Chapter 36

"Hitch in the Git-Along"

I WAS ON INTERSTATE 81, HEADING NORTH AND GETTING PRETTY CLOSE TO SCRANTON, PA.

THE WEATHER WAS TURNING COLDER AND THE DYNASTY'S HEATER STRUGGLED TO KEEP UP. MOUNTAINS RISING ON BOTH SIDES OF THE ROAD WERE TURNING COLOR AS AUTUMN GAINED A FOOTHOLD ON THE LAND. BEAUTIFUL IN THE MORNING SUNLIGHT, BUT FRIGID LOOKING AS I PEERED THROUGH THE DISSIPATING MISTS OF MID-MORNING. I PUNCHED THE DEFROST CONTROL AND THE HEATER RESPONDED WITH A RENEWAL OF HEAT THAT SHIFTED FROM THE FLOOR TO THE WINDSHIELD.

I SHOULD STOP SOON. I STAYED AT A HOLIDAY INN IN HAGERSTOWN THE NIGHT BEFORE, GASSED UP THE CAR AGAIN AFTER A QUICK BREAKFAST, AND GOT BACK ON THE ROAD FOR AN EARLY START. I BEGAN TO FEEL SLIGHTLY QUEASY IN THE GUT ABOUT AN HOUR AFTER THAT, BUT EVEN MY STUBBORN DIAGNOSTIC BENT COULDN'T PUT A FINGER ON IT. I DECIDED I WAS OVERTHINKING THE PROBLEM … IF THERE EVEN WAS A PROBLEM. I WASN'T "SICK" SICK, BUT I WASN'T 'FINE' EITHER. JUST A VAGUE MALAISE THAT LET ME KNOW SOMETHING WASN'T QUITE COPASETIC.

MY SOCK FOOT WAS COLD AGAIN, AND A BURNING PAIN WAS BEGINNING ON THE SOLE OF THE FOOT, JUST BEHIND MY TOES. IT SOON PROGRESSED TO THE POINT THAT IT WAS BOTHERSOME ENOUGH TO MAKE MY LEG TWITCH WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT, AND THAT WASN'T GOOD AT ALL. I SUDDENLY REALIZED WHAT IT WAS WHEN THE BALL OF MY FOOT BEGAN TO FEEL AS THOUGH I WAS BEING STABBED WITH A FISTFUL OF TOOTH-PICKS. I HADN'T HAD THIS PROBLEM SINCE I WAS IN BARBADOS AND DISCOVERING I WAS SLOWLY BEGINNING TO LOSE THE USE OF MY LEG. HOOLEY HAD GIVEN ME A PRESCRIPTION, BUT WHEN THE PAIN BEGAN TO LESSEN, I PUT THE PILLS IN MY BACKPAK AND FORGOT ABOUT THEM.

*SON OF A BITCH … THE NEUROPATHY IS BACK! I'M NOT A DIABETIC. HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY IT?*

*BETTER LAY OFF THE JUNK FOOD, ASSHOLE … OR YOU WILL BE!*

I SWITCHED THE HEATER BACK TO FLOOR LEVEL AGAIN AND MY FOOT SLOWLY WARMED UP. WHAT IT DIDN'T DO THOUGH, WAS STOP THE NERVE JABS. THE WASPISH STABBING PAINS CONTINUED, MAKING ME FLINCH EVERY TIME ONE OF THEM HIT. NEEDLE THRUSTS PIERCED THE BALL OF MY FOOT, MOVING BACKWARD ALONG THE PLANTAR RIDGE. ICE PICKS PENETRATED MY ARCH AND FORCED MY FOOT TO CRAMP INWARD. I WAS IN DANGER OF LOSING CONCENTRATION TO THE PAINFUL SPASMS AND RUNNING THE DAMN CAR OFF THE ROAD IF IT DIDN'T STOP SOON. I NEEDED TO GET THE LYRICA VIAL OUT OF THE BACKPAK ...

When I came off the interstate at a place called "Nay Aug Park", I stared at the sign, wondering what the hell a "Nay Aug" was. I turned in that direction, hoping it might be some kind of picnic area with tables; secluded benches where I could sit alone and rest. Use the medication and wait for the stabbing sensations to ease and make the pain withdraw.

Nay Aug was indeed a park. It had spaces for about ten cars in the area where I pulled in. There was only one other vehicle there, and it was empty. There were enough bushes and trees about, so it was easy to find a space at the far end where I could medicate myself without being bothered.

I released the trunk lid from inside, opened the car door and settled the crutches painfully beneath me. This would not be easy. I felt lightheaded and a little too warm for the outside temperature. The brute strength of the crutches was the only thing keeping me upright. I made my way around to the back and lifted the trunk lid to its limit. It was an effort to keep my foot clear of the ground, because my leg was not cooperating either. My knee was weak and I could feel the strain at the joint. I reached beneath the two big K Mart bags, the new carryall and the pillowcases filled with dirty laundry. I fumbled around under the folded wheelchair and pulled the backpak loose.

Desperately I searched its pockets and zipper compartments until I finally found the pill container. I flipped off the lid, took two capsules and threw back my head to dog-swallow. Leaning against the fender, I propped myself against one of the taillights. Vertigo overtook me for a moment and my sock foot inadvertently hit the ground. Pain shot up my leg and I cried out before I could stop myself. Lightning bolts stung my thigh and pounded at my nervous system to the point of nearly buckling my other leg.

By the time I slammed the trunk lid down, hobbled back to the front seat and worked myself inside, I had dragged the backpak with me and slid it across to the passenger seat. I needed to keep it near me. I was shaking like a leaf in the wind, partly from the leg pain and partly from the headache that was starting to develop between my ears.

I sat shaking all over with my head against the top of the steering wheel and my arms wrapped around my middle. I did not move or make another sound for an incredibly long interval of time. I concentrated on regulating my breathing to keep it under control so it would not jar my body.

The waves of pain finally began to diminish as the meds took effect and I sat there like a stone. My nervous system calmed down by increments and my body began to relax away from the rigid control. I started the car and ran the heater.

Fifteen minutes passed. Four people returned to the car that was parked on the opposite side from me. They looked across to the Dynasty, but I was of no interest to them. Shortly after that the car left. I was dreading to be discovered mewling around in the front seat, so I put it in gear and slowly pulled out.

I retraced my tracks back to Route 81 and turned north again. Stopped at a full-service station in a town called Moosic to gas up and then got right back on the road. I would find a place to hole up when I crossed the New York state line. If I could make it to Binghamton, I would stay over for a few days so I could sleep and regain strength.

Binghamton had a Comfort Inn with a handicap suite, and I checked in to the place late that evening. I was half giddy with pain and so tired I couldn't see straight. I knew I shouldn't be on the road. I didn't know what time it was; didn't care.

A beautiful black woman with dusky skin and tiny black diamonds for eyes, checked me in and looked me over like she was my mother. "Are you all right? You're in pain, aren't you? You look awful!" Her voice was like a crush of purple velvet, and I let myself get lost in it.

I feared I must look like something the cats dragged in. I lowered my head to the side and smirked in embarrassment. "Didn't think anyone would notice," I said softly; sarcastically. "If you have a room with handicap accommodations, I'll need it for about three days … so I can go in there and fall down."

I leaned on the counter and dropped the backpak on the floor with a thump. "I'm … tired."

"You're really in pain," she said softly. There were other people in the lobby and she was trying to keep it low key.

"Yeah …"

I saw her push a buzzer beside the house phone as she indicated the register where I should sign my name. I did so and slowly straightened.

The phone rang … in-house. She answered. "Samuel? Man on crutches. Need a Wheelchair. Desk. Now." And hung up.

I stared at her stupidly.

She stared back. "Someone will be right here to show you to your room."

Immediately I saw a man advancing toward me pushing a large wheelchair. Ebony-Eyes hadn't wasted any time. He was taller than me. His head was bald. His eyes were hazel. He wore a small gold ring in his left ear and a much larger diamond ring on his right pinkie. He looked a hell of a lot like Mister Clean, but he wore black pants, black shoes and a white dress shirt. I decided I wouldn't want to tangle with him. He was efficient and surprisingly gentle. He pushed the wheelchair behind me and assisted me expertly into it. He extended the right leg rest and placed my leg upon it with extreme care. I sighed and melted gratefully backward. He picked up the crutches and the backpak.

The chair turned around in slow motion and he pushed it, with me in it, back down the same hallway from which he had come.

People in the lobby went quiet and stopped what they were doing until we went around a corner. After that I heard the conversations resume.

"Mister Clean" closed the door to my room and set crutches and backpak on the floor near the bed. He lowered the leg rest … and my leg … until my sock foot was nearly touching the floor, but not.

He did not speak. He reached both arms out to me and steadied me until I could get out of the chair and swing around onto the mattress. He assisted me in removing my jacket and lifted both my legs onto the surface until I was lying flat; almost comfortable. He removed my left shoe and elevated my right leg on the second bed pillow.

"How do you feel?" They were the first words he had spoken, and his voice was deep and resonant. I stared at his face a moment and saw a friendly twinkle light up behind his eyes … kind of like Wilson when he was trying not to betray that he was worried.

"Rotten," I said. "To be perfectly honest, I feel like I've been hit by a Mack truck. Thank you for giving me a hand. I don't think I could have done this by myself."

"I know you couldn't," he said candidly. "You look like Wiley Post after he's flown nonstop from Alaska."

"Really? That bad?" I found that I was willing to play along. It was nice to lie flat. My world had finally stopped swimming around me …

"Yeah, really. That bad." He walked around the suite, closing the curtains for the evening, pushing the wheelchair into a corner, and turning on a few dim, ambient lights, just enough to lift the gloom and keeping me from breaking my neck in the dark if I needed to get up. Finally finished, he turned and came back to my side, picked up the blanket at the foot of the bed and spread it across my lower body. "Are you warm enough?"

I nodded, watching him. "Yeah. Thanks." My brain was still a little out of focus.

He lingered. "Do you have luggage other than the backpak? I'll bring it in if you do."

"Yeah. In my car." I sighed and told him the story about the "stolen" suitcases and the replacement stuff still in department-store bags in my trunk.

He grinned. "You have some interesting problems, don't you?"

I grimaced. "Tell me about it! My car keys are in the front pocket of the backpak. And my car … well … it's not your father's Oldsmobile …"

He stared at me with a frown. "Huh?"

"It's a 1989 Dodge Dynasty. Dark blue. White walls. Handicap license plates. (I still had not changed them.) It's parked in the handicap spot out front … you might want to move it … but be careful … it's set up with hand controls …"

He knelt to the backpak and removed my key chain from the zippered compartment. "These?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, I'm going. I shall be back forthwith. Stay put … and rest."

"Yeah … I'm not goin' anywhere …"

I must have dozed. The rap on the door was insistent.

"Sir? Are you all right in there? Mister Calloway?"

He must have talked to Ebony Eyes. He knew my name. (My Pseudo name …)

I called out, but I guess I was too late. He was no longer there. I sat up and looked around. It was full dark now, and the room looked a little like a mausoleum. Dim lights lined the walls about baseboard height, as well as the ones plugged into nearly every receptacle. I sat up and turned on the light beside the bed. A circle of illumination made a small pool on the carpet and bed linens.

I dragged both legs to the edge of the mattress and prepared to stand up. I had to go!

A key in the door made me pause and look up.

Standing in the light from the hallway was my tall guardian. He shoved the door open and strode inside. "Are you okay?" He asked in a worried tone. "I didn't have your door key a while ago. I knocked and called out, but you didn't hear me. I went back to get the spare key from the front desk."

I nodded. "I'm fine," I said. "I must have dozed off. Sorry …"

"Don't apologize. My fault. I have your stuff … it's out here in the hallway."

"Okay. I guess you can bring it in now … but I gotta go take a leak …"

He was beside me in two long steps. He picked up my crutches and settled one beneath each of my arms. "Be careful … don't fall …"

"I won't, Mom," I said sarcastically. "What is your name anyhow? You already know mine …"

"My name is Samuel. Samuel Adams, if you can believe that." He stepped back and motioned me in the direction of the bathroom. "I'll bring everything in while you're taking care of business …"

I started across the short-pile carpet, enjoying its soft nap beneath my good foot. "Nice to know you, Samuel Adams. I can believe it. It's a very honorable moniker. They named a beer after you …" I entered the head and slammed the door.

Behind me I could hear him laughing.

The wheelchair Willy Ortiz had put in my car stood in the middle of the bedroom. Both leg rests were reattached and pulled up level. Piled on top were the two huge K Mart shopping bags, the new carryall, my old decrepit cane, and two big pillow cases crammed with stinky laundry. I hobbled over to the bed and sat down, staring at the strange parade float piled in front of me.

Samuel came back in the door with a steaming mug of coffee in each hand. "Took the key back to the desk," he announced. "Rebecca thought you might like some coffee …"

I reached out with a grin. "Come to Papa!"

"I wasn't exactly sure what-all you needed from the car," he continued. "I already knew you came in on crutches with just the backpak. So, I brought everything but the spare tire. Your chair is in much better condition than the monster we keep at the hotel. You can use yours while you're here. We don't want you almost passing out again. I thought you might be more comfortable if you didn't have to do the crutches for awhile. Is that all right?"

"It's not only all right, it will be great to be off my feet and still be able to move around. "You're good. You knew what things were like for me even before you met me."

He laughed softly. "I know exactly what it's like for you, Kyle Calloway. It's part of my job to assist anyone who comes in here with a disability. It was the same for me until three years ago. When I started to work here, I was in a wheelchair all the time."

"Would you like to explain that? You look healthy as a horse to me."

"I am." He stared at me, searching for a reaction.

When there was nothing from me except a puzzled frown, he pulled up his left pantleg to reveal a sculpted pillar of prosthesis that very closely resembled a real limb. As he hiked his pants above his knee, more metal was uncovered, and a stainless-steel-and-silicon knee joint gleamed before my startled eyes. "The amputation was right above my knee. All the mechanics are so accurate that I can use it exactly like it's my own. I can run."

At first I was speechless. This man was the third person I'd met in my recent travels who had injuries very similar to my own. Was this coincidence? Or providence? Both were hard as hell to believe.

"How?" I asked. Chills were cascading down my spine. As a doctor, I should have caught a hint from his gait. But I didn't. There was no indication that he wasn't as physically whole as any healthy middle-aged man.

"I found the right medical team," he said. "They've been doing research and trying out new methods for years. Will you tell me what happened to you?"

So I told a complete stranger the entire sordid mess … again … from infarction days to my present-day misery. No lies, no hiding from the truth. I recounted all of it. I admitted that I was still running away from my past, and the horrible mess I'd made of my profession and my life. I admitted to the pain I endured daily, and the three surgeries that had finally turned me into a full-time cripple.

"Tell me what happened to you, Samuel … and tell me about this medical team."

He'd been skiing, he said. Doing practice runs for the upcoming Olympics, and in serious contention for the men's downhill. His left ski hit a rock buried beneath a layer of powder. It curved inward and splintered, and he careened off the trail and into a stand of pines beyond the barrier. His lower leg was deeply gashed, broken in three places; his knee badly wrenched. Most of the damage was on the inside. ACL, LCL, lateral meniscus, cracked patella. He was in the hospital three months; in traction for one. The breaks wouldn't heal. Infection after infection. Septicemia set in. His leg had to be amputated above the knee. His Olympic career never happened. Prostheses would not work either: only made his stump sore and caused further infection. He was devastated. Thought about suicide.

One day his doctor told him about a team doing breakthrough work at a small medical center in Lebanon, New Hampshire. "Marvelous strides being taken …" and all that …

I was disappointed. Not to demean Samuel's personal tragedy, but his situation was nothing like mine. Mine was a blood clot and dead muscle. His was a skiing accident. He said: "Nothing to do with the way the injury happened. What it has to do with is the work this team is doing with prosthetics. They have been testing electronic sensors. Bio-sensors, if you will, and I have one of their early ones. By now they'll be much improved. Maybe you could take the time to check them out. Head doctor's name is Ed Thoreau. Wouldn't hurt, Kyle. They performed a miracle for me …"

Samuel took the time to write down the name and address and phone number of the hospital. I stared at it, intending to throw it away as soon as his back was turned. Then I thought: 'Why-the-hell-not!?' I was heading in that direction anyway. New England was New England. If I got off Route 81 North and switched to 88 East, I could be in New Hampshire inside of another day or so.

I had to do some heavy thinking. If I took a chance on this and it worked, maybe my life would change for the better. If it didn't work … same old same old … nothing ventured, nothing gained …

We laughed and sipped. I said a simple "thank you", and it was all good. I still had no stomach for solid food, but I found that I felt much better after landing somewhere and having a chance to rest; dig my face into a soft pillow and snore for an hour or so. The coffee was a good start. I'd never had a problem with coffee keeping me awake. Quite the opposite. Accommodating metabolism, I guess …

"Just what, exactly, do you do around here? I haven't figured that out yet."

He looked at me strangely for a moment before he answered. "You know," he began, "I'm not even sure if there's an answer to that. I guess you could call me Concierge. Doorkeeper, janitor, diplomat, chauffeur, yes-man, babysitter, whipping boy. When somebody needs something, that's where I go. I've been at it about seven years now, and the job's never boring."

I looked at him and considered for a moment. "You're Leonardo DiVinci." I said. "You do everything."

He laughed. "I like that. Someday when I decide to travel the universe again, maybe I'll give you a call and you can come along …"

"Sold!"

When he left, he was carrying the two pillowcases full of dirty clothes. "I'll just take these down to Molly. She'll do them up for you so you don't have to sit around in a coin laundry somewhere …"

In my handicap bathroom there was a hot tub with low-level jets spurting hot water through little conduits that pummeled you from all four sides. I sat in there at least twenty minutes that night and soaked up the steady stream of a wet rat-a-tat massage that lulled me gently from side to side and turned me into a middle-age prune balloon. It palpated my weary body and babied my leg like the pouty infant that it is. I simply floated around in the marvelous heat and heavenly buoyancy.

When I finally heaved myself out of there, I turned the water off, wrapped a huge Turkish towel around my body and sat hunched in stupefied oblivion under the bedcovers for another … however long it was.

I only moved when the house phone rang and the pretty lady with the black-jewel eyes purred my name and asked how I was, and if I might be hungry.

I assured her I was fine … *Rebecca?* … and opined that maybe by this time I would probably enjoy something to eat … *I'm STARVING!*

"A cup of clam chowder then. Perhaps broiled chicken. A small baked potato? Baby peas sautéed with baby onions. Butterscotch pie for dessert and a very large mug of coffee for enders … ?"

I sighed. She really should shut up now, before I started drooling. She giggled softly, and I believe she knew exactly what she had just done. "Give us a few minutes, okay? Get decent!" And she hung up.

I ran a comb through my hair and pulled the tags off new skivvies and new sweats. No socks, no shoe … my ankle was seriously turned inward again.

Samuel arrived awhile later, and I was a little disappointed that Rebecca wasn't with him. "I think she went home," he said. "She has a husband and a three-year-old."

He helped me transfer to the wheelchair and placed a dinner tray across the armrests.

I attacked the food. It was delicious. Finally slowed down and finished the pie, incredible-bite-by-incredible-bite. Samuel sat and watched me while demolishing a big hamburger in the time it took me to do the Clam Chowder. I was in heaven with the pie, which I should have refused, but didn't. Afterward I felt better, and a pair of Immitrax tamed the leg again. At least temporarily.

Afterward, Samuel told me a little more about his experience at the Med Center in New Hampshire, and I hung on every word, by now interested and totally curious.

We talked for another half-hour, but I began to wind down again before my second mug of coffee was empty. Samuel noticed. He turned down the covers of my bed and adjusted the pillow where I would rest my leg. "Let me help you out of that thing and get you into bed. You're gonna sleep like a rock tonight."

"Yeah …"

He picked up the dirty dishes, turned off the overhead light and left quietly. I reached to the night stand where I had gathered my pill bottles. Took a Lyrica. Left the Vicodin alone.

By 9:30 p.m. I was out like a light. Or maybe that was just the last time I looked at my watch.

I stayed at the Comfort Inn for three days, rolling around here and there, spending time with Samuel and Rebecca; talking about their work at the hotel and being introduced to other staff members who joined in the conspiracy to keep an eye on me. Only this time I didn't mind. I enjoyed their company and their conversations, and I cursed myself for not trying to make this sea change of mine a long time ago.

I was beginning to find that sometimes a good remedy for chronic pain is … people.

The day I left, the gal called Molly came to my room with a laundry cart. In it was all my older clothing; washed, folded, grouped together. The sport shirts were even ironed, something I never did for myself. I thanked her profusely when she leaned down to hug me. I felt myself turning fiery red, but still had the presence of mind to slip a fifty into the pocket of her apron.

Part of my 'rest-up' time I'd spent on my laptop, looking up the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in the Connecticut River Valley of New Hampshire. The more I read, the more certain I became that I should go there and look over the place for myself. I'm totally sick of being unable to walk, and sicker still of the one thing I had not been able to wean my anger away from … the downcast, embarrassed curiosity of strangers who still stared in pity and disgust at the cripple.

I put the finishing touches on an article I'd written for JAMA … yeah, the Big Boy of all medical journals. If Wilson did not tumble to this one and get a little curious, then I would drop the trickery and set him free. I would chalk him up to one more failure by the misanthropic Gregory House and count my losses in (probably) reminiscences of regret, and never try to contact his girly ass again.

By the fourth day I was feeling much better, painful leg notwithstanding. I could not walk for a time. My balance was shot, and the crutches lay idle while I flitted around in the wheelchair and drove the staffers crazy. The neuropathy in my foot lessened a little during that time, but didn't quite go away. My ankle relaxed slightly and the ligaments pulled inward a little less.

I was finally ready to head north again; load my new and freshly laundered clothing into the carryall. Samuel loaded the carryall and the wheelchair into the trunk. I would keep the backpak up front with me from now on after I got back on the road.

The difference this time was that I had a real destination. I was going to do something positive for me that had been put off much too long. I would search for competent medical attention for my disability, and find out if the thing I had always dreaded the most, really had to happen.

The last time I spoke to Samuel, he was delighted that I was going to look up Ed Thoreau and his team. I told him that I would like to tell Thoreau about the person who had recommended him to me. I asked Samuel if there was a message of some kind that he would like me to deliver …

The big man stood up straight and said: "Just tell him that Samuel said his middle name was "Clemens".

We were both laughing when I put the Dynasty in 'drive' and pulled out on the road that led back to 81 North.

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