Coming home usually conjures up warm and fuzzy memories. Bygone days of innocence and ease. Reconnecting with loved ones in a familiar, comforting setting.
Not so for today’s homecoming.
Clothed in a standard-issue hospital gown that leaves me vulnerable and exposed, I am lying out on a stretcher, staring at drab gray walls that insidiously suck away my life force. Decades-old fluorescent lights buzz ominously overhead like vultures circling carrion. I lie here in the belly of the beast, the institution that reared me, the place I watched my mother rally from a coma last fall only to succumb to her own miracle cure minutes later. Would Washington General be any kinder to me today? Was my treatment a panacea or would it be death by lethal injection?
“...So you sign right here, Chris, then we can get started. Chris? Did you hear what I said?” Jacobs stands before me, trying to mask his annoyance, pen poised for me to sign my life away.
“Huh?” I look to Dad and Kennedy, huddled together like misbehaving school boys banished to the corner. Back to Jacobs. “Uh, sure. Sign right here?”
“Yes.” Jacobs looks on as I sign and Dad serves as a witness. “I’ll be back in a minute with the nurse. Sit tight.” I nod. As if there’s anything else to do.
Kennedy looks around the room at the monitors and instruments, at the IV emanating from my arm. His eyes and mine meet and before he looks away, I see a glimpse of the rarest of Kennedy’s emotions—fear. Next to me are two small Mayo stands, the kind used in the operating room to hold instruments. The first Mayo is empty except for a solitary ten milliliter syringe holding a green-tinged solution and an alcohol pad. The second holds a half dozen other syringes, all dutifully labeled and organized, and filled with powerful medications to alter blood pressure and heart rate and treat seizures. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, doing my best to quell a sense of foreboding.
“Looks like you’re in good hands, Chris,” Kennedy says with feigned conviction as I finally turn away from the syringes. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”
Dad’s eyes dart from Kennedy to me. “What’d Jacobs say to expect?”
I swallow. “Could be a rough ride. Won’t know till he injects me.” We nod our heads in communal resignation. Kennedy fidgets his fingers as Dad rubs the back of his neck. I sit up and stare at the door, wishing this was already over.
Jacobs and his nurse march into the room, startling us. “All right, let’s get started.” Jacobs tears open the alcohol pad and wipes down the area of my IV he will use to deliver the solution. His nurse stands by the other Mayo stand as Jacobs uncaps the syringe and taps it, driving out the air bubbles. I eye him warily as Jacobs glances at me before settling in on his nurse. “First treatments are unpredictable; let’s be ready for anything.” Gee, thanks for the last minute pep talk. Ever thought about becoming a motivational speaker?
Jacobs pierces the tubing with his needle, injecting the medicine bit by bit. One milliliter. Two. I brace for the worse, squeezing the metal railings. He stares at the monitors above me, his face impassive, even cold. Three milliliters, then four. Nothing. Absolutely no eff—SHIT!
The monitor’s alarm screams. My heart pounds against my chest as if trying to burst free.
“His blood pressure is 200/120, Doctor.”
“I can see that, Nurse. Labetalol, please. No one’s stroking out on my watch.”
Dad’s face fills with horror as the color drains from Kennedy’s.
“What the fu—?...can’t breathe... chest killing me...”
Jacobs pulls the first syringe out of my IV and empties the second into it in one push.
Feeling light-headed, dizzy. Vision is fuzzy... fading. Searing pain in my right eye and face. Oh God! “Aaarrggh!”
My entire body is on fire, sweat pouring out of me as I hear Jacobs bark orders and push meds. It’s no use... this is not going to end well.
Then it happens.
The pain eases. My sight returns.
“BP is 160/95 and dropping. Pulse is 120 and regular. O2 saturation is—”
“I can read the damn monitors myself, Nurse!” Jacobs’ eyes bore through them as he brings me back from the edge. “That’s it. Steady, steady. Shit! BP’s bottoming out now... O2 levels are dropping. Quick, give me the Epi.”
Oh God, gonna be sick. I try to hold it in, but to no avail, as the contents of my stomach splatter on Jacobs and me.
Twenty harrowing minutes later, empty syringes littering the trays, my gown soaked and reeking, Jacobs has finally done it. He’s pulled me through.
Jacobs rubs his hands against his shirt and tie and straightens his soiled lab coat. “You had us worried, Chris.” He calls Dad and Kennedy over and addresses the three of us. “Gentlemen, it may seem like the worst is over, but the next twenty-four hours are critical if we’re to cure Chris.” He clears his throat and gathers himself. “We’ll be running Chris through a battery of tests to measure his response to the treatment, and Doctor Hyslop and I will confer so he can refine his formulation prior to Chris’ next dose.”
“No disrespect, Doc, but shouldn’t we maybe hold off on a second dose?” Kennedy glances at me. “Seems like Chris had an awfully hard time pulling through. Maybe we shouldn’t push our luck right now?”
Dad nods in agreement.
“I understand your concern, Detective, and the decision is of course entirely Chris’ to make. But you must realize this: we’re at a crossroads where there’s no turning back. Due to its immunologic nature, the timing of treatments is critical.”
Dad and Kennedy stare blankly back at Jacobs, prompting me to intervene.
“You wouldn’t get a flu shot in the middle of the summer— its effect would be lost before flu season kicked in. It’s the same idea here.”
Dad chimes in, “Makes sense,” as Kennedy nods in agreement.
“I would take your analogy a step further, Chris. This treatment imprints itself on the recipient’s immune system in ways we don’t even fully understand, so the spacing of treatments is absolutely critical for their success. Mistime a treatment by even a day or two, and we will likely lose the opportunity to cure you.”
“You mean, like, forever?” Kennedy asks.
“Yes, forever.”
My eyes dart from Kev’s to Dad’s. I am weary, spent, but resolved.
Dad starts to object but I wave him off. The time for heated discussion is over. This disease will neither control nor define me. The cure is my last and only hope for a normal life, a life in which I love, support, and enjoy Christine and James the way I am meant to. I’ll accept whatever risks I need to take to be whole again. Bowing my head, I close my eyes for a moment, then turn to Jacobs. “Understood, Doctor. Let’s press on.”