Monday, July 31, 5:45 a.m.
Light rain dappled my windshield as I raced toward Cleveland into the amber light of dawn well before the usual traffic snarl could materialize. Thanks to MapQuest, I had no trouble locating the Taussig Cancer Center building on Carnegie Avenue. Finding nearby parking, however, was more difficult, and I literally had to sprint to Desk R-20, arriving five minutes late. After completing the insurance information, consent forms, and other obligatory paperwork, I sat in the pre-op area for what felt like days.
I’d made Tree Macon promise to call if by some stroke of luck he located my old man. I checked my cellphone repeatedly for messages but found none.
Bottom line: I was Justine’s last hope. Thy will be done.
At last given a hospital gown, I changed in a dressing room and stored my belongings in a locker. A young, blond woman in her early twenties, cheery beyond all reason at that early hour, literally danced into the waiting room pushing a wheelchair. She had the faint stamp of a local nightclub on her hand and a fresh hickey peeking over her collar. Softly singing Beautiful Day by U2, she rolled me to a small operating room where a nurse plugged an IV line into one arm and slapped a blood pressure cuff on the other, then left me alone with my thoughts.
The air was cool and laced with disinfectant, the table cold and hard. Two men in surgical scrubs entered. Justine’s oncologist was in his mid-fifties, short, stout, and balding. He introduced himself and said, “You understand, we don’t have the luxury of five days to do a peripheral blood donation. We’ll have to do this the old fashion way, directly from your pelvic bones.” He gestured to the other man and added, “You’ll be awake, but Dr. Gavacs here is a fine anesthesiologist, and he’ll minimize your pain. Nothing to worry about. No sweat.”
No sweat for him, maybe. And I could think of more than a few things to worry about.
I rolled onto my side and the anesthesiologist inserted a spinal needle into my back, injected the anesthetic, and laid me on my belly. My hips and legs tingled for a few moments, then went numb.
While the nurse draped my bottom and sterilized my skin with Betadine, the anesthesiologist infused a sedative through my IV, resulting in a pleasant buzz.
I couldn’t see what the oncologist was doing, but he morphed into a Howard Cosell-like play-by-play description for the benefit of an intern who’d entered the room.
“An incision here. Come on, nurse, more suction so I can clamp that bleeder. That’s better. Hand me the large-gauge needle with the cutting trocar. And we shove this through the muscle, twist, then use the jagged edge to penetrate the iliac bone … apply suction with the syringe, and harvest some marrow. Now, same thing on the other side.”
He struggled more with the second aspiration, and I heard an unnerving grinding sound as he penetrated bone on the left, then he said, “And voila! We’re done and out the door.”
As the nurse carried the precious cells out of the room for my sister’s infusion, the oncologist snapped off his latex gloves, apparently remembered that I was there, and said, “So how’re you doing? Still with me? You didn’t holler. That’s a good sign.” He patted my shoulder and added a hearty, “See, nothing to it. Don’t even need stitches. You’ll be sore for a few days. No big deal. I’ll send you home with some painkillers just in case.”
In truth, all I had felt was intermittent pressure during the procedure. Three cheers for anesthetics, and for anesthesiologists who understand that all patients are anxious human beings.
While an orderly wheeled me to the Recovery Room, I prayed silently for Justine. As a physician, I understood the risks and potential complications of her transplant. The next few weeks were critical for my sister’s recovery. Her hold on life was tenuous and in the Lord’s hands.
Slowly the anesthetic wore off and sensation returned to my legs. The soreness from the procedure felt minor, however, compared to the pain of knowing that I’d missed three decades of Justine’s life and my nephew’s early years. The holes in my pelvic bones couldn’t compare with the void that she and RJ might have filled had I met them sooner.
When they released me from the recovery room, I was still slightly woozy and didn’t want to drive home. I dressed, relocated to the hushed family consultation area, and spent my time mumbling prayers and fingering my rosary beads. Minutes stretched into hours, and the room grew smaller and smaller until it became a cage. Sitting was more painful than standing, so I clipped my phone to my belt and wandered the mammoth Cleveland Clinic complex.
The halls were almost as crowded as a busy downtown sidewalk. I meandered into the hospital gift store and shopped for something to take my nephew’s mind off his mother’s absence. A toy doctor’s kit caught my attention and I snatched it up. On my way to the checkout counter, my cell startled me.
The update from the oncologist was brief. “So far, so good. Fingers crossed.”
But that was exactly what I needed to hear. Hope is a powerful medicine. I felt a renewed spring in my step as I reentered the hallway.
Because Justine’s immune system had been suppressed, she would remain in the Isolation Unit for now. I wasn’t allowed to visit her, yet I couldn’t force myself to leave the hospital. I found the chapel, knelt and prayed, then wandered the manicured grounds between Euclid Avenue and Carnegie. The sky had transformed to pig-iron and low clouds stretched westward into an endless mottled gray.
A silver Lincoln Town Car and two television trucks roared into the driveway and screeched up to the hospital entrance. Because the Clinic treated foreign dignitaries and celebrities, media presence was not uncommon. Normally, I ignored this kind of hoopla, but I needed a diversion and joined a crowd of gawkers.
The young couple that I’d seen on TV leaped from the car. She wore a black pantsuit, he a navy-blue suit. She was weeping uncontrollably, and he wrapped an arm around her as they pushed their way through reporters and photo journalists into the lobby. An elderly woman nearby asked me who they were.
“They were featured on the local news recently. Their baby has a bad heart and is dying. He needs a new one.” I thought of Justine and the countless others who desperately needed organ donors and hoped it wasn’t already too late for this family.
Wandering back inside, I meditated about dying children over a cup of coffee in the snack shop until the last of my sedation wore off and I could postpone leaving the hospital no longer. I made certain that Justine’s nurses in Isolation had my cellphone number, then hurried off to spend time with RJ and to relieve Colleen of her babysitting duty. Since my sister’s hospitalization, the poor woman had spent more time at the rectory than I had.
I was driving through Westlake, fighting off the urge to swallow a painkiller dry, when my phone chirped.
“Jake, it’s Tree. Just checking in. How’s your sister doing?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“If you want to skip the tribe game tonight, it’s okay by me.”
I’d completely forgotten. Tree and I usually watched televised games together whenever the Indians played the dreaded Yankees. It didn’t matter to us where Cleveland was in the standings, as long as they beat New York.
“No, that’s fine. I could use the distraction.” And I wanted him to hear the threatening message on my answering machine.
“Great. I’ll get there early so I can see the little guy before his bedtime. He’s the real reason I come over. And I’ll bring some party provisions for the grownups, cop style—doughnuts and beer.”
“Forget the doughnuts. But after getting poked in the butt by large gauge needles this morning, I could definitely use a beer. See you tonight.”
On my way to the rectory, I stopped briefly at St. Joseph’s Hospital, swiped two rolls of gauze and a surgical mask and cap from the Emergency Room, and slipped them into the toy doctor’s kit.
I was anxious to get home but needed to visit one parishioner who was terminal. As I passed the hospital chapel, I noticed Jenifer Dublikar, the head nurse in PICU, kneeling in a back pew. She whispered “amen,” stood, then noticed me.
“Oh! Hi Father. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry to disturb you. I was just passing by. It’s nice to see you on my turf once in a while.”
“Whenever I get off my shift early, I stop in and say a quick prayer for my patients.” She smiled. “I’m very good at my job, but sometimes I need help from above.” The smile faded. “Especially with Pablo. I think we’re losing him.”
“Any threatening behavior from his mother?”
“Nope. She and I have become real close. Literally. Whenever she walks into intensive care, I stay two steps away.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, I have to get home. Take care.”
Long shifts in the hospital, and prayers for her patients. When she left, I knelt and asked God to bless her and all the nurses and other hospital personnel who go above and well beyond the call of duty every day.
When I finished, I headed off to visit my dying parishioner. The elevator doors opened and a flock of Candy-Stripers spilled out like white-streaked flamingoes, giggling as they passed. I hurried inside, collided with Dr. Taylor, and dropped RJ’s gift, spilling the stolen supplies and toy stethoscope from the plastic black bag.
Taylor laughed. “I realize you took a vow of poverty but really, Jake. Want some of my old equipment? I have some used tongue depressors you could have.”
“Very funny. It’s a present for my nephew.” I collected my things and added, “I hear Pablo’s not doing well.”
A family carrying a bouquet of flowers boarded the elevator. Taylor took my arm and led me out into a quiet corridor.
“Got a few more tests to run, Jake, but Pablo’s brain damage appears irreversible. I spoke with his parents about turning off the respirator, and I may need your help with them. Miguel has always been resistant to the idea, however Tina had been onboard … until today. Soon as I started explaining the organ harvesting procedure, she grew vehemently opposed. Now she wants nothing to do with autopsies and organ donation. Not only is she against pulling the plug, she’s pushing Miguel for cremation if Pablo dies. I don’t know how to deal with her anymore.”
“Jumbled emotions aren’t unusual, Marcus.”
“Of course, but to do a complete flip-flop? One moment she wants to donate Pablo’s organs, and the next she wants cremation? Hell, I’m worried she’s having a psychotic break.”
“I suggested grief counseling. Did they ever see anyone?”
“No, Tina refused. And she won’t consent to a psych consult either. I’d appreciate any help you can give me.”
“Their world is upside down. I doubt either one is thinking clearly. I left a message on their machine and hope to speak with them tomorrow.”
“As a doctor or a priest?”
“Both.”
“Well, see if you can convince them to donate Pablo’s organs, Jake. The boy is never going home—but some other kids might, if they get his kidneys, lungs, heart, and liver.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Oh, by the way, I just saw a patient in my office that you referred to me. Father Marek. He definitely has Wernicke’s encephalopathy, and it’s a good thing you caught it when you did.”
“Please keep me posted, especially if he falls off the wagon, so I can get him back onboard.”
“Will do, Jake. He’s already asked me to keep you in the loop. Interesting guy.”
You have no idea.