The Art of Breathing

by Janie DeVos

  “Well, Mama, the good news is he’s alive.” I covered her hand with mine. “He’s a survivor. Always has been.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing he may not survive, Kate, is the wrath of his mother once I get ahold of him.” She tried to smile as she attempted to lighten the mood again. After all, it was supposed to be a birthday celebration. But the truth of the matter was that there was much more worrying going on than celebrating.

  We sat in silence for a moment, lost in our own thoughts, though they were probably very similar: wondering where Ditty was, how and what he was doing and with whom. Closing my eyes, I lifted my face up to the sun as it poked through the clouds. Then I looked out at the fields and saw that the midafternoon gardening was underway.

  The patients were busy at various tasks all along the burgeoning rows of vegetables. I pointed out certain people I knew, or knew of, like Captain Crow. “His most recent escapade was collecting bird feathers, lots of them,” I said to Mama. “Every time he was out on the grounds, he found a few more, and explained to whichever orderly or aide was watching him that he needed them in his occupational therapy classes for children’s toys, including a boy-sized Indian war bonnet. But his real intention for them was found out when three pillowcases full of the feathers were confiscated from his locker, and he came clean about his plan to construct massive wings to use in his latest attempt at flying, this time from the top of the giant tower on the power building! Disaster averted!” I laughed, shaking my head.

  “How’d you learn about all that?” Mama asked.

  “From that man over there,” I said, pointing at Philip McAllister. “He’s someone Captain Crow trusts, and Philip helps to keep an eye on him in the garden.”

  Philip was busy working among a row of cabbages, and as though he could feel our eyes upon him, he looked up at us and lifted a hand in greeting. “He grew up on a farm outside of Chicago,” I said, waving back. “Grew soy beans, of all things!” That seemed like a strange crop to Southerners. “I’m hoping I can work in the garden, when I’m a little better.”

  “I know you’re not feeling good, Kate. I’m your mama. It doesn’t matter what you tell me, I can see it. I know. Mamas know their babies inside and out. And I can tell from the outside that my baby’s insides aren’t so good right now. But that’s just ‘right now,’ Kate. You’re sure to have ups and downs.”

  “I know, Mama. And you’re right, I don’t feel good, but don’t tell anyone. Honestly, I’ve felt pretty bad this week. But I have labs tomorrow and I’m happy about it. Hopefully, they’ll see what’s different, and fix what they need to, to change things back around again.” I smiled. “I have real faith in the doctors here, especially Dr. Ludlow.”

  Mama said nothing, just reached over and took my hand. We stayed that way for several minutes, staring out at the garden. As we did, I noticed someone working a little distance from the others, in the farthest row from us. It was Mary Boone. Just as I was starting to point her out to Mama, the rest of the family returned from the pond, pulling our attention away. Donnie proudly held up a tiny, multi-hued hummingbird’s feather.

  “Lord, Donnie, hide it quick! Captain Crow’s around!” Mama warned. While the rest of the family looked confused, she and I laughed and it felt good. No matter what, Mama and I had a special connection, and no sickness or distance of any kind could ever cause it to weaken.

  With everything packed up, we reluctantly left the picnic table and headed toward the parking lot, unaware as we did, that Mary Boone had caught sight of us and moved in closer. She stood frozen in place, watching us hard, straining to hear our voices and barely breathing in order to catch any of our words, but not daring to come any nearer. And as she stood there, watching us retreat, tears streamed down her face and her fractured heart beat as rapidly as a hummingbird’s wing.

  CHAPTER 22

  Lungs and Tyrone

  “So, Kathryn, what it boils down to is that you need to have a pneumothorax. With that cavity growing as quickly as it has, we need to collapse that lung in the hopes that it will obliterate the cavity. Deflating your lung will also allow it to rest. It’s a frightening-sounding procedure, I know, but at least half of the TB patients here have had the same thing done, and lived to tell about it.” Dr. Ludlow smiled, trying for a little bit of levity. “Honestly, it’s so common that many of the patients have it multiple times. They’re back home the same day. It’s a wonderful method of fighting these cavities, but it should also help with your fever, your coughing and expectorating, as well as your appetite. I’m concerned about your weight loss. It should help you all the way around. It’s such an easy procedure that it’s done bedside, and it’s absolutely painless. You’ll be somewhat sore for the next day or two, and a little more winded, but your lung will inflate again on its own in about a week, so this isn’t a permanent collapse.

  “Now, on a brighter note, your lesions have decreased in size, thanks to the antibiotics. We’ll keep you on the same regimen for now, and continue monitoring your progress. So, let’s get this procedure done this afternoon, and see if we can’t start making some real headway with your recovery. Does that sound agreeable to you?”

  “I . . . yes, I’m . . . fine with it, Dr. Ludlow.” In truth, I was a little shaken up to hear the size of the cavity and the treatment recommended. The idea that a needle was going to inject air between my ribs and lungs, causing my lung to collapse, was frightening.

  Though I was frightened that my cavity had increased so much, it explained the way I’d been feeling, and I was grateful there was something we could do to try to help.

  “All right, then.” The doctor looked up at me after he’d finished writing notes on my chart. “We’ll schedule your procedure for midafternoon. In the meantime, get some rest until you have to go down for lunch, I mean dinner. I’ll never get it right, I’m afraid.” He smiled. I thought highly of the man, and most importantly, trusted him with my life. “Speaking of rest, I hope you weren’t kept awake last night with all of the bedlam going on upstairs. One of the patients had a psychotic episode. It took two good-sized orderlies, and one good-sized injection to calm her down. We don’t know what shook Mary up—she rarely speaks, and when she does she’s often incoherent—but something set her off. I apologize if she kept you awake.”

  I figured the odds were high that he was talking about Mary Boone, but didn’t feel right asking. “I wondered what was going on up there,” I said instead. “I could hear her screaming. I was awake anyway, though—night sweats. They’ve gotten worse. At times, I couldn’t be any hotter than if I were in the middle of the Sahara, wearing a full-length mink coat, gloves, stockings, hat, and all.”

  Laughing, he again jotted something down on my chart. “All right, we can do something to help reduce that a bit, but the pneumothorax should help that, too.” Looking up, he smiled, “Get some rest and I’ll see you this afternoon about two.”

  True to his word, Dr. Ludlow returned at two o’clock. I’d been quiet through dinner, and ate even less than usual, just picking at some chicken salad because Annabelle and Marsha encouraged me to eat at least a few bites.

  Marsha was still recovering from her segmentectomy, but she seemed to be doing well. Her rebound gave me hope that I would be back on my feet very soon, too, and feeling better than I had for some time. On the other hand, one of the newer women in our ward, Kaye Moody, who had been on full bed rest since she’d arrived several weeks before, continued to spiral down, no matter what treatments, procedures, or medications were tried. The medical staff had reverted to using some of the old techniques, just trying anything at that point to possibly save her. They even tried sandbagging her, which was the laying of sandbags on her shoulders and chest area, and increasing the weight daily in order to restrict full inhalations of her lungs. The theory was that the restriction would allow her lungs to rest and that would give the enormous cavities and numerous lesions time to heal. However, the technique had had little success in the past, and w
asn’t helping any now, but her doctors had been desperately trying to save her, and trying anything in order to do so.

  Finally, there was nothing more that could be done for the poor woman, who was all of thirty-eight, with a precious ten-year-old boy and a loving husband, both of whom came to visit twice a week. With great sadness, we watched their hope fade away along with Kaye’s life. It broke everyone’s heart. I’d noticed that during the last week only the husband had come to see her and I guessed that it had become too much for their son to witness his mother dying. So, while one patient’s triumph over the disease gave me hope, another patient’s succumbing to it left me feeling depressed. Feeling depressed was one thing, I told myself, but to feel hopeless was another. I didn’t let myself dwell on how many poor souls died in their war against this horrific disease, but tried instead to focus my thoughts on what I could do to win just the next little battle . . .

  Dr. Ludlow performed the pneumothorax in a matter of minutes. After injecting me with a localized anesthetic of Novocain, he performed the procedure without any complications. “All right; your lung is collapsed and all went well. Rest today and tomorrow. Stay in bed for the remainder of today, though you can get up for the bathroom, but have your supper sent up to you. Tomorrow, you’re free to walk around some, but just take it easy. Remember, it won’t take much to leave you winded. After tomorrow, you should start to feel better, both from the procedure and, hopefully, from the obliterated cavity. If all goes as I expect it will, you’ll be working out in your beloved garden for short periods late next week. Sound good?”

  “Yes . . . yes.” My mouth felt thick and dry. I’d been given a light sedative and was feeling groggy now that the procedure was over.

  “I’ll check in with you in the morning. You’re an excellent patient, Kathryn. Wish they were all like you.” He warmly patted my shoulder, then left the room.

  “Kate. Kate.” My name was being softly called. I opened blurry eyes to find Annabelle leaning over me. “Do you want me to have a supper tray sent up to you? The rest of us are going down in about thirty minutes and I didn’t know if the doctor said you could go down, or if you’re supposed to have a tray sent up.”

  “Eat here.” My mouth felt like I had paste in it. “Will you tell ’em?” I whispered.

  “Sure, darlin’. I’ll have a tray brought up. You want anything else?”

  “Water.” Annabelle poured a cup, then helped me to sit up and supported me while I greedily drank.

  “Anything else you need?” she asked as I lay back down and she tucked the blankets securely around me like a doting mother.

  “New lungs and Tyrone Power.” I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep to the lovely sound of Annabelle’s rich laughter.

  CHAPTER 23

  Of Earth and Air

  “So, Kate, after we’ve prepped these rows by clearing out the old squash and pumpkin vines, we’ll plant the winter crops—the mustards, collards—you know, the different greens.”

  Philip and I were standing at the end of one of the rows as he explained what work I’d be doing. I didn’t care what it was. I would agree to just about anything, as long as I was outside, in the fresh air and in the garden, feeling the precious earth. I hadn’t felt this good in a long time—since Uncle Prescott’s wedding. He and Glory had actually come for a visit the week before, and just seeing the two of them, and how happy they were together, had raised my spirits. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Glory very much at the wedding, but after seeing her again, I said a prayer of thanks that dear Uncle Prescott had finally found someone wonderful to love, someone who obviously loved him deeply in return.

  It had been a month since the pneumothorax, and I was feeling stronger. I’d gained six pounds, as well. It was a toss-up as to who seemed happier about the success of the procedure—Dr. Ludlow, especially when he delivered the news that the large cavity was no more; or me. Adding to that wonderful news was that Dr. Ludlow had given me the okay to work in the gardens each afternoon. I’d worked an hour or so a day to begin with but had increased my time until I was working two hours most days. My progress in all areas continued, and now our hope was that the antibiotics alone could treat the remaining lesions, primarily in my right lung, and prevent any further cavities from forming.

  “Before we get started with this, though,” Philip continued, “let’s go over to the greenhouse. You haven’t been in there yet, have you?”

  “No.” I laid down my hoe and followed him out of the row, then fell in step by him as we skirted the rest of the garden and continued walking on the lawn. “In the couple of weeks that I’ve been gardening, we’ve always worked outside. I remember seeing the greenhouse when we drove past it on the way to admissions. Lord, that seems like years ago! It’s so strange to think that it’s only been four months. Time sure does drag in this place, especially when you’re thinking about the folks back home, and all the things they’re doing and you’re missing.”

  “Well, at least you have a ‘back home,’” Philip said as we reached the greenhouse. Opening the door for me, he followed me in.

  “Where will you go when you leave here?” I asked as I looked around. The building was a white A-frame structure, primarily made of wood and glass. The floor consisted of wooden slats, spaced slightly apart to allow for easy draining, and the walls were simply banks of large, framed windows, as was the ceiling. The building was obviously old and had been painted repeatedly over the years to prevent it from rotting away due to the constant heat and moisture within it, and all of the elements battering it on the outside. But there was a true beauty to the building that could only be found in the architecture of bygone days.

  “I’m not sure where I’ll go,” he answered. “My parents are both gone now. They were sick with different illnesses but died just months apart, about five years ago. Dad went first and then Mom. Guess she died more from a broken heart than from heart disease.” He smiled sadly. “I’ve got some family left in Illinois—an aunt and a few cousins, but that’s it. Actually, I sent UNCA a letter a couple of days ago, asking if there’s a chance I might get my old job back, or if there’s another opening that I’m qualified to fill. We’ll see what they say.” He was walking slowly down the aisle, checking different plants, including the degree of moisture in their containers and pots.

  “You wrote them last week? Are you thinking you’ll be discharged soon?” For some reason, I didn’t feel the elation for him that I should have. Oddly enough, it bothered me that he might be leaving.

  “I’ve had two completely clear sputum tests. When I have three, I’m good to go. So I need to figure out where I’ll be going and what I’ll be doing, ’cause when that time comes, the state won’t be paying my room and board anymore. I’ll be out on my own, kid. Isn’t that a beautiful word, ‘out’? I’ll be saying ‘hallelujah’ all the way down that long driveway.”

  “So, you might be out in as little as a month? That’s great news!” To my own ears, my enthusiasm sounded forced, but I hoped it didn’t to his. After that, I didn’t know what else to say. Usually, I had too much of everything to talk about around him, but I didn’t feel like saying much of anything at the moment. He didn’t say anything either. He watched me, and I watched him for a few seconds. I noticed that his gentle brown eyes had a real light to them. In them was awareness, and a sharpness that let me know he never missed a thing. Suddenly uncomfortable, I dropped my eyes and examined the tops of my old brown ballet slipper-shoes.

  “I have something for you.” He walked halfway down one of the long rows of tables that ran nearly the length of the room. On top of them were countless trays of different varieties of newly sprouting vegetables that would help feed the patients and staff through the winter and early spring. Underneath was shelving where empty pots and other gardening paraphernalia were tucked away. Squatting down, Philip reached in and retrieved something, then returned to me with a package wrapped in simple brown paper and burlap twine that was tied in a bow
on top. “A happy belated birthday.” He gave me a half bow.

  “What?” I was totally caught off guard. “Oh, no . . . really . . . this isn’t necessary!”

  “Well, you should have told me that before I made it, then,” he teased. “Go ahead, open it.” When he saw that I was still reluctant, he added, “Listen, Kate, we have few enough pleasures in here. Please, take this gift.”

  I could see that he was getting a great deal of pleasure from giving it to me and I knew how he felt; I got more pleasure out of the giving than I did the receiving. “Well . . . okay,” I said, and excitedly began working on the gift wrapping, untying the twine and then pulling away the paper.

  What was revealed was a most exquisitely carved box, about the size of a thick book. It was carved from a beautiful piece of maple, with grain that had been brought out to its fullest beauty by superb workmanship. But what made it so special was the hinged lid. The wood had been carved out, creating three flowers that lay next to each other. They were incredibly delicate and amazingly lifelike. Each one was on its own stem and a different length than the other two. And each one leaned slightly away from the others as though they had been gently blown down by a breeze. The petals were round, and each flower reminded me of a girl twirling in a circle skirt—just like flowers I’d seen! Philip had carved evening primroses, and had done it quite perfectly.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whispered, as though the beautifully crafted box deserved reverence.

  “I hope you’ll make wonderful memories in the years to come. And I hope you’ll fill this box with little keepsakes and reminders of them.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” And I really didn’t. “It’s just . . . incredible. It’s beautiful! How did you learn to do this and where did you get this fine wood?”