The Squeaky Wheel – Excerpt 3

As We Discussed/Disgust

The Doctor walks into the room. He is tall with dark hair only beginning to reveal gray. Aside from being taller, he looks like he could be a younger version of my father. He wears glasses like my father wore for many years. He exudes the status of neurosurgeon as he moves. He sits next to the bed and says, “The surgery was more complicated than anticipated because of unrevealed scar tissue in the spinal canal.” He says the paralysis is probably just “spinal shock” and should go away in a few days. But “AS WE DISCUSSED” there is a possibility I will remain paralyzed. What the hell is he talking about? We never talked about paralysis. He said the surgery might kill me. I’m thinking, somebody better do that if the surgery did not because this is just not tolerable. The intense pain and the shock keep me from arguing with Dr. Liar. Personnel bring a gurney alongside the small bed I am in. It takes some time to remove the blankets before they transfer me. They slide a plastic board underneath me, and as I slip from the bed to the gurney, I see a nearly pencil-wide tube in my dick. I remember one of the people in the operating room telling me he would need to do this for the surgery. I tried to talk him out of it, but he claimed it was needed, and he would do it after I was under. A nasty trick to pull on somebody sleeping. But there it is. I can’t feel it. The doctor lies to me; there is a tube in my dick I can’t feel… what next? I am wheeled from the recovery room to the intensive care unit. As they move me from the gurney to the bed a realization hits. “What time is it?” I blurt out. “11:20 p.m.” Oh my God! This was supposed to be a four-hour surgery, starting at noon, which means my love, Mary, was expecting a call around 4:00 telling her I’m okay. It’s seven plus hours later. I asked my father to make that call. I know that as an attorney he has never returned a phone call in his life! “I need you to make a phone call!” “Okay.” “Please dial 785-8914 and ask for Mary.”

“What do you want me to tell her?” Well, there is the six million dollar question. What do I want a stranger to tell one of the most important people in my life who is certain I’m dead? “Tell her… tell her… I’m fine. Let her know that the surgery took longer than they thought, and I’ll see her tomorrow.” I stare about the room. There are six patients, three on each side of the room. There is a glass enclosure where the nurses remain when not tending to patients. The room is dark; death, pain and profound sadness hang in the air. These blue-scrubbed nurses don’t laugh. The night is endless. A pair of nurses comes around every 15 minutes to check vital signs. I sleep but only because I am full of top shelf painkillers. Every slight movement of my neck triggers intense pain despite more narcotics in me than a 747 has passengers. Periodically I am awakened by the sound of clapping. Someone is cupping his or her hands, which makes the sound hollower… and louder. I look toward the bed next to me where two people are pummeling an obese man in this manner. Why? Why? Why? Aren’t I being tortured enough without this? Cut it out! Stop waking me to this! Every pore of my body cries out, but I am silent. I pray. I tell God I can’t take this. It would have been better had I died on the operating table. The pain is too great and limitations too profound for me or anyone to endure. My Catholic upbringing kicks in as I remember scripture, “Take this cup from me.” I recall what that line did for Jesus and I cry. Two nurses check vital signs and have me squeeze their hands. I do it weakly and the sensation is not “normal.” One of them commands me to lift my leg. I try but it doesn’t move. “Very good.” “It didn’t move!” I insist. “Yes, it did! They both did! Try the left one again.” I try again. I don’t see it moving. “See?” “You didn’t feel that?” “I didn’t feel anything!” I scream, cry. My eyes plead for assurance… a single word of hope. Instead, the two girls giggle… and walk away. I wish I could get up and kill them. The next nurse lingers. “Anything I can do for you?” “This is going to go away, isn’t it?” “I don’t know. They told you this might happen, right?” “Nobody told me anything! I don’t even know what ‘this’ is.”

“When the neurosurgeon explained the surgery to you, he didn’t talk about the possibility of paralysis as a result of surgery to the spine?” she asks incredulously. “No!” “How old are you?” “Twenty-four.” “You didn’t know that surgery in the spinal canal could result in paralysis?” “I’m sorry; I’m a theater major. We don’t know science stuff.” “No, I guess you wouldn’t.” Heavy sigh from her. “That should have all been explained to you, written down on the consent forms and put in your chart. What did the doc tell you?” “‘He said I might DIE, but that that was not likely because of my age and health.” “The surgeon should inform you of ALL risks and this is an obvious one to anyone with a medical background. Let me look at your chart, and I’ll talk to you on the post-op floor, ok?” I never see her again. After a night in the intensive care unit I am moved to the postoperative floor. It is a regular hospital room with two beds. It looks straight down the hallway to the ward I was on before the surgery. I see the doctors and others from that side who were so friendly to me before the surgery. Now they look in and don’t even acknowledge my existence. I wonder what I am going to tell my family. My friends? My mom? Mary. She’ll be here soon… I don’t move my neck because of the profound pain. I watch TV mindlessly as doctors, nurses and med students enter, examine, and speak to and about me in a detached manner as if I am a frog in the pan of a high school lab experiment. Mary arrives. I see her lithe, animated step and smiling face as she approaches the room – singing “Make ‘em Laugh” from Singing in the Rain. Mary loves movie musicals. Singing in the Rain is her favorite. Mary’s hair is almost my color. She is fair, freckled and slight of build. More than once we have been asked if we are brother and sister. I have been told the ultimate form of egotism is to copulate with someone who shares your features. She comes bearing outside food and drink — aware of the heinous reputation of hospital food (food I once prepared — may God have mercy on my wretched soul). Her eyes meet mine and I turn away. She comes to me, setting the food on the hospital table. She sits next to me on the bed.