“Yes, Your Honor,” Mom replied.
“See how easy it is to agree on something? Let’s do more of that in the future,” the judge said. “Elle Beaulieu is deemed incapacitated and may be referred to as ‘the ward.’ ”
I swallowed hard, squelching my impulse to puke. “The ward” was another step in Elle’s dehumanization, like “the corpse” or “it.”
Judge Wheeler set aside a document. “In the Matter of the Guardianship, we have a dispute. However, although guardianship papers were filed, the issue under contention seems to be what Elle would want under these circumstances. Dr. Beaulieu acknowledges that if his wife were not pregnant, he would have discontinued her life support. However, he believes that in this situation Elle would have wanted the pregnancy to continue even if it means keeping her on life support for the duration of her pregnancy. He agrees to discontinue her life support after the baby’s delivery.”
The judge looked over his reading glasses. “Mrs. Linney Beaulieu’s petition indicates she believes differently. In her certification she states that she and Alice McClure, Elle’s mother, were lifelong friends. Linney was involved in Elle’s upbringing, and was, in fact, Elle’s godmother. After Alice McClure’s death Mrs. Beaulieu continued to have a close and loving relationship with Elle. During Alice McClure’s terminal cancer battle, she lapsed into a three-month-long coma. Hospice nurses attended her in the McClure household during that period, and the effect that that had on the then-teenaged Elle was that she developed a profound belief that terminally ill persons should not have extraordinary measures taken to extend their lives. Elle signed this so-titled living will as soon as she reached the age of majority and designated Mrs. Linney Beaulieu to act on her behalf should Elle ever become incapacitated. If given guardianship, Mrs. Beaulieu would instruct Elle’s physicians to discontinue her life support so Elle might die peacefully.”
Wheeler paused, set down the court records, and folded his hands on his desk. “Mrs. Beaulieu, were you aware of Elle’s pregnancy when you wrote your petition?”
“Yes. But she’s in the earliest stages of pregnancy. For the fetus to have a real chance, she’d be on life support for months and months—”
A dowdy-looking woman stood up in the gallery and shouted, “It’s a baby, not a fetus. A baby!”
My mother craned her head around.
The dowdy woman sneered in Mom’s direction and yelled again. “Elle is carrying a baby!”
“Order.” Wheeler’s voice lowered to a resonating timbre, and all heads swung back toward the judge. He reached for his gavel, and I felt its authority although he didn’t use it. “This is a court of law, and if someone in the gallery speaks out of order, I will have him or her removed from this courtroom.”
Jake clenched his pen like he was going to use it to stab his legal pad. I moved my attention to the judge and tried to solve the inscrutable mystery sandwiched between the lines on his face. I didn’t know if the woman had angered him or if he’d scowled as a show of power. Within five seconds the furrow between his brows disappeared and a gentler expression appeared.
I’d always thought of a judge looking a certain way, soldier straight, neatly groomed, middle-aged or older. But Wheeler’s hair was rather long and curly—poorly masking a receding hairline. His shoulders were rounded, his jawline soft. Yet in the moment when the woman called out, the judge still managed to summon a posture of authority.
He thumbed through the papers before him and pulled out Elle’s living will, which showed the crinkled damage I’d done it. “This 1991 document is an advanced directive signed by Elle McClure Beaulieu. She was at that time eighteen years old, which made her a legal adult. And here,” he said, pulling out another form, “is a hospital admission record that Elle Beaulieu signed this past February. Her initials indicate she had no advanced health care directive. This discrepancy could mean she nullified the 1991 document. However, her brother, Christopher McClure, wrote a certification of support, stating that he and his sister discussed right-to-die issues innumerable times, and she did not want to be kept alive on machines.”
Wheeler’s eyes scanned the courtroom. “This is not so much about guardianship as it is about what Elle Beaulieu would want done on her behalf under these tragic circumstances. I will grant temporary guardianship to Matthew Beaulieu while we attempt to resolve this matter in upcoming court sessions. Mr. Sutter, how many days do you estimate you will require to present your case, and how many witnesses do you intend to call?”
Jake scratched his chin as he flipped through a calendar. “I anticipate about five days,” he said. “I will be calling Dr. Beaulieu, her husband; medical experts, including Dr. Philip Grey; and personal friends, clergy …”
I attempted to shake my head imperceptibly at him, trying to advise him against putting my partner, Phil, on the stand, but Jake didn’t notice.
The judge scribbled down the names and then glanced up. “I have another trial scheduled for next week, but we can get started on September first—no, that’s Labor Day. We’ll continue on September third.” His attention fell on Mom. “What about you, Mrs. Beaulieu? How much time do you need to present your case?”
“I don’t understand how this all works, but can’t you get to this sooner, Your Honor? Elle wouldn’t want to be on life support all that time.”
Wheeler shook his head and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “Mrs. Beaulieu, I realize you feel a sense of urgency; however, my docket is full with cases other parties feel are equally urgent. I suggest you retain counsel to help you prepare for the hearing.”
“Your Honor, the majority of states revoke advanced health care directives when a woman is pregnant. Move to—”
“Mr. Sutter, Maine is not one of those states. Court dismissed.” He grabbed his files and walked out of the courtroom without a backward glance.
Damn. I stared at Jake. He’d barely said anything. Why hadn’t he asked the judge to give me guardianship of the baby?
Jake snapped closed his briefcase. “Get that conference room again. Book it for as long as you can. We’ll need her medical records, and I need to talk to these doctors. And to you.”
I whispered, “You don’t want Phil to testify.”
“We’ll discuss that later. In private.” His words sounded clipped and angry.
“Matt,” my mother called.
All the muscles in my shoulders knotted. I turned my back on her and walked out.
7
Day 3
The ICU’s glass walls permitted no privacy for Elle—but now someone had drawn the curtain around her bed. I returned from court unable to see her as I strode toward her room, and all I could think was she had died without me beside her.
I swung back the curtain and startled a young nurse with a water basin and towels. “Oh, Dr. Beaulieu. I’m about to give her a bath.”
Breathing had become a deliberate act. For Elle, mechanical ventilation opened her lungs eighteen times per minute. Me? Because of a sponge bath, I had forgotten to inhale as if I’d lost the most fundamental drive to sustain my own life. Just a sponge bath.
“Ah, yeah, yeah. My name is Matt, by the way. Let me wash her,” I said.
“You don’t have to.”
“Please. I want to take care of her.” There was so little I could do for Elle now. And so much I still wanted to give to her: a life in which we grew old together with children and grandchildren and family dinners. And all I could give her was a sponge bath.
“All right,” the nurse said. She set down the basin, checked Elle’s IV, then left.
The moment I saw Elle in the emergency room, I knew the situation was dire. But even after a couple days of staring at her like this, her appearance was a blow. Death isn’t a shrouded figure. It’s a depletion. I couldn’t feel her anymore. In the flimsy privacy the drawn curtain provided, I hung my head and wiped away tears.
“Hey, Peep.” I kissed Elle’s right cheek. Her left eye was still swollen closed. “Did you
miss me? God knows, I miss you. Try to hang on, please,” I whispered. I looked at her belly. There was a baby who was part Elle and part me; a baby I wanted to love, but who in the wake of my grief, felt like a stranger from some other part of the world. Yet, in the past, every time Elle was pregnant, she took my hand and put it on her belly.
Hey, I could almost hear her say. Say hello to the baby.
I reached out and gently put my hand on Elle’s lower abdomen. “You, too, kiddo,” I said. “You hang on, too.”
I squeezed water out of the washcloth and continued to talk to Elle like she could hear me. “I expected the judge to be some gray-haired bozo. But this guy looks a lot like Tom Hanks, back when he did Big. Without the sense of humor. Not that anything about this is funny. I couldn’t read him at all. He told Mom to get a lawyer. It would probably be better for us if she didn’t, though.”
Gently, I cleansed Elle’s face, taking care with the endotracheal tube sticking out of her mouth and the feeding tube jammed down her nose, each a blight on her beautiful face. I knew we’d remove the ET tube and put in a tracheotomy in another day or two, but I also knew that even without the tube sticking out of her face, Elle still would never look like herself again. She wasn’t behind those eyes anymore.
Phil had removed a section of her left parietal skull to relieve pressure from the cerebral edema, which left her head misshapen. And her hair—for a planned craniotomy, the nurses typically shaved a minimal amount of hair, but the OR didn’t have time for cosmetics. They shaved Elle’s entire head. After just two days, blond stubble was shadowing her crown.
For a while she had highlighted her hair, but after we married, she let it go back to its natural color, a warm shade of blond. She didn’t want to use anything potentially toxic when she might get pregnant. “No dyes in my food or in my hair,” she said. She wanted children, healthy children, and she’d obsessed over doing everything right.
Now, instead of eating pure foods, we were pumping steroids and potent diuretics into her to reduce her brain swelling. The X-rays had sprayed her with radiation.
I immersed the washcloth into the tepid water and wrung it out, then slipped off her hospital gown, taking care with her IVs. Elle was an athlete; she even ran marathons, and she had an exquisitely fit body. I soaped the washcloth and bathed her powerless form, already losing its tone.
Phil Grey rounded the curtain, and instinctively, I pulled a towel over Elle to protect her modesty.
“Ah, sorry.” Phil stood there, blinking and looking uncomfortable in his OR scrubs.
I nodded. “How was the surgery?”
“Uneventful,” he said. “I talked to D’Amato. He says their practice can help cover while you’re on leave. And he sends his best.”
“Thank him for me. I’ll reciprocate later.”
“He knows you will.” Phil scratched his cheek and averted his gaze. “How was the meeting with the judge?” he asked.
“Okay.” I dropped the washcloth in the basin then stood and pocketed my wet hands. “He set a hearing date. My lawyer wants one of the ICU docs and Blythe to testify. Maybe you.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” His brow furrowed.
I wasn’t certain of anything, but I was afraid to express doubt—even to my partner, who might say just that if he took the stand. “Yeah,” I said. “This is the right thing.” I turned toward the window. “Would you let Melanie go if you were in my place?”
Phil exhaled loudly. “Yeah. I think I would. Ethics 101. Do no harm. Elle didn’t want to be kept alive. And you’re going to lose her anyway.”
“I’ve already lost her.” I looked away. “I know the odds are overwhelming, but Elle would still try to save the baby. If you testify, what would you say?”
He thought for a moment then shuddered. “The truth. Medically, so far, she’s stable. If she does survive, she’ll remain in a persistent vegetative state—maybe even for years. Are you prepared for that? If she lives indefinitely?”
My head was pounding as ruthlessly as it would with a fever. “After she delivers, I’ll let her go.”
“Do you remember how long it took the courts to let Terri Schiavo die?” Phil asked. “When that story was all over the news, Elle was pretty upset. She didn’t agree with the Pro-Lifers.”
“This is different. In the Schiavo case, the parents were in denial. They thought their daughter was responding to them. I know better.”
“But Elle’s father doesn’t. You said he’s opposed to taking her off life support.”
I paused to wonder about my father-in-law, his sobriety, and whether or not his opposition would become a problem if Elle survived that long or if she miscarried. “I’ll deal with Hank when I need to—if he ever shows up again.” On top of everything else, I was also growing more concerned about Hank, beginning to wonder if he’d drunk himself to death or gone off a road somewhere.
“One way or another,” Phil said, “in the end, you’ll have to say good-bye to her, and by then, all you’ll remember is how she became, not how she was.”
“I’m stating the obvious here, but she’s pregnant. So one way is not the same as the other. She wanted a baby.”
“She wanted a baby? What about you?”
I met his eyes. Sure, I wanted a child with Elle; we both wanted a family. But alone? Did I want to raise baby alone? I felt so alone. I nodded.
Phil’s nostrils flared as he exhaled. “Okay.” For a minute or two longer, he rambled about her clinical status. “Melanie wants me to bring you home for dinner.”
I shook my head. “Thank her for me anyway.”
He looked, for a few seconds, as if he might try to persuade me and I began to compose my rationalizations, but then he said, “Okay.” He left without further ado.
Because the water had cooled, I changed it and continued to bathe her. She didn’t look pregnant; her belly was still flat. Maybe her breasts were a tad fuller. I marveled as I always did, at her tiny feet, and for the smallest moment I indulged myself in possibility, and my mind conjured an image of Elle holding a newborn baby. Then the moment ended.
I dried off my hands, pulled out my cell phone, and replayed Elle’s last voice message. “Hey, it’s me,” she said.
8
Day 3
Usually, we discontinued life support within hours of a brain-death determination. The longest I’d ever kept anyone “alive” was the previous Christmas. A teenager, braving her first ice storm as a driver, went off the road and hit a tree. Her father, an army reservist deployed in Iraq, rushed home on an emergency leave. We kept the girl on life support long enough for him to say his good-byes. The elapsed time from the skidding tires to calling her time of death was four days, seven hours, and thirty minutes.
Elle would need five or six months in order to save the baby.
Jake took over the ICU conference room to interview all of Elle’s doctors, and Phil was first up. He didn’t think we could do it; Elle’s body could start shutting down at any moment. At least that’s what I heard him tell Jake as I stood next to the window staring blankly out at the rain clouds building on the horizon.
I’d known Phil since my neurosurgical residency. He was a year my senior, brilliant, compassionate, and uncompromising. He believed in salvaging people—when there was something to salvage. He believed in the dignity of life. And he believed in self-determination. His own. His patients’. Elle’s.
More than that, Phil knew Elle personally. No, you’re not supposed to talk about your patients outside of work, but Phil and I were friends. We socialized. Sometimes we talked shop at home. Wives were present. And Elle and Melanie expressed their opinions. When you’re a neurosurgeon, quality-of-life issues arise and eat at you. They ate at me. Ate at Phil. And now as he explained Elle’s condition to Jake, Phil made it clear that he didn’t think we could save the baby in Elle’s womb.
Maybe clinging to the idea that some part of Elle could live on was irrational, but the night before the accide
nt Elle insisted that sometimes a person had to take chances. She was, of course, talking about getting pregnant again. I fought with her because another pregnancy would be extremely high risk. Hell, I didn’t want to risk Elle’s life, but that was before. She was already brain-dead. And as unlikely as it may be, the baby was still alive.
And I could hear her—really hear the echoes of words she said in desperation the night our baby Dylan died. Her words of pleading, begging me to save him, even if it killed her.
That night almost did kill her. That’s why I didn’t want to try again. That’s also why Elle used a diaphragm ever since that night. We were careful, damn it. She wouldn’t have fallen, and she wouldn’t have fainted, if I hadn’t gotten her pregnant again. If, instead of relying on her stupid diaphragm, I’d had a vasectomy after Dylan died.
She wanted a child then, and she would want a child now. It was the only thing I had left: giving her the baby everyone wanted me to forget. I was doing the right thing. I was. And it pissed me off that the family thought they knew Elle better than I did—or that I was some slobbering fool who couldn’t face the reality in front of me. That I couldn’t let her go. I didn’t want to let Elle die, but it was too late to save her.
I blew out of the conference room and headed straight to the only private bathroom on the floor and closed the door behind me, taking refuge in the quiet. In the darkness I sank down and into the grief I was fighting so hard with reason. If I disintegrated, they would dismiss me. If I lost my credibility, they’d side with Mom. If I turned into the blubbering widower, no one would believe me capable of logic. But what if I was wrong? I began banging my head against the ceramic tile wall once for every emotional thought I had. I didn’t know how long I could keep up this pretense. I wanted to die. I wanted to kill someone.
With the back of my hand, I wiped away the snot running out of my nose. I kicked the wall under the sink as I banged my head. Again. And again. And again.
The Promise of Stardust Page 6
