C H A P T E R
Eleven
Heroes and angels usually
arrive in disguise.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
When I woke the next morning everything was spinning. I felt as if I’d just gotten off the teacup ride in Disneyland. I lay in my sleeping bag, holding my head for nearly twenty minutes, hoping that whatever was making me dizzy and nauseous would pass. When my vertigo had eased a little, I packed my sleeping bag and started walking, skipping breakfast out of necessity.
I walked three miles to the town of Plankinton. By then I was feeling almost normal again, so I stopped for breakfast at a convenience store called the Coffee Cup Fuel Stop. A mile later I passed a sign for the Corn Palace.
Ears to You …
Visit the Corn Palace. Mitchell, South Dakota
Mitchell was the largest city I’d encountered since Rapid City. I figured that I could reach Mitchell by late afternoon and find a decent hotel to crash in.
During the next few hours, walking grew increasingly difficult, and three miles from the city the dizziness had returned worse than before. Everything began spinning so violently that I was staggering like a drunken man. Then I threw up. I stumbled a few more yards then threw up twice more. I fell onto my knees, holding my head in agony.
I slid my pack off and rolled over to my side. Walking was no longer an option. I didn’t know what to do. I hoped that a highway patrolman or a passing motorist might stop to check on me, but no one did. Cars sped past, either not seeing me, or, possibly, not wanting to deal with me. How do you not react to a body lying on the side of the road?
I lay there for several hours, throwing up six more times, until I was dry heaving, the taste of stomach acid sharp and bitter in my mouth. As darkness fell, I was in a quandary. I didn’t know whether I should roll farther off the shoulder to avoid getting run over, or stay where I was, hoping some Good Samaritan would stop to help—a prospect that seemed less likely with each passing car.
I had begun to panic, wondering how I would spend the night, when I heard a car pull up behind me. I heard a door open, followed by heavy footsteps. My mind, already spinning, flashed back to when I was attacked and nearly killed outside Spokane. Only this time I was even more vulnerable.
I looked up to see an elderly, gray-haired man dressed in nice but outdated clothing.
“Are you okay?” he asked in a thick accent that sounded to me like Russian.
“I’m very dizzy.”
He crouched down next to me. “Have you been drinking?”
I noticed his Star of David pendant. “No. Everything just started spinning.”
“Do you have family or friends I could call?”
“No, I’m from Seattle,” I said. “Could you take me to a hospital or a clinic?”
“Yes. There is a hospital in Mitchell. I will drive you there.”
“I would appreciate that.”
“This is your pack?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I will put it in my car.”
The man put my pack in his backseat then returned and helped me to his car, an older-model Chrysler. I moved slowly, holding my head. He opened the door and eased me in.
“Do not hit your head,” he said. When I was seated, he shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in.
“I’ll try not to throw up in your car,” I said.
He laughed a little. “I would appreciate that.”
“No promises,” I said.
He started the car. “Are you familiar with the town of Mitchell?”
“No, sir.”
“There is the Avera Queen of Peace Hospital on Foster Street. We can be there in fifteen minutes.”
I was leaning forward, my hands cupped over my eyes. “Thank you.” After a minute I asked, “What’s your name?”
“Leszek.”
“Lasik?”
He laughed. “Leszek. It is Polish. What is your name?”
“Alan.”
“Alan,” he said. “It is nice to meet you, Alan.”
The ride seemed agonizingly longer than fifteen minutes, as everything in my world was still spinning. Mercifully, the man didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t say anything at all until he pulled up to the emergency room entrance. “We are here,” he said. “I will help you go inside.” He shut off his car and climbed out, then opened my door. He held my arm as I walked with him. When we were inside the building I said, “I forgot my pack.”
“It will be safe in my car,” he said.
I couldn’t believe I was back in a hospital. The smell of the waiting room made me feel more nauseous, and as we approached the registration desk I bent over and threw up on the carpet. Around me, voices seemed disembodied, tinny as a car radio. A woman asked, “What’s going on?”
“I do not know,” Leszek said. “I found him along the road. He is very dizzy.”
“Have him sit down,” another female voice said.
A nurse helped me sit back into a wheelchair.
“We need some admittance information,” the woman said to Leszek. “I’ll need to have you fill out this form.”
“I cannot help you. I do not know this man. I just stopped to help. His name is Alan.”
“You’re Alan?” she asked.
“Yes. My wallet is in my pack.”
“We need your insurance information.”
“I don’t have insurance,” I said.
I didn’t see her expression, but there was a pause.
“You cannot turn him down,” Leszek said.
“I didn’t say I don’t have money,” I said. “I’m not a bum. I just don’t have insurance. There’s a credit card in my wallet.”
“I will get your pack,” Leszek said.
I was wheeled back to an examination room. The room’s bright lights hurt my eyes.
A nurse with red hair and freckles entered the room about the same time I did. “I just need to check your vitals,” she said. She put a small plastic clip on one of my fingers and left it there while she ran an electric thermometer over my forehead and typed in the results on a computer. Then she fastened a blood pressure cuff on my arm and pushed a button. The cuff filled with air, tightening around my bicep. She read the gauge, typed in the results, and took off the cuff.
“What’s the verdict?” I asked.
“Your blood pressure is 117 over 78, which is good. Your temperature is normal. I’ll need to take some blood.”
She walked over to the sink and returned with a needle and a plastic bottle, which she set on the table next to me. “Do you care which arm I poke?”
“No.”
“Let me have you put your arm out like this.” She ran her finger over my inner elbow until she found a vein. “There will be a small prick …” She tapped my arm a few times then slid the needle under my skin. “Okay. The doctor will be in in just a moment. Let me have you slip into this gown. Do you need help?”
“I can dress myself.”
She handed me a blue gown that was folded into a square, then left the room. I took off my clothes, pulled on the gown, and lay back on the bed.
I waited about ten minutes for a doctor, a young woman who looked as if she couldn’t be much older than twenty.
“Hi, Alan, I’m Dr. Barnes.” She glanced down at the paper she held. “Your blood pressure, oxygen, respiration, and pulse are all normal. How long have you been feeling dizzy?”
“It started this morning.”
“Were you involved in any physical activity at the time?”
“I was walking.”
“Do you do much walking?”
“Yes. I walk about twenty miles a day.”
“Very active. Had you been drinking?”
“You mean alcohol?”
“No, I meant liquids. Were you drinking alcohol?”
“No alcohol. I had water. I keep myself hydrated.”
“Even so, it’s still possible you were
dehydrated, walking so far in the sun. Are you on any medications?”
“No.”
Her brow furrowed. “Okay. I’m going to run a few more tests. I’d also like to start you on an IV. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”
The redheaded nurse returned a minute later and ran more tests, then disappeared. I just closed my eyes and lay back in the bed, listening to the sounds of the ER flow around me. Too much time in ERs, I thought. The doctor returned forty-five minutes later.
“You, Mr. Christoffersen, are a mystery man. You look fine on paper. But then so did my last online date. How are you feeling?”
“I’m still dizzy.”
“I think we better watch you for a while. I’m going to put you on meclizine. It’s a motion-sickness drug that’s pretty effective for treating the symptoms of vertigo—dizziness, nausea. It will also make you very tired. Do you have any problem with sticking around?”
“I don’t have insurance, so I don’t want to stay any longer than I need to.”
“I understand,” she said. “Let’s get you on the meclizine and see how you react to it, then I’ll send you home to rest.”
Wish I had a home, I thought.
C H A P T E R
Twelve
Leszek has taken me into his home to
care for me. Would I have done the
same for him? I’m ashamed to answer.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The doctor came back several hours later. The clock on the wall read 1:04 A.M. The meclizine had knocked me out, and even though I had slept most of that time, I was still very tired.
“I think you’re okay to go. But you’re not safe to drive.”
“I can get a taxi to a hotel,” I said. “Do you know where my backpack is?”
The nurse said, “Your friend has it next to him in the waiting room.”
“My friend?”
“The man who brought you here.”
“He’s still here?”
“I think he’s waiting for you.”
I put my clothes back on, and the nurse wheeled me to the lobby. Leszek was sitting in a chair in the corner, not reading or anything, just sitting, his hands clasped together in his lap. The nurse pushed me up to him.
“Ah, you are done,” Leszek said, standing.
“I didn’t know you were waiting for me.”
“Yes, the nurse said you would be out today. I thought you might need a ride.”
I looked at him in amazement. And doubt. Maybe my cynicism came from my years in advertising, or maybe it was because of the likes of my cheating ex–business partner, Kyle Craig, but I instinctively tried to figure out what the man’s angle could be.
“If you want to bring your car up to the door,” the nurse said, “I’ll wheel him out.”
“I will get my car,” Leszek said. He shuffled out of the waiting room.
My eyelids felt heavy. I desperately wanted to sleep and had started to doze when the nurse began pushing the wheelchair out to the curb. Leszek opened the car door, and I stood up and climbed in. He shut the door then got in the other side.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I will take you to my house. But first we will stop at the pharmacy for a prescription. The doctor prescribed meclizine, but we can purchase Bonine, it is the same thing, but it will cost you less money.”
“How do you know this?”
“The doctor wrote it down here.”
We drove to a Walgreens just a few blocks from the hospital. I stayed in the car while Leszek went inside. I dozed off, waking when he returned. He was carrying a small white sack. “Your prescription,” he said. “You should be feeling better soon. You just need rest.”
He drove me to his house. On the way to his home, he pointed down a lamplit street. “Down there, that is the Corn Palace. It is this town’s claim to fame.”
“It’s a building?”
“Yes, a building. An arena. They play basketball, have concerts and rodeos inside. It is known for the big corn festival. Every year they put up new murals made of corn.”
“Maybe I’ll walk by it when I leave,” I said.
“No, it is not worth the trip.” A couple minutes later he said, “We are here.”
I had my head down, my hands on my temples, and I slowly looked up. Leszek’s house was a humble, redbrick structure with an immaculate yard with pruned hedges and conically shaped pine trees. In contrast, the rest of the neighborhood looked blighted. The home next door looked like a crack house.
He pulled his car into the driveway. “It is not the Corn Palace, but it is home to me.” He laughed at this.
“You live alone?”
“Yes. I live alone.” He smiled. “No wife to wonder if I have been out with a girlfriend this late at night.”
He held my arm as we walked up the concrete stairs to his front porch. There was a green metal mezuzah case affixed to the right side of the door frame. I knew what a mezuzah was because one of my father’s clients was Jewish and my father had pointed it out to me once when he took me to his house.
Leszek unlocked his door and we stepped into his front room. The home smelled of some spice I didn’t recognize, and the aroma made me feel a little more nauseous. The interior was plain, but tidy and warm, with red shag carpet and a white-brick fireplace mantel. Above it was a picture that looked to be one of those color-by-numbers paintings that haven’t been popular for forty years. Most noticeably there was a grand piano that took up most of the room. The expensive instrument looked out of place in the humble home.
“Make yourself at home,” Leszek said. “Have a seat on the couch. I will get you some water to take your pills. The nurse said to take another dose before you go to sleep.” He left the room.
I slowly sat down. The couch was covered in a dated red-and-gold-pattern fabric, and it sagged a little in the middle. Leszek returned with a glass of water and two pills. “This will help you sleep,” he said.
I didn’t think I would need help.
I took the pills and popped them into my mouth, followed by a drink of water. The water was warm and I gagged a little.
“Now you should sleep. You can sleep in the bedroom next to mine. My grandson uses it when he visits, so it is a little messy. He is a messy boy. Come with me.”
I stood up and followed him down a short hallway. “Here is his room.” He turned on a light switch. “He is a messy boy.”
The room was actually quite neat. It was small and square, with dark, wood-paneled walls hung with cycling posters. The bed was covered with a patchwork quilt of red and blue.
“It’s fine,” I said. “It’s perfect. I appreciate your kindness.”
“We need to make sure you are drinking much water.”
“They put me on an IV at the hospital.”
“Good. This medicine will make you very sleepy. You will feel better after you sleep. I would offer you something to eat, but I do not think it will be so good for you now.”
“No. I don’t think I’d keep it down.”
“When you wake up, you can eat. If you need something just call for me. I will bring your pack inside the house.”
“Thank you.”
After he left me alone, I examined the room more closely. There were three posters on the wall, one with a row of cyclists in blue jerseys, with the title Lance Armstrong Tour de France/2005; the second was a picture of cyclists in an array of bright jerseys on a road winding through the Swiss Alps. The third poster was of a beautiful young woman looking through the spokes of a bicycle.
On the dresser was an impressive collection of cycling trophies, one of them nearly three feet high. Next to the bed was a standing mirror in a gold frame and a nightstand with a porcelain lamp with a bright blue shade.
I shut the door, then turned off the light and walked over to the bed. I took off my shoes and lay back on the white, clean sheets. I don’t remember much after that.
C H A P T E R
; Thirteen
Whether cautionary or exemplary,
there has not yet been a life lived
that we cannot learn from. It is up
to us to decide which ours will be.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I didn’t know where I was when I woke. I had had crazy, lucid dreams, no doubt aided by the medication I had taken, but my reality was pretty crazy as well—I was in a city I’d never before heard of whose claim to fame was a Corn Palace, sleeping in the guest room of an elderly, Jewish Polish man I didn’t know. That was probably about as unlikely as anything I had dreamt.
I looked around the room. The window shades were dimly lit, as if the sun were barely rising. Considering what time I’d gone to bed, I hadn’t slept much. I sat up slowly. There was still some dizziness, but nothing compared to what it had been. At least I could walk if I had to.
I was hungry. I felt like I hadn’t eaten for days—which was almost true since I’d thrown up what I’d eaten the day before. I was relieved to see my pack leaning in the corner of the room. I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was matted to one side and my jaw was dark with stubble. I opened the door and walked out into the hallway.
Leszek was in the front room reading a book. He set it aside when he saw me. “Oh, Mr. Rip Van Winkle awakes.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“It is almost seven o’clock.”
“I only slept five hours?”
He laughed. “No, it is seven o’clock at night. You have slept the whole day.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Really?”
“It is true. How are you feeling?”
“Better than I was.”
“Is your dizziness gone?”
“Mostly.” I rubbed a hand over my eyes. “Seventeen hours. No wonder I’m so hungry.”
“I made dinner. I was waiting to eat, hoping you would join me.”
“I’d love to.”
“Come to the dining room. I must heat the soup. I think soup would be good. And some bread.”
The Road to Grace Page 8
