by Jeff High
This wasn’t over.
I moved to her quickly and felt of her jugular. He skin was cool but not cold. For a half second, I thought I felt a thready pulse. There was nothing more, but it gave me a small grain of hope. I lifted Polly from the couch, hastily laid her on the floor, and began doing chest compressions, hard and fast.
After several cycles of compressions and rescue breaths, I caught the faint wail of the siren in the distance. It felt like an eternity had passed. On the outside I was controlled and methodic, mechanically doing textbook CPR. But inwardly I was frantic, hysterical, losing it. Along the way I began to talk to Polly; at first in my head and then audibly.
“Don’t be dead, Polly! Don’t be dead!”
I checked her pulse again. Nothing. It seemed useless. I was pounding on the chest of a lifeless body; foolishly cracking the ribs of a woman whose heart was already broken. The howl of the siren grew louder. I kept pushing, harder and harder. I needed to focus, to think medically. Yet all I could do was desperately replay all the words, all the conversations, all the signs, and all of my indifference. Polly had done this. But I had played a role. I had handed her the gun. Rage, shock, panic, fear, desperation...all gripped me simultaneously, wanting to paralyze me. I pushed on, continuing the hammering compressions.
Finding no other outlet, the convulsive storm of emotions within me manifested in tears. They streamed down my face unchecked, falling on my hands. Out of breath and exhausted, I pressed and pressed. Unknowingly, I found myself repeating the words, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” with each downward push.
Finally, the roar of the ambulance could be heard out front. I left Polly only long enough to unlock the front door. One of the EMT’s continued with the compressions while the other gave her oxygen through an ambu bag. Within seconds, I had placed the defibrillator pads. Normally a dose of epinephrine would be given first. But as of yet, we had no IV access. I didn’t wait for the defibrillator to analyze her. I programmed it and shocked her. If she was dead, it wouldn’t matter.
Polly’s body lurched. I was blindly hopeful, searching to see if the heart wave yielded anything. In the intervening seconds, one of the EMT’s got an IV started. He was about to administer the first dose of epinephrine when the machine announced, “shock advised.”
We all looked at each other, stunned. This meant that Polly had some kind of rhythm. A faulty one, perhaps, but a rhythm that could be shocked into a normal one.
“Clear!” I yelled.
Her body convulsed again. Immediately, the oxygen was restarted. I held up my hand to stop the EMT doing the compressions. Slowly, steadily, the monitor began to beep. It was a sluggish, lazy sinus rhythm. But it was a rhythm, nonetheless. Polly was alive.
We moved quickly. I gave her a dose of atropine to speed up her heart. Within minutes we had her on the stretcher and into the ambulance. But before leaving, I ran back into the house to Polly’s bathroom. Fortunately, I found what I was looking for. I had prescribed an anxiety medication for Polly, benzodiazepines. The bottle was full. Had she taken the two together, her death would have been assured. With only the sleeping pills, there was a chance.
On the ride to the regional hospital in the next county, we gave her a large bolus of saline to flood her system and dilute the medication as much as possible. She would need to have a gastric lavage, a stomach pump. But in her unconscious state, this was best done at the hospital, not on a bumpy forty-five-minute ambulance ride. Polly would live. Coma and kidney failure from the overdose were now the next looming concerns.
We arrived at the ER where Polly was quickly evaluated and sent to a procedure room. Their work done, the EMT’s asked me if I wanted to ride back with them. I refused. Polly had no one. I could find some means of getting back when the time came.
For the next several hours, I sat in the waiting room mulling over everything that had happened, gathering a composite of all that I knew about Polly. My apathetic regard of her had been triggered by the harder edges of her personality. But I had failed to see the deeper wounds, to look past the pretense.
I came to realize that Polly had lived much of her life as most of us do...in fear of discovery. Fearful that those around us would uncover our secret self, that they would realize that we are not as smart, not as confident, not as good as we projected ourselves to be; that our defenses of authority and self-assurance were often a ploy, that in our heart of hearts we longed for that one voice, that one smile, that one warm expression that tells us that maybe, just maybe, we are wrong... that our presence is valued, our friendship needed, our words important. I had foolishly failed to regard Polly with my most fundamental understanding of the human condition, the need for one. Despite all my rationalizations, I was consumed with shame and guilt. I was leaving Watervalley and running away from the people who needed me most.
By late afternoon, Polly was assigned to a room. She was stable but still unconscious. As well, the blood work results for her kidney function looked promising. I went to her room and sat in the chair beside her bed, determined to keep watch over her. Sometime later however, exhausted from all the physical and emotional drama of the day, I fell asleep. It was the only escape available to my burdened mind.
I was awakened by the soft squeeze of a hand on my shoulder. It was Christine. Connie was standing beside her. I immediately stood, as if embarrassed to have been found dozing.
“Hey,” I said reflexively, still endeavoring to wake up.
Christine’s gaze was soft and undemanding. “Hey.”
She stepped toward me and embraced me in a long hug, an expression that communicated far more than words might have. “So, how is she?”
I relayed all that I knew, noting that now it was a wait and see game as to when she might wake. I shrugged. “Then, we’ll have to see about her mental state. That’s why she has the restraints. The biggest challenge might still be ahead.”
They both nodded their understanding.
“I drove your car here,” Christine said. “I’m here to take you home.”
I held my hand up. But before I could speak, Connie interceded. “We drove separately. I knew you wouldn’t want Polly left alone, so I’m here to stay with her. A couple dozen folks from the church have signed up to take turns watching her. More are on the way. You go on home, Luke. You’ve done enough.”
After a moment’s contemplation, I pressed my lips together and nodded reluctantly. We said our goodbyes to Connie and before leaving, I took one last look at Polly. It seemed that hers was a pathetic state. The turns in her world had brought her to this wretched moment. My heart broke for her. No one’s story should have such an end.
Christine and I walked to the car in silence. Upon reaching it, she turned to me and spoke crisply. “How about I drive?”
I easily agreed, and we set off into the twilight for the long road back to Watervalley. I could do little more than stare blankly out the side window and into the vast darkness. Christine, in all her grace and wisdom, said nothing, only occasionally reaching over to squeeze my hand. Sometime soon after we crossed the county line, I exhaled deeply and looked at her.
“How would you feel if we didn’t leave Watervalley?”
Chapter 47
LAZARUS REVISITED
THE NEXT DAY, THE NEWS of Polly’s attempted suicide swept through Watervalley like a hurricane. Remarkably, it was met with an outpouring of sympathy and concern. Despite her often-prickly nature, it seemed that over the years, Polly’s volunteer and charity work had won her an enduring regard in the fabric of Watervalley life. Notably, her personality was an acquired taste, but she was nevertheless respected and appreciated. Instead of contempt and indifference, her desperate actions invoked a universal sadness and the good people of the town expressed their grief for her in more than just words. Her hospital room overflowed with flower arrangements and dozens of get-well cards. So many volunteers came to hold vigil and watch over her that many had to be turned back.
Ironically,
I was given high praise for finding Polly and saving her life. But I didn’t see it that way. Candidly, I didn’t want to talk about it; a position that was wholly unpopular with the multitude of well-meaning inquiries I received. Only Christine knew my real thoughts. I blamed myself.
As we passed through the darkened landscape on Sunday night, she listened patiently as I poured out the full measure of my anguish and guilt.
I knew.
I knew that I had failed Polly; that my indifference had contributed to her attempt on her life. Perhaps I could have rationalized that this was confirmation that I should leave, that I should not be a small-town doctor. But it had only confirmed the opposite. I knew that despite my attempts at vindication, Watervalley would be left destitute of medical coverage. I could easily change that. I also knew that in part, my desire to do research was to some degree a chase for applause. I was grieved and frustrated but felt that quite possibly I was making the wrong choice.
In her calm and beautiful way, Christine assured me that she would support whatever decision I made. But wisely, she suggested that I give it some time and perhaps talk the matter over with Connie or John or perhaps Dr. Bray. In the moment, I agreed. I would withhold comment to anyone on the idea for a few days. Admittedly, however, I saw little that would change the inevitable choice to stay.
Monday found me in better spirits although I moved through my day with an odd mix of resolve and melancholy. Patients came and went, but I was different. I lingered with them longer, talked with them more, and found a mild sense of contentment in doing so. Late that afternoon I called the hospital to check on Polly. Nothing had changed.
Tuesday passed much the same except that the day was more infused with comments and congratulations about the imminent wedding. Admittedly, the delight of my approaching marriage and honeymoon began to occupy my thoughts. But the simmering uncertainty still remained.
Then, late Tuesday afternoon I received a phone call. It was from the hospital. Polly was awake and asking for me. Within the hour, I was knocking on the door of her room.
Her eyes met mine with a somewhat embarrassed yet desperate, unspoken gratefulness.
I began the conversation the same way I did all awkward discussions, with a stab at humor. “Polly, I am so sorry. I should have had the pharmacy leave instructions that you’re only supposed to take one of the sleeping pills at a time.”
She smiled at me, and I felt my cheeks warm. Her face melted into a kind and tender gesture. “How did you know to check on me?”
I pulled the chair to the side of her bed, sat down, and held her hand.
“Gee,” I shrugged. “I was sitting in church Sunday and couldn’t find a fashionable hat anywhere. It set my whole week off on the wrong foot.”
She cut her eyes at me dismissively. “You’re a good soul, Luke Bradford. Thank you.”
I nodded, saying nothing more. A knotty silence fell between us, but Polly seemed unaffected. She released a small, satisfied breath and fixed her gaze out the window. She spoke with a notably new and unveiled bluntness.
“Lately my life has been a gapping sinkhole. But it was one that I dug for myself. Clayton and I had such a wonderful life together. I realize now that I’ve never gotten over his loss. I thought I had, but in truth I think I’ve been angry. And I’ve taken that anger out on everyone around me.”
She paused for a moment and again looked reflectively out the window. “After his death, I used to host a lot of dinner parties. I guess in some way I was wanting to bring life and laughter back into the house. But it didn’t work. In hindsight I was a terrible hostess; making bitter comments and biting people’s heads off. I imagine they all went home, got down on their knees, and prayed to God they would never receive a dinner invitation from me again.” She seemed quietly amused, clearly poking fun at herself.
“I thought I had burned every bridge imaginable. And yet, look at this. All the flowers and the cards. I’ve had a dozen visitors this afternoon, and I understand that while I was asleep, someone was at my side the entire time.” She turned to me and smiled warmly. “Including you.”
“You’re more liked than you know, Polly.”
She blew out a short, disbelieving gush of air. “A little patronage is fine, Luke Bradford. But now you’re just outright lying.”
I grinned and mulled over her words for a moment. “Then let’s say it this way. People want to like you, Polly. You’re independent, you’re colorful, you’re intelligent, and over the years you’ve given of yourself to the community. People revere and value that. They want to be friends with you. But maybe you haven’t always made that easy.”
She nodded. “Fair enough.” Then she smiled, and her demeanor took on a lighter air.
“You know what they say about you when you are teetering on the brink, how your whole life flashes before you?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I have to tell you. That happened to me.”
“Oh, really? And?”
Polly held up her hands in a grand measure of exasperation. “What a letdown. Huge parts of it were really boring.” Having said this, she burst into a high-pitched, wheezy giggle; openly quite entertained with herself.
I laughed along with her and then squeezed her hand. “I think now you’ve got a chance to change all of that, Polly.”
Her face softened. “Yes. Yes, I do. I feel like Lazarus, back from the dead. I’ve got a second chance at life because of you, Luke.”
She paused and looked down, seemingly fortifying herself. “I’m going to have to go through a series of psych evaluations, first though. Seems that when you try to off yourself, there’s a lot of concern you may attempt a repeat performance. But, perhaps that’s a good thing.”
“It has its place.”
She nodded with a tight-lipped smile of resignation. I spoke in to the silence that followed. “Polly, I’m sorry. I should never have let this happen.”
Her neck stiffened, and she looked at me with a face of surprised admonishment. “Luke Bradford, that’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard you or any other human being say. You’re a doctor, not a mind reader. I told you a bunch of half-truths and you acted accordingly. How could this possibly be your fault?”
“I should have listened more, Polly.” I looked away for a moment, searching for the words. “I should have cared more.”
Polly chuckled lightly. “Oh, piddle, Luke. Based on the words coming out of your mouth I can envision a whole new use for duct tape.”
I was taken aback by her uncharacteristic frankness. “Polly Shropshire. I think I’m seeing a new you.”
“Well,” she said, shuffling slightly and straightening her back. “There needs to be a new me. And you need to put away any notions about blaming yourself. You’re an exceptional small-town doctor, Luke Bradford. I’m sure you’ll be the same at medical research.”
Despite her offer of absolution, I was unconvinced. Part of me even wanted to tell her about my misgivings regarding the decision, to hint at the probability of staying. But before I could speak, Polly squeezed my hand.
“Just promise me you will call every once in a while, to tell me how it’s going. I need to change some things and be a better person.” She paused, looked to the side, then leaned in closer. “But I still want the inside skinny on Watervalley’s most celebrated newlyweds.” With this she chortled lightly, once again poking fun at herself.
I smiled and spoke warmly. “Not a problem.”
Soon after, I bid my goodbyes and departed. Several people from town were in the waiting area and upon seeing me leave, headed her way. My feelings were mixed, but I felt assured that Polly would be alright.
I called Christine on the way home and gave her an update. She asked me how I was feeling, which I knew was a veiled inquiry into the larger question of staying or leaving. My response was ambivalent. Christine responded tenderly.
“Luke, I hope it’s okay. But I spoke to Connie earlier today. I told her how you were feelin
g. She wants to talk to you.”
Initially, I wanted to respond back sharply, to admonish what I saw as a breach of my privacy. But I thought better of it. These were two women who loved me, and I was pretty lousy at expressing my emotions. I exhaled a long, slow breath. “Probably not a bad idea.”
We talked a minute or so longer and said goodbye.
Connie’s car was in my driveway when I arrived home.
Chapter 48
FOR THE LOVE OF CONNIE
AS I GATHERED MY THINGS to go inside, it occurred to me how my life with Connie had so dramatically changed. In the first few months of knowing her, I would have rather eaten a green bug than have been anywhere near her. But now her presence always lifted my mood and brought a sense of strength and comfort. I found her in the kitchen, preparing dinner and singing in her rich soprano voice. Yet instead of the usual hymn or gospel song, she was serenading Rhett and Casper with “Night and Day,” a Cole Porter standard.
“Well, sounds like somebody’s channeling their grandmother’s incredible vocal prowess.”
Connie responded with a modest grin. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about her quite a bit lately. Getting pregnant out of wedlock probably wasn’t her finest moment, but it must have taken a lot of courage to go off to Chicago by herself to start a singing career.”
“Maybe you should go to Chicago and do the same.”
“Maybe you should get washed up and ready for dinner before it gets cold.”
“Gee, look who has her sassy pants on today.”
Connie ignored me and continued to set the table. I washed my hands at the kitchen sink and we sat down to eat, filling glasses and passing dishes in the silent choreography of two people who knew each other’s movements and habits intimately. There was an abiding ease and satisfaction in this reality that diffused my larger worries. In the moment, I felt lighthearted.
