by Janie DeVos
“I didn’t think about that either,” Roberta joined in. “And look where it got me!”
“Try to keep that glass half full, Roberta.” Annabelle smiled but sounded slightly annoyed. I thought of my glass-half-full, positive-thinking mother. Oh, Lord, how I missed her!
“I am, Annabelle. I am,” Roberta countered. “Oh, mercy! Would you look at that!”
Annabelle and I were already looking toward the noise coming from the crowd at the tree. The man in street clothes, Philip, had hoisted himself up into the oak tree and was crawling across a massive limb toward Captain Crow, who was sitting at the end of it. No one said a word as we waited to see what would happen, and because the bench we sat on was perched on a small rise directly across from the oak, we had a bird’s-eye view. We could also make out some of what they were saying.
“. . . Okay, I understand that, but you have to come down, or they’ll bring you down with a net, Captain. You want to be treated like the dignified bird you are and not a lowly butterfly, right?”
“Oh, hell no!” objected the Captain. “I ain’t no butterfly! No way! They’s all delicate-like, even the males. No, sir! I ain’t no butterfly!”
“Well, then,” Philip continued, “don’t give ’em any reason to treat you like one. C’mon, man, don’t shame yourself. Let’s get on down now, okay?” He started backing up, obviously in the hope that he’d draw the Captain with him. And he did. Slowly the two made their way down through the branches to the lowest one, then, hanging off it, gently dropped down. Everyone clapped, including two nurses and a couple of aides.
“Is he a therapist?”
“Philip McAllister? No, he’s a TB patient, that’s why he’s in street clothes,” Annabelle explained. “He was eating in the dining room when we got there, but left before we did. Those guys standing around the tree in street clothes are also TB patients, but the nutty buddies are wearing their pajamas. The psych ward tuberculars eat supper early, on the shift right before us. Afterwards, they get a little outdoor time, but they really have to be watched.” More and more people had gathered to watch Philip and the birdman.
“Has he ever actually tried to fly?” I asked as the two men stood talking to the nurses.
“Who, Philip or the Captain?” Annabelle asked, laughing.
“The Captain.” I laughed. It felt good.
“Yeah, don’t you remember, Annabelle?” Roberta interjected. “I told you about the time he jumped from that old maple.” Turning to me, she said, “It’s not there anymore because it got struck by lightning.” Then, turning back to Annabelle, she added, “Remember, I told you he broke one of his legs and a wrist. After he woke up from surgery, the doctors told him they had clipped his wings. Poor ol’ thing cried like a baby. They reassured him that he’d be good as new when he was released.”
“They’re not, though—releasing him?” I asked incredulously.
“Honey! The man sits on nests trying to hatch eggs, and flies out of trees. What do you think?” Roberta chuckled.
“Thank the good Lord.” I laughed, too. Then we all started coughing, which made us laugh and cough even harder, and pull out our handkerchiefs. “Having you two as roommates is going to kill me,” I croaked, tucking my hanky back in my pocket.
“And here you thought you were coming to a place that would heal you,” Annabelle said. “C’mon. Now that we know Captain Crow shall live to see another day, let’s go look at the koi pond.” As we headed down the pathway, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Captain. I wondered if he had always had the compulsion to fly, and always thought he was a reincarnated bird. I felt sympathy for him. And then the thought struck me that the Captain probably felt like a bird in a cage, being locked away in this place. Suddenly, his behavior didn’t seem quite as crazy as before, and my sympathy turned to empathy.
CHAPTER 13
On the Front Lines
“Kathryn, you have a visitor, and she comes bearing gifts,” I heard Roberta say from outside the bathroom door. We’d been back from the koi pond for about half an hour and I was in the middle of brushing my teeth. I rinsed my mouth quickly and opened the door to find Aunt Harriet standing there. She’d brought up our evening snack after intercepting the aide who was pushing a cart from room to room with the trays. Without saying much of anything, I hurried to her, hugging her tightly.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes!” I breathed in that familiar family scent. I was so relieved to see her that I was on the verge of tears. I held them back, though. I refused to keep crying. I’d done enough of that to last the entire time I was here, and I was determined to not only be strong for myself, but for my roommates, the medical staff, and most especially, for my family. Taking several steps back from her so that I didn’t breathe in her face, I asked what she was doing there. It was a Thursday night. As a rule, she only worked weekdays, unless the hospital was short-staffed, and her duty did not include any of the TB wards. Primarily, she worked with the most severe cases of mental psychosis; especially male schizophrenics and men with multiple-personality disorders.
“Did you really think I’d let the day end without checking on you? How are ya, darlin’?”
Her voice was home. It was all that I was familiar and comfortable with.
“I’m doin’ okay. Really. Did you-all meet?” I turned toward Roberta and Annabelle.
“Roberta and I go way back, don’t we, Berta?”
“Your aunt was my nurse when I was here ten years ago. She was on the TB ward at the time.” Roberta smiled warmly at her. “And I introduced her to Annabelle and Peggy while you were in the bathroom. Harriet was kind enough to bring us our evening snack.”
“Lord, more food? Dana wasn’t kidding when she said they’d fatten us up.”
“Never mind that,” my aunt said, passing each of us a small plate that had a biscuit with pats of butter beside it, and a small bowl of strawberries with cream. “Eat up! I even snatched one for myself.” She sat in a chair next to a tray table where she’d set the food down, and buttered her biscuit. I knew she was eating just to encourage me to do the same. Knowing my aunt, she’d had a decent-sized supper and was no more interested in biscuits and strawberries than I was. Each of us, however, joined her.
“I thought Harold was taking you home.” I remembered her asking him to do so.
“He did, then after I unpacked and got some dinner, I drove back over. I knew I wasn’t going to get any sleep if I didn’t check on you—being that it’s your first night here.” She ate a strawberry.
“You could have called, Aunt Harriet. You didn’t need to come back out again. Honestly, I’m okay, just tired more than anything.”
“Honey, you need to get a lot of rest,” she said. “Lord, I wish someone would tell me to rest awhile.” She laughed, trying to keep things light. “You’ll be seeing Dr. Ludlow tomorrow. I checked your chart at the nurses’ desk and saw he’s your primary doctor.”
“Yes. I was told I’d see him first thing in the morning. I guess I’ll skip breakfast. I don’t want to miss him. Lord, here we are eating again and already talking about the next meal!”
“You’re not going to miss breakfast, m’dear.” There was nothing light in Aunt Harriet’s tone. “They’ll bring a tray up to you. Just call down to the nurses’ station and let them know you’re waiting for Dr. Ludlow. He’s wonderful, by the way, with a nice bedside manner. He’s straightforward, too, which I like, and I know you do, too. He’ll tell you what’s what without candy-coating anything.”
“Good.” I was relieved to hear that. “He’ll go over my schedule, and any restrictions he wants for me?” I asked. She confirmed that he would. I asked her about visitors. I couldn’t stop thinking about Donnie. I wanted to see him so badly.
“Dr. Ludlow will tell you if and when you can have visitors. I would think he’ll let you have them right away, but only short visits and just a couple of times a week, for now. Depending on how you’re doing, he can always adjust that. He’ll let y
ou know all of this tomorrow, though. Now, not to change the subject, but have you got everything you need? Have you forgotten anything that you’ll be wanting?”
“No. I think I’ve got everything, but thanks. You go on home now. I love seeing you, but I hate that you had to come back tonight. Honestly, I’m doing all right. I would tell you if I wasn’t.”
We both stood up, and she walked over to me. “No, you wouldn’t.” She cupped the side of my face with her hand and looked me in the eyes. “I wanted to see for myself that you were okay. And now that I see you are, I’ll bid you gals a good night.”
I walked her as far as the elevator. She hugged me, then held me at arm’s length. “This won’t be forever, Kate. You’re gonna get through this.”
“One way or another.” I smiled. We both knew the gravity of the situation, though, and beneath our bravado was unspoken fear.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She pushed the elevator button. “I’ll want to hear what Ludlow said, and what you thought of him. I love you, Katie.” The door to the elevator slid open. There was no one in it. She stepped inside but kept the door from sliding closed.
“I love you, too, Aunt Harriet. Now, you go on home. I know it’s been a long day for you, too.”
“Oh, heck, I’m fine,” she said, waving my concern away. But while her mouth said one thing, the dark circles under her eyes said another. “Night, honey.” She let the door close.
I was restless throughout the night. Everyone’s coughing—including my own—bothered me. Still worse, I kept thinking about all the what-if’s: What if I never get better? What if I do get better but have a reoccurrence? What if I infect someone? What if Donnie gets sick, or anyone else I love? What it, what if, what if! I nearly drove myself crazy worrying about it all.
* * *
Just after eight the next morning, Roberta and Annabelle headed down for breakfast. We’d already notified a nurse that I was waiting for Dr. Ludlow, so trays for both Peggy and me were being brought up. Not long afterward, the food arrived. The amount of food was overwhelming and I was no hungrier than I’d been the day before, but I was more exhausted. The nervous energy that had kept me going had faded, and I was feeling the weight of my fatigue full force. After drinking my coffee and forcing down one slice of toast, I’d gone into the bathroom to get dressed when I heard a series of sharp raps on the ward’s door. “Get decent if you’re not already,” a man’s voice called through the door. I smoothed down my navy-and-green plaid dress, but I couldn’t reach the buttons on the back. Not wanting to meet the doctor that way, I quickly pulled it off, making a mental note that I’d need more functional clothing, pieces that were easier to get in and out of by myself, as well as warmer. The chill from the open windows remained in the ward well into the morning. Just thinking about what the room would feel like in the winter made me cold. I needed to switch my dress for something else in the closet, but with the doctor waiting for me, I just threw my robe back on.
“Good morning, Doctor.” I was embarrassed to be coming from the bathroom on my initial meeting with him, and still wearing my robe, to boot. His back was to me and he was reading some paperwork attached to a clipboard. I assumed it was my chart. He turned around and I guessed him to be in his later-forties, of medium build and height, with salt-and-pepper hair that was combed straight back.
“Mrs. Cavanaugh, I presume.” I nodded and he stepped toward me and shook my hand. “I’m Martin Ludlow, and I’ll be in charge of your care while you’re here. Have a seat.” Pointing with his pen, he indicated the chair closest to him. Every bed had a chair next to it, and this one happened to be by Annabelle’s bed, and not far from Peggy’s, where she quietly watched us.
“I’ll go on down to the sunroom, so you two can—” She started to get out of bed, but I interrupted her.
“Don’t, Peggy. That’s not necessary. Just stay where you are. I’m fine with you being here, as long as Dr. Ludlow doesn’t mind.” I turned to look at him.
“You’re on FBR, aren’t you, Mrs. Porter?” She confirmed that she was. “Then stay put. If Mrs. Cavanaugh is fine with your being here, I’m fine with it, too.” Grabbing a chair from beside the next bed, he sat down across from me and pulled a stethoscope out of the breast pocket of his white lab coat. Putting the ends of it into his ears, he listened to my chest, then leaned back in his chair, looped his stethoscope back around his neck and made a notation on my chart.
“Mrs. Cavanaugh,” he began, “you’ve got a lot of phlegm in your lungs, but especially in your left lung. Your recent X-rays from the mobile clinic show you have a good-sized cavity in the left bottom lobe of your left lung. You also have multiple lesions in both. An antibiotic regimen should stem the growth of more lesions, provided we get the right antibiotic mixture for you. Effective medication combinations vary from person to person, you understand. However, that cavity is another problem altogether and what concerns me the most.
“I do know that at this point, we must start you on the antibiotics immediately. We’ll see how well you respond to them. I want to see if that cavity will at least shrink some, if not heal altogether from them. Once we see your response to the drugs, we’ll decide our next course of action; it could be anything from trying a different antibiotic regimen to having a pneumoperitoneum or possibly a pneumothorax for that cavity, or a combination of those treatments. We’ll just have to wait and see.
“The good news is that we have options to help you, but the bad news is your lungs have been greatly compromised by the scarlet fever you had as a child. Though you may never have felt as though there was any impairment, you will now, because your lungs are being asked to work that much harder to keep doing their job. Has your hemoptysis—coughing up blood—changed in the last week?” I answered that it had gotten heavier.
“That’s par for the course, I’m afraid.” The doctor was writing as he listened. Suddenly, he stood up.
“All right, Mrs. Cavanaugh. I want to get another X-ray immediately, as well as another sputum smear. Though we usually do it once a month, your symptoms and the presentation of them have changed quite a bit in less than a week’s time, from what you’re telling me. I want to make sure we’re not dealing with the onset of rapid-growing cavities, and a greater number of lesions. Do you know how to get to the lab building—where the testing and X-rays are done?” When I told him I didn’t, we walked over to the bank of windows on the opposite side of the room and he pointed out the building.
“I have other rounds to make, otherwise I’d walk you over myself. Here, give this to the technician or nurse on duty.” He handed me a piece of paper. “It’s a prescription for the tests. I’ll call them to let them know you’re coming down. I’ll get back to you this afternoon with the results and we’ll decide how to proceed from there. In the meantime, do you have any questions?”
“Without seeing the test results first, could you venture a guess as to the length of time I’ll be in here? Also, can I have visitors?”
“I really can’t give you an accurate guess before seeing your newest test results, or how responsive you are to treatments, but I wouldn’t think it would be any longer than a year. By a year’s time, patients are usually cured entirely, or have progressed to the point that they can continue drug treatments at home.” I noticed his tact in avoiding discussing the possibility that I might not get well, so I asked him point blank.
“What percentage of folks don’t make it out of here alive, Doctor?”
“Those who decide it’s likely they won’t. Mrs. Cavanaugh, we know from a great deal of experience that the majority of people who overcome this disease are those who stubbornly set their minds to doing so. We’ve found that patients with the strongest mental constitution and will to survive usually do, as long as they follow their prescribed forms of treatment; whereas those who give in to their fear and self-pity, or don’t follow their doctor’s orders, don’t.” Almost as if he’d just remembered that Peggy was in the room with us, he looked
over at her, but she was either sleeping or just resting with her eyes closed. The doctor turned back to me and continued in a softer voice. “Unfortunately, though, that’s not always the case. Some of our patients give it everything they’ve got in trying to beat this disease, but, still, it’s just not . . .” He didn’t finish. We both knew he was talking about Peggy, and it hurt. I hoped to God she was really sleeping. He took a deep breath. “Help us to help you, Mrs. Cavanaugh, and if you do, there’s a good chance you’ll survive. To help bolster your motivation, I’m granting you visitations—for now, anyway. But do know that if you should worsen at all, I will order full bed rest and very limited visits until you show improvement. Does that sound fair?” I answered yes. “I want your activities limited for the time being, so I want you back in bed following your tests until lunchtime, or dinnertime, rather.” He smiled. “I’m from Pennsylvania and will never get used to calling lunch ‘dinner,’ and dinner ‘supper. ’” He shook his head as if to say, Now, why do you Southerners feel the necessity to reverse the names of meals?
I smiled, too. “How ’bout we just call it the noonday meal?” He chuckled and I continued. “Thank you, Doctor Ludlow.” I shook his hand again.
“You can thank me by following the regimen of care I lay out for you, Mrs. Cavanaugh. I’ll see you later this afternoon.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I have a feeling that you’re one of those strong-willed patients.”
I smiled. “I have Scotch-Irish blood in me, and some Native American, too.”
“Well, I’d want you on the front lines with me in a battle, then.”
