Operation Subdue

by R. J. Castille

  “Jensen?” she questioned, her voice wavering as she waited for me to acknowledge her. I simply nodded, annoyed yet again by the medical community as a whole. She nodded curtly, pushed the rest of the way inside the exam room and set a small box of supplies on the counter. Without a word, she commenced with pulling several items from inside the box and laying them out neatly. When she finished her task at hand, she finally turned and addressed me again.

  “I will be delivering your cardiac monitor and answering any questions you may have. Let’s get started, shall we?” She was almost too cheerful as she turned her attention to the items on the counter. She picked up what looked like a pager with two wires protruding from it. At the end of each wire was a lead. As instructed, I lifted my shirt up above my chest and watched as she stuck two circular pads to my skin, one below my ribcage on the right and one above my heart on the left. She connected the leads to each one, taking note of the color she was attaching. As she continued, she explained what she was doing in a robotic fashion. She pointed out the instruction card had illustrations of the same steps she was taking so that I could follow suit once I was at home.

  Thirty days seemed like a long time to wear a monitor, and everyone I talked to about it was shocked at such a long timeframe. Those I spoke to who had to wear a monitor before only had to do a three-day run, which only led to a myriad of questions in my mind. Why so long? Were they doing it just to make it such a pain in the ass that I would give up and wander back to the pasture where the rest of the sheep remained complacent and quiet? I almost asked that of the woman when she finished her speech when she asked if I had any questions. Honestly, that would have been my question, but thought better of it and kept my mouth shut.

  Wired up, I left the building and wandered back to my car. My skin itched where the leads were attached to my body and I was having issues figuring out how to manage the contraption’s wiring that came up and out of my shirt awkwardly. After wrestling with it for several moments, I slid behind the steering wheel of my car and headed back to my own office. One thing down, one more test to be completed.

  Later that day, I received a phone call from the department at Kellogg Premier that would handle my echocardiogram. I made an appointment, asked if there were any special instructions and made a note of it on my calendar. Of course, I knew I would receive a reminder text message and an email confirmation later, but I had my own system and always adhered to it so I didn’t lose track of things that I needed to do. I still felt like I was wasting my time, but at least things seemed to be moving in the right direction.

  The following week, I was sitting in another waiting room, waiting on someone to call me to the back for my echocardiogram. When they finally called my name, I was more than ready to get the procedure out of the way. I was growing weary of spending all of my time at one facility or another, yet still had no information to go on. Meanwhile, the flutter in my chest returned and I pressed the button on the monitor and watched as it indicated it was “recording” again. The nurse waited patiently as I gathered myself together and followed her into the back.

  As instructed, I undressed from the waist up, removed the monitor temporarily and lay waiting on the short, exam table for the technologist to arrive. The same as before, since I was there for a specific purpose, no vitals were taken, not even a blood pressure. This routine was starting to strike me as funny. You would think that, since I was getting all of the procedures done in connection with a blood pressure issue, they would want to continue to monitor it. Instead, they ignored it like they seemed to do everything else.

  An echocardiogram is a fascinating procedure. They literally look into your heart, while it is beating and take images with and without color to show the different sections of the heart. The color images were done to show the blood flow of the patient, indicating to whoever reads the images that something is off if they see a number of situations that can occur. I watched as the tech took countless images at different angles and for different durations of time. She also took some videos to show the heart while it was beating, how my blood was flowing and zoomed in on the valves that control it all.

  The tech is not allowed to tell you if they see anything or not, so I did not even bother asking, but I wanted to so badly. I wanted to ask if she saw anything amiss as she passed the probe over my chest onto my side and pressed in from another angle. Knowing what the answer would be, I just kept my questions to myself and allowed her to complete her task without interruption. I had made my appointment with the cardiologist and within a week would be able to discuss what was seen during the echocardiogram at that time. I hated to wait but knew I would get nowhere fast with the tech even if I did ask.

  That evening, while lounging at home in bed, Roger thought it would be a good idea if I left the monitor on while we had sex, just to see what happened. Of course, he was not aware that the monitor would not register anything unless I pressed the button and told it to record, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, so I went along with his plan. I teased him that he was actually getting busy with a cyborg, he just didn’t know it. It was amusing, despite the serious implications of what I was going through, so we both had a good laugh at my expense.

  As I lay next to him afterward, the soft sound of his breathing the only thing I could hear, I started to wonder if they ever would find out what was happening. They had done very little for me so far, dismissed my symptoms and chalked them up to issues with my lifestyle, which I subsequently addressed myself, and yet the problem remained. I began to fear that they would never find out and I would be left suffering until I dropped dying on the floor and then, and only then, would they even bother to do anything for me. It all seemed hopeless and a waste of time. I started to feel like that is exactly what they wanted.

  I got my answer when I visited the cardiologist for the first time. She was a short, petite-framed woman with poufy, eighties hair and a bad attitude. The way she looked at me made me want to crawl out of my skin and run screaming from the room. Instead, I gripped the side of the exam table tightly and tried to ignore my impulses.

  Dr. Cece Garrison sat on a short stool in front of the computer monitor. She scrolled through my chart, nodding occasionally before moving on to the next page. When she was finally finished, she looked back up at me, staring straight at me for the first time.

  “Well, Ms. Jensen, your echocardiogram looks,” she hesitated for a moment, a split second that brought fear and doubt into the mix in an instant, “just fine. Nothing at all to speak of.” There was something wrong with her response. The slight hesitation told me that she wasn’t exactly being completely truthful. Dr. Garrison was hiding something, and I knew it.

  “Then tell me, doctor,” I was highly irritated at that point and doing my best to contain my anger, “what the hell IS wrong with me? There is something going on, I feel it constantly throughout the day, the flutter and strange pressure in my chest and you and your fellow physicians are doing everything you can to ignore it. If it isn’t my heart, then what is it?” I was reeling with white-hot anger; the room was swaying and I felt the rise of my blood pressure as I sat and waited for her to answer me. She looked on, a smug, smile pasted to her face. Dr. Garrison had no intention of giving me a real answer that much was clear.

  “So, who gave you the cardiac monitor?” she was not really asking me, she was just using it as an excuse to change the subject, and fast. Dr. Garrison scanned my chart quickly, nodding to herself again.

  “Dr. Barbosa, my primary,” I returned, trying desperately to get my temperament back under control. I wanted nothing more than to jump at her, wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze until she turned blue. Maybe then I would have her full and undivided attention.

  “Well, Ms. Jensen,” I could tell she was stifling a laugh as she spoke, “we will just have to wait until the thirty days has run its course and see what your monitor report says.” I was afraid of that, more waiting and still no information, not a clue as to
what could be causing me to feel like I was. None of the doctors so far at Kellogg Premier seemed to have an answer, a solution or a clue and I was getting fed up with their run around.

  -8-

  Elaine

  It was a day like any other. Busy on my feet throughout my shift, I barely had time to breathe, let alone worry about anything else. Almost as if it were intentional, like the powers that be wanted to keep me occupied, I scurried about that afternoon minding my own business. I had not given Ragan a second thought in many weeks and her name was barely a whisper in my mind. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

  I took the vitals of another patient, roomed them on the far side of the urgent care department, and wandered back to my station where my computer waited. As I approached, I saw an envelope laying on my keyboard that had not been there before. No other staff members were behind the desk and I had been alone at the station for at least an hour while the others took their lunch. I was perplexed as I lifted the blank envelope from my desk and lowered myself into the chair.

  Glancing around me, I flipped the envelope over in my hand, inspecting it closely. It was nothing special, a small, invitation-sized envelope with nothing on it. At first, I imagined someone dropped it on my desk by accident, forgetting to check behind themselves for anything they may have left behind. Without another thought, I slipped my finger into the small space at the corner of the flap and ran it along the edge, releasing the adhesive that kept it in place. Pulling a single piece of paper from inside, I read the words carefully. Instead of realizing I had someone else’s document by mistake, I quickly found that it was in fact addressed to me.

  Dear Ms. Cooper,

  We are of the same mind. I have some things I need to share with you, but we must be extremely careful. Meet me at the coffee shop at the corner of Barton Road and Kingston Boulevard in two hours. Take care that no one follows you or knows where you are going. Trust me, you definitely want to hear what I have to say.

  Signed,

  A Friend

  I re-read the note several times, my thoughts far away, contemplating who could have possibly delivered the message without anyone else being aware. My mind raced, searching for an explanation, finding none and then circling back around again. I vaguely remembered a member of maintenance meandering through the department a few moments before I discovered the envelope and concluded that they must have left it for me. But why? My mind was not going to let it go and I resolved to take my lunch late so I could get to the bottom of it.

  Two hours later, I was throwing my jacket over my shoulders, and pulling it around my neck to shield me against the wind as I walked. The coffee shop the note referred to was a mere three blocks from Kellogg Premier, a short walk and I would be there. I was uneasy of course, stealing glances over my shoulder every chance I got, watching closely for signs of being followed as the note had cautioned me about. It was silly, I had done nothing to warrant sneaking around, but there I was, moving quickly in the direction of Barton Road.

  The sign loomed in the distance, bright red with stark, black letters declaring to those who cared to look that the best coffee in town was inside those walls. Safely inside, I ordered a latte and took a seat in the far corner inside the establishment, eyes darting around nervously each time someone walked through the door. An elderly couple saw me eyeing them from across the room as they approached the barista on the other side of the counter. The woman’s eyes met mine before diverting quickly to a spot on the wall above my head, as if that was what she was looking at the entire time. Laughing at my own preposterous behavior, I sipped the warm beverage, taking several small swallows that warmed me from the inside out. I barely noticed the figure that appeared virtually out of nowhere to my right before they were standing right in front of me.

  “Elaine Cooper?” nervous energy filled the air between the stranger and I as he looked around the room, checking every patron out of suspicion before turning his attention back to me.

  “Yes, that’s me. Whose asking?” I had no idea who he was. He looked somewhat familiar, but I could not put a name with the face that hovered above me looking down at me, brows knitted together tightly, emphasizing the fact that he was clearly nervous just talking to me. I looked on curiously as he lowered himself slowly into the seat opposite from me.

  “Don’t open this here and be extremely careful with what’s inside. Wait until you get home, but you must read this and take heed.” Bony fingers pushed another envelope across the surface of the table toward me. He shifted in his seat and looked around again, his face a pale mask hiding his intentions.

  “Who are you? Why are we here?” I had a million questions flying through my head but could only manage to come up with a few words. His mannerism and overall behavior were enough to keep me on edge. The man across from me steepled his fingers together, resting his chin upon the point, his eyes never left the envelope that was now in front of me.

  “My name is Gregory,” he said it almost at a whisper, so low I had to lean farther in to even hear what he was saying. “Gregory Simpson. We are here today because we both know something is off at Kellogg Premier. Some of us just know more than others,” his last sentence echoed through my head, the tone of his voice ominous and forbidding as he spoke. My nerves pricked with each word he spoke, a shiver running straight down my spine and my stomach doing a few somersaults before settling back down again.

  “I don’t understand,” I started to stammer. As I spoke, a sharp pain shot through my head and throbbed in my temples. I looked on as Gregory stood quickly and spun around to take his leave. Without a word, he retreated back the way he came, and I was not in the mindset to call after him. When he disappeared through the doorway on the far side of the room, reality crashed down around me. I stared down at the envelop for several seconds before shoving it down into the bottom of my purse where not even I would be able to find it later.

  The walk back to my place of employment took forever. Gregory’s face still hovered before my mind’s eye; his eyes nervous like a deer in a pair of headlights frozen in place. Hot beverage in hand, I held it in a death-grip as I walked through the doors of Kellogg Premier and through the lobby. My eyes darted about, taking note of several faces that turned my way as I passed before going back to whatever was in front of them. Not even the Security Officer spared me much more than a passing glance as I boarded the elevator to my floor.

  Once the doors closed and I was alone, I laughed out loud. My voice waivered and an uneasy feeling washed quickly over me. I closed my eyes tight, shutting out the world and concentrating on getting control over my newly jostled emotions. Gregory Simpson sure had me walking on pins and needles and for all I knew, it wasn’t even warranted.

  I went through the rest of my day going through the motions. The envelope at the bottom of my oversized purse forgotten as I triaged several patients and performed a warm handoff, informing the medical provider on the floor who they were, why they were there and some of the basic information about their vitals I was able to collect. Brief nods and blank stares were all I received in return. Instead of lamenting that fact, like I always did, I pushed myself to go back to work and mind my own business, just as Nurse Saxon had urged me to in the past.

  Before the close of my shift, another patient presented that brought my mind straight back to the reality I faced. The same issues as Ragan Jensen: slightly elevated blood pressure and unexplained heart palpitations, I noted everything in her electronic chart before clearing out of the room I had placed her in. She too had a look of loss and desperation, just as Ragan had the last time she ventured through the urgent care department. As I stood there contemplating the entire situation, it occurred to me that there was something dark and sinister about the entire place. It was just under the surface, not obvious at first glance, but if you spent enough time behind those walls, you too may witness what I was becoming painfully aware of.

  That evening, after enjoying a wonderful meal prepared by my Riley, I sett
led in and tried to relax. As I sat, head tilted against the back of the couch, my eyes closed tight against the world, the scene earlier that day rolled through my mind. When I envisioned the envelope sliding across the table in my direction again, my head snapped up and I was at full alert. The envelope! My mind practically screamed at me as I jumped up and rushed toward the entryway where my purse had been abandoned upon my arrival.

  I never understood why women carried such large purses. I had intentionally gone with something a little more moderately sized and still, I could never find anything. Digging through a pile of receipts, shoving my wallet aside and pulling my keys out to get them out of my way, I moved quickly to find what I was seeking. Several moments later, I triumphantly pulled the envelope out and waved it in the air, my invisible audience cheering me on from across the room as I turned it over in my hand several times.

  It was only paper inside, but the envelope seemed to have a life of its own, throbbing to the beat of my own heart as I ignored the bristling on my neck. Something inside me was warning me against opening it and seeing what was inside, but the other more curious side was screaming at me to open it and do it quickly. Some time passed as I waged war with myself over whether or not to breach the seal, finally concluding there was a reason that Mr. Simpson entrusted it to me. He wanted me to read whatever was hidden inside, and he wanted me to do it in secret, away from the prying eyes at Kellogg Premier.