The Squeaky Wheel – Excerpt 2

February 2, 1983

“Mr. Shaughnessy?” “Mr. Shaughnessy.” “Why are you waking me?” I ask. It feels as if it has only been moments since the anesthetic took effect and I drifted to sleep. Ninety-nine, 98,97… But that was a long time ago in a reality far, far away. “The surgery is over, Mr. Shaughnessy. Can you tell me your name?” There is a hint in there. “Brian Shaughnessy.” “Do you know where you are?” “I’m at the University of Minnesota Hospital,” I say as I taste… what is that taste? … Lysol. “Okay, very good. Can you tell me the date?” “Feb. 2nd, 1983. Can I have a blanket?” I am freezing. I am certain that they performed the surgery in a meat locker and that I was covered only with frost. The individual asking questions is moving about wearing standard blue hospital scrubs. These are different than the operating room green scrubs. I know this because I once worked at this hospital … in the kitchen. May God forgive me. He is checking my eyes with the flashlight and then dons his stethoscope. First, he listens to my chest and heart; then, as the stethoscope slides below my nipples, the sensation nearly vanishes. I start to look down but immediately feel pain. “You’re lucky you’re inside today; there was a nasty blizzard.” I am not feeling particularly lucky. I am slowly becoming aware of the fact that a group of people cut open the back of my neck, broke off tiny pieces of my spine to access my spinal canal and performed some surgical voodoo in there. Something is terribly wrong. “Breathe deep.” Blue-scrubs commands. He has checked my heart rate, pulse, eyes, etc. Blue-scrubs is around six feet tall and in his mid-twenties, with brown hair, a cropped beard and Buddy Holly glasses. “Can you squeeze my fingers?”

Oh my God! What the hell did these people do? I squeeze his fingers, becoming aware I have 10 percent of the strength I had before going to sleep. I am definitely beginning to wake up. “Is that the best you can do?” What the hell do you think? Wouldn’t I break them right now if you gave me the opportunity? What is going on? “Lift your right leg for me.” Okay now, THIS is big. The anesthesia clouding my thinking is hastily pushed out by the nightmare possibilities consuming every speck of gray matter. I make a Herculean effort to raise my right leg. What a simple request and what tremendous effort to accomplish … nothing. It doesn’t move. I hear my leg hit the bed. What the…? “Very good. Now can you do that with your left leg for me?” “Do what? It didn’t move!” This can’t be real, my mind shrieks, as I make the effort to lower my head and look at my feet, a move that unpleasantly reminds me that knives and other implements have been busy at work for an unknown amount of time. Why can’t I feel my leg move? Jesus. “I didn’t feel my right leg move.” “That’s okay. Try the left leg for me, please.” Oh, well, if you’re going to be polite about it I guess I’ll just do as I am asked and not bother you with my silly concerns. I make the effort again. I hear the thump back on the bed, but I am unaware that my leg moved. With the calmness of a stranger asking my occupation, he asks, “Can you feel my hand on your foot?” “Barely,” I respond, trying not to lose my mind. “Which toe am I touching?” I start to look toward my feet but pain stops me. He continues to check for sensation; it becomes clear that it stops almost completely exactly at my nipples. “What’s going on? What happened? Can I have another blanket?” “I’ll get somebody to bring you another blanket. The doc will be in soon to answer your other questions. He’s talking to your family right now.” My father, brothers and grandmother have waited through the procedure. My mother and two sisters are far away in New Mexico. What the hell is he telling them? I wonder. ’Hi, I’m the doctor that crippled your son, brother, grandson…? The surgery went just fine. You should be able to roll him out of here in a couple of days.’ The only things missing from this nightmare is the obligatory fog in old horror movies. “Can I have another blanket?” I ask this question several times and each time they bring another blanket. The pile of blankets is now thicker than my body. A group of doctors come and perform the same tests Blue-scrubs did. This is intermittently followed by nurses doing the same. No one looks me in the eye. Blue-scrubs says, “Your father and brother want to come in and talk to you. Is that okay?” What will I tell them? “Yes, send them in.” “They can only have a couple minutes.” Fine, I think, since I have no idea what to tell them and what not to tell them. My father and brother enter the room. They are smiling. They know nothing. “Big Red! How are you feeling?” my father asks. My father is a stocky five-foot-eight inches with salt and pepper hair, a gray mustache and the charm of the Irish revealed in his dancing eyes. As is his custom, he wears a suit. My brother has a similar phenotype to mine. He is about five-foot-ten and muscular with red hair and a large neck. “I’m freezing,” I respond. “Have them give me another blanket.” Another blanket is heaped on and I continue to shiver as my dad talks about the blizzard and my brother Dan talks about a basketball game, but none of it makes any sense. I say I’m fine, tired, and sore, while my mind screams, Tell them these bastards crippled me. Tell them to make the doctor guarantee I will walk out of this hospital. Tell them I should have died on the operating table because my life is over. No one — especially not me — can live this way. But I manage to keep silent and a nurse ushers them out. They tell me to get better fast; they will return the next day; and everyone’s real proud and buzz buzz buzz. “We’re going to move you to the intensive care unit, Mr. Shaughnessy.” “This is going to go away, isn’t it?” I ask. “I don’t know,” is the three-syllable answer. “Well, who does know? Where is the doctor?” I ask while thinking, How the hell can you say you don’t know? I know I’m going to walk out of here! I look about the room as carefully as one can when he knows that the slightest movement of his neck will result in ice pick stabs of horrific pain. There are two small beds. I am the only one in the room now although others have come and gone. There are many sets of scrubs in this room and they are all occupied by medical personnel.