by Susan Vaught
All I can do is nod, which Burke takes to mean I believe him, because he's Burke, and a guy, and guys can be so totally stupid sometimes. Especially about important things. He lets me go after another quick kiss.
M & M mutter louder and head toward us, matching frowns decorating their perfect, thin faces. They both have on suits. Mona, brown, and Marlene, forest green. Compared to my family, they look streamlined and modern. Twice as mean, too.
I go stiff and plan my verbal defense, as much as I can with these two.
"Hey," Freddie's voice rises from behind me and fills the space around us. M & M pull up short and actually smile toward the door, where I assume Freddie and NoNo have entered. So not fair. M & M like Freddie and NoNo. I guess because they aren't dating Burke.
Freddie and NoNo look streamlined and modern today, too, with Freddie in a sharp lavender skirt and blouse and NoNo in khakis with a form-fitting T-shirt. Only I'm un-streamlined, un-modern, in my flouncy blue broom skirt and flowing white blouse, with my hair loose and messy like Mom's.
Burke's parents join us, and everyone's talking but me.
Why can't I talk?
Why can't I chatter and smile and act like this is just peachy? I need to. I really do.
But there's a nurse with a chart standing at the desk, and she's calling Burke's name, and taking him, leading him away. He's waving.
No.
The nurse directs us toward the surgical waiting room down the hall, and Freddie and NoNo tug at my arms, and I'm trying to smile at Burke and blow him kisses and say something, like I love you, or be safe, or be well, or please GOD don't do this, but I can't, and all I really want to do is scream.
No. No!
I don't want to watch the doors close behind him. But I watch. Not listen to M & M talk about how wonderful this will be, or Burke's mom the nurse worrying that they won't have compression hose to fit Burke's legs so he might be at more risk for clots and all the other technical medical stuff she obsesses about. But I listen. And then I walk, numb and quiet, trying to hold Burke's big grinning image in my mind, ignoring the shiny hallway all the way to the waiting area.
The family waiting area, M & M point out, but Freddie and Burke's mom say something to them about promises they made to Burke, and they chill, at least a little bit.
The waiting room's almost as big as the surgery admissions room, only there's light brown carpet and light brown chairs, and tribal-looking prints on all the walls. A nurse sits at a desk reading, and beside her there's a phone for the doctors and surgical nurses to call with reports or to tell families about problems. My eyes steer away from the phone.
It won't ring for Burke-problems. It'll just ring around noon, to tell us he's through.
This room smells like antiseptic, too, only with an overlay of sweat and perfume and aftershave and the coppery, tense scent of raw nerves. The lamp lights are soft, and probably meant to be soothing, like the subdued colors and the scattered bunches of magazines on end tables.
I'm not soothed.
When I look at the clock, it's 6:00 AM. TWO hours until the surgery begins.
I sit a few chairs away from everyone else, pop open a diet soda, and take my notebook out of my pack. The blank pages seem to stare at me, and no matter how much pen tapping I do, I don't have that flash of inspiration I need to start a column. My eyes drift to the clock. 6:15... 6:20... 6:31.
Freddie's talking to M & M about college choices, and I can't help listening. They're pushing her to go for law as a first major instead of mass communications.
"Once you get to law school, you could specialize in communications law or even intellectual properties." Marlene waves a hand like the matter's settled. "Law will pay the bills, honey. Everything else can be a hobby."
"I'm thinking about environmental law," NoNo says with her gaze on the ceiling, like she's counting the panels, or assessing whether or not they're energy efficient.
"So it's law now?" I ask, surprised. "I thought you were fixed on conservation and ecology."
NoNo nods. "That too. I want to keep my options open."
"Definitely career tracks for the future," Marlene agrees, even though Mona glares, because she's heading toward corporate law. Sort of the mother ship for NoNo's vast array of enemies, the way I see it.
M & M don't react when I scoot closer and join the conversation. Even they look nervous, in their narrowed eyes, and in the tight, stiff way they sit. Pressed and starched, like their brown and green suits. Burke's mom and dad stay quiet, and check the clock more often than I do.
7:00.
7:10.
7:30.
I try to chat, but I wonder what Burke's doing. If they found those bizarre tight hose he's supposed to wear in a size that will fit him. I wonder if they even have a gown Burke's size, or if he's mad because his butt's hanging out.
The conversation turns to whether or not college majors are really important, since grad school or professional school is what makes all the difference, career-wise. Noise doesn't travel much in this room, and the other clusters of family-friends-bystanders sound like they're whispering. They probably think we're whispering, too, except for Mona, who gets loud when she's passionate about something.
As much as I can't stand M & M sometimes, I can't help admiring their brains. Burke's whole family—college people. Professional people. Nobody works at the local Cost Cutters or grocery store or delivery service. They don't watch television when they have a family meal, and they probably don't eat beans and cornbread that often.
I want to go to college.
I really want to go to college, then on to whatever graduate school or professional school calls to me. I want to write for a living, about life and the weather and Burke and our children and academics and the state of the world. More than anything, I want to sound like these smart, educated people, look like them, be around them, be them.
Burke and I will have a family like this.
Finally it's 8:00, and we all go church-quiet as the clock hands tick into place. Burke's getting gassed and knocked out, and it'll be four hours before I know for sure that he'll wake up again.
"Intense," NoNo mumbles, and Freddie nods. Burke's mom holds his dad's hand, and M & M glance around the room at other clusters of people.
Freddie asks the question I don't dare put into words, and she directs it at M & M. "Are you sure this is okay?"
Silence expands around the group of us, our light brown chairs and our private patch of light brown carpet.
Nobody answers.
Marlene gazes at me like I put Freddie up to asking the question, but I meet her eyes with no guilt at all. My mind slides back and forth between her angry face and wondering what's going on with Burke.
8:05. Is he asleep yet? Has the doctor started cutting?
If I have this surgery, who will be out here in the waiting room for me?
Mom would probably insist on going in with me, but Burke threatened his folks about that. Maybe I would, too.
I'm so not having this done.
But maybe I could.
My stomach aches. I should have eaten more breakfast.
Mona finally starts answering Freddie's question, and she uses the phrasing I've read on hundreds of Web sites when I researched Burke's surgery. "The risks of staying overweight far outweigh the risks of this surgery."
Marlene picks up the party line right away. "It's curative for diabetes, and it might keep him from getting hypertension—which you know kills black men more than anyone else. And it lowers cholesterol. Burke will feel better about himself. He'll live longer."
"If he comes through the procedure in good health," NoNo adds in the same thoughtful tone she used when discussing law school.
Everyone, me included, glares at her. "No bad energy," I remind her. "No hexing."
"There's no such thing as hexing," NoNo shoots back, but Marlene pats her hand.
"Just for today, honey, there is. Let's be positive."
"The stu
dies only cover like sixteen to twenty-four months, by the way." I can't help myself. It's my nature. What can I say? "You can't make the leap to words like cure and prevent. Not yet."
When everybody takes a turn staring at me instead of NoNo, I explain. "The studies that talk about 'curing' all those problems and 'preventing' other stuff. They only cover a short span of time. A lot depends on long-term diet and exercise, which would be true with or without bariatric procedures. Now that weight-loss surgery is big business, it's almost impossible to get solid, unbiased information."
Marlene shakes her head. "I knew you'd be negative about this. I asked Burke not to let you come."
"Marlene," Burke's mother says in a warning tone.
"I'm not being negative." My face is getting hot. I can feel it. I'm probably red as an overripe apple, and Freddie's expression turns severe, warning me just as surely as Burke's mom warned Marlene. "I'm just stuck on the actual facts, not the hype, and it worries me. There is a downside to bariatric surgery, and that's why doctors argue over whether or not teens should have it."
"I think that's enough from everyone," Burke's father says in his deep, calm voice. "The boy did his research, and so did we, and so did his doctor. For Burke, this is the best choice."
"Teens do better with the procedure anyway." Mona locks eyes with me. "Because they're in better health to start with. Did you read that fact in all the hype you're talking about?"
"Yes." My fingers curl on my empty, wordless notebook, and my pen drops to the floor. "I'm not being negative, really. I'm hopeful. I'm—" I look away from her. Let her win the damned staring contest. I don't care. Maybe it'll make her feel better.
And what am I, anyway?
Mad?
Scared. Terrified. Half-sick inside. Wishing it would turn 12:00 in a hurry, and we'd hear how Burke was doing.
For some reason, Heath's voice pops into my head. You don't have to be such a bitch all the time, Jamie. I'm trying to be nice...
"I'm just worried," I finish, in as not-bitchy a voice as I can muster, which loosens the tense you-promised-you'd-shut-up lines from Freddie's face and brings NoNo a few lightyears closer, back from Planet Nostenfast.
Burke's mom gives me a sympathetic look. "We're all worried, honey. It's okay. I know it means a lot to Burke that you came, that you're supporting him."
I'm sweating now, my face is hot, and my throat's tight from trying not to say anything else. Do I stink? I probably do.
8:31.
9:47.
10:02.
When noon comes, my nerves fizz like shaken soda. We're all clock watching now, all sweating.
The nurse informs us that Burke's been moved to recovery, and I slide down in my seat. Flat soda now. Drained. Listless. He lived. Thank God he made it through the procedure. Thank God.
But now more waiting, for him to get stable and wake up, so we can see him. His parents first, then his sisters. Then me. I can handle that. I can wait my turn, so long as he's alive and okay and Burke, and he doesn't die.
After fishing some change from my pack, I shove out of my seat, leave Burke's family and Freddie and NoNo, and go in search of a snack machine. A pack of peanut-butter crackers will kill a little time and take the edge off. But I end up wandering halfway around the hospital trying to find the snack room, which I never do, and then can't find my way back to the waiting room.
Damn it.
I'm following the orange line!
What if that phone's ringing and there's news about Burke, and I'm not there? Shit. Shit and a half.
I keep weaving down the hallway, following the orange line, until I'm finally back at surgical admitting. When I ask, the nurse points the way back to the family waiting area. Exactly two steps later, I nearly bang into a guy standing dead center on the orange line.
When I jerk my head up, shocked, I see Heath Montel.
He's so out of place with his floppy blond hair, relaxed-fit jeans, and monogrammed polo shirt, that for a long moment or two I don't recognize him.
When I finally regain my wits, I shake my head and ask, "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in school?"
He hesitates, and his grin seems as out of place as the rest of him. "School business. I got a pass to come see if you got this week's Fat Girl done yet."
Blank stare from me. I know I'm doing it, but I can't stop.
Way to go, Miss Superior-Intellect College Girl.
"Burke's still in recovery, Heath." My lips feel numb.
Heath gives me a nod. "Yeah. Well, that's okay. I mean, I didn't exactly expect you to have it done." Dashes of red slide across his cheeks. "What I really mean is, I came to see if you were okay. If you needed anything."
A Valium, no, ten Valiums, a pack of peanut-butter crackers, and some antistink body spray. Got any of that handy? "That's sweet." I do mean that as I say it, I just don't really know what to do with him. "I'm . . . you're . . . that's just sweet. Thanks."
"You've got my number, right? You can call if you need something later. And tell me how things went?" "Sure." The word comes out too slowly. "I'll call."
"I can bring you guys dinner." Heath clenches his fists like he's mad at something, but I know it's not me. He looks generally freaked out and nervous, which is even sweeter.
"I'll tell Burke's parents. They'll appreciate it." I want Heath to move so I can get back to the waiting room. But at the same time, I want him to stay, to walk me back and sit with me. He's more comforting than the light brown color scheme and low lighting, though I can't really say why.
Before I see what's coming, Heath gives me a fast hug, then takes off down the green line, back toward the main entrance.
When I look up, Freddie's standing a yard or so away with her mouth open.
"Heath came to see if we were okay," I babble, not sure why I'm talking so fast.
"I'm sure he's worried about us, yeah." Freddie eyes me with one eyebrow cocked. How does she do that? I can't, even when I try.
Her face shifts from bothered to worried. "Come on back to the waiting room, Jamie." She beckons for me. "The surgeon called from recovery. There's a problem."
The Wire
REGULAR FEATURE
for publication Friday, September 21
Fat Girl Screaming
Fat Boy Chronicles III
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
Burke stopped breathing.
Not during surgery. During recovery.
He.
Stopped.
Breathing.
No air. No breath. No nothing.
The nurses said he lost his color, started gasping, and grabbed his chest. His heart rate shot up, his blood pressure tanked, and he passed out.
He's back on the operating table while I'm writing this. Live and raw. This is it, folks. This is the real deal.
A pulmonary embolism. Which, according to the surgeon, is "an occlusion of the pulmonary artery—in Burke's case, one of the short segments—by fat, air, or a blood clot."
Translation: Even though Burke wore those stupid old-people support hose during the surgery, something broke loose, got stuck, and BURKE CAN'T BREATHE.
Because it's big and bad and he's young and it's only in one of the short segments, and because Burke won't be able to take the anticlotting drugs to fix it, the surgeon has to CUT THE THING OUT.
"Don't worry," Mr. Surgeon said. "It's a common complication in our teen patients. We'll get in there, fix it, and he'll be good to go."
Hello?
Common complication?
Teenagers who have gastric bypass have trouble breathing after they get cut? Did I miss this somewhere in my reading?
It seems to me the ability to breathe would be essential to all these good outcomes I read about, all these wonderful cures for so many medical problems.
Let's take a poll, okay? To keep me sane for the next five minutes. Here it is.
1. If I was fat, I'd rather be
A) fat
B) dead
Ages where everybody wanted
to be fat and happy.
2. Bariatric surgery is
A) psychotic
B) demented
C) what, you expect me to give you
another option?
3. Burke will
A) live
B) die
C) it doesn't matter, Jamie should
kill his family and his doctor
anyway.
4. I would _____ this surgery.
A) do
B) never do
C) OUTLAW
Are you praying for Fat Boy?
I am, and you'd better be.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
"He looks so so " Freddie can't finish. She's about to . . . crack the fingers on my right hand, she's squeezing them so tight.
Helpless, my mind supplies. Flat. Still. Burke's too still.
I don't know what I expected, but not this. Not near this.
Burke looks dead.
Except for his chest, which jerks up, then down, up, then down, in time with the ventilator's pumping and clicking sounds.
I feel dead just looking at him. The universe drains down to empty, like somebody sucked out all the air and Tightness.
Why did this have to happen?
Freddie's grip digs into my skin, but I don't care. The pain keeps me here, reminds me I'm not dead, he's not dead, but he looks it, oh my God, he looks lifeless and helpless and pitiful. Not Burke. Not my Burke.
Why did he have to do this endlessly stupid surgery—and why, why, why did it have to go wrong? My ribs ache from the force of holding in my screams.
I knew this was wrong. I knew it was bad.
All I can do is stare at Burke and his breathing machine through the door of his glass room in the Intensive Care Unit. He's hooked to intravenous drips on both sides, and the ventilator joins his throat at a little knot of bandages.
