It was no good. It wouldn’t have worked. He strolled aimlessly in the night, wishing for the sunrise.
They wouldn’t let him wait in the room. Instead, he sat in the lounge, making inquiries every ten minutes about when he could see her. Being barred from her room was distressing, since he’d promised her that’s where he’d be when she was returned from surgery. What would she think when she didn’t find him there?
It was late in the afternoon. Had something gone wrong? Was she all right?
“Mr. Yeager, you can go in now,” said the nurse. “She’ll be very drowsy for the rest of the day so don’t be surprised if she drops right off to sleep. We would prefer that you remain only for a few minutes.”
He tiptoed in. She was covered by a thick white blanket, her left foot conspicuously missing. The room was a gray shadowy cubicle, looking more tomb-like than like a repository for the living. He had forgotten the flowers. He’d have to get some for her.
“Althea,” he whispered softly. “It’s me. Cecil.”
She uttered the least audible of sounds. “Yes. I know.”
“Are you...are you okay?”
“Ummmm.” Other than the slight motion of her lips, she lay still as a stone.
He stood over the bed, watching her. Deciding that she was asleep, he crept to a chair and gently lowered his body into it. He’d wait.
Minutes dragged into an hour. A nurse came in and checked on her patient, noticing the man sitting motionless by the door. Her duty completed, she quietly left.
He nodded. Loss of sleep from the previous night overtook him, and he dropped off into a light slumber.
Someone else entered the room to glance at Althea, but he ignored the nurse. Quickly he dozed back off. In what seemed like seconds, a light was turned on, and both a physician and a nurse were standing by her bed. The nurse was inserting a thermometer into Althea's ear, designed to get the temperature in a fraction of a minute.
“She looks alert. Right, Althea? You can hear what I’m saying, can’t you?” asked the physician.
Her eyelids flickered in acknowledgment of his question. “Good girl,” he said as he extended the disc of the stethoscope to her chest. He moved the disc once before he found the right spot. He listened closely to her heart, then smiled down at his patient. Removing the stethoscope, he draped it around his neck. “You’re doing just fine, my dear. Just fine.” He scratched a note on her chart.
“Uh, Doctor?” said Cecil as he ventured toward the bed. At his question the physician turned in surprise. “Oh? Ah, yes, I’d forgotten you were there.”
“I’m a friend of Miss Carr’s, and I wondered if, uh, how long she’ll be in here,” Cecil said.
“That’s hard to say. Depending on how well the tissue heals, it could be two weeks to a month,” answered the physician.
“I see,” Cecil murmured softly.
“And of course on how strong her will is to get out of the hospital and up and around,” the doctor added.
The nurse commented on the evenness of the patient’s temperature, and busily began tightening the coverlet across Althea’s chest.
An aide stuck her head in and spoke briefly, “Dr. Parsons, Dr. Archer would like to see you in OB when you’ve finished your rounds.”
“In obstetrics?” asked the physician. “Are you sure you’ve got the right guy, miss? I’m an old sawbones who never gets a call to OB.
“Yes sir. You, Doctor.”
He patted his patient’s arm, “I’ll be in to see you early in the morning, but I don’t believe you’ll be having any problems developing, Althea. Now it’s a matter of time for healing. Time, my dear.” To the nurse, he said softly, “Watch her closely.”
Shortly the physician and the nurse were gone, leaving Cecil and Althea alone.
He walked over to stand by her.
“You waited,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “I said I would be here.”
“I was afraid that you wouldn’t—that you’d leave before I got fully awake.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“You’re sweet to have stayed.”
“Thea? Are you....can you understand me plainly? Can you hear me?”
“Yessss. I’m awake, Cecil.” Her reply was faint, almost whispered.
“I have something very urgent that I must say to you,” he said. “I know this may seem like the wrong place, and the wrong time, but I can’t stay here for long because I have to get back to my job. And I wanted to tell you before I left.”
“Tell me what?” she whispered.
“What the business was that I had in L.A.” His voice faltered as he searched for the correct words.
‘‘Yes?”
“Thea, I want you to marry me—or us to be married, I guess that sounds better. Just as soon as it can be arranged,” he blurted out.
She didn’t respond directly, but lay there quietly, looking at the big man whose hands were shaking.
At last she answered, “No, Cecil. You’re a generous person, but I don’t want your pity, and I won’t burden you with my infirmities.’’
“Nevertheless, I’m cleaning up my place for you. When I return here, we’ll discuss the arrangements,” he stated firmly.
“I’m not sure this is the thing to do, Cecil. I....”
He placed a finger across her lips, stilling her protests. “Oh yes, you’ll see.” He bent down and kissed her cheek. “I must go now. But I’ll be back...dear.”
In making the transition from a facility geared toward serving a community’s needs to a radiation treatment center specializing in radiation cases, Beckman had temporarily lost many of its original functions. Patients with ordinary ailments were presently sent to other hospitals, allowing the staff at Beckman to concentrate on those admissions which had become abundant over the past six months—radiation victims.
Bernard Parsons was now the Chief of Staff, a result of his pioneering with radiation medicine, and it was with some degree of wonderment that he arrived in the office of Dr. Archer immediately upon completing his rounds. “Hi, Archie. I thought obstetrics had been turned over to the midwives and you were looking for a job,” he joked.
The obstetrician beckoned his colleague inside. “I was beginning to doubt that we’d ever get any more fat ladies around here until today. But I’ve got something I’d like to get your opinion on. A new arrival—early this afternoon.”
Dr. Archer was a tall, handsome man in his early forties. With thick blond hair and an easy smile, he became the source of many fantasies for his patients.
“Yeah? A pregnancy?” said Parsons. “Well, that’s way out of my field.”
“I don’t think so, Bern. You’ve treated the symptoms of radiation sickness... .this ought to be right up your alley. At least you can tell me what some of this means,” he snapped his finger on the stiff folder on his desk.
Dr. Parsons sat down, suddenly interested. “What do you have, Archie?”
“Not a hell of a lot, unfortunately. She was admitted because of early labor pains, but she has been under the care of a physician from out of state. I called him to get some history on her after she told me she’d been in this area during White Water.” Indicating the folder, he said, “This was all I could get by phone.”
He handed the papers to Dr. Parsons who began skimming the data.
“She’s a primipara?” asked Parsons without taking his eyes off the printed matter.
“Uh huh. And since this is her first one, it could be a long while before she delivers.”
After looking through the medical history, Dr. Parsons said, “I can’t believe she’s trying to have this child.”
“I know. She’s asking for trouble,” agreed Archer. “Bernie, what’s the deal on those wild fluctuations in her white blood cell count?”
Holding the folder nearer the lamp, the physician saw a record of treatment following White Water. For the first two months white cell numbers vacillated to extremes, severa
l thousand below to several thousand above the normal count. Three transfusions had been administered during the low reading periods. Eventually the WBC had stabilized. Parsons replied, “We found the same thing happening in our patients, Archie. No doubt radiation had mysteriously affected the bone marrow and lymph glands where the cells are made. But how, I don’t know.”
“Look at the hemoglobin stat,” said Archer. “When I first saw that I didn’t give it a second thought because nearly all pregnant women develop some degree of iron-deficiency anemia. The fetus frequently demands more iron than the woman can provide,” said Archer. “Later, I got to thinking something wasn’t right.”
“What are you concluding? That this case is in some way special?” asked Parsons.
Dr. Archer answered, “Lack of iron is evidenced in pale hemoglobin, but it is a certainty that where the blood is too iron poor, the oxygen supply to the fetus is reduced. As you know, it’s the iron that carried the oxygen in compound through the bloodstream.” He paused for a moment. “Yes, Bernie... . she’s a special case all right.”
“According to her physician, she had oral doses of medicinal iron, Archie. That should have corrected the anemia promptly.”
“But it didn't. She was nauseated by it and had gastric cramps so she was switched to intravenous iron.”
“And?” asked Parsons, anxious to get to what his colleague saw as the crux of the patient’s problem.
“Apparently that did the trick, but only over several months. Several months, Bernie! That’s a helluva wait for severe anemia to be corrected, especially for a pregnant woman.”
“Our radiation patients who had been heavily exposed invariably became anemic. I suspect that since radiation had interfered with the developmental rate of white cells, causing those wide fluctuations that we saw so often, then it could have in some way affected the red blood cells. They’re produced in marrow of the bone, too,” Parsons said.
“The question is, was her anemia a consequence of pregnancy or a result of the radiation?” asked Archer.
Dr. Parsons was thoughtful for a long moment. “Who knows? But it means that the fetus has been improperly supplied with oxygen for what—nearly two-thirds of its life?”
“Yes. That’s it. So, you know what lack of oxygen to a brain does. It’s probably the number one cause of mental retardation,” said Archer. “That baby could be in bad shape.”
“Have you looked at the fetus?” Parsons asked.
“No,” replied Archer. “She won’t allow any x-rays. She’s adamant about that.”
Dr. Parsons glanced back at the folder. “She ran a constant fever during the rise and fall of the WBC, which later dropped to low grade intermittent. She must have felt like pure hell during that time. Several of us down in isolation were going through the same thing, and we were miserable.” Hesitating, Parsons asked, “What is her general status now?”
“She says she has never gotten her stamina back. Always tired. But of course that goes right along with the condition of pregnancy, especially when coupled with anemia.”
“Hmm. Tiredness, malaise—classic symptoms of radiation sickness. Within two weeks after the release of the radiation we began getting hundreds of cases of that very thing.”
The obstetrician wrinkled his brow in concentration. “That shouldn’t have been too hard to control, Bern. Did everybody suffer it?”
“Most did,” Parsons answered. “Very few missed the tiredness altogether, though, and depending on the degree of exposure, those symptoms gave way to new and different ones within weeks. The route taken by the sickness became almost standard, beginning with the primary stages of nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, tiredness. Most of the casualties died during the first few days after the fallout—before they ever got to fever and blood disorders.”
“Actually then, this woman had all the symptoms of radiation sickness, and she had them throughout a vital part of her pregnancy,” said Archer. “If she’d only let me take x-rays....”
As Archer rambled on about the woman’s refusal to have xrays, Parsons recalled an infant he had seen in his early career, a child suffering from a condition supposedly induced by radiation. The vision that he hadn’t been able to erase from his memory was the tiny, tiny head—no larger than a woman’s fist—sitting atop the infant’s shoulders. “Archie, have you ever seen a microcephalic idiot?” he asked, for that’s what the baby had been.
Archer halted in his monologue: “A microcephalic idiot? A pin head?” he asked.
“Yes. The bottom rung of the ladder of intelligence, one of the most severe of the mentally deficient,” Parsons answered.
“Well, no. I haven’t” he admitted. “Say, what does that have to do with this?”
Parsons hesitated while he rubbed the grit from his eyes, then he said, “Under normal conditions, the chances are less than one in twenty five thousand that a woman would have such a child.”
“So?” urged the obstetrician.
“So a study was done on the offspring of Japanese women who were in mid-pregnancy and within a mile of the atomic blast that devastated Nagasaki, Archie. Of the two hundred five babies born to those women, seven were microcephalic idiots. Seven, Archie. A far cry from what might occur normally.”
“Boy, you’re not painting a very bright picture, Bernie.”
“You mean that I’m pessimistic?” asked Parsons as he handed the folder back. “Yeah, I am. One of these days you’ll begin pulling out babies that you’ll think have been marked by the devil. That’s when we’ll start seeing what awesome damages can result from exposure to radiation. Frankly, I don’t think what we’ll find will be pleasant.”
“The rate of abnormalities will increase, you’re saying.”
“Greatly! No doubt about that.”
“All right, Bernie, but about my patient. What do you think?”
“That you and your patient had both better cross your fingers, knock on wood, and pray like hell.” he said solemnly.
“Aw, come on Parsons. Level with me.”
Parsons grinned sourly at Archie. “I wish to God I could be optimistic about her. But....say, will you do something for me?”
“Sure. Name it,” answered the obstetrician.
“I’d like to assist when she delivers. Okay?”
“No problem. I’ll have you paged.”
“Thanks. What’s her room number?”
“Eleven—it’s on the delivery floor.”
“Right.” The surgeon began pulling himself out of the chair.
“Hey, hold on a second. You aren’t leaving, are you? You haven’t told me anything yet,” Archie complained.
“What’s to tell? I don’t have any experience with radiation-affected pregnancies. But, I have a hunch we’ll be getting them.”
Archer walked around to stand before Parsons. He was expressively sober. “You can be a sad-faced buzzard sometimes, Parsons. If everybody listened to you we’d be saying our rosary every day instead of once a year.”
Parsons was upright, face to face with Archer. “That bothers you?”
“You know what I mean. It just can’t be all that bad. God, man, you sound like we’re going to be paying for this forever.”
“We will, for several generations. But frankly, I’m surprised to find a non-believer right here in the midst of this mess. You’ve got a short memory, Dr. Archer.”
“Let’s say I prefer to look on the brighter side—and there must be one,” replied the obstetrician.
“Well, look all you like, but don’t ignore the facts. They’re brutal, you know. Or at least you would if you’d been in that isolation unit with us for five straight weeks.”
“There’s no need to get sore at me, Parsons. Some of us had other obligations to meet. We couldn’t lock ourselves in isolation with you and forget the practices we’d built up.”
“You’re right,” Parsons answered shortly. “What was that? Eleven?”
“Yeah, eleven.”
The doo
r of room eleven was ajar so he walked quietly in.
Her features confirmed the medical record that he’d just read. Soft brown eyes, alert to the movements around her, watched as he drew near.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked as he reached her bed.
Rich full lips parted slightly, revealing a hint of a weary smile. “Of course I remember you, Dr. Parsons.”
“Bernard. Call me Bernard. How are you feeling, Sara?” She glanced at the mountain of flesh protruding from her abdomen. “Tired. I wish it were over.”
“It won’t be much longer now. But I must say that for a lady beginning labor, you look in good shape. Different from how I remembered you, though.”
She made a motion toward her hair, then let her hand return to rest by her side. “I lost my hair. It dropped out.”
“Yes, a lot of mine did, too, but yours is coming back in much faster than mine.” He smiled at her as he inspected the blond strands, hardly more than two inches long, which carpeted her scalp. “It’s thick, with beautiful healthy color. I’m jealous.”
She looked at him quizzically, as though trying to remember more detail. “That’s odd. I don’t recall your hair at all.”
“Well,” he said, pretending huffiness, “I certainly had a lot more than this. A lot more. It used to just drive the nurses crazy, seeing all my coarse distinguished locks that required constant female attention.” He smiled mischievously.
She caught the gist of his game and her countenance broke into an amused grin.
“However,” he added, “you never stuck around long enough to have a close look at me.”
Her smile faded. “Were you mad at me for taking all the morphine and running?”
The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival) Page 30
