Fireflies: A Father's Classic Tale of Love and Loss

by Morrell, David

  Seventh floor.

  10

  At last he stopped and took a deep breath. Had to. From exhaustion. He wanted to slump on the stairs. And sleep.

  How much he wanted to sleep!

  Not yet. Time enough for sleep when his duty had been completed. Forty years from now. Tonight.

  He opened the stairwell door and entered a corridor. Ten paces farther, turning right, he proceeded toward the Bone Marrow Ward.

  Passing through one door, then along a corridor and through a second door, he entered it.

  Softly. Silently. Seeing no one.

  In most wards, a nurses’ station would have been the first thing a visitor saw. But in the Bone Marrow Ward, the nurses’ station was out of view, around the corner to the left. That corner was ten feet farther ahead than the corner to the right. And Matthew’s room was just around the nearer right corner.

  That made it possible—

  David had calculated, had depended on this—

  made it possible—

  if a nurse didn’t happen to prowl—

  for him to shift unseen around that right corner and ease into Matthew’s room.

  It was after 3:00 A.M. Often at this hour, Matthew woke from nightmares and needed to talk to whichever parent was sleeping in the room with him, to express his fears and ease his apprehensions. Some of David’s most intimate and heartbreaking conversations with Matt had occurred at this time of night.

  But this afternoon, when David had last seen his son, Matt had been so weak it was doubtful he’d waken from his stupor tonight. David had depended on that as well. So much depended on faith.

  The room was dark. Matt lay motionless in bed. Donna slept on a cot in the corner, breathing restlessly, enduring her own nightmares.

  David shut the door till only a crack allowed light to enter from the outside corridor. Responding to habit, he almost went to the sink to wash his hands, but he froze, realizing he couldn’t make a sound.

  When his eyes adjusted to the dark, he stepped toward Matthew’s bed. Two IV stands supported bottles from which a dark liquid (probably platelet concentrate to give Matt’s impaired blood the ability to clot) and a clear colorless liquid (probably saline solution to keep him from dehydrating) were pumped through tubes into IV connections implanted in his chest. Beside the bed was a cart upon which full syringes lay in a row: medications that Matt would need in case of an emergency.

  David took the syringes one by one to the light that came through the crack in the door and studied their labels. Though he knew he shouldn’t have been able to recognize their arcane names and understand the effect of each drug, he could do so now, and that made him more convinced that he was right, that his nightmare was more than just a fainting spell.

  The first syringe he examined was labeled “carbenecillin.” The term, so close to “penicillin,” obviously named an antibiotic, but intuition controlled him, for somehow he knew it wasn’t the particular antibiotic that Matthew needed.

  He examined another syringe. Gentamicin. That too was an antibiotic, he realized, but again he had the certain knowledge that it wouldn’t be effective against strep and staph.

  Vancomycin. He’d found it. Though why he was sure, he didn’t know, except for the memory of his nightmare.

  Instead of a needle, the syringe had a blunt point capped with a rubber stopper. He removed the stopper, held the syringe upright, and squeezed its plunger until liquid trickled out, guarding against an air bubble entering Matthew’s system.

  He stepped toward Matthew.

  And stiffened, heart pounding, as a shadow blocked the crack of light at the door.

  A nurse! It must have been time for her to make rounds, to check on the patients assigned to her, to administer whatever medications were scheduled.

  Donna sighed, as if waking up.

  David’s chest heaved, panic swelling.

  Hide! I’ve got to—!

  The nurse spoke softly to someone else in the corridor. The shadow moved from the crack in the doorway.

  David hurried. Despite the absence of a needle on the syringe, he knew he’d have no problem injecting the antibiotic. Too often, he’d watched the nurses add medications to his son’s IVs. The tubes leading into Matthew’s chest had access vents. All David had to do was unplug a vent, insert the blunt end of the syringe into the port, and squeeze the syringe’s plunger—slowly, struggling to control his shaking hands—until all the liquid had entered the tube and drained toward Matthew’s chest.

  Twenty seconds later, his task was accomplished. For better or for worse, he’d done what he believed in his soul was the reason he was here after forty years. His thought was irrational, he admitted. But so was faith. His lingering doubt no longer mattered. He’d done everything in his power to save his son.

  He shoved the empty syringe into his pocket, peered down at Matthew, wanted to kiss his forehead, but stopped the impulse for fear of waking him. The resultant conversation would wake up Donna, and the further conversation would surely attract the nurse, whose shadow again blocked the crack of light at the doorway. David leaned against the sink, his heartbeat thunderous.

  Better to confront than be confronted, he thought.

  He opened the door, held his breath to control his hyperventilation, and stepped from the room.

  The nurse was surprised. Before she could speak, David closed the door behind him.

  “Mr. Morrell,” she whispered. “I didn’t know you were up here.”

  David took several steps along the corridor, gesturing for her to follow, guiding her away from the door. She hadn’t been on duty when he’d collapsed this afternoon. He hoped she hadn’t been told.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “So I figured I’d come over to the hospital and look in on Matt.”

  “He’s resting comfortably.”

  “I noticed. When I saw him this afternoon, he said he felt sick and weak. I was worried.”

  “He still feels sick.” The nurse seemed puzzled. “But the thing is, he doesn’t have a fever.”

  He will have, David thought. Tomorrow, at 3:00 P.M.

  “We’ve been giving him Maalox to help settle his stomach.”

  “Good.”

  But Maalox won’t stop him from getting septic shock, David thought. I pray to God the Vancomycin will.

  “I heard you weren’t feeling so well yourself when you came to see him this afternoon,” the nurse said.

  David shrugged, an embarrassed grin. “I got a little wobbly. Too much strain, I guess.”

  “It’s understandable. This has been a long ordeal. But as soon as Matt’s blood counts start to rise, it’ll all be over.”

  It might be over sooner than you expect, David thought, if the Vancomycin doesn’t work.

  “I guess I’d better get going. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

  The corridor seemed to tilt. He needed all his strength to stay upright.

  “Try to rest,” she said.

  “Believe me, now I will.”

  Because there’s nothing more I can do, he thought, and somehow he walked steadily along the corridor, passing through a door.

  A minute later, he reached the stairwell beside the elevator, only to realize he didn’t have the strength to descend the stairs and walk back home. He staggered along a deserted corridor, found a plastic-covered sofa, and slumped on it.

  Even with his eyes closed, he saw wavering lights. He clutched his stomach, hoping he wouldn’t vomit. The sofa spun. At once, the wavering lights exploded into a million gleaming specks. He hovered in a radiant doorway, seeing fireflies.

  And sank.

  11

  “You son of a bitch … !” Hands shook him. “You meddling … !”

  David was pushed and shoved awake.

  “You’ve been up here so long you think you’ve got a doctor’s degree? A license to practice medicine?”

  David squinted toward sunlight glaring through a corridor window.

  �
�What?”

  “Maybe you’ll try surgery next?”

  David rubbed his beard stubble and managed to focus on the physician he’d spoken to last night on the Pediatrics Ward.

  The physician was livid. “I tried to humor you. I did my best to treat your hysteria with respect. And what do you do? How do you repay my patience? You come up here in the middle of the night and decide you’re a candidate for the Nobel Prize in medicine! Look at this!”

  David saw the blur of an empty syringe.

  “I found this in your pocket! When the nurse on duty realized the Vancomycin was gone, she phoned her supervisor. The staff looked everywhere! Then your daughter woke up and discovered you weren’t at home. She phoned your son’s room. Your wife’s so upset she might have a panic attack of her own. And here I find you sleeping with the damned empty syringe in your pocket!”

  “What else could I do? I had to save him.”

  “Save him? You might have killed him! I told you antibiotics are toxic if they don’t have an infection to fight!”

  David jerked upright. “Matt’s worse?”

  “No! No thanks to you! But Doctor Morrell, since that’s who you seem to think you are, now that you’ve given him the Vancomycin, you’ve forced us to keep giving it at regular intervals. Otherwise an infection might not respond if we wait till Matt possibly does get a fever and then start giving the antibiotic. You’ve forced us into a preventive procedure we hadn’t planned to try!”

  David sank back onto the couch and exhaled wearily. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You had a choice. To let us do our job. Practicing medicine without a license. Do you know how serious that is? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? You might end up in jail.”

  “Do you think I care? If what I did saves my son, do you think I care if I do time? That’s what I’m trying to buy! For Matt! Time!”

  “Well, buddy, if he dies because of what you did …”

  David surged to his feet. “If he dies, how much worse can I be punished?”

  Startled, the doctor stepped back.

  “How late is it?” David asked.

  “Almost noon.”

  “Give me till three o’clock. No, make it later. Till four-thirty-six.”

  “What difference does—?”

  “If Matt doesn’t have a fever by three and septic shock by four-thirty-six—”

  “How can you be so specific?”

  “Then call the police, press charges, and put me away.”

  “Never mind three o’clock. I’m about to pick up the phone right now.”

  “But if I’m right, if the fever hits at three and Matt’s blood pressure drops at four-thirty-six—”

  “How can you be so specific?”

  “Then forget the police and hope I saved Matt’s life.”

  “I’ll ask you one more time.”

  “How can I be so specific? Because I’ve suffered through it before! I know what’s going to happen. And if it doesn’t, thank God I’m wrong. But I’m not wrong. And everything I described is going to happen. Matt died once. I won’t let it happen again.”

  “My God, you’re crazy.”

  David wavered. “Just give me till four-thirty-six. After that, do anything you want against me.”

  “But don’t you see the flaw in your logic? If Matt was about to develop an infection, since you gave him the Vancomycin the infection won’t occur. He won’t have a fever. He won’t go into shock.”

  David shook his head. “Without the antibiotic, the infection would have hit him like a fire storm. But believe me, don’t ask how I know this, call it a nightmare, the infection will still be strong. I’m praying the drug I gave him will keep the bacteria from raging out of control.”

  “I’ve never heard anything like this.”

  “I’ve never experienced anything like this. You think I didn’t realize I could go to jail if I gave him the Vancomycin?”

  “You’re that sure of what you did?”

  “I could have given him the Gentamicin and carbenicillin, too. But I knew they wouldn’t work on the staph and strep that’ll cause Matt’s infection.”

  “How in God’s name did you know they wouldn’t work against staph and strep? You’ve been spending all your time reading medical texts?”

  “No. I can’t explain it. I just knew. There’s one way to prove it, isn’t there? Wait till three o’clock—when Matt’s fever’s going to start.”

  The doctor looked startled by David’s certainty. “I’m appalled by the risk you took. Disgusted by your irresponsibility.” He shook his head. “Why on earth am I starting to … ? Don’t test my patience anymore. Get lost. I don’t want to see you till three o’clock. But listen carefully. If what you’re so sure about doesn’t happen, it’ll be my pleasure to testify against you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “More than fair. If I didn’t like Matt so much …”

  “That’s the point, though, isn’t it? Matt. He has to be saved.”

  “And you don’t think we’ve been trying?”

  “You and everyone else, you’ve acted perfectly. What you don’t understand is, something you never expected is about to happen.”

  “What you don’t understand is, till three o’clock I want you out of my sight so I can pretend I didn’t find this syringe.”

  “You don’t know how much I thank you.”

  “Thanks? What you need now are prayers.”

  “I’m praying, too, believe me.”

  David staggered toward an exit.

  12

  David’s impulse was to rest in the rear of Donna’s mini-van in the parking ramp. But he feared he’d fall asleep and fail to wake up before three. He also worried that if the authorities started searching for him, a logical place to look would be his wife’s car. So he spent the interval pacing through the parking lot at the university’s football stadium two blocks away, pausing often to lean against cars and bolster his strength. He’d expected the hours to drag, but they passed with astonishing speed.

  He returned to the Bone Marrow Ward five minutes before three. A crowd had gathered—the physician in charge of the ward, several associates and nurses, the doctor he’d argued with at noon, and Sarie and Donna. The medical personnel frowned as he approached.

  David held his head up.

  The physician in charge of the ward stepped forward. He kept his voice low to avoid disturbing the parents of the other patients. But his whisper might as well have been a shout. “What I’d like to do to you, you don’t want to hear.”

  “In your place, I’d feel the same. Please, you’ve got to trust me.”

  “Got to? The only thing I’ve got to do”—the doctor glared at his watch—“is phone the hospital attorney in a couple of minutes. We checked your son’s temperature just before you arrived. It’s perfectly normal.”

  “It’s not three o’clock yet.”

  “One minute to,” the doctor said.

  “Then I guess it’s almost time you checked his temperature again.”

  “My pleasure. So I can pick up that phone.” The physician spun and entered Matthew’s room.

  David took two more steps, stopped before Sarie, and hugged her. “I’m sorry I tricked you.”

  “Dad, I …” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Why did … ?”

  “The simplest reason I can give, is I had to.” He turned to Donna. “Sweetheart, I know you must think I’m …”

  Donna touched his arm. David felt as if a spark leaped through him. Her eyes had a depth that he’d never seen in them, except yesterday afternoon when he’d hugged her, after what felt like years instead of hours. Again he had the dismaying sense that she truly understood.

  But how was that possible? If she’d come back, why hadn’t she given Matt the antibiotic? Doubt surged through him.

  “Okay, it’s three o’clock,” the physician from the Pediatrics Ward said. “It’s time to prove I wasn’t a fool to listen
to you.”

  “Let’s go.”

  13

  They entered Matt’s room.

  Matt’s flaccid pallid face was appalling. It took enormous effort for him to whisper, “Dad, what’s going on?”

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  “But they say you gave me …”

  “All you have to know is I love you.”

  The nurse slipped a plastic sleeve onto a metal tube. The tube was attached to a box that showed digital temperature readings. She slipped the sleeved tube into Matthew’s mouth. David sensed the anger and skepticism around him.

  The box was timed to beep in three minutes.

  The silence lengthened. The red numbers on the box kept changing, starting at zero and climbing toward …

  The timer beeped.

  “Absolutely normal,” a physician said, his tone a mixture of relief and indignation.

  Normal? David thought. Matt should have started a temperature!

  The doctor in charge of the ward braced his shoulders. “I’ve got a phone call to make.”

  The physician from the Pediatrics Ward shook his head at David. “Looks like you’re not the medical expert you thought you were.” He didn’t add what David guessed he was thinking—And I was foolish to think you might impossibly be right.

  “For what it’s worth,” David said, “you can’t know how glad I am to be wrong.”

  “Dad, wrong about what?”

  “My imagination got the better of me. Don’t worry. At least, no harm was done. You’re safe.”

  “No harm?” the doctor in charge of the ward said. “Your imagination might have jeopardized his treatment. Your amateur medical practice is about to put you in—”

  “Just wait a few more minutes.” David’s momentary doubt was suddenly replaced by a certainty that made him quiver.