Chapter 17

Dr. Richard Stevens accepted the paper bag and the Starbucks® coffee mug gratefully. "I don't feel like I really deserve this," he said, as he, Don and Alan sat at a table in the cafeteria.

"Nonsense," admonished Alan. "You're a busy doctor. You should eat."

"Oh, wow…" the doctor was carefully unwrapping the wax-paper-covered sandwich. His face fell a little as he leaned back in his chair and looked at his companions.

"You're not a vegetarian, are you" Alan asked anxiously. "I should have thought…"

"No, Alan, it's not that. This is great. Roast Beef is a favorite." He took a breath. "I asked you two to meet me here, because Charlie's in a different room. He's in the ICU."

Don's throat tightened. "What happened?"

The doctor took a sip of his coffee. "The look with the fiberoptic bronchoscope showed a pretty massive infection. They had some trouble actually doing the procedure. His throat was swelling so much, they waited until the lab confirmed what they expected of the lavage — bacterial pneumonia — and went ahead and intubated him while he was still sedated. As long as he has a breathing tube, he'll be sedated, in ICU."

"How long? What is the treatment? Should we have him transferred to your hospital?"

Dr. Stevens smiled at all of Alan's questions. "Last thing first: No, I don't think a transfer is necessary. Staff here has been very cooperative with me, and receptive to my ideas. I have another patient here who was admitted through the ER last week also, so it's not a problem for me to come by and do rounds on them at least once a day."

"Eat. Let me think how long it's been since they've made doctors like you."

The doctor's eyes closed as he bit into the sandwich and chewed, savoring the first decent food he had consumed in…in…well, in too long, he finally decided. Don watched, and although he had not been hungry when they had sat down, the memory of his father's roast beef sandwiches was beginning to make him regret telling his Dad not to bring him one. Embarassed, he heard his stomach growl. Richard Stevens opened his eyes and grinned. Alan just reached in the satchel at his feet, producing another paper bag. He placed it in front of Don and patted his hand. "Here son. I thought you might change your mind."

"This is incredible, Alan. Back to your questions. Treatment includes antibiotics, of course, IV immune globulin to kickstart the immune system we're been trying to suppress all this time…"

"Will that compromise the transplant? Cause a rejection, or that Graft thing…" Don was trying to eat his sandwich, ask questions and look for his notebook at the same time.

"Donnie! Don't talk with your mouth full! Your mother and I taught you better than that."

"Sorry," Don muttered around a mouthful of roast beef. He looked at the doctor.

"GvHD. Graft versus Host Disease. This long after the transplant, that shouldn't be a problem. It's been over a year since the transplant. We intended to keep him on immunosuppressive agents for two years post-transplant, then wean him off. Once he's recovered from both the skin infection and the pneumonia, he'll have to start them again. As far as how long he'll need the breathing tube, it's hard to say. Through it, and other methods once it's removed, he'll also be receiving various aerosolized breathing treatments. The goal, of course, is for all the drugs we're giving him, all the treatments we're giving him, all the procedures we do — we want all of that to work together, and quickly."

There was silence for a while — save for chewing, grunting and slurping. Dr. Stevens looked at Alan. "Now, let me ask you something. How do you think he's doing emotionally? It will make a big difference in the overall picture."

Alan arched his eyebrows. "I think he's still a little disbelieving. Still wakes up every time hoping it was all a dream. But then he figures out it isn't, and faces it…doesn't really say much, but he has cried. He has let me be with him while he's cried, so he's not hiding. I mean, even the fact that in his drunken stupor, he went to Donnie — that wasn't hiding, either. Is that good?"

"It's certainly not bad," answered the doctor. "It's good that even wounded, you're still his 'go-to' guys."

Don balled up the empty waxed paper in front of him, shooting his father a smile of thanks. "Can we see him?"

The doctor shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, not in ICU. At least not today. Like I said, he's sedated anyway, so he won't fight the tube. Maybe in the morning for a few minutes, I could ask them to just let you be near him for a while. One at a time, of course."

He looked directly at Don. "I'm not kidding, no commando raids. You'd find it a lot harder to pull off in an ICU anyway, no matter who your accomplice was." Alan was looking confused, and Don was opening his mouth to protest when he was saved by the cell. He yanked the ringing phone out of his pocket. "Eppes." His eyes widened, and he looked at his father. "Amita." And it was back. The anger, the urge to make her pay. Dropping his eyes, he growled, "What the hell do you want?"

Dr. Stevens looked from Alan to Don. He wasn't sure who looked most like he was about to have a heart attack.

"Amita?" he heard Alan whisper, saw him lift a hand toward Don as if in a dream.

Then Dr. Stevens knew which one was going down, because he saw him do it. He watched the blood drain from his face, saw him start clawing at his throat as if he couldn't breathe, was there to keep his head from banging on the floor as he slipped out of the chair. He'd never been so glad to be in a hospital cafeteria in all his life. "We need some help over here!" he yelled, dropping his head to the

chest to listen, fingers on the carotid pulse. Feet were running toward them. Hospital personnel who didn't know him pushed him out of the way, and he found himself part of the crowd, watching.

"What happened to that guy?" he heard someone whisper.

"Don't know," came the answer. "It looked to me like he was just talking on his cell, and went down."