Rebels (John Bates)

by Scott Powell

“Yes,” answers the African-American man with graying hair, without looking up. He wears an orange tie that matches the dingy plastic chair, the kind they have in schools, the ones that only reveal their true surface with a good pencil eraser.

  “This is John Bates, Doctor.”

  “Is this the last one?” the man asks the nurse, continuing to study the clipboard.

  “Yes, Dr. Pruitt, he is the last,” her stern voice bellows, never leaving her monotone frequency.

  “Good, then we will not need you any more. You may go,” he says, never looking up from his clipboard.

  She finally takes her cue and departs. I stand there for a moment, in this room that is big enough to fit both my neighbor’s house and my own, with only this man as my company. I wonder why the doctor asked if I was the last one? One of what? Am I not the only one to get this surgery? If not, why are we all brought here like cattle? The State is going to pay for multiple heart surgeries for multiple people? These thoughts race through my mind as he continues to scribble notes on the clipboard. Then he finally looks up at me.

  “John, good, come sit down.” he motions to the chair across from his own as he leans toward me. I see the orange chair has a crack that runs from the center to its outside edge. “Tell me a little bit about yourself.”

  I tell him only the bare minimum: Where I am from, the school I attend, and that I am grateful for the surgery.

  “Okay, John, hop up on the table,” he says, patting the paper covered examination table. Then he rubs the stethoscope in the palm of his callused hand, trying to warm it before placing it on my chest. “Good,” he says, standing back producing a tong depressor. “Say ah.”

  “Ahhhh.” I choke as he presses the depressor too far into the back of my throat.

  “Good, hop down. Let’s see how you do on the treadmill.” I run a brisk clip.

  “Good, you seem very fit, a good candidate for the surgery.” Then he surprises me by changing the subject and asks me a more personal question. “What do you think of the Young Army?”

  “It’s okay,” is all I say. I wonder how he knows I am in the Young Army. Had someone told him?

  “Really? You don’t really like it, do you?” He looks surprised and perhaps he has reason to be. Most, if not all, young men I know think being in the Young Army is the best thing that ever happened to them, especially if you are a top candidate. It allows you not only special privileges while in school but access to things others can only dream of.

  After high school, a number of us will be enrolled in some of the top State schools, while the elite will be placed in more special programs—at least that is what the State has explained. Some may even be fortunate enough to join the specialized teams like the Steel team, which is considered an honor, especially when you are given the opportunity to serve the State and even meet the government officials face-to-face. Citizens are no longer allowed to have access to State representatives due to security and the sensitivity of the work they continue to do for the betterment of humanity and the State. It is what we are taught.

  I sense that I need to trust this man. It is an impression that starts inside me and goes down to my toes.

  “No, I don’t, not really. I mean I’m good at it all, but it’s more of something that is expected,” I reply honestly, more honest than I have ever been to anyone, even my parents. “My father wanted me to join in order to learn things he could not teach me. I’m not sure how this knowledge will aid me or what will happen to me after high school. It’s automatically assumed that I’m going to the Army and really, I have no choice. The Army is my future whether I like it or not.”

  “Like what kind of things did he want you to learn?” he asks, moving around to the back of me to listen to my lungs. “Take a deep breath.”

  “Military strategies, tactics, discipline, things like that.” I say, taking in a deep breath as instructed. When I exhale, we are done.

  “Well, there you go, John, you can put your shirt back on. I learned what I needed to know.” He then turns and walks out of the room.

  I sit there, waiting and wondering what to do next. Nurse Garrison comes in a few moments later and instructs me to follow her. As we walk down the corridor, I notice the rooms that line this hall are full of other young men, all dressed in the same jumpsuit I am wearing. These must be the others they were referencing. I wonder again, are we all here for heart surgery? I find it very odd that so many of us would have the same condition at the same time, and more particularly the fact that there are only young men. Why is there a sudden explosion of heart defects?

  Chapter 13

  We walk down a separate hallway from the others. “This will be your room until after the surgery.” I walk into the clean, blue room. The bed is made with white sheets, and a television set is across from the bed. Nurse Garrison leaves, shutting the door behind her. I turn on the television to see if there is anything on. A few minutes later, a little old woman comes in carrying a cream-colored tray full of food. It is not as good as my mother’s cooking, but it isn’t bad.

  I want to call my mother and father and tell them I am okay, but there are no phones, no way to contact them. I noticed even the nurse’s stations are void of phones. I wander into the bathroom and see there is no mirror above the sink—no mirrors anywhere. How will I know what my hair looks like? What if I have a big chocolate pudding stain on my face? I will not even know, unless someone tells me. I decide to become a religious face-washer. I wash my face with the clean white washcloth and the cream-colored soap. After I finish I decide to go to bed early as there is really nothing to do, and I am tired, anyway.

  I am really glad I went to bed early because first thing in the morning, Nurse Garrison wakes me up. “The doctor would like to see you. You will follow me.”

  I think this is strange. Isn’t the doctor supposed to come to me? I’m the one with the bad heart. But since I have never been in a hospital before, I am unsure of how things work, so I don’t question. Nurse Garrison walks me down the same hallway toward the double doors that leads to the room where I first met Dr. Pruitt.

  “Ah, good to see you, John.” Dr. Pruitt shakes my hand the moment I enter the room. This time, Nurse Garrison does not leave. “Early riser, I see. Good man. Let’s get started.” He has me sit up on the examination table and remove my white cotton hospital shirt. He listens to my heart with the stethoscope. “I’m going to take your blood pressure and if that is fine, I’m going to give you a shot.”

  “What kind of shot?” I ask the doctor, who seems surprised by the question.

  He thinks for a moment before answering me, “It’s a vitamin shot, something that we need to give you in order for you to be ready for your heart surgery. You’ll have a series of shots before and after your surgery, which will make you healthier and stronger.”

  After the shot, the doctor has me run through a series of tests and exercises. Then I am taken back to my room.

  A daily routine begins: wake up early, test and exercise with Dr. Pruitt, who in turn gives me my morning shot, and vitamin supplements at each meal. In the afternoon, Dr. Pruitt begins meeting me for lunch, asking me about my family, my life. He has many questions and so, over the course of a few days, the doctor and I become good friends. I also notice he is always making sure no one is around when we are conversing, most particularly, Nurse Garrison. I can’t blame him; she is not at all friendly and probably couldn’t care less. I only feel bad for her kids, if she has any.

  But I wonder how much longer it will be until the surgery. And I wonder what it will feel like to be cut open. And most importantly, I wonder if I will live through it? I know more often than not, people die going through open-heart surgery. I have one other question I am afraid to ask. With all this strenuous exercise and tests, why was I told at home to avoid activities like this? I am afraid I’ll die even before I hit the table. I put on a strong face for the doctor, who I like, and for Nurse Garrison, who I do not trust. I secretly wish my father
were here to reassure me, to counsel me, and to tell me it is going to be okay and for my mother to hold me like she had when I was a small boy

  The day finally comes when I find out when and what is going to happen. I go in to see Dr. Pruitt but instead of exercises, he sits me down.

  “All day today we will be preparing you for surgery tomorrow. There will be a series of shots, and you’ll have to take some medicine, as well. Let me explain what we are going to do tomorrow. First, we are going to put you asleep so you don’t feel anything. Then we are going to remove your old heart and put this in its place.” He hands me a glossy photograph of something that looks like half heart, half machine. “Then we close you up, and you’re good to go.”

  “I’m getting a new heart?” I had thought they were just going to go in and repair the heart, not that I would receive a whole new one. I know I will have to take some sort of drug to suppress my body’s natural immune system in order to keep it from seeing the heart as something that does not belong in the body, seeing the heart as foreign, and rejecting it or ridding itself of the new heart. My risk of dying just went up tenfold. I will never have the drugs I need. There are just too many shortages. “What kind of drugs will I have to take after the surgery?” Even if I get the drugs, it will only be as long as I am useful to the State. As soon as my usefulness is done I won’t receive any more drugs, and on that day I will die.

  “Don’t worry, there will be no need for drugs. The heart has little nanobots inside it. They will go in and change your immune system so it will not reject the new heart. I invented this heart myself.” He seems to want to talk about it more, but he doesn’t dare with Nurse Garrison standing right next to him. I don’t blame him. She is obviously on the take with the government. One wrong move and Dr. Pruitt might need a new heart of his own.

  We finish more tests. I do some light weightlifting and run on the treadmill some more. I still wonder if all this is safe for me to do with my enlarged heart, but I assume the doctor will do nothing that will put me in danger. When we are done, Nurse Garrison escorts me back to my room, and for the rest of the day I am given different shots. I am no longer allowed to eat in order to prepare for the surgery, but the shots keep coming. My arm is sore, and I wonder if I can receive a shot in a different arm. But Nurse Garrison doesn’t care at all. Her job is to give me the shots, and she does. I am grateful when she tells me this is the last one for the day.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, I get up even before Nurse Garrison can come for me and when she finally comes, it is no surprise she has a shot in her hand.

  “How do you feel?” she asks.

  “I feel fine,” I answer, thinking nothing of this question.

  “Let me see your arm,” she says, hands outstretched with the needle grasped in her left hand. I assume it is another vitamin shot, but the moment the yellow fluid enters my arm the room starts to move. I try to stand, only to lose my balance and fall to the floor as rough arms grab me. I can no longer keep my eyes open.

  When I awake, I am strapped to an operation table, a bright light overhead is all I can see. I hear Dr. Pruitt’s voice call out to me.

  “Count backward from one hundred, John.”

  I don’t want to, but what choice do I have? I want to shout at Dr. Pruitt and tell him about the thing nurse Garrison had done, but it is too late.

  “100, 99, 98, 97...” and I know no more. I don’t know what I thought would happen, whether I would dream or something, but there is nothing, only darkness.

  When I awake, the bright, blinding lights of my hospital room greets me. As my eyes focus, I can see Dr. Pruitt standing over me. He looks tired, there are dark circles under his eyes and his hair looks grayer than it had before. My heart feels terrible. My lungs feel squished, and it is hard to breathe with such a heavy heart. It has to be five times the weight it was before.

  “The surgery was an immense success. Your body is taking to the new heart very well.” He smiles and I can suddenly see every wrinkle in his face.

  “Can I go home now?” I ask, trying to sit up. The doctor places his hands on me, stopping my painful movements.

  “No, John, you can’t go home. You have to rehabilitate your body so it can get used to your new heart.”

  My chest hurts. My heart feels like a hundred pounds. The pain is so intense, it feels like my lungs have no space to breathe. “The pressure, it hurts, it hurts so much.” I wrench the words out. Speaking only makes the pain worse.

  “The pain tells you that your heart is growing into your new body. It is a good sign,” he says with a sad, faraway smile.

  I thrash back and forth, kicking my legs. I want to rip this new heart right out of my chest and throw it away. I know my behavior is atrocious, but I don’t care. The pain is too much.

  “Nurse Garrison,” Dr. Pruitt calls, pushing the little red button beside my bed.

  “Yes,” the voice of Satan answers.

  “Bring John a sedative and the painkiller.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” the voice says, and Dr. Pruitt lets go of the button.

  “You’ll be all right, John. Just give your heart a chance to take root.”

  Nurse Garrison comes in with a vial full of something.

  “What are you giving me?” I ask. She does not answer me, she just empties the vial into my IV bag, which injects the fluid into my body. I can no longer stay awake.

  When I regain consciousness, I decide to no longer complain about the weight of my heart. It is as if my heart is twice the size it had been and is made of bricks instead of tissue. The very act of breathing is painful, as the heart seems to be taking up the space the lungs once possessed. I lay there concentrating on the meditation exercises my father taught me. It helps the pain. I breathe as deeply as I possibly can, stretching, growing my lungs and heart with each breath. And with each breath, I pray and praise God.

  Inhale. “Thank you, Lord.” Exhale. “For delivering me.” Inhale. “Out of the hands.” Exhale. “Of death and sin. For Lord, you are a powerful deliverer with the power to deliver me from any situation.” I continue to breathe and pray to God. “You are my light and even in this dark place, I can see because of thee. God, you are my strength and my peace and I thank thee and praise thy name, oh, Lord.”

  The discomfort actually starts to go away, surprisingly, but I assume it is the medication they have administered to me. Within a few hours, I’m able to rise from my bed, and I realize I am in a different room than the one I had first been assigned. This one is pretty much the same, with green instead of blue and a sofa pushed up against the wall. I think momentarily about calling the nurse and asking for my IV to be removed, but I’m afraid I’ll get Nurse Garrison. So I slowly, carefully remove the IV myself. I wrap the cord of the IV up around itself and dispose of the needle in the red container that hangs on the wall. The space where the needle was in my arm starts to bleed, so I search through the various drawers in my hospital room to find bandages. I use the bathroom and carefully remove my shirt and unwrap my bloodstained bandages and stare down at my chest; it is red and raw with black angry looking stitches sticking out. I can no longer stand to look at myself, and the wounds are beginning to bleed. So with clean gauze and bandages, I wrap my chest, making it as tight as I can stand it.

  Then I walk slowly, carefully, out of the hospital room. My legs don’t seem to want to obey me. I call upon God and continue to breathe as deeply as I possibly can, as I make each painful stride forward. I begin to walk down the hall; a nurse who isn’t Nurse Garrison stops me.

  “Good, I see you’re up and about, but you’re not supposed to be walking here. We have a track for rehabilitation. Stay right there, and I will get you a wheelchair and then I’ll take you there,” she says with a perky smile. Whether I want to stay right here is really not an option as I move more slowly than a snail. I place my hands against the wall to steady myself while I wait for her. She may have been gone only for a few moments, but those moments see
m to last and last as I stand here, arms outstretched with the wall supporting me.

  She returns, placing the wheelchair behind me. I sit down, breathing in and out, grateful to now be sitting when I had been so anxious to be up and moving. She wheels me down the hall and into an elevator, out of the elevator and down another hall to a door leading out to a track. The track is suspended over an indoor pool. It is very warm inside the room. The nurse puts the brakes on the wheelchair and waits for me to stand. It is even harder to stand now after sitting in the chair, but I do it. The nurse smiles at me and tells me she will be back in a little while. I shuffle to the inner lane, grabbing hold of the railing and hold onto it as I make my way very slowly around the track.

  I notice other young men dressed in the same white hospital jumpsuits moving at various speeds around the track with little or no greetings to each other than “Hey.”

  I wonder again, do we all have new hearts? Why do so many need a new heart at the same time? My father had always told me if something doesn’t make logical sense then most likely there is something else at play. I keep thinking why us? What purpose does this surgery truly serve? While I slowly walk on the track, this helps to keep my mind off the pain. At this point, I know that I do not have all the pieces to this mysterious puzzle, but I was trained by my father that in time and with patience, the true nature of why I had this surgery will come to surface. The question is: When do I find out what the State really wants from me? And when I do, what then?