Deep Waters, page 6
I found the nurse on duty. “My husband’s choking. He can’t breathe!” I ran back.
Hunched over, he coughed, face red.
She strode in, saying, “You’re okay.” She touched his shoulder. “Swallow, then inhale through your nose. Good. Let it out slowly through your mouth.”
The choking subsided.
My hands shook. I turned away to tamp the flames of fear, so quick to ignite. I’d overreacted.
Soon Rebecca, a perky young woman with auburn hair, stopped by to do his physical therapy intake test. She helped him pivot to the edge of the bed, then, facing him, placed his hands on her shoulders. He stood slowly.
“How’s that feel?”
“Strange,” he said. “Like the floor is moving.”
“Well, you’ve got strength. That’ll make a big difference.” She locked her eyes on his. “Take three steps—with me.”
If not for Jim’s flimsy hospital garb and awkward tilt, Rebecca could have been his dance instructor. His foot rose with a lurch. Alarm swept across his face.
Glen pulled on my sleeve. I leaned down. “Why’s it so hard for Dad to walk?” he whispered.
“I’ll explain later.”
After a few steps, Rebecca guided Jim back to the bed.
He looked dejected.
“Don’t worry. Once you’re in rehab, we’ll work you. We’ll have you walking soon.” Rebecca wrote on his chart and smiled at him. “High-intensity training starts tomorrow.”
After she left, I went to his side. “She’s good. I liked her.”
He gazed out the window. “Yeah.” His voice was flat. I’d expected working with her to cheer him up.
“What’s this?” I pointed to a ten-inch blotch of sweat on his gown. “You’re all wet under this armpit, but barely damp on the left.” I tickled his dry side.
He raised his head to look. “Asymmetric sweating’s another symptom,” he muttered. Despite my playful attempt he remained glum.
“You okay?”
He huffed. “I-I don’t want to talk about it.”
I rubbed his shin. Please don’t shut me out, I thought.
Midafternoon, a woman from the pharmacy arrived with a booklet on Coumadin, the oral anticoagulant ordered to replace the heparin in his IV fluid.
I asked if Coumadin was the same as warfarin, the rat poison.
“It is. At low doses, it’s an effective blood thinner. But of course, the relative doses and desired outcomes in rats versus our patients are . . . well . . . very different.”
She and I smiled.
Jim didn’t catch her puff of humor.
She explained they would test his blood daily until they got the dose right. “Be careful to not get injured, since your bleeding risk is high. Also, no aspirin, ibuprofen, or green tea. They also reduce clotting.”
He asked her how long he’d be on the drug.
“Your doctor will decide that.” She set a brochure on the bedside table. “Be sure to read this. And also no more than two glasses of alcohol a day.”
“Hmm.” His eyes glimmered. “Can I start those tonight?”
Finally, a hint of humor.
Glen and I were camped in Jim’s room as usual, backpacks, playing cards, and papers scattered around. I’d avoided conversation, afraid of being pulled down further by Jim’s bleak mood. Late in the afternoon, a voice boomed through the curtain.
“Hey, Tag!” Mike Sharp, a career law enforcement ranger we knew from Glacier Bay, swung the curtain aside.
Glen hopped off the bed.
“Look at you, Mr. Tall.” Mike grinned at our son and raised a fist. Glen punched up at it, prancing, and they both said, “Up high!” and “Down low!”
“I got you!” Glen shouted and jumped.
Mike grabbed him around the waist and flipped him upside down. “You’re gettin’ too big to tickle.” Glen laughed and squirmed, face red. Mike set him back down, then noticed the papers taped to the wall. “Aw, man. They got you eatin’ baby food.”
“Barely enough at that.” Jim pressed his fists down, lifting his back up against the headboard.
“So. What’re they tellin’ you?”
I was trying to decide if Glen and I should stay or go.
“Everyone keeps saying I’ll be fine,” Jim said. “They’re moving me to rehab tomorrow. Th-they say I’m going to pull through.” Jim shook his head. “I’m no fool.” He pressed his hands on his thighs. “Man, I can’t fuckin’ walk.”
I shot Jim a raised eyebrow reminder of our unspoken agreement to not use that word in front of our son. My maternal telegraph bounced back—unanswered. But his mood had shifted from despair to anger—an improvement.
“Hey, hon. Glen and I are going to do those errands. Mike, I’m so glad you came.”
“You couldn’t ‘a kept me away.”
As Glen and I gathered jackets and packs, Jim said to Mike, “They’re talking about walkers and canes. What-what I want to know is if I’ll be able to go deer hunting again. Ride my bike. Snorkel for Dungies.”
“Jesus, Jim.” Mike’s face turned serious. “I’m still tryin’ to make sense out of how this could happen to you.”
After saying goodnight to Jim, Glen and I stood in the entry to a small restaurant on the ground floor of the Inn at Virginia Mason. Hungry and tired, I couldn’t face another meal on a lime-green plastic tray in the fluorescent din of the hospital cafeteria.
The tables were dressed in white linen, burgundy napkins, and gleaming stemware. A man in a suit led us to a corner. He held my chair and handed us leather menus. While the busboy poured water, the waiter described the evening’s special: grilled chicken with fresh green beans and herb-roasted potatoes. At two other tables, couples spoke quietly, beneath the soothing acoustic guitar soundtrack, as if we’d traveled back decades to a candlelit microcosm of genteel calm.
“I’ll have a glass of the Pinot Grigio.” Did I sound too eager? This was our first unrushed meal since the stroke.
The waiter delivered a basket of rolls with my wine. Glen folded back the red cloth, chose one, and tore it apart. I brought the cool wine to my lips. The next day, Jim would be transferred from critical care to rehab. We’d finally made it beyond the tidal wave that had slammed and engulfed us.
“How’re you doing?” I asked.
Glen finished chewing and swallowed. “Good. I’m about done with my book, though. Can we go to a library tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“You said you’d tell me why Dad can’t walk.” He loaded butter onto another golden roll.
“One reason is because his inner ear was messed up by the stroke. Not his hearing, but these special fluid-filled tubes that detect gravity and movement. The stroke screwed up the wiring connected to those organs. His brain can’t quite tell which way is up. That’s why he leans to the left and feels dizzy.”
“Will he be normal again?”
I took a long drink of water. “His brain has to rewire itself. They say he’ll be able to stand up straight—eventually.”
“And walk?”
I nodded, swallowing hard to suppress my doubts.
“How about if you write a letter to Tenzing while we wait for dinner?” I handed him a notepad and pencil.
My son craned over the paper, his handwriting like his father’s—almost illegible. They are so alike, I thought: curious and driven to learn, solve, and explore.
I pulled out a Hewlett Packard pocket PC from my purse and plugged it into the trifold keyboard Jim had bought months earlier. He’d been excited to discover the cutting-edge portable technology. I’d been too busy to take much advantage of his progressive purchase. As I added to my list, the feel of the keyboard—or was it the alcohol?—triggered an unexpected urge. I took another sip of wine, appreciating the subdued lighting and anonymity. A spare sequence of words flowed onto the tiny screen, like a poem.
Brush Strokes Skylight
Neck bent, brush strokes skylight.
Blood flow diverted.
He coughs, staggers, drops.
Please. No.
Sirens wail.
Artery dissected.
Brain denied, eyes jitter.
Muscled legs disobey.
Please. No.
Learjet races emerald night.
Assumptions implode.
Smooth love, abraded,
Those words, my last?
Please. No.
Recent discord echoes.
Trapped within
Step, stop, step.
He questions living.
Wheelchair ménage à trois?
Please. No.
Neuroplasticity alluded.
Neck bent over paper, our child writes.
Father’s blood flows with mine.
Abandon him?
Please. No.
His dreams, our daylight.
What makes a poem? I wondered. The bare-bones outpouring on the keyboard cooled my seared soul, like rain on flowing lava.
The waiter arrived with our salads, his polite presence a welcome interruption to my mind’s ricochet between hope and fear.
9
PRIME CANDIDATE
I groped for the blaring alarm. Five o’clock already? I shoved dirty clothes into a pillowcase and carried the bundle down to the hotel’s coin laundry.
Back in the room, I poured water into the coffeemaker, thankful Glen was a sound sleeper. Outside, starlings squabbled over a morsel of garbage. A hazy dawn loomed beyond the downtown skyline.
Transcribing messages of concern and support from our answering machine in Juneau, I felt deep appreciation but also overwhelmed. How could I possibly respond to everyone? Hearing Sherry Tamone’s supportive voice reminded me of work I’d left dangling, although she didn’t mention work. I had a final exam to create and grade for Behavioral Ecology, a stack of papers to review for another course, emails from students to answer. At least I’d already submitted grades for my field research course.
Thoughts of wrapping up the semester made my head cramp. That life was so distant. The tables had flipped—work usually came before Jim. I wanted to lower my teaching responsibilities into the deep freeze, come back to them later. Yet, I couldn’t leave students in limbo. I shut my eyes. The words “cleansing breath” came to mind. Dianne had used the phrase. Three cycles in and out. Let it go.
I opened my laptop and typed in keywords. A site called CaringBridge surfaced. The first page spoke to me. “A health crisis throws everything into chaos. Because your family and friends care, questions and phone calls won’t stop. . . .” The site said I could create a “centralized, private place to share health updates and request help.” Whoever created this website understood what I needed. In the title box, I typed Jim’s Story and froze. What to say? How to say it?
I had to get word out about the situation. Pulled from fragmented memories and notes, I wrote a letter to family and friends. I took a break to wake Glen so he could shower. Back at the table, second mug of coffee at hand, I reviewed my message, realizing it would also reach colleagues, the university’s chancellor and dean of my department, Jim’s state and federal collaborators, as well as friends and family. I hesitated. What I’d written was too personal. I needed to create a second professional version of my letter. I must have whimpered at the prospect.
Glen appeared at my side and tugged my sleeve. “Mom, let’s go!”
I rubbed my neck, bit a nail, and pressed submit.
The morning at the hospital unfolded with more tests and medications, another session with the speech therapist, more cups of shaved ice for Jim, coffee for me. Glen and I left before noon to buy pajamas for ourselves and shoelaces for Jim. Ironic, I thought, he’d asked for those, given he can’t walk. Is it because his feet are what he stares at all day?
Glen and I found a bookstore where he bought the next Warriors book, part of a fantasy series about four clans of wild cats. I chose the year’s Best American Short Stories, a comfort-food-for-the-brain habit I’d adopted from my mother. At a café, we ordered lunch and read our new treasures until sandwiches and soup arrived. Before leaving the Wi-Fi bubble, I purchased a subscription to Audible.com and downloaded The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama, which Jim had requested.
While we were gone, Jim had gotten help bathing. He wore a fish-print shirt and cargo shorts. I loved seeing him in regular clothes instead of a flimsy, neutering gown.
Soon after Glen left to read in the waiting room, Dr. Cortez arrived and confirmed Jim would be discharged from critical care to rehab that afternoon. “You’re a prime candidate for physical and speech therapy.”
We both perked up.
“Dr. Zenkel runs an excellent program. Before the discharge, though, I need to review your neurological issues with you and your wife.”
I retrieved my notebook and stepped closer.
Cortez described how Jim’s lateral medullary stroke had been caused by an acute dissection of his left vertebral artery which damaged neurons that control muscles used to speak, swallow, walk, and move his eyes. “Your nystagmus is better, but you’re still at risk for choking.”
“One thing that seems odd,” Jim said, “is the asymmetric sweating.” He raised both arms. His right armpit was soaked, the left side dry.
Dr. Cortez smiled. “You’re a classic case.”
“But why are my eye and vocal cord symptoms on the left?”
“Good question.” The doctor pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and used it to help explain how the cranial nerves to the face don’t cross over, but the tracts associated below the site of the stroke, which control the body, cross from the left to the right side.
“Oh, right. Now that makes sense. So,” Jim stiffened his arms to reposition himself, “will I be able to walk again?”
I moved my hand to his thigh.
“Your walking’s been compromised on multiple fronts,” the doctor said, “balance and vertigo, proprioception—your spatial awareness—and coordination of your leg muscles.”
Jim’s mustache twitched.
Dr. Cortez described how pressure receptors in our feet trigger motor impulses from the brain to specific muscles, and all those neurons have to be precisely coordinated by the cerebellum. He placed his palm against the back of his head. “And they all pass through the brain stem. Once we’ve learned to walk, we don’t think about it. For several weeks, you’ll have to concentrate to walk—like a toddler. That’s how you’ll stimulate new connections from your legs to your brain. You’re building a new highway system.”
“How long will that take?”
“Mmm . . . I’d guess you’ll be out on a walker within the week.”
“And on my own?”
“Hard to say. More like a couple of months—there’s some chance you’ll need a cane after that.”
Jim worked his jaw. “Will I ever get back to normal?”
The doctor said most progress happened in the first two to three months, with a plateau at three. “We usually see what we call functional recovery in six months to a year, ninety to ninety-five percent of what you’d consider normal. Some symptoms may linger, like sweating more on one side and issues with your eye, swallowing, and balance. With rehab, your prognosis is good.”
I’d expected him to say “excellent.”
“The harder you work now, the better.” He slid his pen back into his pocket.
“What about these friggin’ hiccups?”
Dr. Cortez thumbed to a page on the clipboard. “Let’s see. We’ve tried Reglan and chlorpromazine. We don’t see enough cases like yours with hiccups to put a probability on when they’ll stop. Could be days or weeks—rarely, months.”
“Jah-ee-sus.” Jim shook his head.
A cheerful orderly pushed a cart into the room. “Good afternoon.” She stopped in front of the small porcelain sink and opened the mirrored cabinet. “I’ll be taking these.” She pulled out a plastic-wrapped razor and a miniature can of shaving cream. “They don’t want you shaving with a blade.”
“Why not?” Jim asked.
“With Coumadin, even a nick could cause a bleed.” She turned to me. “You’ll need to buy him an electric razor.”
I opened my notebook.
“Could I have that?” Glen pointed to the red-and-white striped canister.
She read the label. “I don’t see why not.”
He looked as happy as if she’d given him a remote-controlled airplane.
When she asked Jim if there was anything he needed, he quipped, “How about a grilled steak?”
Rolling the squeaky cart out the door, she saluted. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
In the mirror, we watched Glen squirt a frothy mound of shaving cream into a cupped hand. He blew on it, spattering white dots onto the sink and mirror. Nozzle aimed at his index finger, he traced the length of it and dabbed a foamy strip above his lip.
Gazing at our reflections, he spoke in a lowered voice, “Hey look. I’m Dad.”
His antics made me laugh until my cheeks hurt. Jim’s lopsided smile lit the room like a sunrise.
At the hotel, I showered and crawled into bed earlier than any other night. “How’s your book?” I asked Glen.
Two pillows supported his head. “Great. Thanks for letting me get it. This part’s pretty scary, though. Graypaw’s about to be attacked by Shadowclan.”
I wrote in my journal and within minutes clicked off my light. “Your dad seemed pretty good today,” I said.
“Yeah. Better. How long d’you think we’ll be here?”
“I’m not sure.” I felt drained, weighted down as if the blanket had turned to lead. “A while though.”
“Hmm.” He looked at the ceiling, brow furrowed, then returned to his book.
“Good night, hon.” I rolled away from his light. “Love you.”
“Love you.”
“Don’t stay up too late.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you.”
The next morning, on our way to the rehabilitation unit instead of intensive care, we waited for an elevator. After several minutes, Glen suggested we take the stairs instead, declaring, “We never have to wait for them to be free.” He lugged open the heavy door. “Let’s race! Ready. Set. Go!”
