Chapter 5
The
doctor is the new cliché of young (too young), dark and handsome running
hospitals and dictating lives. He has a
sexy accent and looks good in his scrubs.
I’d rather my mom had an older, greying expert but seemingly they’ve all
retired out of the emergency room.
So
I make the best of it, horrible though that might sound. But I’ve been having such a bad day I need a
distraction, if only a fleetingly and improbable one. After all, I’m likely to be single soon and,
truth be told, was getting bored with Brad anyway. Some men are so convinced that they’re a
catch that they forget they’re still courting and their fish isn’t hooked yet. Women get bored, or just plain angry,
too. And a woman’s attention is fully
capable of wandering; just ask any shoe salesperson. So I can listen to a sexy doctor speak,
notice he has no wedding ring and fully enjoy the reality that, as Beyoncé
said, “If you liked it, then you should have put a ring on it.”
“We
got her here quickly and administered the right drugs,” the handsome young
doctor tells me. “Most likely she’ll be
okay,” he states, his brown eyes deep and meaningful as he tells me that my
mother will probably be fine, though it’s too soon to know for sure. She’s recovering now but still asleep so they
can’t tell how her memory might have suffered.
Seriously, is
anything sexier than a man who might have saved your mother’s life? I want to hug him and, really, nothing stops
me short of my own inhibitions. I sort
of have a boyfriend but what does that mean?
And where will Brad really be this evening when not having sushi with
me? I suspect I’ll be at Cedars with mom. And Ron texted that he’s on a flight now so
most likely we’ll be having a hospital-based family reunion.
I need caffeine.
So
I interrupt. “Do you have time to discuss
this over coffee?” I start, tentatively, “I’m about to collapse and need the
jolt.” He nods and we head to the
cafeteria as I listen to him explaining strokes. “A stroke is a cerebrovascular accident in
which a disturbance of blood to the brain leads to a loss of brain function.”
he begins. “This blockage or hemorrhage
causes the disruption, and the affected area of the brain loses its ability to
function. Sometimes that loss can be
corrected. We have a drug which, if
administered in time, can prevent many of the worst repercussions and your
mother got it. We hope she got it in
time.”
So
do I.
“Did
she?” I ask, pressing him, desperately seeking reassurance, and I hear my voice
breaking. He shifts slightly in his thin
aluminum chair and I study his face, trying to read for any hint of dishonesty,
even if only protective. I want the
truth.
“We
think so,” he responds. “But we might
not know for a day or two. She’s still
very fragile and in older patients a second follow-on stroke is more common.”
I
watch Dr. Esses as he talks about slurred speech and physical disability on one
side or both. He looks tired, with deep
circles under both round eyes, offset by long lashes, and I notice how
delicately tapered his hands are. But he
also looks worried as he sips his milky coffee and I wonder, only briefly I
promise, what it must be like to hold lives in those fingers and not be
deciding between one shade of kohl grey versus another. This man deals in life and death and he just
saved my mother’s life.
“She’s old,” I
begin. “Thank you,” I finish, and feel
my second set of tears of the day begin.
And in this light, fluorescent and glaring, I know that my pain will be
magnified, unlike in my office where all is muted and covered up. Here people die.
“How did you end up
at Cedars?” I ask lamely, then swallow a slug of my coffee, wincing as the acid
lukewarm fluid goes down. It tastes
terrible, old, bitter and even perhaps rancid.
I’ve become spoiled with choosing smoother blends for my office machine. Well, this one has enough caffeine for me
feel its effect immediately so I guess it serves its purpose.
He tells me about
growing up in London. Both his immigrant
parents are doctors and worked long hours while he spent time alone studying,
his two brothers doing the same. He’d
been lonely, missing his grandparents and what he still thought of as home,
deep in the neighborhoods of Tunis. How
the cold chills and never-ending rain of England depressed him and how he’d
made up stories of warm lands and deserts.
So when time came for medical school he followed his wanderlust and
dreams, heading to the United States and eventually this emergency room.
“It’s warm in Los
Angeles and was originally a desert,” he says with a half smile and I’m glad to
see a little humor in his eyes. “As you
know,” he finishes. I need this levity
now, or even just a hint that laughter will be possible again, maybe soon.
“Your stories come alive?” I ask, clutching my coffee cup still. I feel pressure in my forehead and my whole body is tight, no taut. Poised and waiting for the next blow to strike. I’m going mad.
“Your stories come alive?” I ask, clutching my coffee cup still. I feel pressure in my forehead and my whole body is tight, no taut. Poised and waiting for the next blow to strike. I’m going mad.
The doctor just
gives me a half smile and stands up, my knight for only an instant and now off
to charge his next windmill. I’ll see
him again as my mother won’t be discharged for days. So I grab my Styrofoam cup of coffee and
follow him, good soldier that I am, to finally see what’s left of my
mother. His shoulders are broad though
he clearly should eat more and I can’t help but think that I’d prefer a romantic
interlude or stack of shimmery powders to what will come next. Yes, I love her. But do I want to see her like this?
“She’s from London,
too,” I tell his back. He turns and with
another half smile, as if the full effort would be too much, answers, “I
know.” But what else is left to say?
Dutifully, I follow
him down the long white sterile hallway, which he navigates with such ease and
familiarity. The path is mostly empty
though we do run into an occasional nurse or patient.
“This is your daily
life?” I ask. “Does it frighten
you? To be responsible for the lives of
others?” He’s ahead of me but I see him
slow his stride before he turns back again, and looking very serious, responds,
“Never. Someone needs to do this job and
I can do it better than most. But I
can’t do it perfectly and accept that.”
“People die?” I
push, probably not fairly.
“Yes,” is all he
says as he points to a half shut door.
“This is your mother’s room.” And
he walks away as I push my way into the unknown. The room is dark, with closed curtains and no
lights shining inside. Like a fucking
crypt.
I hesitate before
crossing the threshold. While I might
sound weepy and even pitiful, you must admit that I’m having a pretty awful day
so far. Any bets on whether it will get
better or worse? I step into the
darkness and make out a bed amidst the shadows.
A shape moves and I brace myself, knowing that I can never step back
into childhood now. My mother has gotten
old and I’ll increasingly need to be the strong one, whether or not I’m ready
for that burden. Race fearless into the
unknown? What choice do I have?
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