Trapped (27 page)

Chapter Fifty-Two

Phoebe was leaning across Mike’s bed talking to him when Lisa arrived in the ICU. When Phoebe noticed Lisa, she turned back to Mike. “Look who’s here.”

Lisa moved into Mike’s field of vision. His lids were open
, and his eyes wandered up and down, and then they froze on Lisa.

My God—it’s Lisa! She’s a bit blurry, but it’s she.

I command my
hand to move—nothing.

I’d give anything to feel her hand in mine.

She’s staring into my eyes. I think she’s trying to read my mind.

Lisa smiled as she stared into Mike’s eyes, and then moved her hand into his. “Is that what you wanted?”

She felt the warmth of her love for Mike as he blinked once for
‘yes’.

“Are you in any pain?”

No.

“You know that you’re in Brier ICU. You were hit by a car.”

Yes.

“The neurosurgeon says that your attention span may be limited at first, so give me a ‘no’ if I’m boring you
, or you’re too tired.”

Yes.

“Yes, I’m boring you?” She smiled.

No.

Phoebe helped Lisa turn Mike so his eyes faced the side of the bed. Staring into his eyes, Lisa told him about the accident, his injuries, the surgeries and her undying hope. She tried to read something in his eyes, but could not.

“Do you want to hear more?”

Yes.

She reviewed the facts
about the toxic megacolon and the possibility of surgery to remove his colon.

No—No—No!

Julie Kramer says it may be necessary to save your life.

No—No—No!

Lisa took a deep breath, and then asked, “You’ve heard of the locked-in syndrome?”

Yes.

“That’s what you have, and nobody’s sure about what to do, or how long it will last.”

I can’t spend the rest of my life this way. I’m frozen like the display of a prehistoric man in the Museum of Natural History
.
It’s
the closest thing to death while still on earth.

I feel the seductive call of sleep.

“I think he’s asleep,” Lisa
said. “I can only imagine what’s going on in his mind. Should I wake him up?”

“I think we’d better attend to his needs
, rather than ours. Let him sleep.”

“Lisa, prepare to jibe
,”
I say, watching the mainsail of our Cal 39 sailboat.

“If you make me duck for my life again, Mike, then
I’m reserving the helm position for the next ten years.”

“Nat
ure made that decision for us, sweetheart. I’m so big that even with ten minutes warning, I still have difficulty in avoiding the boom.”

“A likely story
,” Lisa said.

“Ready to jibe.”

“Ready.”

I push the tiller quickly to the opposite helm as the
stern of the boat shifts, and the sail slams across the midline to the opposite side.

Lisa raises her head, then says, “Next time, let’s do a chicken jibe
—yes, I’ll admit it; I’m the chicken.”

“If you brought the boom in more, the jibe wouldn’t be so violent.”

“I don’t know if you noticed it, Mike, but I’m not one of the guys.”

The sail filled on the new tack and the boat drove forward in near silence as the hull slid through the gray-green water with a soft hiss.

We slide between Peninsula Point on Belvedere Island and Stuart Point on Angel Island
, and wind up in the lee of Angel Island just opposite China Cove where I move to the mast and drop the sail.

“I’m sure glad you’re not one of the guys,”
I say as I take Lisa in my arms and we embrace.

“Mike. Can you hear me?” Lisa asked.

Yes, I respond
—saddened that it was only a dream.

“You slept six hours. Are you okay?”

Yes.

“I have to go soon.
Got to take Daisy out. You remember Daisy?”

Yes.

“I have one other thing I must tell you . . .”

What next? I think.

Yes.

I can feel Lisa grasping my hand. It’s warm.

Lisa bent over. She slid her cheek next to Mike’s, and whispered into his ear, “I’m pregnant. It’s a boy—your son. We’re having a baby boy.”

Lisa stared into Mike’s eyes
, as tears flowed down both his cheeks.

Chapter Fifty-Three

“I won’t make this decision alone,” Lisa said, “Mike can make up his own mind.”

“This situation is deadly serious,” Julie Kramer said, as they stood at Mike’s
bedside the next morning. “Each choice carried its own risk, and who’s in a position to guarantee that Mike’s participation under these circumstances is competent and informed? We can’t get into his head to be sure.”

“Lay it out, here at the bedside, Julie, for both of us,
and then ask Mike what he wants to do.” She paused. “Afterward, you decide if Mike’s competent enough to make the decision.”

Julie reviewed Mike’s condition, the toxic megacolon
, and the risks of waiting too long. “If the colon ruptures and he develops peritonitis, it may be too late to save his life.”

“Don’t talk to him in the third person, Julie. He understands.”

“I’m sorry. Delay could cost you your life, Mike. Do you understand?”

Yes.

“I’d like to put you on the schedule for late this afternoon,” Julie said.

No.

“You understand the risk of delaying?”

Yes.

Julie stared at Lisa, and then turned back to Mike. “You do want to live, don’t you?”

Lisa gasped.

Yes.

“Then let me do what I think is right.”

No.

Lisa grasped Mike’s hand. “Maybe he wants more time to get through this without surgery.”

Yes.

“How much time?” Julie
asked.

“One day?” Lisa
asked.

No.

“Two days?”

Yes.

“This is a mistake,” Julie said. “I learned a long time ago to not ignore my instincts. Right now, they’re screaming at me that delaying surgery is a tragic mistake.”

Am I really able to decide?

How much loss can any person take?

I’ve argued with families that they were letting their emotions get in the way of rational decisions—I did my best to not let that happen.

Can I be rational when I’m brain damaged
, depressed, and overwhelmed by loss?

I will my body to move
—my hands—my feet—anything, but still it’s only my eyes and lids. I open and close my lids several times.

“What is it, Michael?” Lisa asked.

What’s the use?

I feel myself drifting toward sleep, the one place where I’m just like anyone else.

“I’m not finished with you two,” Julie
said, smiling, and then giving Lisa a hug. “I’ll be back this afternoon. Remember, I don’t give up easily.”

My condition, my damaged brain—I really love that concept. At times the distinction between dream and reality is vague
,
but, having the option, I prefer my dreams. I know when I’m dreaming, and resist surfacing into the sea of deadly reality.

I understand suicide as an altered assessment of some reality
,
real or perceived. I understand the chemical imbalances that lead to despair and hopelessness
,
synaptic aberrations in search of the right chemical fix:—Prozac—Zoloft. What’s the chemical fix for my reality?

Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

That’s a joke—how couldn’t I feel that way?

Lisa
’s still at my side.

A baby
—a son—I’ll make one hell of a dad.

It’s not asking that much
is it to move a finger or a toe. I focus my attention, visualizing the small finger of my left hand—move damn it, move.

Nothing.

I live in dark despair. It covers me—I can’t breathe. I’m gasping—gasping.

“Something’s wrong,” Lisa said. “His pulse is racing.”

Phoebe pulled off Mike’s sheet, first making a general assessment
, and then going on to check his vitals, wounds, drains, etc. No change.

Together, they drew the
tape-measure around his abdomen, and pulled it tight.

“Thirty-nine inches,” Lisa
said. “That’s better.”

“Don’t,” Phoebe
said.

“Don’t what?”

“You’re pulling it too tight. That won’t make him any better.”

“You do it,” Lisa
said.

“Forty inches,” Phoebe
said. “Maybe a little better, but no worse, for sure.”

“Do you think
…?”

“Don’t. Let’s wait for Julie.”

“Should we wake him up?”

“Go ahead.”

Lisa shook Mike, and then said, “Are you there, sweetheart?”

That’s a dumb question
—where the hell else can I be?

“Can you hear me?” Lisa
asked with a louder voice.

I’m not deaf. Dumb for sure, but not deaf.

“He’s not reacting,”
cried Lisa. “Something’s wrong.”

I like this
—affecting the world by doing nothing. That’s something, isn’t it?

I feel suddenly at ease. I have nothing to prove
—no responsibilities.

My thoughts sink below the horizon of my conscious mind
, and escape from the hideous reality of my life. I seek, and then embrace, the serenity of sleep.

Chapter Fifty-Four (Week 29)

When Julie returned that afternoon, she came with an attitude.

“You called me
, Lisa, because you respect my opinion,” Julie said, “yet you continue to ignore it.”

“I don’t want to be
flippant, Julie, but I’ll tell you what Mike would say.”

“And that is
?”

“Welcome to the practice of medicine. All we can do is recommend and maybe coerce to some degree, but we can’t make the decision for anyone else.”

“I don’t want him to die,” Julie said.

“And I do
?” Lisa said, turning red.

“Let me call surgery and make arrangements.”

“No. Mike was clear about his desires, and I won’t disregard his wishes.”

Lisa was mentally exhausted from hours at Mike’s bedside, the fight with Julie, and her own misgivings. She arrived home at 9 that evening. After Daisy’s greeting routine, Lisa walked the dog, and tried to calm her mind, but it was impossible.

When she returned, the phone was ringing.

“Lisa, it’s Lilly. I’m sorry to call so late, but I wanted to catch up.”

Catch up?
Lisa thought.

“I haven’t seen anyone from the family in a few days,” Lisa
said.

“We want to know what’s going on
.”

“Not enough to call or come to the hospital.”

Lilly remained silent.

“I’m sorry,” Lisa
said. “This situation has overwhelmed me. I’m not thinking straight.”

“There’s a lot of that around. How are you feeling?”

“I’m tired all the time, and emotionally drained.”

Lisa brought Lilly up to date on Mike’s problems, the possibility
of surgery, and details of the locked-in syndrome.

Lilly began crying.

Lisa joined in.

“This may sound ridiculous, but Mike’s alive. We can communicate. He’s participating in his own care. It’s a miracle
, and, if we’re lucky enough, we’ll find another one.”

“Can I talk with him?”

“It would thrill him to see his sisters.”

“And his mother?”

“Of course, but…”

“I know.”

“From every imaginable aspect, this is a hell of a situation. Everyone involved in Mike’s care is acting in his interest, and if Nora sticks her nose in our business again, or tries to control our decisions, I’ll bar her from seeing her son. I don’t want to do that, but I will.”

“We’ll be over tomorrow.”

Try as she might, she couldn’t erase the memory of Lilly’s words and Nora’s disdain.

What can I do about Nora?

Am I being rational?

Doesn’t she only want the best for Mike, for me and the baby?

Why did I let her get to me?

It was neurotic, Lisa knew, but she couldn’t let go of the clash with Nora.
What’s wrong with me? First, I have a crappy relationship with my own mother, and now with Nora.

Lisa tried to find a comfortable position, but each time she settled in, the baby vetoed her decision.

Daisy snuggled beside her
, wagging her tail.

She tried singing again, but the baby became more active
.
Maybe he really doesn’t like my voice.
She tried her controlled breathing and relaxation exercises, and the baby’s movement slowed.
I can’t transmit all my aggravation to my baby
, she thought.

Lisa and the baby slept poorly
that night. They’d both tossed in an asynchronous ballet of chaotic movements, unable to get their acts together
.

When Harvey Russo stepped into Roberta’s room the week before and looked at his daughter’s sleeping form, his mind raced back to the little girl who had grown up afraid to leave her mother’s side.

She’d been the perfect child and girl, so much that Harvey and Teresa had become concerned. When she
had entered her teens, they were relieved at first, to see the spark of rebellion, but by the time she had reached fifteen, it flamed out of control. At first it was alcohol, and then marijuana. Her grades dropped, and they’d suspended her from school four times.

Harvey and Teri
had talked with her, and had her evaluated by several psychiatrists. They tried everything from bribes to threats. Substance abuse programs, even an inpatient stay that lasted a month, did nothing to modify her behavior.

“You’ve got to stop the drinking and the drugs,” Teresa
said.

“I don’t know why you make such a big deal about it.” Roberta stretched and scratched her head and neck. “Half the kids at school drink and do drugs. It’s no problem. It’s only for fun. I can stop any time I want.”

They became more alarmed when Roberta lost weight, and became unable to sleep at night. In the morning, they’d find her on the floor in her clothes.

Each exacerbation in Roberta’s drug abuse
was followed by physical, emotional, and intellectual deterioration. They were unable to do anything, but watch.

“Look into her eyes, Harvey,” Teri
said. “They’re the dead eyes of a lost soul.”

“I know. What else can we do?”

A week later, as Harvey sat in his office completing paperwork, his office manager said, “I have Teresa on the line. She says it’s urgent.”

Harvey felt an ache in his abdomen as he picked up the phone.

“It’s Roberta,” Teresa
said. “She’s in jail, charged with possession of methamphetamine, and possession of methamphetamine for distribution and sale. You must get her out.”

“Get her out for what
? So she can kill herself? Maybe it’s time to let her deal with the consequences of her actions?”

“Don’t talk about our daughter like you’re her social worker
, or her shrink. She’s still our little girl. We must help.”

“That depends on how you define
‘help’, doesn’t it?”

Harvey drove downtown to the Oakland City Jail on Broadway. As he waited for his daughter, he sat and looked around the room. Men, women, and a few older children sat in partitions talking to their loved ones behind the glass no-contact barriers. The room smelled of cigarettes, stale perfume, and human body odor.

A husky guard brought Roberta into the room, removed her handcuffs and leg irons, and sat her in the chair across from Harvey. She was barely recognizable. Her straggly dark-brown hair fell across bloodshot eyes. Her face showed red scabs on her cheeks and nose. She twitched and moved continuously, unable to sit still.

“Daddy, you must get me out of here. I can’t stand it.”

She placed her head down
and looked up at Harvey, her red eyes brimming with tears.

Harvey’s first instinct was to reach through the glass to caress his daughter
—to ease her suffering.

“What happened?” he asked.

“It was all a mistake,” she said, placing a trembling hand against the glass. Her eyes darted away, unable to meet his. “It wasn’t my shit. I didn’t even know it was there.”

As he looked at her hand, Harvey noticed the fine tremor
, and the fingernails chewed into the nail beds.

“I don’t know what to do. I think we need to wait until they arraign you
, and then I’ll arrange for an attorney.”

Her eyes widened. “Don’t you understand that I
’ve got to get out of here now?”

“I don’t think…
”

“I’m crashing, Daddy
—I’m crashing. Don’t you know what that means? I’ve got to get out.”

He watched in awe as Roberta’s agitation increased. She licked her lips, shook, and he noted several facial spasms
— involuntary tics.

“I’ll do the best I can. Maybe I can talk with the jail physician and get help for you during withdrawal.”

“Are you fucking insane?” She screamed, and then paused, trying to control herself. The guard approached, but Harvey raised his palm to show that everything was under control. “I’m so sorry, Daddy, but you don’t understand. I can’t stay here. I can’t go through this cold turkey.” She stood, and then threw herself against the glass, banging against the thick pane with both fists. Two guards grabbed her from behind, placed her in cuffs, attached them to her waist chain, and reapplied the shackles to her ankles.

“Daddy
! Daddy!” She screamed, as they dragged her from the room.

Harvey sat
stunned for a moment, trying to digest the nightmare he’d witnessed. He spent his life helping others, but now found himself unable to help his own daughter.