That was before he heard the silent laughter of the Fates, the whisper of, “Watch what we are going to do to her.”
And they did.
For a while, things went smoothly. No untoward events, not even colds. But the family she had hoped to enjoy was nowhere to be seen. Things always came up to prevent the holiday get-togethers. Grandchildren were too busy for Grandma.
Galen noted slow gradual changes, recent memory failures, forgotten names, an inability to articulate as well as she once so admirably had done. She knew it, too, and waved her long artist’s fingers in a diagram of despair as she mentioned increasing forgetfulness.
“Lucille, let me run some tests on you, call it preventive maintenance.”
All of the tests—blood, vitamin B12 levels, diabetes, thyroid, and other areas that could affect a person’s mental status—were normal … except for the brain imaging, which showed some suspicious activity. Coupled with the behavioral changes, it seemed like the cruelest fate that could befall an intelligent person: Dementia. Whether it was Alzheimer’s or another variant of brain deterioration, it was the worst life sentence for a woman like Lucille Desmond.
“Mr. Desmond, we need to talk about your mother. I’m worried about her living alone. Her ability to function is deteriorating and she might hurt herself. Is there anything that you might be able to do, arrange for caregivers, possibly move her to your home, or arrange custodial care?”
Astounded, he saw the glazed eyes, the lack of interest and concern on the part of the woman’s son. So, he called social services and was met with the conundrum that, as long as the patient had family and represented no danger to herself or others, they could make no intervention.
And now this wonderfully brilliant mind had descended into a hell which, fortunately, it could no longer perceive.
Galen ran across the street and scooped the dancing Dresden-doll-like woman up in his arms. She continued to sing softly as he carried her to the townhouse. Luckily the door was ajar so he quietly helped her inside to what once had been a fastidiously kept living room. Now, the decor was late disarray and the hygiene more typical of a fraternity house. He found the telephone and a worn address book, fallen onto the dirt-soiled rug. It wasn’t yet 5 a.m. but he dialed her son’s number and began speaking before he could be cut off.
“Mr. Desmond, I just found your mother wandering almost naked in the street. Something has to be done for her before she hurts herself. If it is not in your power to do so, I will call the county and state social services departments. She can no longer be left alone.”
Curses muttered through only partially awakened lips met this statement and then the phone was disconnected. Galen sighed. He dialed the emergency county number and remained with Lucille until the ambulance arrived.
She would need a full evaluation to be sure there was no element of delirium from chemical imbalance, and then perhaps arrangements could be made by the caseworker. Maybe the agency even had the clout to move the woman’s son.
Dawn broke through and Galen finished his walk, although his heart wasn’t in it. Why are people abandoned by friends and family? It would be easy to attribute it to malignant personalities on the part of the deserted individuals, but that had not been his observational experience. Was it fear of their own mortality that led them to turn their backs on those who overtly manifested the signs of that which must not be named?
He entered the side door of his home/office and prepared to clean up before office hours started. Halfway through, the phone rang. It’s going to be one of those days, he thought. When things started happening this early, they usually presaged what the day would be like.
“Bob, it’s Jack Basily. Sorry to call so early, but I thought you would want to know. Harry Freiling passed away this morning in his sleep.”
Memories of his university days returned in Technicolor along with the turns of events that led to the long friendship with his two former professors. Harry Freiling had lived a full life and went out peacefully, he thought.
How many of us will do the same?
“Jack, when are the services?”
“This Saturday. I know his family would appreciate your coming.”
Galen wrote down the information, spoke a little while longer with his friend then sat at his desk thinking. Harry would have been almost ninety by now, and he had retained his faculties of mind right up to the end. Not like poor Mrs. Desmond. He heard the toss and roll of the dice and the laughter of capricious deities in his mind.
“Virginia, I need to take a quick trip up to New Jersey this Saturday. One of my old college professors passed away and I’d like to be there for the services. How’s my schedule look for Saturday morning?”
“Not a problem, Dr. G. Only a few minor things so far, and they can be put off until Monday. I’ll take care of them.”
“Thanks. I’ll leave after office hours tonight.”
He merged onto I-495, the Capital Beltway, and drove around to the intersection with I-95 north to Baltimore. Now it was a traffic-filled but fairly direct drive through Maryland and Delaware then crossing over the JFK Bridge into New Jersey. He followed the turnpike up to the cutoff that would take him to the bedroom community where the two professors had retired: Bernardsville. Even when Galen was a child, this was a place where rich people lived. Now, former farm pastures had been built over with suburban rooftops as far as one could see.
Looks like there’s at least one dissatisfied family in God’s country, he thought, as he passed the rental moving truck parked in front of one of the homes.
Wonder what’s making them pull up stakes?
“Nancy, the truck’s almost full. I think I can get the rest in, though. Four trips already. We’re almost out of here.”
Edison was tired, and truth be told, so was Nancy. But their dream was almost within reach. This last load would empty the house and soon they would be heading for the promised land of Pennsylvania and retirement!
Galen pulled up in front of a compact, brick rambler-style home. The house numbers on the lighted yard post looked over the carved wooden nameplate: Basily.
He picked up the doorknocker to announce himself but the door was already opening and he saw his old professor and friend standing there in slippers and robe. Even in the half-darkness, Galen’s trained eye caught the telltale signs. Jack wasn’t well.
“Glad you were able to come, Bob. You are staying with us tonight, aren’t you?”
He had thought about a nearby motel, but then nodded in agreement.
“Let me get my bag out of the car, Jack.”
He turned quickly before the other man could see the concern on his face, half-ran to the car, grabbed his gear and headed back. He followed his host into the living room and stood there, watching Basily move slowly about the perimeter.
“Jack, I know I just got here, but you know I’ve never been one for social niceties. What’s going on with you?”
The older man faced him, smiled then shrugged in resignation.
“Father Time, Bob. Looks like I have the Big C.”
He sat down, exhausted just by the brief effort of meeting his guest.
“I knew you would spot it even if I kept the lights low. My family thinks I have a bad chest infection. But the crab is there, feeding itself and its offspring on my insides. Harry had it easy, going out in his sleep. I’m not sure what it’s going to be like for me.”
He stared directly at his former student.
“Tell me, Bob, what’s it going to be like? Is there anything you can give me to simplify my exit?”
Galen felt the dying man’s eyes bore into him. How many times, in how many different ways, had he been asked the same two questions? Every doctor fears those questions, the hidden implications, the feeling of impotence at the still-limited effectiveness of present-day science and technology to cure. The burden of being fortuneteller and predictor of life and death was overwhelming.
“Jack, I’ll promise you this. I’ll
make sure your doctor never lets you be in pain. But you know, as much as you may want me to, I can’t knowingly shorten your life.”
There, he had said it, the unasked answer to the unspoken question. But he also looked at his friend and both understood the deeper answer. Nothing else was said about it that evening.
The next morning, he drove Basily to the funeral home. They both stood over the open casket, looking down at what once had been a vibrant gadfly of a man.
“I hope to God that no idiot says how natural he looks,” Basily whispered, and both men almost laughed at the incongruity of it. “Think I’ll look that ‘natural,’ Bob?”
Galen wanted to cry out at the gods for their perversity.
He left New Jersey late Saturday. He had called Basily’s doctor and spoken at length about his friend’s condition. He made sure that the other doctor, a good and caring physician in his own right, understood the importance of his friend remaining pain-free. After the war, Basily had spent many years immobilized and in chronic pain. His last days should not be a repeat performance.
As Galen exited the quiet neighborhood, he noticed the moving van was gone. There was a prominent SOLD sign on the front lawn. Wonder where those folks are going, he mused, as he headed back down the turnpike.
“Bob, look at the view, and it’s all ours! I can’t believe we finally did it!
Edison couldn’t say anything for fear of choking up and crying. He stood at the top of the mountain, holding his wife as tightly as he could.
“Bill, I need another hemostat. He’s got a pumper.”
Peggy was bent over the body of the migrant farm worker, trying to repair a large scalp wound on the front of the man’s head. He had fallen forward onto a scythe blade improperly placed in the back of a pickup truck carrying the workers back from the field. Now he looked like what Custer must have looked like after the Battle of the Little Big Horn. Half of his scalp had been sliced off and was hanging backward.
Peggy had gotten most of the area repaired when the small blood vessel decided to play fire hose.
“Got it, old girl.” For a moment the couple locked eyes over their masked faces.
“So is this what retirement is all about, Bill?”
And they started to laugh so hard that the farm worker wondered, ¿ Que loco?
They were both tired by day’s end. For some reason, there are times when every patient is an emergency, and this was one of them. But a feeling of happy fatigue oozes over one when things go well and the patient is still breathing or able to walk out afterwards.
The veranda was cooled by the evening breezes coming from the coast. They sat there, side by side watching another sunset.
“Think it’s going to rain tomorrow?”
Bill looked at Peggy, seeing through the facial creases and graying hairs to the woman he had met and fallen in love with so many years before. How had he been so lucky to have found her? With the magic that all women possess, she said nothing. She just smiled and put her hand in his.
Galen kept ruminating about the two old professors as he drove back down to Virginia. Is it really just genetics? Why does one person have to suffer at the end and another go in his sleep? Who or what decides whether we are Lucilles or Basilys or Freilings?
His mind flashed back to that long-ago day when life ended for both the daughter of slaves and the mother of wealth and he wondered: How does genetics preordain our passing?
“Connie, what do you think? We’re both ready to quit work and go on with our lives. The boys are away now. I was thinking, how would it be if we picked up and moved up next to Bill and Peggy? We could help out at the mission, and we’d still be near the beach.”
Being a teacher, a doctor, and an insightful woman on top of it all, she knew what Dave was getting at. Treating “snowbirds” with more money than common sense had become the routine. They both needed to cap their careers with something more meaningful. At one time she had considered doing missionary work in Africa. But what Bill had established would offer everything they both needed in the realm of spiritual satisfaction.
“I was thinking about that, too, Dave.”
They sat down together, just as they had always done, Dave the planner, Connie the moderator, outlining their escape route. It wasn’t long before they called Bill and Peggy to discuss the feasibility of the move. And then it was settled.
Next came the daunting task of how to close one practice and reestablish it in another locale. They both were amazed at the paperwork nightmare and legal rigmarole involved, but somehow it seemed worth it. The boys were getting ready to move on to their own lives, both with serious steady girlfriends and careers ahead of them. Now it was time for the old timers to cut loose.
“Don’t forget, the party’s tonight. I’ve already tied up the loose ends. All you need to do is officially turn over the hospital patients to Sam. Then come on home.”
Dave felt the familiar queasy stomach of pre-exam jitters. Was today really an alpha and omega day? Were they really going to pull up stakes and work part time at a medical mission in another state? Why hadn’t he told Galen about the move?
Maybe this way, once it’s all accomplished, the four of us can convince him to do likewise and join us. Just like old times.
What a hoot that would be: five old farts facing their twilight years just as they did the dawn.
He stopped at the lowered gate at the railroad crossing. Must be a train coming. He began to drum his fingers on the steering wheel of the old Toyota then turned on the radio. Maybe some classic rock for the rest of the drive home.
The construction truck driver was tired and hungry. It wasn’t easy piloting the dirt-hauling behemoth, even with power steering and brakes. But he was a careful man, going some twenty years without an accident or even a ticket. All he wanted was to get home to his wife and kids, put his feet up, and rest. What else would a man want?
Young David, Bone Man’s ready fer ye.
What the hell was on that station? He reached over to press another button.
Big David and Mary waitin’ fer ye.
The truck driver saw the crossing gates down and began the downshifting and braking necessary to overcome the massive momentum he was controlling. When his foot hit the pedal he immediately felt the sickening softness of no resistance. No brakes! He downshifted furiously, attempting to use the full resistance of the engine to slow the truck, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the overwhelming inertia. The barrier arms of the crossing gates splintered like matches as the truck sheared through and onto the little Toyota on the other side.
Dave watched as if in a dream as the massive truck hit his vehicle head-on and felt the crushing impact as it rode over the roof, shearing it off in the process. With the last electrical impulses of his neurons he cried out, “Why now?”
Come, young David. Ye have work to do.
And everything became clear.
“Dr. Galen, that’s the last patient for today. Anything else I can do?”
“No Virginia, go on home. I need to wrap up some stuff here, I …”
He felt the pain like a lightning strike run through him. His knees buckled and his head seemed to explode in a rainbow of light.
“Are you okay, Dr. G.?”
Virginia had gotten up when she saw her boss suddenly fall halfway across the desk, his face pale and covered with sweat.
“That was one helluva muscle spasm. Felt like my head was being ripped off. Guess I better get some extra rest tonight.”
“You haven’t fooled with that computer of yours for awhile. Why don’t you just do some playing with it tonight and leave the work till tomorrow?”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
He went back to his office planning on finishing some paperwork then tossed it down. Virginia’s right, he thought. He got up, turned off the light and headed downstairs. He flipped on the switch of what he called his fun computer. No business on this one. It was for keeping what one of his old profess
ors called his “diary.”
He started with his e-mail and scanned the hundreds of spam messages, the majority of which offered to make him bigger and better than he was as a teenager. But there was one that tweaked his interest:
Find old friends and classmates, lost loves and experiences. Try us!
His lost loves were far beyond the reach of search engines. So, who in the world would he want to hear from again? The only friend he ever had before medical school was … Edison.
The way things are I wonder if he’s even alive. Okay, let’s give it a try.
Under the high-school category he entered the name Concepción, added the state and city then waited the microsecond before a list came up on the screen.
Too many, I need to hone it down.
He entered the year Edison would have graduated and a shorter list appeared. Akins, Bradford, Chartais, Davis, Eason, Edison!
He quickly tapped the Enter key for information and was confronted by the reality of the Internet world.
Please enter your credit card number so that we may start your membership.He laughed. It reminded him of the old pay phones when the operator would come on and say, “Please deposit 20 cents to continue your call.”
What the hell! In for a penny, in for a pound!
He pulled out his old sharkskin wallet. Funny, he had been with Dave in the department store when his older billfold disintegrated and he needed to buy this one. It was one of the two extravagances of his medical school days.
Well, at least this one stayed with me.
He opened the lower drawer in his desk and stared for a moment at the ring box sitting there.
Slowly he entered the credit card number. The screen went blank for several seconds and then … an address and a telephone number!
“Nancy, would you grab the phone? I’ve got grease all over my hands”
Normal state of affairs, she thought as she picked up the handset.
Requiem for the Bone Man Page 16