“You don’t have to worry, Ms. Magee. I will take care of Little Dove,” Dr. Basu said when he reached the gurney that the medics were pushing into a curtained room. He patted Cathleen softly on her back. His hands felt warm, steady, and surprisingly strong to her. He was shocked he had made this gesture and that he was unable to resist the compulsion to comfort her.
Cathleen’s eyes filled, and without thinking, she folded her body into the doctor’s arms. He held her, and for a moment he was surprised by her remarkable about-face, from her anger on Friday to her complete submission today. But then he understood. He knew the feelings well. Fear makes people angry, and grief never ceases to transform.
Dr. Basu said nothing, and he let Cathleen gradually untangle herself from his embrace. As she pulled away she did not look him in the face, embarrassed by her sudden rush of emotion.
“How did you get here so fast, Dr. Basu? I thought my brother, Sean, just called you in the ambulance?” Cathleen asked the doctor, while pointing to her brother as a way of introducing them both.
“I am on call and was already here. The message service contacted me and let me know you called and were on your way. I just had to come down from the seventh floor. So what happened?”
“We were walking out of church this morning, and he just went down. He was gone at least a good ten minutes; Cathleen says it’s never been that long,” Sean told the doctor, while holding out his hand to shake it and introduce himself. “Sean, Cathleen’s brother, by the way.”
As the paramedics, nurses, Sean, and Cathleen moved Colm’s gurney down the hall and into a room, Dr. Basu walked with them, while trying to get as many details as possible. When they all reached the room, Dr. Basu stopped Cathleen and Sean at the doorway and asked for a moment alone with the nurses to examine the boy.
Cathleen was startled. “You mean, I can’t stay?”
“Just for a few minutes, Cathleen. I want to be as thorough as possible, but I’ll try not to be too long. We’ll come and get you as soon as we’re finished. Why don’t you both get some coffee or something to eat?”
Cathleen wanted nothing to eat; all she wanted to do was stay with Colm. Sean could sense his sister’s urge to start an argument and stepped in between her and the doctor.
“I’ll take care of her, Doctor. No worries. We’ll be back in a half hour.”
“That should be more than enough time. Thank you, Sean.”
Colm lay on the gurney, hooked up to wires and IVs. Cathleen could hear the slow blip, blip, blip of his weak heartbeat. She kissed Colm softly on the cheek, squeezed his freezing hands, and whispered something no one else could hear. She knew, no matter where he was, no matter what realm she had thought he entered into, he could hear her words loud and clear, “I’ll be right here waiting.”
After Cathleen and Sean left the room, other doctors, interns, and residents stepped in. Together they discussed scheduling various tests to measure the boy’s brain activity. After so much time without oxygen, they had to consider that he might be brain-dead. Although Colm was alive for now, Dr. Basu knew that this was most likely temporary. Decisions had to be made. After the test results came back, he’d most likely have to tell the boy’s mother the unthinkable. He was slightly angry with himself for not being more persistent with her the other day, and for not reminding her how serious her son’s condition was. He had always had trouble expressing or even realizing the appropriate sense of urgency. How could I have made the same mistake twice? he berated himself.
After Dr. Basu examined the boy, he pored over his massive chart, hoping to find something, anything, that he could have possibly missed. And there it was. Dr. Basu found a short letter from a physician at the Midwest Heart Clinic buried under hundreds of other forms and lab reports. The head of the electrophysiology department there had written in his medical consult notes: Diagnosis—progressive, degenerative neurological disease. Do not rule out multiple system atrophy (MSA). Prognosis for MSA—Terminal. Treatment—Symptom maintenance and pain management.
Dr. Basu read through the letter, which detailed how all the tests at the clinic pointed to one thing: Colm’s central nervous system and, consequently, multiple other systems were failing. He had an inability to regulate his heart rate and his body temperature, and eventually he would lose control of his muscles, his speech, and his ability to swallow. Dr. Basu read it over and over. There was no known case of this disease in a child—ever. Its incidence in the population was so rare it was all but unheard of. It was a disease attributed to old people—in their sixties and seventies. Not a child. Not a young lively boy.
Dr. Basu pushed his hands through his hair. There either has to be a mistake or there has to be another explanation. A disease like this in a child would be the equivalent of a five-year-old coming down with Alzheimer’s—an impossibility. But then he thought of any number of aberrations in nature and science. Yes, he told himself, deviations and variations in nature are the rule. All things are possible. The universe itself was thought to be an aberration. He knew this. He looked again at all the tests, and he too concluded what the clinic had. Why hadn’t he put all the pieces together himself? Why had he missed all the telltale signs? The boy’s central nervous system was imploding. His body failing. If he didn’t hit his head falling down during a syncope episode, he’d eventually die of an embolism, pneumonia, heart failure, or malnutrition after his body stopped absorbing nutrients. There was a long list of ways he could go—and it wouldn’t be long—ten years max—before he finally did.
Why didn’t anyone tell this woman? Why didn’t anyone call? Who sends—and receives—a consult letter like this one without a phone call to the patient? Damn these massive hospitals, he thought for a moment. But then he composed himself and remembered how easy it was for papers to get lost, for patients to fall through the cracks. He himself only found the letter now. None of it mattered, he realized, because in the end there was no cure. Nothing anyone, not even a doctor, could do to change it all. The only thing that mattered now was that somehow he had to deliver all this terrible news to the family—to Cathleen.
As he was looking up more information on the disease on his laptop, a nurse poked his head through a crack in the curtain.
“There is a priest here in the hall who says he knows the family,” the nurse said to Dr. Basu.
“What does he want?”
“He is waiting to speak to Colm’s mother and uncle.”
“Very well. I will let them know, thank you.”
When Cathleen and Sean returned to the room, they saw Dr. Basu leaning over the boy’s bedside—gently patting his head.
“Dr. Basu?” Cathleen said, stepping into the room quietly and startling the doctor.
“Oh good, you’re back,” Dr. Basu said, smiling at Cathleen and trying to disguise any hint of bad news. “We have more tests, but for now I think he’s resting.”
As the lie came out of his mouth, Dr. Basu cursed himself for it. It would be harder now to tell her and for her to believe it. He couldn’t explain why, but he wanted Cathleen to like him, to trust him. He usually didn’t care much about what his patients thought of him, but Cathleen was not his patient and Colm was unlike any patient he had ever had.
“Do you mind if I have a moment with him?” Cathleen turned and looked at Dr. Basu and Sean.
“Certainly,” Dr. Basu said, backing out of the room.
“I’ll be right outside, Cate, if you need me,” Sean assured her.
Cathleen sat down next to Colm and took his hand. Sean and the doctor looked back to see Cathleen slump forward over her son’s body as if pressed by the weight of the world.
Dr. Basu slipped the stethoscope into his white lab coat pocket. He whispered to Sean, “Do you have a moment?”
“Sure.”
Dr. Basu’s smile disappeared and he seemed grave. “I have a few matters to discuss. I need you to help me explain these things to your sister. When I spoke to her on Friday, I got the feeling she di
dn’t trust me, or any doctor.”
“Well, Doctor, she has her reasons.”
“Yes, she has every reason to doubt us,” Dr. Basu said as he inhaled deeply and thought of the letter from the clinic.
The doctor’s solemn expression frightened Sean. “What aren’t you telling me and my sister?”
Dr. Basu inhaled deeply again and began to explain to Sean what he thought was wrong with Colm. “I think Colm’s problems are not limited to his heart alone. I was on the right track. I explained this a bit to your sister on Friday. But now I have reason to believe your nephew is suffering from a degenerative disease that is attacking his central nervous system, which controls his heart and brain, among other things. Of course, I, and the other doctors whom I have consulted, could be wrong. Illnesses of this nature are never clear-cut. But if it is indeed what I think it is, it will only get worse. Some people call this Shy-Drager. Some people call it MSA—multiple system atrophy. Most people only live ten years with the disease before dying. It is extremely rare, and even rarer, if not unheard of, in children. And it’s incurable. Unless we’ve made some error, or unless Colm makes some miraculous turnaround, he will die. His brain and heart seem to be warring with each other. It is as if the part of the brain that controls his autonomic functions is attacking, and the heart is responding by shutting down. The result, however, is that he collapses. In short, his body is slowly dying. We can give him medications and we can install a pacemaker to help alleviate some of the symptoms, but I am afraid there is not much hope. If your nephew does wake up, you will need to convince your sister to put the pacemaker in as soon as possible, and he will have a difficult road ahead. You all will.”
Dr. Basu stopped talking. Somewhere in his explanation he knew he had lost Sean, whose face had gone pale.
Sean straightened up and stood tall. He nodded a small thank-you, and they both turned and walked back to the examining room where they stood quietly watching Cathleen smooth Colm’s hair over and over. Several silent minutes passed before Sean noticed the doctor staring at his sister. He could see the pain in the doctor’s eyes, and to Sean, the doctor seemed afraid—afraid to tell Cathleen what they both knew.
But Sean’s impression was wrong. Dr. Basu was not afraid. He feared little. Life had served up his worst possible nightmare already. All he felt was compassion for this woman, this stranger, who had come into his life. He seemed to know, more than anyone in the world, what it was like to be a parent who had to raise a child that was not for his keeping.
“Dr. Basu, you mind if I go in and see Colm and Cate?”
“Please, go on.”
Sean began to walk away, and then Dr. Basu remembered.
“There is someone here waiting for you and Cathleen. A priest from your church stopped by. He told the nurse that he knows the family and would like to talk to your sister. Would that be all right? He is in the waiting area.”
“Oh, sure. It’s just my sister’s friend, the monsignor.”
“I’ll have one of the nurses go get him,” Dr. Basu said.
Chapter 9
Monsignor Francesco Benedicto had known the Magee family for nearly forty years. He had married Maureen and Michael over thirty-five years ago and had buried Michael a few years later. He had baptized Cathleen, Sean, and Colm. He was especially fond of Cathleen, who had been somewhat of a rebellious teen and young woman but had matured into a loving, capable mother. He saw her at Mass regularly now. And after her own mother’s funeral and before her son was born, she had stopped by the rectory often seeking counsel. He understood that Cathleen saw him as a father figure—a man with answers—and he had tried, throughout the years, to do whatever he could to prove her right.
Now as the monsignor walked into the hospital room, he saw Cathleen with her head down on her arms folded on the bed. He thought of a small child saying her nighttime prayers, Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
“Cathleen?”
Cathleen lifted her head and saw him. “Oh, Monsignor. Thank you so much for coming.”
“How is he?”
“He hasn’t woken up yet. This is the longest he’s ever been out. He was gone for ten minutes this time. And he usually comes back to me right away—well, at least after a few minutes. Some of the nurses and paramedics, and I can tell even Sean, think that this time is it. It was too long. He’s never, ever been gone this long.”
“Oh, Cathleen. Do you want me to administer the holy oil—the sacrament of the sick?”
“Do you think he’s gone? Do you think this is it?” Cathleen asked in disbelief.
“Oh, no. There is always room for miracles, for faith. Little Colm has proven God’s benevolence time and time again. He can still come back bright as day. You must believe, Cathleen. He needs you to believe now more than ever.”
“Then why do you want to give him his last rites if you think there is still a chance for a miracle?” Cathleen was pleading with him.
“No. You misunderstand. Remember, the anointment is not just for last rites or for the dying—it’s for the sick as well. Would you pray with me?”
“Yes, Father.”
Cathleen looked past the monsignor’s shoulder at her brother leaning against the door frame with one foot in the room and the other out. Sean thought all of this was a bunch of hooey, but he knew his sister needed him to be strong for her. And so he stepped forward into the room and took Cathleen’s hand. Dr. Basu stepped back and stood where Sean had been in the doorway and looked on. He had seen this ritual many times while working at Good Samaritan.
Cathleen and Sean made the sign of the cross together, and then the monsignor pulled out the oil from a little pouch he carried. After he placed the pouch and the Bible on the table beside Colm’s bed, he dipped his fingers in the oil and then made a small cross on Colm’s forehead. Cathleen and Sean could smell the sweet oil. The same kind they smelled on the day of Colm’s baptism.
“Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit,” the monsignor chanted.
“Amen,” Sean and Cathleen whispered, their eyes closed as they fought back tears.
Just as the monsignor reached for the boy’s palms, to make the sign of the cross on them, and began saying, “May the Lord who frees you from sin, save you and raise you up,” Colm’s eyes opened wide. He looked terrified and confused. Through the oxygen tube he tried to cry out: “Mama? Mama?” But nothing came out of his mouth.
“Colm!” Cathleen screamed and began to cry with relief.
Sean chimed in too. “Jesus H. Christ.”
“It’s a miracle. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, thank you for the many blessings you have bestowed upon your child Cathleen and her son, Colm,” the monsignor prayed aloud, glaring at Sean for taking the Lord’s name in vain.
Dr. Basu, incredulous himself, came to Colm’s bedside.
Colm was trying to talk but couldn’t with the tube down his throat. His eyes were moving back and forth, trying to take in his surroundings.
Dr. Basu stepped up to the bedside now. He had immediately pressed the nurse call button when he saw Colm’s eyes open. Now he began to check the boy’s vitals while directing the nurses to begin removing the breathing tube. As they worked on him, they could see he was alert and awake and in no way brain-dead as they had all feared.
Throughout it all, Cathleen spoke gently to Colm, moving around the bed to stay out of the way of the doctor and nurses, but never letting go of his hand.
“You gave us quite a scare this time, Colm,” she whispered softly to him. “You were gone for a long time. We thought you were on your way to heaven, sweetie. We were worried you might never come home.”
“That’s silly, Mama. I’m never going to heaven,” Colm whispered scratchily.
Dr. Basu took out a penlight and looked in Colm’s eyes. Though Colm’s throat hurt, he continued to try to talk to reassure his mother that he had no intention of going anywhere.
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“See,” the monsignor said confidently, “God provides. Nothing to worry about.”
Dr. Basu glared at the priest. He wanted nothing to do with this superstitious talk. There was clearly a medical reason for Colm’s collapses, for his revival, and none of it had to do with God, he thought.
“Oh, thank you, Monsignor. Thank you.” Cathleen hugged the priest and shook his shoulders. “I am so glad you came.”
“It wasn’t me. It was the Lord,” the monsignor admitted while raising his face toward the heavens.
The monsignor believed without question that the hand of God played a role in every miraculous intervention, but there had been brief moments in his life when even he had had his doubts. When he saw people like Cathleen, and Cathleen’s mother before her, suffer, he wondered where God was in all of it. He struggled with the question of suffering, as many priests did. He had been trained well in the seminary not to try to explain the age-old dilemma—doing so only brought with it more questions and doubts. He simply believed that God had a purpose for all that he did and that God alone knew what was right. When Cathleen had challenged him that day long ago, instead of being angry with her, the monsignor had said a prayer for her. He prayed that she, and others like her, would come back to God. Then with the death of Cathleen’s mother, he thought God had answered his prayer. He thought Cathleen had come home to God when he saw her praying so solemnly at her mother’s funeral. He had no way of knowing then how far away she really was. How she would leave her mother’s apartment, because she was unable to stay there all alone—without her mother—with only the memories of her death. The unbearable loss. No, Monsignor wouldn’t see Cathleen for months after that day. He had no way of knowing she would move into her boyfriend’s apartment shortly after the funeral, and within months become pregnant with her sickly son, Colm.
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