by Susan Vaught
The surgeon explained about the ventilator. Temporary, to help his lungs recover from surgical trauma.
The surgeon explained about respiratory complications for teens—totally normal.
The surgeon explained everything, yeah, and assured us Burke will be just peachy, but right now, he's sedated and breathing through a friggin' tube in his throat. Actually, the surgeon said "mechanically assisted respiration." He probably said other stuff, too, but I only caught bits and pieces after "mechanically assisted respiration."
He'll have a scar on his throat, small and round.
Assuming he wakes up with normal brain function and ever gets out of that bed, like he's supposed to.
God, I need to stop this.
Standing in the door of Burke's glass cubicle, I don't feel totally sane or even real. Freddie and I keep not moving, not talking.
Should we whisper to him so he knows we're here? Yell to wake him up? Are we supposed to be bouncy and magically cheerful so he doesn't think we're scared shitless he's about to die?
One-two, one-two, one-two, one-two. Up and down, jerk, jerk, jerk goes Burke's chest and belly. It has to hurt to breathe that way, with a machine jamming oxygen into your lungs. It has to.
Is he in pain?
Please don't let him be in pain.
I wonder if he can still smell anything with that ventilator attached to his throat. I hope not, because the nurse's station behind us reeks of alcohol and fresh cotton—and even that doesn't mask the sweet-rotten stench of blood, infection, and other body stuff I'd rather not think about.
"Burke probably thinks he died and went to hell," I whisper to Freddie.
"He's fine," she shoots back. "We're in hell."
"Shhh," says a nurse from the nurse's station, and Freddie and I slip inside Burke's glass cubicle before we get shushed again. My breath jerks along with Burke's, like a machine's pumping stuff into my lungs, too.
Freddie says, "Oh, my God, I'm suffocating," and I want to hit her. Blood pounds in a vein standing out on her left temple.
My body seems to be following everybody else's lead, so my blood pounds in time with hers. My eyes study the windowless back wall, the two glass side walls, the square white ventilator with its blue tubes, the IVs, the hospital bed. No televisions in here. No chairs. Just the machines, and places for nurses to stand, and wires and tubes and monitors. I notice everything in glowing, etched detail, except Burke, because now that I'm closer, I can't look at him at all.
I don't want to look at him. But I don't want to leave either. I never want to leave him again, because what if I leave and he dies? Nobody should die alone.
He's not going to die. My eyes flick to flat, chest-jerking Burke. He is not going to die.
He's been out of his second surgery and recovery for about three hours. Only two people can visit at one time, and only once per hour, for fifteen minutes. His parents took the first slot, and M & M got the second.
"Do something, Jamie." Freddie interrupts my distracted thoughts as she gestures to Burke's hand. "Maybe he can hear us."
I know she's not expecting me to heal Burke or work any miracles, but it feels like a huge miracle that I can even stand to touch him. My eyes stay on his hand, which seems as still and flat as the rest of him, except it jerks, jerks, when the ventilator pushes air. Forcing the brightest smile I can force, I take his hot, dry fingers in mine. His hand twitches with each pump of the machine.
"Hey," I whisper to him in between ventilator clicks and whooshes. My gaze drifts from the blue baggie-thing pulled over his dreads to his smooth, perfect forehead, and lower to his nose and mouth and broad shoulders, covered by a white hospital gown. Louder, over the machine noise, I tell Burke, "You need to wake up, seriously. You're wearing something that looks like a towel. It's kind of cute. I know you hate being cute."
No movement but the jerks from the respirator.
I glance at Freddie, who gives me a keep going expression, all wide-eyed and fearful like I might ask her to say something.
"Freddie's here," I tell Burke. "She's a total chickenshit, but not as bad as NoNo. NoNo was worrying there was blood on everything she touched."
"Blood products," Freddie corrects.
"Whatever." I'm pretending Burke's eyes are open now, and he's looking at me, and he's smiling. Will I ever see that again? Will he ever be able to smile again? "That's why we had to send NoNo home. I know you understand."
Nothing.
But I imagine there was something. I want there to be something, so, so badly. A small move of his lips. A glimmer of awareness.
"I've got to get this week's Fat Girl turned in, but I wanted to have next week's ready, too, since we're moving to longer practices with The Wiz, and I'm afraid I'll run out of time." When I squeeze his fingers, I wait for him to squeeze mine back, but he doesn't. God, how can he already look smaller? "Wake up and talk to me, so I can give my next column a happy ending."
"He's not in a coma, Jamie." Freddie moves closer to the bed and puts both of her hands on Burke's leg. "He's sedated. He can't—"
"Just shut up, okay? I know that." But it still feels like a soap opera, where the hero's in Twilight Land, and the heroine wakes him with a passionate speech and gentle kiss. I wish I could wake Burke with a kiss. He's my prince, right? I should be a better princess, with a powerful, magical kiss.
Hoping past logical hope, I bend down and brush my lips against his soft cheek. So hot. So still and tight. I've kissed Burke that way a thousand times, but usually he makes a noise way down in his throat, like some big, happy tiger.
Now, there's nothing.
I can't wake him. I want to, but I have no power at all.
He twitches with the ventilator, but makes no sound, no indication he hears me or feels me, or knows I'm alive.
After he's skinny, it'll be like this, says the mean part of my brain. He won't know you're alive.
My breath jerks with Burke's.
But maybe I'll have the surgery, too, and get skinny with him. Maybe he'll have to stand beside my ICU bed after some nasty complication.
Jesus H. Christ and his brother Mervin, too. Have you lost your friggin' mind? Do you want to die?
I don't, I don't, and I don't want Burke to die, either. I want his surgeon to take him back to the operating room and undo this nightmare. Put him back like he was, walking and talking and on his feet, holding me, hugging me, smiling at me, and kissing me back.
"Are you hurting his hand?" Freddie tugs at my wrist. "Ease up, chica. You're cutting off blood flow."
"Come back to me," I whisper to Burke as I let him go. "Don't worry. You won't have to do this alone. I won't let you. I'll be right here."
Damn it. I wish I could be. Fifteen minutes at a time, I will be. Once an hour. I hate this!
Since we don't know what else to do, Freddie tells him about her cable piece on teen bariatric surgery. She says she's doing it over, this time an expose about the hidden risks. She orders him not to be her bariatric surgery horror story poster child.
One of the nurses pops his head into Burke's room. "Time's up, ladies."
The sound of the nurse's voice makes us both jump. It's like the guy took a hammer and shattered a perfect moment—if you don't count the Burke-breathing-through-a-tube thing.
Freddie glares at the nurse even worse than I do, but she steps out of the glass room after giving me a little push back toward the bed. "Take a second with Burke," she instructs before she walks to the nurse's station.
Okay, finally.
I open my mouth to start yelling, but my gut twists and my throat catches and tears jam into my eyes. Coughing, choking, I spin away before he can see me or hear me, but he has to hear the sobs. I can't stop them. I can't even breathe until I lean down, hang my head, and squeeze my eyes shut so tight I see stars.
With each deep, sucking breath, my sobs break off a little sooner. I'm dizzy. I want to puke, but I can't puke in an ICU. It might hurt Burke, or freak out his nur
ses, or make them say I can never come back to see him again, and then I would die.
Finally, finally, my words come back and I manage to turn around and tell Burke, "I hate that you're in this ICU. If you were in a regular room, I wouldn't have to leave you."
Burke doesn't move.
I take his hand and squeeze it and flop his arm, careful not to dislodge the IV stuff. "Please open your eyes. Please try to say something. I need to know you're in there. Please, Burke. Pleasel"
Burke still doesn't move.
I sob all over again like a giant moron and stroke his dreadlocks through the blue baggie-thing while I kiss his cheek over and over. At least it's warm. I don't know what I would do if his skin got cold. I'd probably lie down on his bed and freeze solid with him. I couldn't stand it.
Shivers hit me in fast rushes as I think about a quiet, colorless, soundless world with no Burke. He's a light for me, an oasis, a place to stay when all the other places close me out. I'd be homeless without him, in an inside-way. I'd be less than I am, in ways I can't even imagine.
"Don't get cold, baby." I'm probably cutting off the blood flow in his fingers again, but I don't care. I want to yank his hand until he notices me. Until he notices something.
"Wake up for me. Burke?"
Another nurse steps into the cubicle and clears her throat. She looks a lot more serious than the other nurse.
She tries to talk nice for a second or three, but Freddie's voice is louder when she says, "Hey, Fat Girl. Get your ass out here now. You want the vampire twins swooping down here to suck your blood?"
I'm not sure what freezes Nurse Serious and the first nurse in their tracks—the vampire blood-sucking part, or the Fat Girl part. They stand aside, kind of stupefied, as I give Burke's motionless hand one last kiss before placing it gently back at his side. I make sure his covers are pulled up and tucked under his arms, run my fingers across his forehead, and tell him I love him.
Then I hold up my head and start walking past the silent, staring nurses with as much dignity as I can muster.
Jamie can't leave Burke's room. No, not me, not the me who loves him so much I feel like I got my own gut stapled.
It takes Fat Girl to do something this brave and painful.
Feeling?
Something tells me
That It's more than I can deal with.
"Can I Go On?"
from The Wiz
The Wire
FEATURE SPREAD
for publication Friday, September 21
Fat Girl Wondering
Fat Boy Chronicles III—Addendum
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
(Update)
Fat Boy survived surgery number two, to remove the clot lodged in his lungs from surgery number one. To quote his surgeon, "He's currently requiring mechanically assisted ventilation."
Translation: Fat Boy's breathing because a machine pushes air through a tube crammed down his throat.
He's trapped in a smelly glass room with smelly glass nurses who wear rubber shoes and want everybody to have "patience." He has needles in both arms. He doesn't turn his head, open his eyes, or notice when somebody kisses him.
If Fat Boy feels anything, it's pain. If he smells anything, it's raunchy. If he sees anything, it's scary. If he hears anything, it's moaning. He can't taste anything, of course, because he's not eating anything.
He's out. Not awake. If the power went off, his lights would go out, too—literally.
This is what THIN is worth to Fat Boy. More than agony, more than breath, more than love, more than life. This is what THIN is worth to his doctors, his family, maybe even some of the people who call themselves his friends.
What is THIN worth to you?
And for God's sake, why?
CHAPTER
NINE
I can't stop crying. My eyes feel swollen, like I'm seeing through aching slits, but Fat Girl parts the seas of ICU nurses like Moses having a big, nasty fit. Maybe they're afraid to get too close to a blubbering fat girl.
Obsesophobia, my stressed brain suggests.
Well, that's fear of getting fat, not the blubbering girl part. What about ephebiphobia—fear of teenagers?
Freddie and I have almost reached the automatic ICU door when the bravest of nurses stops us. He looks sad and sympathetic when he says, "This will take time. You have to be patient, hope for the best."
"The best will happen," Freddie tells him, sounding pissed. "No hoping to it."
The nurse lets us go without saying anything else, which is good, because Freddie's wound up tight. My lame consciousness comes up with stupid words or just stops talking when I'm flipped out, but Freddie gets capable of premeditated first-degree verbal assault.
I'm still half-crying and churning out weird phobias and she's still bitching about Nurse Patience-Man when we round the corner back to the waiting room.
And pull up short a few feet from the door.
Heath's at the hospital again, this time waiting with Burke's parents and sisters, sitting and chatting like he belongs here now, with our group.
Pieces of my brain crash together, trying to adjust to the sight of Heath and Burke's family hanging out together, and I can't grasp it.
I want to run back to Burke, where things are weird, but not this weird.
Yet I want to run to Heath, too, and beg him to sit under a drafting table with me and say funny things until my gut unstaples a few notches.
What is he doing here?
"What is Heath doing here?" Freddie echoes my thoughts out loud. "He should be—I don't know, at the paper or something, right?"
"He probably wants my Fat Girl feature," I mumble a few seconds later, after I find my voice. "I told him I'd have it later."
Heath still doesn't see us. He's lounging, all relaxed and not intimidated, right in front of M & M, and his blond hair hides the top of his eyes.
He's not here for the feature. I know that.
He's here because he's worried about me, and I think that's so sweet. So sweet I totally don't know what to do about it.
Freddie studies Heath like a professional reporter, like she's calculating weight and height and all potential juicy quotes. "You did Fat Girl for this week, didn't you? While Burke was in surgery the second time?"
"Yeah. It's in my bag." I take a step toward the waiting room door.
"Wait." Freddie grabs my arm. When I stop and turn around, her face looks tense and suspicious. "You were pale and shaking, and now you're all pink and Heath's here and Fat Girl's in my bag." Her eyes narrow as she glances from Heath to me. "What's going on?"
"That's a dumb-ass question." I pull my arm away from her, breathing fast but as deep as I can, trying to chill, trying to get a grip. I didn't know I had been shaking, or that seeing Heath made me stop. "It's Burke. The way he looked. The way he was."
"You should still be upset," Freddie says, getting louder.
"I am." I turn my back to the waiting room door and stare her down. Fat Girl, all the way. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Right now I have to write a quick addition and turn in my feature. I don't have time to freak out all over the hospital hallway."
Freddie's eyes stay narrow, but she nods and gestures toward the waiting room.
When I turn back around, Burke's parents and sisters are staring at us. So is Heath.
He looks glad to see me.
I start shaking again, and this time, I know it.
. . .
"More scholarship assurance right here." About fifteen minutes after I sit down and start writing, Heath takes my Fat Girl feature and the post-emergency surgery update, tucks it into the folder he brought, then slips the folder under his arm. "After Channel 3 News called to verify you were writing about a real boy having real bariatric surgery, I didn't want to run this week's Wire without Fat Girl. We might get some major coverage on this."
He smiles at me, and I can't help smiling back. I'm amazed, because Heath and I aren't under a drafting tabl
e, but he's still managed to get me distracted and make me feel a little better. We're sitting in the back of the surgical waiting area, near three small groups of people I don't know. A different nurse sits at the desk by the phone, writing, writing, writing on a clipboard. My stomach's hurting and growling, but I'm not really hungry, not with everything that's happened.
"I think I made an enemy out of that one reporter," I say as I lean back in my chair and stretch. "But I guess she's over it."
Heath gives me an old-guy mature look. "Those reporters probably have lots of enemies. Adult ones, who sue them and stuff. We're lightweights."
He turns red when he realizes the term he just used, but doesn't say anything to make it worse.
It's cute, how Heath acts when he makes a goofball comment. I wonder if he hates being cute, like Burke? Maybe It's an all-guys-feel-that-way thing. One day, I'll ask him. I seem to ask Heath a lot of things I'd never ask anybody else.
My stomach twists, and I look toward the waiting room door. Burke's parents have gone to see him for the fifteen minutes allowed this hour, and Freddie's chatting with M & M. All three of them give me looks now and then, and I hope they aren't talking about me.
Heath's eyes are so bright and so blue when I look at him again. He seems so alive and full of motion and breath and health, It's hard to talk to him, but nice, too. I don't have to worry about Heath.
I point to the folder. "Will you bring me a copy of the paper once It's set?"
"Yeah, sure, but..." Heath fidgets in his seat, and his smile slips away. "That'll be Wednesday or Thursday.
You'll be back by then, right?"
I shift in my chair too, numb and tired of being still. "Depends on how Burke's doing. If he doesn't wake up, or things go wrong, I might still be here."
Heath's eyes get a fraction wider, and his mouth stays open three or four seconds before he says, "You can't just stay out of school, can you?"
"Yes, I can." I feel a Fat Girl rush of will and determination, and I know my tone sounded Evillene bitchy. All I need is green glitter eye shadow to complete the effect.