Page Utilities
Lainie Cohen, ECW Press (page 3 of 5) Page 3 of 5
“Your son has a massive blood clot in his brain. He’s being operated on right now.” The doctor tips his head towards Alyssa. “Your daughter, here, signed the permission papers. Why don’t you all wait upstairs? You’ll be more comfortable there. The procedure should take about two hours.”
We’re led to an elevator and invited to wait in the visitor’s lounge on the seventh floor near the surgical intensive care unit. The room is filled with couches and chairs, a room that could be considered comfortable in other circumstances. But we find no comfort here. The room is empty, save for us, and the silence eerie. The only sounds heard are the ones we make. No hustle and bustle of emergency room clamour. No P.A. system announcing calls for physicians. There’s a hushed solemnity in the room and our friend, Al’s voice seems to boom with its forced cheeriness.
“Daniel is strong. He’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
We want to believe him.
David drapes his arm around Joel and together they pace back and forth around the room. When I collapse on a couch, Yaron and Alyssa hug me. The others stand around, trying to offer support to Jonathan, who looks frozen in place like a deer startled by car lights. Which way can he bolt?
Someone boils the kettle and makes cups of tea. I hold the cup without drinking, warming my fingers on the porcelain. Pressing the cup against my belly, I wait.
The door to the lounge opens and we jump up anxiously. The chaplain, in a dark suit suggestive of mourning, walks in and introduces himself. He sits and talks but I don’t hear his words. I watch his fingers splayed out against his knees. His right arm lifts gracefully as he gestures his concern like a conductor in front of an orchestra. Sinking against the plush cushions of the couch, I sip my tea. Consolation seems far away.
Shortly after the chaplain leaves, the door opens again and a large woman in a white uniform enters. Her face is broad and serious looking but her voice is caring, “How are you coping?”
“My stomach is churning,” I reply. “I’ve been to the washroom five times already.”
“I’m sorry I can’t dispense any medication to you directly. Why don’t you go to the emergency room to get something? Don’t worry. You have time. We won’t hear from the surgeon for at least an hour yet.”
My friend, Ellen, comes with me back downstairs. It’s strange approaching the emergency room from inside the hospital. Everything seems backwards, as if we were rewinding a video and watching the jerky actions unfold in reverse. This time, as we wait in the usual place, my back rubs impatiently against a vinyl chair. I feel foolish to be here — in an emergency room for an upset stomach—and I’m worried that there will be a long delay, but I’m seen quickly and receive some pills.
Ellen and I head outdoors. The night air is crisp and stars light the dark sky, each one shining in place, unaware of any earthly crisis. We decide to take a short walk and pass by K-Wing, the veterans’ nursing home section of the hospital. My seventy-nine-year old father lives there. I visit him often and think about the quality of his life. My father’s former erect walk has turned into a shuffle as he peers into rooms looking for his mother. “Have you seen her today? She knit this sweater for me. I wanted to thank her and ask her to take me home.”
Life is not like literature. We cannot make deals offering to trade our earthly goods, or to barter one’s life for another, although for a fleeting moment that thought crosses my mind.
I think about death — my father-in-law’s heart attack in mid-July. It was so unexpected, but he was seventy-five; our son is only seventeen and a half. My thoughts race with fear. Joel and I recognized Daniel’s immaturity and saw him struggling to establish an identity. He so often wanted to do things his way and was prepared to take foolish chances. How could he and his friend have been in such a hurry that they took such risks? With all the training he’s had and with our constant reminders, how could he ride in a car without wearing a seatbelt? I’m so angry with him for almost destroying himself.
At 1:30 a.m. the neurosurgeon strides into the visitor’s lounge. Her green cap is slightly askew, allowing brown curls to escape onto her forehead. She shows no signs of fatigue despite the late hour, exuding an air of confidence and accomplishment. Alyssa, Joel, Jonathan, and I cling to one another. Gathering around, our friends and family create a circle of palpable support.
The surgeon is frank with us. “I’ve just removed a massive blood clot that was fairly deep in Daniel’s brain. Had this happened to an older person, I wouldn’t even have tried to operate, but he has age and strength in his favour. The first seventy-two hours are critical. His chances of survival are about eighty percent.”
She tempers the positive by warning us of the dangers: possible seizures, internal haemorrhaging or build-up of intra-cranial pressure.
“I’ve left a flap open in his skull to accommodate brain swelling, and I’m prepared to operate again if necessary,” she tells us. “Because of the location of the blood clot, I expect that there’ll be residual neurological damage, probably affecting expressive speech and motor areas on Daniel’s right side. The other doctors will close up and finish the operation. It will be several hours before you may see him.”
As the doctor leaves, I look around the room. Everyone looks drained. Joel’s shoulders are sagging and Jonathan can barely stand upright. My whole body feels numb, as if I’ve just had a giant injection of freezing to prevent the awareness of pain. My mind seems frozen too. Words bounce into resistant barriers and refuse to form coherent thoughts. Inside my bubble, I hear Joel’s voice take charge.
“There’s no point in all of us being here. Alyssa can take Jonathan home. Lainie and I will wait to see Daniel.”
Jonathan looks relieved, as if hearing his father’s voice — once more in control — guarantees that everything will turn out all right.
“I’m staying too,” Alyssa says.
“We’ll take Jonathan home with us,” David and Roz offer.
When everyone leaves, we continue our vigil.
From Crooked Smile by Lainie Cohen, published by ECW Press, LLC. Copyright © 2003 by Lainie Cohen. All rights reserved. www.ecwpress.com. For more information about author Lainie Cohen, go to www.crookedsmile.org.
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