Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  Jamie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to deal with Cal’s words without getting angry. “Cal,” he finally said in a soft voice. “I don’t know if you can understand. You’re right. I’ve always been energetic and damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead, but now, it’s an effort just to get out of bed and put one foot in front of another. It’s a bone-deep fatigue I’ve never felt before, and my head always hurts. Not like one of Eileen’s migraines—although it can get that bad if I get too tired—just a nagging, draining pain that never goes away. I think those cause my balance problems and my inability to focus. It’s like I’m trying to push my way through a thick fog that’s trying to smother me. I know I’m letting you down, but I can’t seem to find a way to fight through it, and believe me, pal—I’ve been trying.” Jamie looked out at the passing streets and waited for Cal to respond. They were on their way to police headquarters south of Northeastern University. Jamie had an appointment with his father.

  At length, Cal replied. “I just don’t know what to make of it, Jamie.” Cal groped for words. “You’re not letting me down, exactly, but it’s getting more difficult by the day to juggle all of our casework and keep Sully off my back.” He looked at Jamie. “It’s a real bitch right now, man.”

  Jamie held Cal’s gaze for a second, and then looked away. “I know, buddy, I know. I wish this wasn’t happening. I’m falling down on the job, at home, with my family and friends—this shit has got to stop.” He spoke harshly, bitterness and anger infusing each word.

  Cal was silent again for a moment. “I know it’s hard for you too, Jamie,” he said. “Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m just bitching and moaning. Same shit, different day.”

  They said nothing during the rest of their drive. As he pulled into the small open-air drive-through area at the front of the massive glass and steel monument to ugly American architecture, Cal said, “Here you are, sir. Thank you for using Cushing Cabs.” He smiled as he looked at Jamie.

  Jamie chuckled humorlessly. “I appreciate it, Cal. Seriously.” He looked out at headquarters, but saw his father’s office within. “After my Da is finished lecturing me, Eileen’ll pick me up.”

  “Hey,” Cal caught Jamie’s gaze as he was exiting. “Hang in there. It’s all going to work out.”

  Jamie nodded. “I sure hope so.” He closed the door and pounded lightly on the door frame, then waved and turned to go confront the dragon in his den. The rain and cold seeped into every pore of Jamie’s body as he plodded into the building.

  Jamie walked through security and was waved past the front desk. He didn’t come to headquarters often, but often enough to be recognized. Being the son of the Deputy Superintendent of the Bureau of Investigative Services doesn’t hurt either, thought Jamie wryly as he got off the elevator.

  He made his way to his father’s corner office and smiled at his father’s administrative assistant. “Hey, Cathy. How’s it going?”

  The petite brunette who had been his father’s admin for the past half dozen years smiled. “Not bad, Jamie—I could complain, but we both know that doesn’t do any good, so why bother?”

  “Is himself in his office?”

  Cathy nodded. “Yes, but he’s wrapping up another appointment. Have a seat,” she motioned to some standard, government-issue type chairs outside his father’s office. “Coffee?”

  “Nah, thanks. I’ve had my limit today.” Cathy turned back to her workstation and began typing.

  After a few minutes, the door opened, and two men appeared. The shorter man was somewhat plump. He held out his hand and said, “Thanks for your help, Frank. The Mayor will greatly appreciate it.”

  Frank Griffin took the man’s hand and gripped it in the vise handshake that Jamie knew all too well. To his credit, the shorter man did not wince. “No problem, Stanley. Always glad to help out.”

  Jamie stood and held out his right hand to his father, steeling his grip for what many in the department called “the handshake from hell.” Frank Griffin put all of his six foot two, two hundred ten pounds into his handshake. At 63, Frank was still a “hard man” as many referred to those who had been tough and fierce in their patrol days. His close-cropped hair was now more silver than dark blonde, but his icy blue eyes were still renowned for their penetrating gaze. “Jamie. Come in, son. Come in.”

  As his father closed the door behind him, Jamie recalled the many “fatherly talks” he’d received over the years. Frank Griffin was tough and demanding, on himself and on his children.

  “Sit, sit.” Frank walked over behind his desk, behind which the rain now pelted against the glass panes. Frank seated himself in a simple chair that might have been found in the office of a man of much lower rank. It was in keeping with Frank’s belief in toughness and fortitude. His only concession to the many injuries his body had suffered in service to the city was a back support cushion. In one of his last cases as a detective before being promoted, Frank had vaulted a ten-foot fence while running after a perpetrator. He had almost made it, too—but his trailing foot had caught the top of the fence and he had fallen hard to the pavement on his back. According to department mythology and his father’s many retellings, Frank had leapt up, run down the fleeing man, and tackled him, restraining him until his partner caught up. Frank had three operations on his back, but still worked out daily.

  Jamie sat silently, waiting for his father to begin. He’d learned over the years that it was best to determine which way the wind was blowing before sailing into the storm. After a few seconds, Frank fixed his gaze on his second son. “How are you feeling, Jamie? I’ve heard from your mother and Bobby Sullivan that you’re still not able to work.”

  Jamie turned over several answers in his mind and rejected any that might come off as flip or sarcastic. At 42, you’d think I wouldn’t be afraid of my Da. Of course, he’s also way the hell up the food chain from me, so there’s that. “You’ve heard right, Da. We can’t figure out what the hell is wrong with me, but I’m seeing a crapload of specialists trying to figure it out.”

  “I read in an incident report that you actually passed out at a crime scene?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah, the fatigue and balance issues are severe. I’m also having trouble with even simple things like walking up and down stairs.”

  “Well, something’s got to be causing it. What have the doctors checked so far?” Frank had unknowingly adopted his interrogational voice.

  “Lots of blood tests, looking for things like Lyme disease, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, that sort of thing. Nothing. The rest of this week, I’m seeing a parade of doctors. I told Doctor Jasinski to run any and all tests he could think of to find out what the hell’s wrong with me so I can get back to work.”

  “I see.” Frank pursed his lips and put his hands behind his head, leaning back, as he always did when considering what to say next. “Sully tells me you’re out of sick time and chewing up vacation time. Couldn’t you just find a way to push yourself through it and stay on the job? This is getting serious.”

  Jamie counted to five silently, and then he replied. “Da, the fatigue is way beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s like my whole body becomes limp and filled with aches and pains. If I try to push myself and ‘work through it,’ I’m going to collapse again, or risk making the headaches and fatigue even worse. I don’t know if I can describe this well enough to make you understand.”

  “Oh, I think I understand,” said Frank tersely, leaning forward in his chair and placing his hands palm down on the desk with a soft slap. Jamie could tell his father was getting angry.

  When he was a young man, fighting in the tough streets of the Irish neighborhood in which he’d grown up, Frank had gotten into a fight with a street hood with a knife. Frank had beaten the other boy into submission, but not before the boy cut him from just below his right ear, down his jaw line almost to his chin. The resulting scar had made Frankie Griffin the stuff of neighborhood legends. Years later, whenever he became angry, the
skin along the scar flushed like a thermometer gauging his fury. “I understand that this is starting to reflect badly on both Paddy and me. I understand that you are really sick, Jamie. I don’t for a moment think you are faking it. I know you better than that, but I don’t understand why you can’t just suck it up and tough it out until the docs find a solution? I didn’t miss a single day of work….”

  “After any of your injuries, even your back surgeries, which you scheduled on late Fridays so you could be back on the job Monday morning.” Jamie knew he was waving a red flag in front of the bull, but his own temper was getting the better of him.

  Frank Griffin’s scar flared red from ear to chin, a warning light that Jamie was ignoring. “You keep your smart mouth to yourself, boyo.” Frank’s eyes now blazed as he pointed a finger at his son. “Keep in mind that I’m your superior officer as well as your father.”

  Jamie stood. “You rarely give me an opportunity to forget it.” Jamie’s face was now turning red, and his voice rose in volume. “Is there anything else, sir?” Jamie stood to attention.

  Frank Griffin exhaled loudly. “Don’t do this, Jamie. Don’t make this about what kind of father I’ve been or how I treat you. This is strictly about your performance and the fallout if you don’t straighten up and fly right. I only have all our interests at heart.” Frank stood to face his son, matching Jamie’s angry gaze with his own. “I only want you to succeed, son.” His tone softened at the last words.

  Jamie stood stock still at attention and did not respond for a few seconds. “I understand, sir. Will there be anything else, sir? Request permission to leave, sir.” Jamie knew he wasn’t making the situation any better, but he couldn’t help himself. He could also feel his fatigue threatening to overwhelm him and his headache pounding ever louder in his head. I’ll not show weakness here, even if it means I fall flat on my face once I reach the street.

  Frank said nothing for several seconds. Then he shook his head and harshly said one word in his gravelly voice: “Dismissed.”

  Jamie snapped off a crisp salute, which his father returned easily, with no emotion. Jamie pivoted and walked erectly out of his father’s office in measured paces, not too fast, not too slow. He was glad for an empty elevator, so he could slump against the elevator wall on its way down. There were black spots in front of Jamie’s eyes, but he walked without weaving out of the elevator. As he left the building, he collapsed onto a nearby bench. Jamie closed his eyes and leaned his head back, feeling fatigue wash over him in large waves. His headache bored through his head like a rusty hand drill.

  After a few minutes, his cell phone rang, and Jamie popped his eyes open. At the same time, he saw Eileen entering the drive. “Griffin,” he answered with as much energy as he could muster.

  “Jesus, you sound like shit.” It was Cal.

  “Yeah, and feel worse. What’s up, Cal?”

  “There’s been another body found matching our profile.”

  Jamie stood unsteadily and slogged to the van, where Eileen watched him, worry clouding her face. “Alright, I can have Eileen drop me off after lunch.”

  “No, you can’t, Jamie.” Cal spoke carefully, as if he could not speak freely.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Sully just got orders to put you on leave and restrict you from participating in any departmental activities.” Cal knew where the orders had come from as well as Jamie.

  Jamie opened the car door and plopped down. “So you’re going this alone?”

  “No, I’ve got a rookie with me. You just get your ass better. I’ll call you tonight and fill you in.”

  “Okay. Good luck, man.”

  As Jamie looked at her, Eileen said, “You look terrible. You’re not going to go out on a case, Séamus Edward Griffin, and that’s that. I won’t permit it.”

  Jamie slumped back against the seat. “Yeah, neither will my father, Eileen. I’m benched. Let’s go home.” He stared silently at the gray rain, his headache and fatigue warring with his sense of shame.

  Chapter Seven

  By the end of most Septembers, Jamie was running full throttle. Autumn was his favorite season. Summers often got too hot and humid, and winters often too cold for his liking. While the weather was usually getting nicer in springtime, it seemed just a little too cold or a little too hot, depending on the vagaries of Mother Nature. Autumns, most times, were a different story: the air cooled down from the summer heat, and most days were comfortably warm, followed by chilly nights. The leaves were turning and his beloved Fighting Irish were well underway, as were the Pats. The Red Sox were wrapping up their season. Still ahead was the promise of more glory for the Boston Celtics. For Jamie, autumn was close to a perfect time of year.

  This year found Jamie’s autumn overshadowed and overwhelmed by his illness. In the past two weeks, he had seen a variety of specialists and been subjected to uncounted tests. His expanded blood tests were negative for everything, including histoplasmosis, toxoplasmosis, HIV, mononucleosis, West Nile disease, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, and Lyme disease—plus, his ANA, SED and Rheumatoid Factor all came back normal, and none of a variety of nasty sounding viral or bacterial diseases had tested positive. His chest x-rays had been negative, as had the new MRI and the MRA. He was not diabetic, and his thyroid function was okay. Jamie had undergone an overnight sleep study and learned that, despite recent trouble falling asleep, he had no problems with his sleeping. A full set of cardiovascular tests had shown healthy results. An otolaryngologist had found no ear problems. To top it all off, the lumbar puncture, which had provided him with a new definition of pain, revealed nothing.

  If anything, Jamie thought angrily, I’m feeling worse, and none of these gobshite doctors can find a feckin’ thing wrong with me. Jamie was sitting alone on the front porch of the house, watching an almost perfect late September morning unfold, but was unable to appreciate it. Eileen and the girls were gone to their busy days, and Jamie was relegated to sitting with Finn MacCool and drinking coffee. The day was already warm, and Jamie sat in an ND T-Shirt and long jogging shorts. Jamie felt remorse at his behavior at yesterday’s appointment with Doctor Jasinski. After spending half an hour in the waiting room plus another half an hour in the exam room waiting, Jamie had been in a foul mood.

  When Jasinski had entered the room, apologizing for running late, Jamie replied bitingly, “No problem, Jerry. I’ve got nothing better to do.” His response had taken both the doctor and his wife aback, but Jamie plowed ahead. “No offense, but I’m getting sick of seeing you—I’ve seen you more this month than in all the time I’ve been your patient, and I’ve seen more doctors this past week than in the rest of my life combined. What do we have to show for this? Not a feckin’ thing.”

  When he had finished ranting, Jasinski had reached out and put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. Then he looked him in the eyes and replied, “Jamie. I’ve been your doctor for a long time. I like to think of you as a friend as well as a patient. I know this is difficult for you, but you need to realize two things. One, I don’t for a second believe that there’s nothing wrong with you. I think, despite all the tests we’ve run, that we just haven’t found our answer yet. Secondly, we aren’t out of options yet for testing. I promise you, we’ll keep working until we find an answer.”

  Jamie exhaled in frustration. “I know. I’m sorry. You’re right—it’s just so goddamned hard right now. I feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

  “Really?” Jasinski had replied. “So you decided to go out and get sick, did you? Thought sitting around on your ass might be fun?” He laughed. “C’mon, Jamie. Everyone knows better than that.”

  “Amen,” muttered Eileen.

  Jamie rubbed his face a couple of times, and then he ran his hands back over the top of his head. “I’m sorry—I know, but I can’t help how I feel—like I’m letting everyone down.”

  “So you just have to work through that.”

  “Okay. You said we weren’t out of options for testing y
et. How can that be? I feel like I’ve been poked and prodded more than any man should have to endure. What else is there?”

  Jasinski shrugged. “We may be out of options here, but while I’m pretty good and Mass General is great, we have some world-renowned resources in the region. I’d like to refer you to some top flight specialists at Johns Hopkins.”

  “Johns Hopkins?” Jamie exclaimed. “Sweet Jaysus, Jerry, do you think we’re made of money? That place must cost a fortune.”

  Jerry nodded as he replied. “Indeed it does, but I had Alice review your records this year. After all the tests and visits you just had, combined with your family’s other visits this year, you’ve reached your maximum annual out-of-pocket expenses. So anything we do from here on out is one hundred percent paid for by your insurance company, as long as we play by the rules for referrals.”

  Jamie looked at Eileen who had made a “See?” face back at him, but he refrained from commenting. “Alright, so it won’t cost us anything. All well and good, but what can they do there that you haven’t been able to order up here?”

  Jasinski had laughed. “Oh Jamie, while I appreciate your opinion of my medical skills, I’m just a plain old family doctor, and Mass General would be the first to admit that they don’t have all the toys that Hopkins has. I can’t tell you what tests they might want to run, but I am pretty familiar with one of their neurologists, Brian Fitzpatrick. Top of his class in medical school, he served with me in the military before heading to Hopkins. I can call Brian and get you in to see him at his earliest opening.”

  Jamie looked from his doctor to his wife, then back to his doctor, knowing that he wasn’t going to win. “Fine. Set it up.”

  Now, looking out at neighbors who passed by wondering why he was home, Jamie felt even worse somehow about the tests scheduled for next week in Baltimore. Next Monday, he and Eileen would fly down and stay at a hotel near Johns Hopkins until they were done poking and prodding him. Eileen would have two of her part-time instructors running the shop and covering her classes. Jamie felt that he was causing everyone a great deal of trouble, when he should just be able to get past this. His mind kept playing over his last meeting with his father. They hadn’t spoken since then, although Nuala had stopped by once and proclaimed them both “rock-headed idjits.” However, neither man had made any overtures to the other.