Chapter 52
"No Rest for the Weary"
I GOT A PHONE CALL MONDAY MORNING WHILE I WAS TRYING TO GET READY FOR MY APPOINTMENT WITH ED THOREAU AND HIS TEAM. THE DELIVERY TRUCK WAS ABOUT TEN MILES OUT AND THEY HAD MY NEW COUCH AND CHAIR. WAS I AVAILABLE TO TAKE DELIVERY ABOUT EIGHT?
TALK ABOUT TIMING! THE SYLVESTER HOUSE WAS NEWLY PAINTED AND LOOKED BEAUTIFUL, AT LEAST IN MY ESTIMATION. MY APARTMENT WAS FRESHLY PAINTED IN THE COLORS I HAD DESIGNATED, AND THE SMELL OF NEWNESS STILL HUNG IN THE AIR. AND NOW THEY WERE JUST A FEW MINUTES FROM MAKING DELIVERY ON MY NEW FURNITURE. WOW!
WHAT THE HELL COULD I SAY EXCEPT "YES"… ? I FROWNED INTO THE PHONE, WONDERING IF I WAS HEARING THE GUY RIGHT. I HAD ONLY ORDERED THE STUFF ONLINE LAST THURSDAY.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER THEY HAMMERED ON THE FRONT DOOR WHILE I WAS BACK IN THE BEDROOM WITH THE BED UNMADE AND A PILE OF DIRTY CLOTHES FROM YESTERDAY STILL PILED ON THE CHAIR.
"HOLD YOUR HORSES! I'M COMING."
I GUESS THEY DIDN'T HEAR ME, BECAUSE THE THUMP AT THE FRONT DOOR CAME AGAIN. LOUDER THIS TIME.
*SON OF A BITCH …*
"CUT IT OUT, DAMMIT … I'M COMING!" THIS TIME AT THE TOPS OF MY LUNGS.
WHEN I FINALLY MADE IT TO THE LIVING ROOM, I WAS ONLY HALF-DRESSED … P.J. TOP AND A PAIR OF UNBUTTONED BLUE JEANS. CRUTCHES. NO SOCKS, NO SHOE. I YANKED THE DOOR OPEN AND BELLOWED INTO THE STARTLED FACE OF THE GUY STANDING THERE: "CAN'T YOU READ THE DAMN SIGN? THIS IS A 'HANDICAP' UNIT. I NEED TIME TO GET TO THE DOOR BEFORE YOU KNOCK IT DOWN."
THE MAN IN FRONT OF ME HAD A CLIPBOARD IN ONE HAND, AND WHEN HE SAW ME FACING HIM LOOKING LIKE A CIRCUS CLOWN IN BLUE JEANS, WHITE P.J. TOP AND RED CRUTCHES, HIS FIST FROZE IN MID-AIR AND HIS JAW DROPPED TO HIS CHEST IN WIDE-EYED SURPRISE. "JESUS, MAN, I'M SORRY. I WASN'T THINKING …"
HIS GAZE FELL QUICKLY TO MY CROOKED FOOT, STILL WITHOUT A SOCK FROM MY EFFORTS TO HURRY. THE SMALL DIFFERENCE IN FLOOR CLEARANCE CAUSED BY MY BARE FEET HAD AFFECTED MY STABILITY. I LISTED CRAZILY, TRYING TO MAINTAIN A DELICATE BALANCE. HE GRABBED MY SHOULDERS AND SHORED ME UP, OR I WOULD HAVE RICOCHETTED OFF THE WALL.
I BIT OFF MY ANGER AND THANKED HIM FOR THE ASSIST AS MY LEG JOLTED INTO A WARNING SPASM. "YOU'D BETTER COME INSIDE, BECAUSE IF I DON'T SIT DOWN, I'M GONNA GO ON MY REAR." I SAT DOWN HEAVILY ON THE BIG BLACK LOUNGE CHAIR, LEANED THE CRUTCHES BESIDE ME AND GRASPED MY THIGH.
THE GUY WATCHED IN SILENCE, AT A LOSS TO DO ANYTHING; CLUELESS AND ALARMED. I HELD UP A HAND IN FRONT OF HIM. "GIVE ME A MINUTE …" AND LEANED BACK.
He squatted at my feet, reached beneath my calf and gently straightened my leg, raising it to a point that was level with the rest of my body. The cramp began to ease. I stared at him. "How'd you know to do that?"
"First aid course I took a long time ago. Lift the legs level with the heart … something like that. Is that better? Honest to God, Mister Calloway, I didn't mean to hurt you …"
I waved him off and took a deep breath. "It's okay. My leg is fragile and I wasn't expecting anyone. No harm, no foul. It's loosening now. You can put my foot back down …"
He eased my heel onto the floor and stood up.
Behind him in the open doorway, a second man appeared, curious about the delay. "What's going on, Chuck?" He looked from his co-worker to me and back again, quickly assessing the situation. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, Vince," Chuck replied. "I think so."
I looked up at the two of them. Young, able-bodied, earnest; wanting to do what they'd come to do and get going again as soon as possible. "Okay, gentlemen, why are you delivering furniture at 8:00 in the morning?"
"We're with Minnich Furniture Warehouse in Rutland, Vermont, sir." Chuck held out his clipboard and showed me the work order. "It says you ordered a Powerglide leather sofa and recliner from the website last Thursday. You are Kyle Calloway, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I'm Kyle Calloway. You're delivering them already? It's less than a week."
"I guess we're that fast, Mr. Calloway. We process orders quickly, and our warehouse is only a little over fifty miles away from you. Yours is the first delivery today, and there are four more sets just like it still on the truck. Would you like to tell us where you want your new sofa and chair?"
They were like puppies now; anxious to please, ready to show their prowess, and almost pathetically eager to assist the crippled guy.
What the hell was it with people from New England? Nobody was ever in a bad mood. I had never met anyone like New Englanders before, and I was kind of liking it. I looked from one to the other and couldn't help shaking my head and smiling. "Okay boys, let's make it quick, 'cause I have an appointment this morning that I have to get to. Let's be at it, shall we? The couch goes in the middle of the room … across from the front door. The chair goes in the niche there at the window. Okay? I don't know what to do with the black thing. It doesn't work in here. Can you leave it on the front porch for now?"
I began to settle the crutches to stand up, but neither young man was having any of that. At my first move, two incredibly strong bodies were lifting beneath my arms until I was standing upright, crutches quickly positioned beneath me. They backed off smiling when I pulled a surprised breath and thanked them again for their help. They grabbed the black chair and scooted it out to the porch, and then disappeared into the back of the truck parked at the curb.
The new sofa and chair are both huge. I marveled in the softness of the rich, burnished brown leather. The men placed the recliner in the niche where the black lounge chair had been, and it fit there like it had occupied that setting for years. Chuck plugged it into the wall socket and helped me ease into it. "Try it," he said. When I touched the control, the footrest lifted slowly, and the longer I pressed the button, the further back it reclined. I did not have to exert an ounce of effort. I should have got myself one of these fifteen years ago.
We didn't activate the controls for the sofa because we knew right away that a long power cord stretched across the floor to reach an electrical outlet would be dangerous for me. So the boys plugged it in to make sure it worked, and then wrapped up the cord and stowed it beneath until I could contact an electrician to set an outlet into the floor.
By 8:30 they were caught up, which gave me plenty of time to finish getting ready and leave for my appointment at ten. They packed up their papers after I had signed the delivery slip, and they handed me my copy. I thanked them again and closed the door behind them. A minute later I heard the big six-wheeler pull out and snorkel its way down the street.
Too bad I couldn't plug in the couch right away. Well, I could, but who wants to trip over an eight-foot power cord stretched across the middle of the floor? It would be great to flop there tonight when I would be hurting like hell … with a beer and a good book. I could still sit on the couch, I guessed, but I'd have to forego the sensation of 'riding it' for another time. I must check the info sheet I'd got from Bill Perry, listing the names of the group of maintenance people who looked after the Sylvester House. There had to be a good electrician among them. I never thought to ask before.
I still had to purchase a TV. One of those big fancy wide-screen ones. The one I'd left behind in New Jersey was one of the bulky old analogue sets … not very state-of-the-art anymore. I might even get someone to come in here and hang the new one on the wall.
I suddenly remembered I could afford to be extravagant.
I finished getting dressed, easy enough, except for the shoe and socks. Manipulating my right leg and foot is a pain. Literally. I've been bitching about it for years. Beads of sweat stood out on my forehead when I finally got it done. The usual bullshit. Putting on a clean shirt was a lot easier.
My old Dynasty is parked around the corner in the alley at the end of the lot. There are three garages down there, but all of them are occupied by tenants who were here long before me. I can't just order one of them out for my own convenience, and I wonder how it'll work out over the winter months. I've heard the snow around here gets "asshole-deep-to-a-tall-Injun". (Jake's description, not mine.) I guess I'll find out when the crappy weather gets here, won't I?
I must not bitch about that too. I chose to live here, after all …
I made it to the car okay, pulled open the driver's door and eased myself inside. My leg was being damn unreasonable; it didn't like being hustled around as I settled my foot onto the pillow I'd put on the other side of the transmission hump to cushion it. I settled the backpak on the passenger seat and cranked the engine; let it run awhile to get the oil circulating before I moved out. It was about twenty-five minutes 'til ten when I finally pulled onto the street to head for Lebanon.
I was hungry. With the furniture delivery and me trying to get ready to leave, it threw a monkey wrench into the machinery and I took more time than I should have. Lily and the boys would wonder where in hell I was. I sucked it up and made up my mind I wouldn't starve before whatever time Ed and his boys were finished with me …
Anyhow, I pulled into my pilfered parking space at the rear of the hospital at ten sharp. Really hugging the line. I struggled out of the car with the backpak over my shoulder and went in the back way as I had done before. My leg was cramped and shooting sparks by the time I'd finally navigated the hallway and stumbled out into the lobby. I paused and leaned against a wall long enough to dig out a pair of Immitrax to tame it down.
There was a gray haired, salt'n'pepper-bearded black guy in a lab coat … stethoscope around his neck … kind of "Eric Foreman-ish"… standing by the admissions desk. There was a wheelchair parked by his side. I kept an eye on him as I approached, and wasn't at all surprised when he held up a hand to stop me before I got in line to sign in. I figured they had already savvied up to the fact that I'd stolen somebody's parking space out back, and did not waste time waiting for me at the front entrance.
"You're Kyle Calloway, I presume," he said pleasantly, staring at the red crutches.
My first impulse was to growl: *What the hell gave you the first clue, genius?* But I reined it in and gave a more polite reply instead. "That would be me. Are you part of Thoreau's surgical team?"
He grinned and turned the wheelchair around so I could collapse into it. (Which I did.) "That would be me," he said with raised eyebrows. "I'm Dr. Firestone. Dr. Thoreau tells me you don't need to sign in; he's already taken care of it. I'm pleased to meet you … would you mind giving me your pain level?"
*The vanguard is marshalling its forces,* I thought with dismal certainty as he assisted me to settle into the chair, took my crutches and clamped them onto the rear. I hung the backpak on one of the handles, took a deep breath and held it while he placed both hands beneath my calf and lifted my leg slowly onto the raised legrest. "Good to meet you too," I said guardedly. "It's about level six, give or take a level either way …"
His eyebrows went up. "That high? Isn't that unusual?"
"Not for me. It fluctuates, and I had to hurry this morning. Sometimes I can get it down to a two or a three. Hardly ever below a two. The pain is chronic; never goes away completely. The nerves are truncated and often misfire. The fragmented muscle goes into spasm easily. I've had to learn to live with it. The scar has almost doubled in size since the first surgery; and I've had three. I can't straighten my leg all the way anymore, and it's been in contracture and inversion for a couple of years. I can't bear weight, and it's just a matter of time before … you know …"
I made a "Gaagghkkk …" sound and drew an index finger across my throat for emphasis. Not funny. But it was … in a ghoulish way …
Ernie Firestone could not keep the pity … disbelief … whatever it was … from showing briefly on his face. I smirked to myself and looked away from him. God, how I hated seeing the base emotions my problem created in other people; especially doctors who were supposed to brace themselves against it. Inwardly I seethed. I had purposely caught this man with his defenses down, and he was probably someone who really gave a damn about his patients. I shouldn't condemn him … I had laid quite a load of shit on him.
"I'm very sorry to hear that," he said at last. "Dr. Thoreau told me about your problem, but he didn't go into detail. I've noticed though, that your leg, between knee and ankle, has very little muscle tone remaining. That speaks to me about the amount of pain you must be experiencing."
When I looked up again, we were stopped in front of the bank of elevators I had seen before. There were people waiting in front of all of them. Firestone didn't muscle his way to the front of the line as I'd seen other doctors do. Patiently we waited our turn and then he pushed me, and the wheelchair, to the back of the car.
We rode straight up to Thoreau's office on the third floor.
Ed Thoreau was there with another man; this one younger by about ten years. Taller, slimmer, dark eyes, dark hair going gray; snappy dresser. This, I assumed, was Joe Garrett, also an orthopedic surgeon, and the techno-wizard of the group. I would like to have had an opportunity to pick his brain at length, I thought, but this was not the time. They were the Masters and I was the serf. Sort of.
Garrett took one look at me and said: "Dr. Calloway, I'm Joe Garrett, and I'm going to be your torturer for the next few hours. We need X-Rays, CT scan, MRI … some heavy imaging of your leg, hip and foot so we can get a detailed look into what we're dealing with. If we confirm that the leg must come off, then we also need to do a thorough bloodwork-and-bone study to decide whether one of our prosthetics can work for you. It's going to be a long day. Are you up for it?"
"I hope so …" I could think of nothing more to add … except that I was hungry … and right now that was immaterial.
We took our leave of Ed and Ernie at 11:00 a.m. Joe swung the wheelchair around and headed back the wide hallway to the place that Thoreau called "The Garage". I immediately took note of the irony.
"I'm going to take you to X-Ray first, Dr. Calloway," Garrett said. "When we get there, I'll give you an injection. I want extensive pictures of your scar area and also your foot; bone and muscle. To do that I guess you already know I'll have to reposition your leg a few times to get the best pictures we can. That's very important, both for diagnostics and for studying the best areas to insert the sensors for your prosthetic … if indeed we can use one …
"Yeah … I got it … and let's not beat around the bush; we both know it has to come off sooner or later. Nerve block is good. That'll keep it from going into spasm, and me from going through the roof. And do me a favor … call me 'Kyle' and I'll call you 'Joe'. All this formality when there are no patients around is for the birds."
Garrett chuckled softly under his breath. "I'll be happy to do that, Kyle, except that you are the patient here. I don't set much store on the formal stuff either. It doesn't impress anybody but the PTB. Tell me: how many times in a normal day does your leg go into spasm? Does it happen every day? Or does it cut you a break now and then? Can you give me a ball-park figure?"
I frowned. I had never had that particular question put to me in such a way, and I had never had any occasion to keep a running account. "Wow! I don't know," I said slowly. "Never thought about it. All I ever think about is getting them to stop."
"That's understandable," he said. "Pretty painful, are they?"
"I can't begin to tell you, Joe. When they hit, I pretty much turn into a puddle of protoplasm. I can't think, can't reason, can't move. Most of the time I wrap both hands around the scar and squeeze until it feels like my entire leg is going to come off in my hands. When it gets that bad, I inject myself with morphine because I don't want to pass out on the floor and knock myself out or kick something over and end up bloody. It's happened like that a couple of times in the past ….
"Some days I don't have any spasms at all, or I get lucky and I'm able to stop one before it turns me into a blubbering idiot.
"Before, when I was still ambulatory, if I felt one coming on, I'd pace the halls, wearing myself down by trying to stave them off. Like trying to 'walk off' a Charley Horse, only worse. Other days they come one after another, and I'm just no damn good for anything. Sometimes it takes me a couple of days just to recover and get my strength back. When the muscle spasms and the nerve endings get together at the same time, I scream like a stuck pig. Fortunately though, that doesn't happen very often. But when it does, I've sometimes ended up in the emergency room …"
"Jesus Christ!" He muttered. "How the hell do you live like that? I'd have gone out of my mind a long time ago …"
*Little does he know … I AM out of my mind!*
His words; not funny at all, made me want to break into maniacal laughter … and laugh until I lost consciousness …
We were both quiet. I'd admitted more to this man, a virtual stranger, than I had ever admitted to anyone before. Not even James Wilson. The flood of words tumbled out of my mouth in a torrent that rivaled some of my spontaneous diagnostic epiphanies shouted to empty rooms and deserted hallways.
I hadn't done it for the shock value. It was an unburdening cathartic that had taken years to come to the surface and finally spill out. It felt good to release the pressure of the long silences, but now I wondered if I had said too much …
In the X-Ray chamber, I exchanged the wheelchair for a gurney, and my street clothing for one of those stupid hospital gowns. Joe Garrett was fast and gentle and skilled in his manipulations. The injection of a mid-level Paravertebral block at hip level numbed my entire leg for the amount of time he would have to manipulate it during the imaging sessions … I felt my leg quiver for a few seconds … and then the Twilight Zone began to spread. Like my leg was on vacation, lazing in the sun beside a crystal pool, and I was a little woozy too, although still fully conscious.
I was aware of traveling from X-Ray to the CT Scanner … where the images would show my entire leg and foot as a series of slices … like a loaf of sandwich bread. I think I must have dozed off in there, because when I woke up, we were in the dimmed MRI imaging area, and I was about to be lifted bodily from the gurney onto a state-of-the-art Open MRI … nothing like the sensation of having been entombed in an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus.
I started, alarmed, and thought to sit up and get off the gurney to walk around. I was gently restrained by two sets of strong masculine hands, and pressed back to lie on the surface again.
The hammering of the damned MRI magnets was like someone using an air hammer to repair a pothole in concrete right over my head … even with the ear plugs they gave me … but I kept still for the time it took to process one foot and leg and hip … about twenty minutes. It was nice to come back to sudden silence again when it was over.
When I looked at the time, I was highly surprised to note that it was after three o'clock in the afternoon. My stomach thought my throat had been cut.
Joe and another costumed attendant wheeled me back to where we'd left the wheelchair. Joe helped me off the gurney and into the chair and assisted me with getting dressed again in my blue jeans and one sneaker. My shirt I could do by myself, and my coat and backpak were still in Ed Thoreau's office.
The anesthetic had worn off completely by the time Joe and I got back there. Thoreau and Firestone were standing in front of a big X-Ray screen when we came through the door, and the picture they were looking at was of a very long right leg, extending from hip to foot. To a layman, it was just a black and white X-Ray. No biggie. But to a doctor, highly trained to interpret such things, it was something entirely different.
The femur showed scars of bone loss and trauma in the area where the femur joined with the tibia at the Intercondylar eminence. Three subsequent surgeries, each laying waste to another section of the powerful quadriceps muscle, had nicked bone and cartilage in a swath of destruction. Each surgery had seriously diminished mobility and depleted strength until the utility of the leg was all but compromised and too far depleted to be of use in the way that nature intended.
Down below, the bones of the foot, bent inward in contracture, showed calcification and disfigurement that was steadily spreading, as the ridges of progression showed clearly.
I stared at it in mute understanding, contemplating what the CAT Scan and MRI would look like when they came back from the lab.
"It's not diseased, I don't think," Ernie Firestone was saying. "But it's calcified, deep into inversion, and the missing muscle mass seems to be shrinking further. I'm sorry, Dr. Calloway, but you won't walk on it again."
"He knows," Joe Garrett said. "He's known for a long time. How do you feel, Kyle?"
I snorted through my nose and offered a snarky grin. "It is what it is …"
That's not what he asked me …
After the other two left to attend to urgent duties, Ed Thoreau and I sat alone in his office. "What happened with the brace I gave you? Too tight? Make you hurt worse? What are you going to do now?" He asked.
"All of the above … and I don't know," I replied truthfully.
"Will you go back to Jersey after the procedure? Or will you stick around here and continue to work part time?"
"Stick around, I guess. I just bought The Sylvester House from the bank. I'm in the process of moving in. I like Etna, and I've made a few friends there …"
"Gonna start all over, huh? Nothing left for you in Jersey?"
I shrugged. "Not sure. Jersey's history though. Nothing I want back there. I could consult, maybe. I used to be a pretty good diagnostician. Not bad at Nephrology either. I know a little about infectious diseases. Not sure how believable I'd be as a doctor riding a wheelchair or bumbling around on crutches."
"Ever think about research? Working on ways to help folks with disabilities like yours?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Ever think about widening your horizons, Kyle? Are you going to remain Kyle Calloway, or go back to being Gregory House? Stepping outside the circle … taking some chances … finish clearing up your mess back in Princeton. You can't hide forever, you know."
I glared at the man.
*What the hell?*
My eyebrow went up in puzzlement.
"Oh come on," he teased. "Don't be so damn obtuse.
"Stick around and work with me … permanently … here … at this hospital."
347
