Chapter 44

"Dartmouth-Hitchcock"

OKAY … I ADMIT I'M SQUEAMISH. NO USE TRYING TO DENY IT. I SIT BEHIND THE WHEEL OF THE OLD DYNASTY TRYING TO SUMMON THE COURAGE TO PUSH ON THE GAS AND GO DO WHAT I KNOW I HAVE TO DO. I HAVE TO STOP PUTTING IT OFF AND GET OVER TO DARTMOUTH-HITCHCOCK AND LOOK UP THE DOCTOR NAMED ED THOREAU. THE CONDITION OF MY LEG IS DETERIORATING STEADILY, AND I MUST HAVE SOMEONE EXAMINE IT … SOMEONE WHO ISN'T ME!

THE ODDS ARE NOT ON MY SIDE. TODAY I TOLD MYSELF THAT I WILL GO OVER TO LEBANON AND CHECK OUT THE LAY OF THE LAND AT DHMC BEFORE DECIDING TO SET MYSELF UP FOR A COMPLETE PHYSICAL EXAMINATION WITH THOREAU, THE SURGEON WHO WILL LIKELY DO THE JOB ON ME WHEN THE TIME COMES … AND I CAN HARDLY EVEN SAY THE WORD INSIDE MY HEAD …

I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE MY LEG AMPUTATED. IF AND WHEN IT HAS TO HAPPEN, I WILL PROBABLY HAVE TO BE DRAGGED, KICKING AND SCREAMING TO THE O.R. WHILE A HALF-DOZEN ORDERLIES HOLD ME DOWN ON THE GURNEY. OR ELSE KNOCK ME OUT WITH A 'MICKEY FINN' STRONG ENOUGH TO SEND ME TO THE MOON.

LIKE ALICE KRAMDEN.

THIS OLD CAR HAS NEVER LET ME DOWN IN ALL THE YEARS I'VE OWNED IT. IT RECENTLY BROUGHT ME A SHIT-TON OF MILES TO THIS PLACE WITHOUT A HITCH. BUT … MY PARANOID WISH FOR A FLAT TIRE THIS MORNING DIDN'T MATERIALIZE. NOW AS I PREPARE TO TURN THE IGNITION KEY, I HOPE TO HELL IT WON'T START.

I TURN THE KEY AND THE ENGINE LEAPS TO LIFE LIKE A THREE-YEAR-OLD EAGER TO RUN. I SIGH. VERY SLOWLY AND CAREFULLY I BACK OUT OF THE HANDICAP PARKING SPACE AT THE WATSON INN AND TURN RIGHT ON MAIN STREET. I'M STILL A LITTLE WEAK THROUGH THE SHOULDERS FROM THE BOUT OF BREAKTHROUGH PAIN. I'M FULLY AWARE THAT IF I DON'T GET MOVING, THE INSTANCES OF THIS OCCURRING A LOT MORE OFTEN WILL ONLY ESCALATE AND BECOME A LOT MORE FREQUENT. I'M NOT READY TO ADMIT DEFEAT.

THERE'S NOT MUCH TRAFFIC THIS EARLY, AND I HAVE PRETTY MUCH CLEAR SAILING THROUGH ETNA ON MY WAY TO LEBANON.

And I'm here …

It's a big complex. The entire main building has to cover close to six or seven acres, and the buildings are all stark white. The name: "DARTMOUTH-HITCHCOCK MEDICAL CENTER" is spelled out in letters about four feet high on the front façade. If one of them ever comes loose and beans someone, it will be all over but the shoutin'.

There's a lot of sculpted concrete and shiny metal support columns in the front. Two glass-enclosed, box-like structures on either side of the front entrance give visitors full view of stair steps leading from the ground floor to the third. It looks very impressive. An American flag and the New Hampshire state flag adorn flagpoles close to the main entrance, their chain lanyards striking the poles and playing a metallic off-key arpeggio with every breeze.

A big semi-circular driveway with at least a dozen handicap parking spaces rings the area. But I don't want to go inside by the front door. I want to go in the back way if I can; I keep driving. I want to see everything.

The rest of the complex has to extend at least another two or three football stadiums beyond what is here. I can see other structures on the campus some distance away; landscaped and as stark white as the main one. I believe they're research facilities or specialty treatment centers. I drive slowly, looking the place over, my eyes wandering like a male dog in a field of parking meters.

There are people walking alone or in pairs back and forth between the buildings, and further on across the vista of parking lots and walkways. I can see at least two shuttle buses ferrying patients here and there across the vast well-tended grounds.

As I drive around the back of the main building, I can see two other entrances … one of them marked: "Medical Staff Only", and another one designated: "Patio". This looks like a good place to stash the car and have only a few steps to walk before going inside …

I pull up past one of the doors. There's a place to park in a spot reserved for doctors; and I qualify, I reason. When I get out and steady the crutches beneath me, the sun glinting off all that exposed glass hits me in the eyes and damn near blinds me.

When I get to the entrance, I'm pleased to note that the door slides aside before me. Nice. Just like the doors on the bridge of the Enterprise.

I walked into a broad expanse of indoor-outdoor carpet. It was something like a reception area with wide corridors leading off in different directions with designations printed on signs above them. There was a comfortable-looking placement of office and casual furniture dotting the spaces along the walls. Across from me I saw men's and women's locker rooms adjacent to each other, and an empty coat rack in a niche in the wall to the left. There are soda machines and snack machines along the wall, and I decide this must be the "Patio".

I chose a corridor that read: "Main Lobby", and began to move in that direction. Lobbies usually held racks of brochures and local information; rows of old "brag" photographs of the institution and photos of the hospital's history and its staff, from the founding fathers to the current department heads and many prestigious administrators. If I was to find information on Dr. Thoreau, then that was the place I needed to be.

I started down the corridor, and as I walked, I felt the weakness returning from the recent bout of breakthrough pain. My leg began to tighten and I could feel my ankle pulling inward. I stopped and leaned against the wall, pulled my meds from my pocket and gulped two of them. It would take a while for them to work, and in the meantime the agitated ligaments continued to pull.

People hurried by in both directions, on their way to … wherever. Quickly I assumed my "offputting" face. The tightness in my leg persisted, making me pant and gasp. I couldn't stay here. I was coming to the end of the corridor that opened onto the lobby, a huge room with a gray slate floor and much foot traffic.

I paused, gathering myself. I had found the photographs and placards I'd expected to find.

*Oh great!*

Around me on both walls were detailed site maps; framed histories and daguerreotypes and vintage photos of the history of Lebanon, New Hampshire. Faded lithographs and old pictures of the local area were there, along with washed-out sketches of the first buildings under construction on what would eventually become The Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center of Grafton County. The original date was 1797.

As I stared at the maze of old pictures, I had to blink over and over in rapid succession because they all became brightly illuminated with gold rings that rippled in and out …

I was quickly coming apart. I pretended to study the display, as well as attempting to force my knee and hip joints to straighten. Both were in a deep freeze and seemingly locked into place. A murky pall was descending over me rapidly and I fought to stay upright and conscious. That was not working either. I stumbled as the cramping and pain ramped up.

Suddenly there was someone at my side.

"Sir? Are you all right?" Deep male voice.

*Do I LOOK like I'm all right?*

My angry nature rushed back full force: still attempting to push people away with waves and waves of confrontational attitude: "I'm fine!"

His hands rose quickly into the air, the universal sign that he would not touch me if I didn't wish to be touched. "Sure you are, my friend."

"Wait!" I was losing it and he knew.

With a swift gesture he and another guy were lowering me down, yelling at somebody to bring a wheelchair. My crutches fell to the side and clattered on the floor, drawing attention fast. As the lights went out in my little world, I saw that he was wearing a white lab coat.

*Fuck!*

When I floated upward again through the sparkling confetti that awakened my consciousness, I was in a wheelchair, in an elevator … going up. There were two men and one woman standing near me, all hovering. The younger man stood a little to the side with an empty syringe in his hand. I didn't have to be told what it was. "Where are you taking me?" I asked, and my mouth felt like it had been stuffed with newspaper.

"Exam room," said the deep male voice I'd heard before.

"Oh …" stupidly.

I realized that I was leaning hard to my left side and my hands were locked in a death grip around my thigh, an instinctive reaction which had been happening a lot lately. But the taut muscle was now flaccid, thanks to the injection. Demerol. I let go and allowed both arms to slump onto the armrests of the chair.

The elevator dinged and stopped. "We're here," said the woman.

I glared up into her face, which was about the same color as Hooley's. "No shit," I mumbled, and regretted it immediately. "Sorry …"

She smiled briefly and winked, and I wondered if I was in my right mind. I felt her hand touch my shoulder softly and slide across to my neck. It felt warm and soft and comforting.

'White Coat" took the handles of the wheelchair and pushed me across the threshold into a short hallway, turning right and then right again into another room. "I take it that I have your permission to examine you. What was it that made your leg go into spasm that way? Old trauma?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"Diabetic?"

"Nope. Embolism. Femoral artery. Muscle death. They let me lay and scream for three days before somebody got around to me. Had to diagnose myself when the monitors registered kidney failure and an impending cardiac arrest …"

"You're a doctor, I gather. Have you been disabled long?"

"Yeah. It's a long, ugly, boring story."

"Well, if you're so inclined, my friend, I'm all ears." He turned to his two constituents. "You two should be getting back to work. Hazel, don't get too far away. I might need you. I need to talk to our friend here, and see what's going on."

The man and woman both nodded and left with dispatch.

I told 'White Coat' about the infarction … and the some of the rest of it … even before we'd been formally introduced … including the reason I'd come all the way to New Hampshire for a consult …

I looked over at him and found him staring at me over the tops of his glasses, his top teeth clamped on his bottom lip to prevent a puzzled smile from spreading across his face."

"… I say something funny?"

"Well … maybe not funny exactly, but hellishly ironic. It seems that I'm the man you're looking for. I'm Ed Thoreau."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Well, aint that a kick in the head! Your dad told me to tell you that you and the family should go visit them sometime …"

I could see the question marks forming over his head.

I think I won the first round, by default.

*Damn!*

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