As I drive down State Highway 57, the setting sun's last rays are lighting up the clouds gathering over Green Bay. It looks a little ominous out there. Amazingly, I'm not at all tempted to speed. In fact, I'm driving about five miles under the limit. Truth is: I don't want to go to Green Bay. I'm playing with the idea that if I run away, the problem will go away. That's what I want to do. Just keep driving past Green Bay, through the cornfields of Iowa, across the plains of Nebraska, all the way to the Colorado Rockies. Perhaps the Pacific Ocean. Anywhere but here. Actually, I have no idea what a cerebral hemorrhage is. Is it life threatening? Is this trip a precautionary measure? Heck, what's a little blood on the brain, anyway? Can't the doctor just go in there and sop it up with a sponge? My mind hops from one solution to another, searching for a comforting thought.
Green Bay, next exit. Despite my desire to run, I dutifully turn off the highway and continue down side streets to northeast Wisconsin's regional brain trauma center.
Turning into the hospital driveway, I notice a sign for valet parking. How about that? Don't know why I'm so surprised. Green Bay isn't exactly a small rural town. I drive up and lower the window to ask for directions to the emergency entrance.
The friendly faced valet says, “Evening, ma'am. I'll park your car. Walk through those double doors, go down the hall, and turn right.”
Inside, the lobby is deserted. It's a sight I've never seen at 8 P.M. in a Chicagoland hospital. It looks like everyone, including the staff, has gone home for the night. My footsteps echo down the empty corridor. Rounding the corner, I run smack into Joe, the ambulance paramedic.
He grabs my shoulders. “I'm sorry, honey. But we had a serious problem on the way here. Eve suffered a grand mal seizure in the ambulance. She's in critical condition. Run, don't walk, to the fifth floor neuro-ICU.”
My body freezes in place. I'm stupefied. What happened? I thought he said he would take care of her. My mind is totally blank. All I can do is stand there and stare at Joe in stunned disbelief.
“Come with me,” he says kindly. “I'll take you upstairs.” Then he turns me around and pushes me toward a bank of elevators.
The elevator ascends in slow motion. Finally, the doors open on the fifth floor. The scene before me is utter pandemonium. Four nurses are gathered around a crash cart, clapping their hands and shouting, “Wake up!” I cautiously approach. One nurse sees me and calls out, “Are you her friend?”
I look and nod dumbly.
“Here, see if you can wake her.” There's urgency in her voice. She pushes me to the front, as the nurses part.
“Eve,” I whisper hoarsely. “It's me. Wake up.” Eve's eyes are tightly closed; her skin is sickly pale. No response.
Okay, I'll try again a little louder. “Please, wake up.” No response. Time to get tough. In a voice that would wake the dead, I bellow, “Eve, wake up now!”
Eve's eyes fly open. “Huh, what?” she asks, then shuts her eyes again.
“Great! Okay. Let's go!” the nurse commands, as she grabs my sleeve. “You come, too.”
The nurses move so quickly down the hall with the cart that I have to run to keep up with them. We all crowd into another elevator. Eve looks dead to me. A nurse informs me that we're on our way to radiology for pictures of Eve's brain. The elevator opens on a darkened reception area; a desk lamp is the only source of illumination.
“Where's the radiologist?” the panicked ICU nurse asks a girl sitting behind a desk.
“We've paged him. He's on the way.” The girl rises from the desk and steps out of the shadows. She must be the radiology technician, but she looks so young.
The ICU nurse is impatient. “We've got to get this patient hooked up. Now! She's hanging on by a thread.”
“We're setting up the equipment,” the tech replies. She's backing up to the door, away from the threatening ICU nurse. “Go ahead. Take her in.”
If I had any cookies to toss, I would've done so at that moment. Sheer panic pervades the atmosphere. The nurses bulldoze their way through a door with the cart and disappear into a harshly lit room. The door closes on them, but I can still feel the panic.
At that moment, an outside door opens and a handsome young guy in a jogging outfit runs in, waves hi to me, and continues on into the room. His Nikes look brand-new. In a flash, he's back.
“Hi, I'm Dr. Jenkins, the radiologist,” he says with a movie-star smile. “I came as quickly as I could. While they're setting up, let's look at the scans from Sturgeon Bay and I'll explain what's happening to your friend.”
He spreads pictures of Eve's skull on a light box. “Hmmm,” he says. “It appears she's had a brain aneurysm. See? This area here is the blood on her brain.” He makes a sweeping hand circle.
I have no idea what I'm looking at. Which area? Is it black or white or gray? Who cares? Whatever, it seems to me to be everywhere.
“Well, they should be ready for me now. The neurosurgeon upstairs needs our scans to decide whether to operate. He'll talk to you then. But, for now, why don't you sit in that waiting room down there?” He points down a dimly lit hallway. “We're hurrying, but it's still going to take some time. We'll come for you when we're done.”
In the darkened waiting room, I manage to discern a lamp in the shadows and switch it on. I scan the room for a pay phone and then realize there's a phone right next to me on a magazine-covered table. Hope I have my calling card. I check my wallet. Here it is! But whom should I call? All of our close friends are five hours away in Chicago.
Since Eve and I devoted our first year in Baileys Harbor to rehabbing our 50-year-old house, we barely know our next-door neighbors, let alone anyone else in town or Door County.
But it's getting late; nearly 10 P.M. Must have lost some time in the black hole of panic. I'd better call somebody to calm me down. Maybe Cass.
Digging in my purse, I find Cass's crumpled business card. She's Eve's closest friend down in Naperville, Illinois, our old stomping grounds.
Cass and Eve had met about ten years ago in a golf league. At that time, Eve was a year into her young widowhood. Her husband had died of cancer complications at the age of 48. Cass had just lost her husband, 43, to a heart attack. She had said, “He was dead before he hit the ground.” Anyway, their friendship had grown as together they coped with their tragic losses and sudden single status. When I met Eve, we became a threesome.
Luckily, her home phone number is on the card. “Please be home. Please be awake. Please pick up,” I pray as the phone keeps ringing.
“Hello,” a sleepy voice mumbles.
“Hi, Cass. It's Donna,” my voice cracks. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“What's wrong?”
“Oh, God, Cass, Eve has had a brain aneurysm. At least, that's what they told me. She's unconscious. She had a seizure in the ambulance.” Now I'm whimpering and shaking so hard I can barely hold the phone.
Cass takes an audible deep breath. “Okay. Calm down. Where are you? I'm coming up.”
Relief washes over me. She cares! “No, don't come up tonight, Cass. It's a five-hour trip. The deer are out. It's too risky. Eve's unconscious anyway. What could you do?”
“Calm you down, for one thing.”
“It's okay. I'll get it together. I feel calmer already, just talking to you.”
“Where's Eve now?”
“In radiology. The surgeon needs a brain scan before he can decide what to do. That's all I know right now. I'll be meeting with him soon.”
“All right, here's my plan. First, I'll call somebody from the office to cover for me tomorrow. Hmmm, I need somebody to watch the cat, too. But I can leave here at 6 A.M. Where should we meet?”
“I'll call you on your cell phone tomorrow and give you directions.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see the young tech signaling me. “Gotta go, Cass. I think they want me upstairs.”
“Calm down. I'll say a prayer. Good luck. Call me anytime if something happens.”
“Thanks.” I hang up quickly. Stomach's churning again. The calmness was short-lived. The tech guiding me to the elevator bank tells me Eve's already been taken upstairs.
Finally, the elevator arrives. Alone again, I begin the slow ascent to hell
When the doors open, I'm greeted by a forty-ish man in a navy business suit. His blue eyes twinkle under slicked-back blond hair. His grand moustache highlights a warm smile. Holding out his hand, he introduces himself as Dr. Brum (not his real name), the neurosurgeon. I detect an accent. German?
He takes me into his office and motions toward a chair. I brace myself for the news.
“Are you a relative of Eve's?” he asks.
“No, I'm her friend, Donna Siles, her roommate. We moved here from Chicago. There's no one else around. But I have power of attorney.”
He smiles. “Good. Well, your friend has had a very bad brain aneurysm. That means a weakened blood vessel has burst in her brain, spraying it with blood. Understand? Normally, I would wait 24 hours before operating. But I fear she will not make it through the night without surgery. I must operate immediately and clip the aneurysm to stop it from bleeding. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” I lie. “Is the surgery dangerous?”
“No, the surgery is not that risky. It's the 48-hour recovery period that's critical. Does Eve have an advance directive?” he asks. “I need to know her wishes concerning life support.”
Alarm bells start ringing in my head as I hand him the medical power of attorney document, including the advance directive. I've had this life support discussion before, when my parents were dying of cancer. In my mother's case, I learned that the question of life support is never simple or clear-cut.
“No life support,” I say slowly, emphatically. “It's Eve's wish. It's my wish.” Then I sit back in the chair, waiting for the inevitable “but.”
He peruses the paper. “I see. No extraordinary measures.” He looks up. “But following the surgery, we will need to put Eve on a breathing apparatus. Her brain will recover more quickly without the additional burden of breathing control. Do you understand? I need your consent. We've got to give her a chance, right? She's only 55. She's too young.”
“Yes, I'll consent to that.” My head is nodding yes, but my brain is screaming, “No! No! You'll regret it!”
“Good. Now, if everything goes well, I expect Eve will be in ICU for a week and in a regular hospital bed for another week, maybe two. Then she'll be admitted to our inpatient hospital rehabilitation program for a month.”
“A month?” The words jump out of my mouth. “What kind of rehab takes a month?” Clearly, I do not comprehend the consequences of a cerebral hemorrhage.
The surgeon sighs. “Eve has already suffered extensive brain damage in the personality and communications sector of her brain. She will never be the same. She'll have difficulty communicating and processing information. She'll have memory loss. Her mood will be changed. She'll be subdued, probably depressed.”
My mind rejects most of his words of doom. I can't—won't— believe it. Instead, I focus on visualizing a subdued Eve. The vision does not compute.
“But brain damage can be reversed, can't it?” I protest. “Eve's smart, a college grad. She reads all the time. She's outgoing. Can't the damage be reversed?” I'm pleading for a positive response.
“Possibly,” he says hesitantly. “But only time will tell. Now I have to prepare to operate,” he says, rising from the chair. “Are you staying in the ICU waiting room for the night or going home?”
“I don't know.” I agonize with the decision to stay or go. I'm not feeling well; the bronchitis is coming back. “I think I better go home.” I desperately want to wake up in my own bed and discover this is just a nightmare.
“Good idea. You don't look well. Listen, everything should be okay. I'll call you if something goes wrong. Otherwise, assume the surgery is a success. It could take four or five hours. Go get some sleep.”
As he opens the door, we're greeted by a skinny guy with owl eyes and oversized glasses. He says, “Miss Siles? We need to talk. Follow me, please.”
As we walk down the hall, he introduces himself as the pastoral care director. Maybe he wants to say a prayer for Eve? Okay with me, I could use some spiritual solace now.
The moment we're seated in his office, he gets right down to business. “I understand you're not a blood relative,” he says accusingly, “and you have a power of attorney document. May I see it, please?”
My goodness, word travels quickly. I hand it over.
“While I read this, please fill out these admissions forms.” He pushes a pile of papers toward me.
I race through the forms. Finished. He's still reading the POA very carefully, taking a long time. Perhaps if he cleaned his glasses, he could read it faster. I just want to go home.
“Who is this second person listed here?”
“Eve's cousin, Vivian, in Chicago.”
“Oh, good, a blood relative. Why didn't she sign the power of attorney paper?”
“I don't know. I didn't notice she hadn't,” I reply. Damn, I thought Eve handled that way back when.
“Well, we have to call her right now,” he says, pushing the phone toward me.
“No, we don't,” I retaliate. “It's nearly midnight. She and her husband are in bed. She never answers the phone after nine. Her answering machine will take the message.”
“Fine. Then leave her a message to contact this office or you. We need the medical POA signed this weekend.”
He wins. I leave a message for her to call me first thing in the morning. Then he makes another request. “You have to select a local funeral home now.”
“A what?” I stutter. “Why?” Geez, maybe Eve died while I was meeting with the surgeon. I haven't actually seen her for several hours. I start shaking again. “Is Eve dead?”
“No, she's in surgery,” he calmly replies. “But she arrived in critical condition. In the event she dies, where do you want us to send her body? A funeral home in Door County?” He looks down at the checklist in front of him. How very efficient.
“I haven't had a chance to think about it,” I reply, not as sarcastically as I might on a good day. “I guess I'd ship her to Chicago. That's where her friends are. Her parents owned a funeral home. They sold it to, um, Blake-Lamb. They have so many locations; I'm not sure which one I'd choose. Probably one near Naperville. Eve lived there for 20 years and . . .” I stop talking, realizing I'm babbling.
“Well, we need you to pick a local Green Bay funeral home. That's where she'd go first; then they ship the body to Chicago.” He hands me the yellow pages. “Pick one.”
Oh, for heavens’ sakes. This is insane. If she's not dead, why push it? I glare at him, but his arms are crossed. This guy's not going to budge.
“Okay, I choose this one.” I point at a big black-bordered ad. It looks depressing enough.
“Good choice.” He fills in the blank on his checklist with the funeral home name.
“Now, may I go home?” I ask.
“One more thing. I notice you checked off that Eve is Catholic. Would you like her to receive the ‘Sacrament of the Living’?”
I almost choke. The “Sacrament of the Living” is the reformed Catholic Church's watered-down version of the traditional “Last Rites.” In the past, Catholics would call a priest to anoint the sick person on his deathbed and to hear a last confession. Very meaningful and comforting. The new version is more priest-friendly. No confession; just a sprinkle of oil. It could be performed at any stage of illness, mostly at the visiting priest's convenience. No more late night calls for them. To me, the “just in case” version is a joke.
However, I am not sure Eve would agree. Perhaps this isn't the time for me to mess around with her spiritual afterlife. Stuffing my personal annoyance with the church's reform, I tell the pastoral director, “Yes, please give her the sacrament. Thank you very much.”
Finally, he rises from his chair. We're done! So much for spiritual comfort. As I head for the door, he says, “By the way, my vacation begins tomorrow. I'll be on a cruise for a week. If you need anything, Sister Dorothy will be handling my cases.”
Well, okay. “Bon voyage.”
The funeral home selection process makes me second-guess my decision to drive home. It's after midnight. Think I'll check out the ICU waiting room. Maybe I'll grab a couple of hours of shut-eye, then go home, feed the cats, and return in time to meet Cass. We can stand watch together through the critical recovery period, whatever that entails.
As I walk into the waiting room, a large fifty-ish woman looks up from the book she's reading. She's munching potato chips. It appears that someone's extended family has populated every couch. Carry-out fried chicken containers dot the coffee tables. There's no place for me except a chair in the corner.
“There's an extra blanket over there,” the woman says with a friendly nod. “Looks like my family has taken over all the couches. We're here for my son. He was injured in a motorcycle accident.”
“Sorry. How is he?” I ask.
“He's unconscious. Traumatic brain injury. And you?”
“My roommate has a brain aneurysm. She's in surgery.”
“Oh, that's too bad. I'll say a prayer for her.”
“Thanks. Are you from out of town?”
“No, Green Bay. Haven't been home in four days.” She seems proud of the fact, but I wonder why she hasn't been home. Almost anywhere in Green Bay is only 15 minutes from this hospital. Maybe she wants to be close to her son. Well, the poor family doesn't need to catch my bronchitis, too. If I start to cough, I'll wake up all of them. I told the neurosurgeon I was going home, so that's what I'll do.
Shuffling down the corridor, I am overwhelmed by the silence. Is there anything lonelier than an empty hospital late at night?
I've been there before. Fifteen years earlier, my dad had died on the Fourth of July, as fireworks lit up the night sky outside the hospital window. Two years later, my mom's lungs failed on New Year's Eve at midnight. As I helplessly watched her gasp for breath, I asked the nurses to phone the doctor for a knockout drug prescription. Finally, they found him. I could hear the New Year's revelers in the background as the doctor warned me that a drug would send my mom into a final coma. So be it, I had said. The poor woman is out of her mind with panic, drowning in air. In the end, the doctor was right. She slipped into a coma and died 30 hours later.
Where's the damn exit door? Oh, yeah, way down there.
God, I hate hospitals.