Chapter One: Surgery

THROUGH IT ALL

I do not always see Your hand

My way is overcast

I do not always know my feet

Travel on Your path.

Quite oft I feel I’ve left the road

And wandered far astray.

But You always manage to guide me back

And set me on my way.

The journey’s often long and hard

And stress can take its toll.

But You, dear Lord, will guide me through

And save my very soul.

-LC 

CHAPTER ONE: SURGERY

March 2, 2000. 8PM.

            It has been an excruciatingly long day, but then Thursdays always are. I am driving home from my evening class at West Chester University and I have been on the go since 5:30 AM, with no break for supper. The class tonight has been less than exhilarating and my attention has drifted often. I leave at 7:15 with a twenty-page paper on reading strategies due in two weeks and midterms looming ahead. There are times I hate graduate school. As I drive home along Route 322, my stomach growls and my eyes water from the lights of passing cars. Despite two cornea transplants, my night vision is not good and my damaged corneas turn each headlight into my own personal display of Fourth of July fireworks.

            I spy Bonnie’s car as I pull up to the house. She is the one I worry about most often, picturing her stranded by the side of the road and at the mercy of evil strangers. She is a trusting soul. My peace of mind is the reason she has a cell phone she sometimes forgets to take with her. I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of her blue Subaru parked outside the house. Supper will have been made, then, and there might be a plate of something for me waiting in the microwave. I am momentarily glad that I did not pull into the Wendy’s on Chichester Avenue and order a chicken sandwich at the drive through. I park my car behind hers and lug my heavy book-bag out of the back seat. Teachers are the original bag ladies. I have papers to grade tonight and a workshop to prepare for next week’s Shakespeare Festival. I lean against the car for a moment, acknowledging that I am feeling weary. One more week to go, and then spring break. I have made plans to escape to my parents’ house at the beach. Ron and the children can fend for themselves.

            Ron has, of course, strenuously objected. “You’re leaving me!” he shouted when I imparted the news several weeks ago.

            “Only for a few days,” I told him. “Only to get a little rest. You’ll survive.”

            His psychiatrist has assured him that he will, in all likelihood, survive. That this will give him a chance to assume some adult responsibility and rebuild some rickety bridges to his children. All of it means little to him when his mind is clouded by his battles with clinical depression.

            It is while I am leaning against my own car that I notice Ron’s white Taurus is not parked in its usual spot under the streetlight where the ambient glow makes it look like a pale ghost. He parks it here, across the street, for two reasons. First, more than one driver has miscalculated the curve of the road on the next block and careened dangerously close to the curb. The second reason, though, is more important. He parks it here, across the street, because the short walk gives him a chance to pull himself out of his lethargy long enough to kiss me hello and ask after the children. This short routine takes the toll on his energy burst. The time before supper is generally spent on the couch, the television set tuned to a sporting event he dozes through, while I plod around the kitchen banging pots and pans and grumbling that I, too, have worked all day.

            Thursdays, though, are different. On Thursdays Ron needs to pull himself together sufficiently to be able to make supper for himself and the kids—or at least order out for pizza—because on Thursdays I have a graduate class and am not home until late. The rest of the week may be open to phone calls from the nurse at Ron’s plant or mad dashes to the emergency room due to an onslaught of anxiety disguised as heart attacks, but on Thursdays Ron is forced to maintain some semblance of sanity. At least until I get home.

            Tonight is clear and cloudless and I am tired, the math tests in my book bag and the twenty page analysis due next week adding their weight to my burdens. All I want is a hot shower, a cup of tea, and a chance to put my feet up and nibble whatever has been supper. But Ron’s car is not in its usual spot. Four years of dropping everything and rushing off to hospitals because my husband cannot handle the world has trained me well; there will be no rest for the very weary tonight. Disappointment, bordering on anger, begins to brew.

            It is just before I reach the front door that a chilling though occurs to me; something has happened to Ron. Something really bad. A cold hand grips my heart, squeezes. There will be no supper for me, that his clear, and I am feeling upset that his ongoing emotional battles have to take a toll on me as well. I think, fleetingly, that I would be better off without him.

            I paste a smile onto my face before I enter the house. Whatever has happened will not be easy to deal with, but my children will need to know that, as usual, Mom can handle it.

            “Hello!” I say. Even to me, the cheerfulness sounds forced. The house, with two teenagers still in residence and one who lives down the street stomping around in his roller blades, is in its usual state of chaos. The smell of slightly burnt spaghetti assails my nostrils. My resourceful offspring, whatever may be the foibles of their parents, will not let themselves starve. From the dining room comes the sound of a computer game at high volume; my son is once again out to save the world from evil space aliens. It is a relief to hear Allen’s voice as he explodes another space pod and to see my daughter sitting on the couch, the cordless phone in her hand. Whatever has happened to my spouse has happened to him alone.

            I shake the cobwebs of tired from my head and drop my book bag on the floor. Bonnie jumps off the couch to hug me, nearly knocking me off my feet with the force of her embrace. Tears stream down her face and her voice quivers.

            “Mom,” she begins. Gently. She is a gentle child, unwilling to inflict hurt on anyone. Her father, too, when not in the grips of a manic cycle, is gentle. “You need to sit down…”

            I stand my ground. The anguish on her face rends my heart and for a moment I am engorged with rage at Ron, who continues to put us through these scenarios again and again. “I don’t need to sit down,” I tell her, struggling to keep the sharp edge from my voice. “Just tell me where we need to go and we’ll go.”

            It is evident that she has been crying. While our marriage has been seriously strained by Ron’s problems, they have nothing to do with her. She is still Daddy’s Little Girl. I wait while she struggles with her words. “It was a car accident,” she says. “A truck hit him on the way home from work.” For a brief moment, I think that he is dead. I am not sure how I feel about it. Sorry? Sad? But she goes on, quickly. “He’s at the hospital. At Crozer. The paramedics said that his…diaphragm ruptured. Or something like that. He’s in surgery. Pop Pop said…”

            I feel terribly, terribly sorry for her that she has to be the one to impart this bad news to me. The tears roll down her cheeks and in bits and pieces I understand that the paramedics have rushed Ron to the hospital and called my in-laws. Reese has come down to the house to tell the children. Bonnie was instructed to bring me to the hospital as soon as I arrived home. My mind reels with a hundred questions. Has Ron finally made good on his threats to end his miserable existence? Leave it to him to botch it, I think, and then am terribly contrite for even thinking it. I tell myself—again—that Ron’s cyclic depression is not of his choosing. I take a deep breath, willing my mind to focus.

            She is standing by the door, her car keys in her hand, waiting for me. “One minute,” I say. I peek into the dining room, where Allen, my youngest child, is playing computer games with his friend Jonathan. He looks calm enough, but his eyes are glazed over. Computer games or tears? It is impossible to tell. “Okay?” I ask him and he nods. He’s fourteen and no longer wears his heart on his sleeve. This one has visited his father behind the locked doors of a mental ward. His silence protects him. “Jonathan,” I say, “can you stay here for a while? Until we get home?” Jonathan nods, too involved with launching star crafts on the screen to answer me.

            I pick up the phone. I know time is important, but if Ron is already in surgery, all I can do is wait. I make a few phone calls: to my best friend Chris, who promises to call others from our church to pray, to my parents, to my school principal. Phyllis is not home so I leave a message, brief and terse. “Phyllis, my husband has been in a serious car accident. I will not be in school tomorrow. I’ll call you when I can.” I have no time to review my words or soften them. I try to call our pastor, but his line is busy. I write his number down on a pad by the phone, then call our oldest son’s house in the city. I know that even now he is on the road, traveling with college friends to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras, but perhaps one of his roommates knows a number where he can be reached. They are staying, I remember, with Alana.

            Jeff answers the phone on the first ring. I make my request brief. Jeff, a sensitive soul, begins to panic. “What can I do?” he says. “How can I help?”

            “Just the phone number, Jeff,” I say. I am a model of calmness, an example for all wives of accident victims to follow. My hand does not waiver as I add Alana’s number to the phone pad.

            Bonnie is still standing at the front door, jingling her car keys. Probably wondering why it is taking me so long, why we are not dashing down the highway to her father’s side. I dial Alana’s number. The answering machine picks up. I leave another blunt message, no time to carefully word it.

            I thrust the paper with the phone numbers at Jonathan.”Keep calling these numbers,” I tell him, “until you get someone.” He nods laconically.

            “Man the phones,” Bonnie tells him as we depart.  Jonathan is practically a member of the family. We have made this request of him before.

            It is a clear night, the moon and the stars bright against the black sky. The black road and the black night make it easy to pretend that I am floating, not walking at all, but suspended somewhere in time. Put one foot in front of the other, I tell myself. Keep walking. Keep breathing. This is not real. I slide into Bonnie’s car. This is not happening. For one instant—no more—I think how odd it is that I can accept the possibility that my husband has tried to kill himself. A photograph from our wedding album flashes into my mind: Ron, so tall and handsome in his powder blue tuxedo, me leaning against his arm as we leave the church. My white veil billows around us. We are both so young. It is a lifetime ago. I wonder, almost without emotion, if he will die.

            Bonnie turns the key in the ignition and her headlights cut the black night. I feel as if we are enveloped in a cocoon. Perhaps we can just drive forever into the black night and never have to arrive at the trauma unit. We head towards I-95, the radio off. It is a moment for silence only. We do not talk. I have no words of comfort to offer to my daughter. In truth, I am beginning to feel a little numb and light-headed. I remember—an after-thought—that I have not eaten in eight hours. I think about showing up at the hospital with a sack of burgers from McDonald’s, the concerned wife who had time to stop for fast-food. It is a ridiculous notion but I am living a ridiculous life. I stifle a laugh.

            My daughter shoots me a look, mistaking my laugh for a sob. “He’ll be okay,” she says because she has to believe it. I grip the hand rest of the passenger door tightly.

            My cell phone rings. I carry one, too, since last summer when Ron was in Friends’ Hospital—originally named The Asylum for Persons Deprived of the Use of Their Reason –and Allen was alone all day. I am tempted not to answer it; only Bonnie and Allen have the number and they use it only for emergencies. Usually, an emergency is anything involving their father. I push the green button, “Hello.” My voice echoes in the car, sounding foreign even to me.

            It is my best friend, Chris. “I called the house,” she says. “Allen gave me the number. What hospital is he at?”

            “Crozer,” I tell her. “Fourth floor. Intensive Care.” An image of my grandfather flashes before me, his thin body surrounded by a web of wires that used to monitor his every function. I went to the Intensive Care Unit here at Crozer the first time to gather up his personal effects and take them home to Nanny.

            “I’m coming,” she says. I being to protest, my usual self-effacing “I’m alright and can handle this routine”, but she sees through it. “I’m coming anyway. I’ll pick up my mother and we’ll meet you there.” She clicks off. I fold the phone back up and put it in my purse. I wanted her to come but would not have asked. I know my in-laws are even now waiting at the hospital. Past experience has taught me that they will be able to offer me no comfort tonight.

MARCH 2, 2000. 8:30 pm

            It is regrettable that I know so much about this hospital. I have been here far too often. We do not need to ask directions to the trauma waiting room but push the button for the fourth floor like the old pros we are. Bonnie is hugging my arm, but I am not sure who is holding up whom. While we have not spoken of it, we know that what awaits us will just be one of many trials this evening will bring.

            We are alone in the elevator. The ride to the fourth floor is short, but long enough for me to compose my features into what I hope is a look of extreme concern. I do not really know what my feelings are at the moment, but I know that my in-laws, already pacing the floors, will expect their son’s wife to emanate distress. Despite the difficulties of the last four years, Ron is still their child.

            We see them the moment we step off the elevator, sitting in the glass-enclosed cubicle off of the ICU. It seems cruel to allow people in crisis to be exposed to the looks of passers-by. I lift my hand to wave, think better of it, and nod my head instead. Reese’s face is set in a grime line. Betty, sweet woman, offers a weak smile. My grip on Bonnie’s arm tightens and I try to steal some strength from her. My own has drained away.

            There is no preamble or greeting at the door. Reese speaks quickly, brusquely. “A truck hit him. Crossing Paoli Pike. Speeding. His diaphragm is ruptured. And other things inside. The paramedics say all his internal organs have shifted up into his chest. It’s a mess.” He shakes his head and his voice trails off.

            I find my own voice. “When? How long has he been in surgery?”

            Betty fills in some details. Her face is soft and pink but it is evident that tears have been falling down her cheeks. She is a gentle woman. She has raised an equally gentle son. In contrast to her husband, whose abruptness serves as a shield against his emotions, she is open with her feelings. “He was on his way home from work, “she says. “Around 4:30. The paramedics got to him right away and the hospital called us around 5:30. He’s been in surgery since we got here.”

            I glance at my watch. It is almost 8:30 now. Three hours. When Ron was wheeled into surgery, I was in EDR 517, taking notes on reading comprehension. “Why didn’t someone call me?” I ask. I am the last to know that my husband’s life has hung in the balance for several hours.

            “The hospital called us,” Reese says flatly, as if that explanation covers it all. It is hardly a secret that Ron’s problems with depression have taken a toll on our marriage.

            Betty’s explanation is softer, kinder. “Ron told the paramedic that you wouldn’t be home until 8:00 and he didn’t want the kids frightened. So he gave them our number.”

            Ron was conscious at the scene of the accident? And had the presence of mind to remember that it was my evening at school? This is surprising. In recent weeks, he has barely been able to remember his children’s names. “But I have a cell phone,” I stammer. “Bonnie knows the number…” I turn to my daughter, whose hand grips mine.

            “We didn’t want you to drive home knowing. We were worried about you.” I realize that the voice saying this belongs to Reese. He has made it clear these past years that he considers me strong, almost too strong. It makes Ron look bad. Although my father-in-law for twenty-four years, he has shown me little approval of late.

            I drop into a seat, a green metal-framed chair common to waiting rooms the world over. I’ve been in enough to offer an opinion. The television set is on. There is a phone on the wall by the door and a rack of hospital literature and magazines nearby. It seems quite odd that I notice these details and that my heart is beating at a normal rate and that my hands are not clammy or cold. We are alone in the waiting room. Other families have been spared similar tragedies tonight.

            “Have you spoken to the doctor? To anyone?” I am beginning to acquire more pieces to the puzzle but larger questions still loom ahead. The one I most want to ask will have to wait.

            Betty has affirmed that, yes, the surgeon came out and spoke with them about an hour ago. She reported that Ron’s injuries are serious, even life-threatening. Most of his internal organs need to be moved back to their original positions. There is a possibility of damage to the liver, the spleen, and the pancreas. I am not even sure what the pancreas does.

            “The owner’s card on the Taurus is expired,” Reese states flatly. “Did you know that?’

            I inhale deeply. Now it will begin. The owner’s card sat on the dining room table for two weeks awaiting Ron’s signature. “Yes, I knew.”

            The anger needs to be turned onto someone and I am handy. I always am. “You can’t trust him to do things like that. You know he can’t remember things.”

            The tears I have been holding back, unable to shed for my own husband, pour from me. This is unfair. These two people have not lived with Ron on a daily basis for these last few years. While they make an attempt to hide the fact that they consider me to blame for Ron’s depression, they have fallen into the habit of assigning all responsibilities to me. “It sat on the table for two weeks,” I falter. “I reminded him every day.”

            “I should have taken him to get it,” says Reese. “I should have given him the money and taken him myself.”

            This is part of the ongoing problem with Ron’s mental issues. Too many people do too many things for Ron. He is expected, quite literally, to do nothing for himself. “He went to the tag store Tuesday evening,” I say. “They were closed.”

            Reese continues to shake his head. “Probably lose his license. Probably get a fine.”

            I stifle back a laugh. Ludicrous to think—while Ron is still in surgery—about a fifty dollar fine. “He needs to do some things for himself, “ I rush on. “It isn’t fair that everything falls on me. I work. I go to school. I take care of the house and the kids and the bills. There has to be something Ron is responsible for!” I close my eyes against the hot tears. While I feel my anger is justified, I regret having unleashed my tirade here. In this place. Bonnie pats my arm and we sit in silence for long moments, each of us bound up in our individual grief, wondering if the time has come for us to say good-bye to Ron.

            I have been saying good-bye for years. The man I married has been replaced by a silent, gloomy robot whose only emotions are expended on himself. I think of him now, lying on the operating table, his chest exposed to the surgeon’s knife. I offer a single prayer. Change him, I pray.

MARCH 3, 2000. 1 AM.

            The first thing I notice about her is her kind smile, this surgeon who has somehow put the pieces of my husband back together again. She touches my arm when I rise from my seat, urging me to sit back down. She pulls her green plastic chair closer to mine. I introduce my daughter, my friends, Ron’s family, and our minister and his wife. She nods at all of us, smiling pleasantly, but it is my eyes she focuses on and her voice is very gentle.

            “You’ve had a long night,” she says. “You must be exhausted. Have you eaten?” I shake my head, not really thinking iced tea and crackers count as a meal. “When you leave here,” and she glances at her watch, “you are under orders to go home and sleep. Do not set the alarm. Just sleep.”

            I nod, still not trusting my voice to speak so it is my friend, Chris, who asks, “How is he?”

            Dr. Huffman inhales. “He,” she says, “is a lucky man. He has a lot of internal injuries. And there are possibilities of complications. But he is alive. That, in itself, is a miracle. A lesser man, “ she smiles, " could not have survived.”

            I find my voice. “We were told he had a ruptured diaphragm, but we aren’t clear on what else.”

            She nods. “The ruptured diaphragm was most certainly the most serious injury. His chest was impacted by the steering wheel and cut off his breathing. I don’t know how he survived until the paramedics came. He also has several broken ribs, a severe laceration on his left arm all the way to the bone, a torn pancreas, a collapsed left lung, damage to his spleen, and compression of his internal organs. There might be some damage to his aorta, too. We’ll watch him through the night. And the pancreas and the spleen are very tricky to handle. We’re not at all sure what the outcomes will be. But, “ she grips my hand tightly, “he’s alive. And conscious.”

            Ron has been in surgery since 5:00 PM. It is now past 1PM.

            “Can I…we…see him?”

            She nods. “If you’ll promise to go straight home afterwards. And get some sleep. You know, I worry about the families of my patients as much as I worry about my patients.”

            My in-laws rise along with my daughter and I. So does Pastor Tripler. Dr. Huffman smiles again. “Just family now,” she says.

            “I’m his minister,” replies Pastor.

            “Then we need you by all means,” says Dr. Huffman. She leads us down the corridor to the recovery room.

            At the door, Pastor Tripler grips my arm. “Linda,” he says, “this won’t be pretty. He won’t look like himself. Can you do this?’

            I think back over the many things I have had to do these last eight years since Ron was diagnosed with clinical depression and bipolar disorders and I nod. “I can do it.” So with Pastor on one side of me and my daughter on the other, I walk up to Ron’s bed. He is still and gray, a ventilator making his chest rise and fall. My knees buckle, but my supporters are strong. There are tubes everywhere and I hardly know where to touch him, although I want to. There is a bare spot on his right shoulder. Lightly, I put a finger there. “Ron,” I whisper. His eyes flicker open. He blinks at me. They close again.

            “That’s enough for tonight,” says Dr. Huffman. “Go home. We’ll take good care of him.”