I wanted to continue acting like my mother, cleaning up the mess to restore order, while babying Chad. Perhaps I’d even make him a bowl of soup. Yet the other part of me, the doctor, clearly saw that Chad’s condition was about to spiral perilously out of control. Despite my unwillingness to believe he was in serious danger, I picked up my cell phone and dialed 911. Never in my whole life had I called emergency services. When the operator answered, I stated the facts like a doctor conferring with another health-care provider. All the while, I stared cautiously at Chad, wondering whether I was wasting vital time. Then I apologized to the operator and hung up, having decided against waiting for an ambulance.

  With my assistance, Chad was able to stand. I helped him get dressed and escorted him out of the apartment. While I locked the door, he began walking toward the elevator on his own. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that with each step he veered to the left like a passenger on a tilting ship. For a second I was paralyzed with fear. Then I ran toward him, worried he might fall. In the elevator, he leaned against me with his full weight so that I could barely support the both of us.

  “Chad, stay with me,” I pleaded.

  Once we were in the lobby, I propped him up against the concierge desk. Arlene, the doorperson on duty, rushed to help us. “Oh my Lord,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

  “Stay with him while I hail a cab,” I begged. Fortunately, one was pulling up just as I stepped off the curb. Arlene attempted to walk Chad outside. “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”

  Driving across town to New York University Hospital, I called the emergency room to speak to the attending physician on call. Once we arrived, doctors and nurses descended upon us, reminding me of my former days when I worked on the trauma team. Within seconds, Chad was undressed and being examined. I stood back helplessly, watching them work while I tried to think of a simple explanation for his symptoms, something rational, but my mind was blank. I was blank. A handsome, dark-skinned physician walked over and asked me to repeat what I had just reported on the phone minutes earlier.

  He stared at me inquisitively. “Are you a doctor?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We’re both doctors.”

  Without uttering another word, he spun around and returned to the assemblage. I heard him say, “The patient’s a doctor.” I took a step back, wanting to give them the freedom to do their job without my presence looming over them. At that very second, my cell phone rang. I walked away to answer it. The number was unknown to me.

  A man spoke. “You’re gonna pay for what you did.”

  “Excuse me?” I said, confused. “What is this in reference to?”

  “We both know who I’m talking about,” he insisted. “You’re a fuckin’ faggot, and you take care of fags . . . with AIDS. You’ll burn in hell for that.”

  The confusion evaporated quickly once the caller’s intention emerged. Channeling the gumption of Barbara Stanwyck on The Big Valley, I said, “On the contrary. I’m actually very proud of what I do.”

  “Well, this won’t be the last call you get. There will be more.”

  “I understand you’re angry,” I said, calmly. “If unloading your frustration on me makes you feel better, then I’m glad I was able to help.”

  The phone went dead as a thin, pale doctor rushed toward me and introduced himself as the neurology fellow on call. I detected a Russian accent. “We think Dr. Schroer suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage. He has all the classic signs of a bleed: acute onset, pain behind the eye, and unsteady gait.”

  I stared at him with one eye and watched them wheel Chad away with the other. Instinctively, I began to follow them.

  The Russian was right behind me. “They’re taking him to CAT scan,” he said.

  I nodded and hurried to catch up.

  “I have to ask, does Dr. Schroer use any drugs, like cocaine?”

  “No.”

  “Was he having an orgasm at the time?”

  “I was at work.”

  “He could have had an orgasm without you.”

  I wanted to get away from the Russian neurology fellow. I wanted to see Chad. I was concerned about how much he knew and wondered whether he was afraid. Up ahead, I saw them wheel Chad’s stretcher into an elevator. I ran and squeezed in beside him. We didn’t speak. I stared at his face, hoping he felt he was in good hands. When the elevator opened on the second floor, I assisted them in wheeling Chad into the CAT-scan suite. Once he was secured onto the conveyor, I whispered, “How are you?”

  He winced. His left eye was still closed shut.

  I crumbled inside.

  A female technician walked over to us. “Sir, you’ll need to wait outside.” The Russian overheard her and intervened before I had a chance to turn into Gary Coleman on Diff’rent Strokes.

  “He’s with me,” said the neurology fellow. “Dr. Spinelli, please come this way. They’re ready to begin.” I followed him into the technician’s room. Through the observation window, I watched as Chad’s body was slowly transported headfirst into a large metal doughnut.

  The Russian urged me to have a seat. “There’s nothing you can do,” he said. “We’ll know more in a few minutes.”

  I finally conceded and sat down. Suddenly, I felt exhausted.

  To distract myself, I began to organize by making mental lists:

  1. Collect Chad’s clothing.

  2. Call Eric and ask him to pick up Hoffman.

  3. Call Chad’s parents. No. Don’t call anyone until you know what’s wrong.

  He’s in good hands. There is nothing more I can do.

  My cell phone rang again. This time it was a local number. I stepped out of the technician’s room to answer it.

  “Dr. Spinelli, I’m a reporter, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about Mr. Fox.”

  I couldn’t shake the image of Chad lying on that cold metal table with his head strapped down, wondering what was happening.

  It’s probably just an orbital migraine. Then why was he having trouble walking?

  “Dr. Spinelli, are you there?” asked the reporter.

  “Sorry,” I said. “You said you’re a reporter?”

  Behind me I heard footsteps. I turned to find the Russian. “The CAT scan is negative.”

  I sighed with relief.

  “But I need to perform a lumbar puncture.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Dr. Spinelli, are you there?” repeated the reporter.

  “A negative CAT scan doesn’t rule out a bleed, in light of the strong clinical picture. It could still be in the very early stages. We need to proceed quickly.”

  “Of course,” I said to the Russian. Then I spoke into the phone. “I can’t talk right now. My partner’s having a stroke.”

  After a series of tests that included blood work, a lumbar puncture, and two negative CAT scans, Chad’s doctors were unable to find a cause for his symptoms. The neurology team recommended a neurosurgical consult to assess whether Chad needed further, more invasive testing. I agreed. Soon a tall Romanian doctor arrived and examined Chad. Once he reviewed all the studies, he consulted with us in the CAT-scan suite. Without hesitation, he suggested Chad undergo a full angiogram of his head and neck. I knew what that entailed. I also knew the risks included internal bleeding, stroke, and death. Despite all my education and experience, I hesitated. They were talking about my Chad.

  “We can get a second opinion,” I offered.

  “I don’t suggest you wait,” said the Romanian. Then he pulled me far enough a
way so that Chad couldn’t hear. “Stop thinking of him as your partner and think of him as a patient. You know the facts. If this was anyone else, what would you advise?”

  Fifteen minutes later, I was alone in the waiting room while the Romanian doctor I’d met twenty minutes earlier injected dye into the arteries of Chad’s brain to look for blockage. Over the course of the next sixty minutes, I painfully remembered the fight Chad and I had had the night before and wished I could take back everything I’d said. I blamed myself for pushing him so hard when I should have known how tired he was having just traveled four hours by train.

  My imagination, now fevered by guilt, had me doubting my initial plan not to call Chad’s parents until I had something concrete to tell them. Everything suddenly seemed so bleak. We should have been celebrating. Instead, I was waiting in a hospital for the neurosurgeon to tell me what was wrong with my partner. I looked at my watch. It was already 8 P.M. I had to talk to someone. Reaching for my cell phone, I knew there was only one person in my life who would understand.

  “THAT’S ALL I KNOW,” I SAID. “I’ve told you everything. I’m waiting for the doctor to come out.”

  “But how did this happen?” asked my mother.

  “I don’t know. We still don’t know what happened.”

  “Where are you? I’ll call Josephine. We’ll come to the city and wait with you.”

  “No, don’t come. There’s nothing you can do. Just talk to me. Keep me busy so I don’t stare at my watch.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Let me call Josephine. She’s right next door. We can be in the city in twenty minutes. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  It was comforting to know how much my mother cared about Chad. It was also the first time she’d ever responded in such a way that made me think she saw us as a real couple. I tried my best not to get emotional, but it was difficult. The parallels between this situation and my father’s were obvious, although I didn’t want to believe it. I suppose that was why I called my mother in the first place.

  Looking up, I saw the Romanian doctor turn the corner and march toward me. “Mom, the doctor just came out. I have to go.”

  “Not on your life,” she shouted. “I’ll hold.”

  I stood up to greet him. “It’s just as I thought,” he said. “Chad had a stroke.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, he had a small stroke in the posterior inferior cerebellar artery,” he said confidently. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  He moved with long, determined strides back to the interventional radiology suite. I hurried after him. Inside the technician’s room, he pointed to a monitor. I stared at a large screen displaying the outline of Chad’s head, his face replaced by a reticulum of arteries that looked like leafless white branches. “See here?” He pointed. I moved in closer. He identified a small branch that had been occluded by a clot. “That’s what caused his symptoms.”

  “How did he get a clot there?” I asked.

  The Romanian shrugged. “Chad said he was traveling for work yesterday. Perhaps he developed a clot in his leg.”

  “And it went from his leg all the way up to his brain?”

  The Romanian scowled. Reaching for his lab coat, he said, “He’ll have some residual damage. With physical therapy, he’ll be able to walk with a cane.”

  Once Chad was moved up to the neurological intensive care unit, I stayed with him until he fell asleep. His room overlooked the East River. Across the water, I could see the old neon Pepsi-Cola sign. I remembered my father once told me that it was Joan Crawford’s idea to erect the sign at that exact location as a way to remind the Manhattan residents which soda to buy. It was at times like these I missed my father the most.

  I called my mother back once I got home. We spoke as I lay on my bed, alone in the dark.

  “What happens next?” she asked.

  “They’ll start physical therapy tomorrow. It’s important they begin as soon as possible. We still need to figure out where this clot came from. I don’t agree with the specialist. That clot didn’t come from his leg. What kills me is that Chad is the healthiest person I know. He’s a naturopath. He takes vitamins, for Christ’s sake. He doesn’t smoke, and he hardly eats carbs. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well, at least he’s stable now,” she encouraged. “They’ll figure out what’s going on. How are you?”

  “I’m okay. It’s weird being alone in the apartment, no dog, no Chad.”

  “You’re telling me. I know. It’s not easy to be alone when you’re used to living with someone. Sometimes I still can’t fall asleep in our bed. Most nights, I sleep in your sister’s old room.”

  “It must have been difficult for you when Dad died. I’m sorry I wasn’t around more.”

  “I understand you have your own life. Just thank God every day because life is short. That’s why I don’t understand why you want to get involved with things from the past. Ever since you told me they arrested Bill, I’ve been worrying.”

  “What are you worried about?”

  “Frank, his whole family is police. What if they come after you?”

  “They’re not going to come after me.”

  “How do you know?” she demanded. “You have me worried sick, wondering if someone is going to beat you up. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. They could be a bunch of animals. Just be careful, please.”

  “Mom, Bill’s an old man. He didn’t even post bail. No one is going to come after me. This is a good thing. You should be happy. The police told me he was molesting his sons. Aren’t you proud that I was able to help put him in jail? I never told you this, but when Dad was alive, I asked him to drive me to someone’s house. I left a card in their mailbox for my old assistant Scoutmaster. Daddy drove me, and didn’t ask any questions. Deep down inside, I think he knew what I was doing and wanted to help.”

  “You know, your father always said, ‘My son hates me because of Bill.’ He always blamed himself. We both did.”

  “I don’t blame you anymore.”

  We fell silent. It was difficult to imagine how painful it must have been for my parents to live with this guilt. I never considered for one minute that my father held himself accountable for what happened, and it was bittersweet to learn that he longed to be closer to me yet didn’t have the ability to repair the damage left by Bill. But I found comfort knowing my father died mourning our disconnected relationship, rather than thinking he never really cared about it at all. Even though he was gone, I realized how much I still needed his approval. Now, I felt I finally had it.

  CHAD WAS DIAGNOSED with a common congenital defect medically referred to as a patent foramen ovale (PFO). A hole between his two atria was the likely culprit that caused the clot that lodged temporarily in his brain.

  As the Romanian predicted, Chad walked out of the hospital with a cane. Once he was home, however, he set it aside and never used it again. That weekend, when I saw the cane resting in the corner of our bedroom, it reminded me of the scene at the end of Miracle on 34th Street. Even though it was March, Christmas had come early for me. Except it wasn’t a house Santa Claus left as a gift; it was Chad, fully recovered.

  We visited my mother that weekend. Explaining Chad’s diagnosis and miraculous recovery was difficult, but once she understood the basics, she simply looked at me and said, “What? Your love wasn’t enough to fill that hole?”

  “Apparently not,” I said. “He still has to decide whether he’s going to have the procedure to close it.”

  “What’s there to decide?” she asked. “You can’t walk around with a hole in your heart.”

  I looked at Chad and offered him a nod of concurrence.

  He smiled politely at my mother and said, “Well, I’ve been walking around with this hole my entire life. I’m not convinced that’s what caused the stroke.”

  “Then what did?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “I did have dental work the week before. Maybe the dentist dislodged the clot. He wa
s drilling on that side of my mouth.”

  “Listen.” I squeezed his chin. “You’re closing that hole. You hear me? I’m not going to live the rest of my life wondering if you’re going to have another stroke.”

  “Yeah,” my mother shouted. “End of discussion.”

  “The Spinellis have spoken,” I said. “Welcome to the family.”

  In the den later that afternoon, my mother served coffee and cake. Then she settled back in my father’s armchair with a cup in her lap and Hoffman by her side. It was at that point she insisted on hearing the details of Bill’s arrest. “So, who were these three boys who came forward?”

  “They’re his adopted sons.”

  “How did the police find them?”

  “The Pennsylvania Police began their investigation in 2008. I don’t know the exact details, but apparently, three men testified that they were molested by Bill while they lived with him.”

  “How could someone do such a thing?” she asked. “You adopt a boy, and then you do that to them? When is the trial?”

  “First, they’re going to have a preliminary hearing on April sixth. The attorney general has to present the case before a judge, who will then decide if there is enough evidence to go to trial.”

  My mother quietly sipped her coffee. Hoffman sat attentively at her feet, hoping she would feed him some cake. Then, she looked up at us both. “Do you have to testify?”

  “No,” I said. “I already spoke to the deputy attorney general. He told me that they were only going to present evidence associated with his arrest. I’m not one of the three victims, but I’m still going to the hearing.”

  My mother furrowed her brow. She looked at Chad and then back at me. “You’re going to go all the way to Pennsylvania?”

  “Yes.”

  She breathed in deeply. “Maybe I’ll come, too,” she said. “Who knows? Maybe I want to testify. I’d like to tell my side of the story.” She was becoming excited. “Let me open my mouth. I’ll make some noise in that courtroom. They’ll have to throw me out.” Then my mother settled back in her seat. She sipped her coffee and took a bite of cake while Hoffman watched her every move.