DARKENED WINGS
Chapter 14
"Kent Calloway Checks In"
WE CAME OUT OF THE ELEVATOR ON THE SECOND FLOOR. NO COMPASSIONATE LADIES WAITING TO GREET US UP HERE. EVEN THE AIR SMELLED DIFFERENT. JOE THE ORDERLY TURNED THE WHEELCHAIR TO THE RIGHT AND ENTERED THE CORRIDOR. I SAW KYLE STIFFEN AND PRESS BACKWARD IN HIS SEAT, AS THOUGH BY HIS TENSE BODY LANGUAGE HE WAS DENYING THE FRIGHTENING TRUTH OF HIS OWN
DESTINATION.
I GULPED, SWALLOWING THE LUMP IN MY THROAT.
I FOLLOWED THE WHEELCHAIR DOWN THE LONG WELL-LIT HALLWAY THAT REMINDED ME OF THE LAUNCH PATH FOR A GUIDED MISSILE. A TALL ORDERLY AND BRANDY THE NURSE, WHOSE NAME I'D LEARNED ONE FLOOR DOWN, AND WHO HAD JOINED US MID-JOURNEY, WEREN'T LOSING ANY TIME.
KYLE WAS BEGINNING TO GRIP THE LEATHER ARMRESTS WITH HANDS CURLED SO TIGHTLY THAT HIS KNUCKLES WERE NEARLY TRANSPARENT. HE SEEMED IN A BAD WAY MENTALLY, AND I HOPED THEY GOT WHERE THEY WERE GOING BEFORE HIS NERVOUSNESS TURNED PHYSICAL AND HE LOST IT BEFORE WE ARRIVED. I EXPELLED A SIGH OF RELIEF WHEN WE FINALLY TURNED THE CORNER INTO THE STERILE PREP ROOM.
I suddenly heard the sound of muted footsteps behind me, and when I turned to look, the person who was catching up to us rapidly could be no other than Ed Thoreau. The handsome white-haired man wore wrinkled scrubs and a wrinkled tee shirt, rubber gloves and brown street shoes encased in sterile booties that couldn't mask the sound of his approach. He looked at me with a shrewd glint of instant recognition, even though we'd never met. He paused to shout orders at a couple of orderlies and I flinched at his rich authoritative voice that, up close, sounded a lot like the air horn on a semi. He nodded briefly and circled in front of the wheelchair; bent down to catch the attention of its occupant.
"Well I'll be damned! Here you are in the flesh. I thought you might be halfway to some sleazy island by now …" And he laughed loud and long.
The man in the chair cringed and looked up. Then he smiled wanly and snarled a nasty comment under his breath that I couldn't quite hear, (but could easily imagine.) His face cleared and his hands relaxed a little on the arms of the wheelchair.
I smiled too ... hopefully.
And that's how Ed Thoreau and I were introduced. He's at least as tall as his patient and his eyes almost as blue. But the hair is pure white … Santa Clausey … and thick and lustrous as new snow on a hillside. In my head I pictured the sleigh and the reindeer. Silliness in the face of danger …
We exchanged a few pleasantries, but then all his attention returned to the man before him. I could see the mutual admiration that existed between them, and whatever misgivings I might have had up until then, melted away. My friend trusted him, and I knew instantly that he was in good hands.
I was invited to remain while final preparations were made; including watching him being helped out of the wheelchair and up to perch on the prep gurney. I witnessed the signing of the consent forms and the handing over of a sheaf of legal papers. I also saw the snarky smile appear on his face when they inserted the IV line with a sedative that insured a sense of total relaxation and well-being. He'd always called it 'happy juice' and I could see the pain receding from his face quickly as it took effect. He was still awake and aware … but happily awake and aware. He was taken behind a privacy curtain and required to endure the shaving of pubic hair from the surgical site … and the insertion of more IVs … and the application of antiseptic.
Dr. Thoreau walked around with a clip board loaded with Calloway's medical history … a stack of papers as thick as the New York Times. I decided it must be the current legal stuff, plus the entire history that 'Kyle' probably filched from the records room at PPTH and had copied. It occurred to me then, that Kyle Calloway was not just real, but a text book unto himself. He had actually had his name changed legally. Ed Thoreau was keenly aware of the thorny treasure he held at his disposal, and was keeping the man's true identity close to his chest.
Bless 'im!
Things were getting interestinger and interestinger …
Thoreau, meanwhile, left the area to scrub up, suit up and get sterile. Brandy, the pretty nurse, left with him.
I counted down the things Kyle and I had discussed late into the night last night, and down the long list of preparations he'd already made:
He said he'd had the most thorough physical exam he'd ever had in his life with these people, to the extent that they all probably even knew the number of short hairs on his balls. I sprayed part of a mouthful of coffee on the sheets when he told me that.
We counted up the meds he was already taking and those he'd taken in the past. We ran out of stupid Vicodin jokes after about three minutes.
We also discussed the fact that he'd been measured for an artificial limb a few weeks before I arrived on the scene. He told me he was a bit apprehensive because his scar extended so far up on his thigh, and maybe a regular prosthesis wouldn't work because there would not be enough stump left to attach it to. He also knew that Thoreau had some clandestine tricks up his sleeve that he hadn't exactly told anyone else about, but was willing to trust the man if it meant he might actually be able to walk again. Or at least limp again.
I had no idea what he was talking about, and began running scenarios through my head. As a long-time oncologist who had seen many limbs lost to cancer, those which were amputated at or near the hip had very little chance of using a prosthesis.
I knew 'Kyle' understood this only too well. He had done voluminous research on it, and the odds, in his case, were not in his favor. The damaged leg would not be healed. Conversely, if he chose to ride it out to the bitter end as he had done thus far, it was inevitable that the deterioration would continue downhill until it eventually killed him. And he would be bedridden long before that.
"What does Ed have in mind?" I asked cautiously.
"I don't even know enough about it to ask an intelligent question." He admitted. "I've read articles, and some of his papers, and asked him to explain it. It's not in my field, and it all sounded like gibberish to me. I'm not really interested in becoming a rocket scientist, you know. My situation makes me a perfect guinea pig though, doesn't it? I do trust Ed …"
Some of his words didn't quite ring true. Being a rocket scientist had nothing to do with it, and neither did his trust in his doctor. He only knew the surgery was a big risk. Being chained to a wheelchair and crutches for the rest of his life was the worst case scenario. He was frightened to death, but had no intention of backing out. It was all or nothing at all. Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead.
There was no obvious or correct answer.
"It is what it is …"
And here we are.
When all the pre-surgery details were completed, two orderlies and a young male LPN tightened down the sedative stanchions and placed the lines at the foot of the gurney. Gently they set it in motion and began the transition to the operating theatre. This was the moment when I would be banned from the action.
I moved to his head and again placed my hand on his shoulder. He reached up groggily and wrapped his fingers around my wrist.
"I'll see ya," he said, "when it's all over but the shoutin' …"
"Works for me," I answered. "We can shout together."
We let go slowly, and the gurney moved into the adjoining room. There was still the sterile prep to do inside the O.R.
I decided I would have about a six-hour wait.
At least.
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