The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ See if you can pick up a pair of shoes for a buck or so, too. You can wear them for the funeral, then toss them if you want. Your feet are too big for either Dad’s shoes or mine.’

      Billy says first he’ll wait till Dad’s dead. I think again about our putting the year of death on that grave plaque. I hate to be superstitious but it’s there in all of us; from books, movies, TV, the games we play as children. I ask Billy to stay with Mom. I want to be with Dad as much as I can.

      The nurses are definitely different. Somebody tipped them off about me as a troublemaker. But they’re polite. I feel like an accountant in a bank who’s come to examine the books. I don’t care; I’m not running a popularity contest with nurses.

      Dad’s the same. When I go in the room, I kiss him on the forehead and speak to him but he only continues his deep sleep. I wonder how they can tell a coma from sleep; maybe it’s only a question of depth and length.

       I’m just finished washing up when Lizbet comes wobbling into the kitchen. She has on her nightgown and her eyes are half open. I pull my suspenders over my shoulders and pick her up. She cuddles against me and I carry her to the maple rocking chair Gene made for Bess last Christmas. He sure has a knack with hardwoods. I sit and rock softly in the slowly lightening room. Lizbet tucks her toes into my crotch and sticks her middle two fingers in her mouth. Bess is afraid she’ll pull her teeth out of straight but I let her suck, a nice sound like a calf nuzzling a teat. I breathe the smells of hay and child through the red gold of her hair.

      The nurses are in and out every fifteen minutes. Dad’s getting the royal treatment all right. I ask one what medication he’s being given. She shows me the chart. I pretend I can read the squiggles, lines and abbreviations; smile and give it back. I don’t see any narcotics listed and that’s what I’m looking for. I don’t see any hydrochlorothiazide or Zaroxolyn either, so I figure they’ve discontinued his diuretic for the blood pressure. While you’re in a coma, I don’t imagine high blood pressure is much of a problem.

      I’m getting nothing but bad vibes all over the floor. I don’t know it then but the LVNs, kitchen help and all maintenance people are voting right that day to go on strike. In a little while these RNs will need to take over the whole hospital by themselves. I think they’re pissed at me but actually they’re pissed at the world in general and I’m only part of the world.

      Dr Chad comes in twice a day, once at ten-thirty in the morning and again about four in the afternoon. Each time he sits beside Dad, takes his pulse, listens to his heart, takes his blood pressure, looks at the catheter bottle and, with his stethoscope, listens to Dad’s breathing. Each time he speaks softly, then more loudly, calling Dad’s name.

      ‘Mr Tremont? How are you, Mr Tremont?’

      He pinches Dad’s shoulder and slaps his face lightly, then harder. Each time there’s no response. It’s like trying to wake a drunk.

      On the afternoon of the third day, there’s a slight response when he slaps Dad; his eyes flicker open briefly, he turns his head, lifts his right arm slowly, then settles back. Dr Chad slaps him again, calling, but there’s no more. It’s so like Jesus calling Lazarus back from the dead, especially since Chad has a full, black beard.

      Every day, Chad explains the situation and what he’s doing. He’s running continual daily checks on the blood, urine, sputum and feces. He’s beginning to think a big part of the problem might be metabolic. He doesn’t know what set it off or how to re-establish life functions. When I ask, he still says he can’t give me any hope; he’s doing what he can but it looks terminal.

      He’s willing to tell me, exactly, everything he’s trying and he’s a natural teacher. I feel he’s glad I’m interested and wants me to know.

      The big thing is he’s moved the IV from Dad’s arm to the superior vena cava on his neck. He’s giving nitrogen as protein hydrolysates, backing up with 150 calories for each gram of nitrogen. Chad tells me all this as if I should know what he’s talking about. I feel he’s truly doing something and it makes sense as he explains it.

      After juggling around a few days, he settles on 165 grams of anhydrous dextrose plus 860 milliliters of 5 percent dextrose in 5 percent fibrin hydrolysate. To this he’s adding 30 milliequivalents sodium chloride and 50 milliequivalents potassium chloride and 8 milliequivalents of magnesium sulfate. He says it’s a delicate balance he’s trying to establish. He explains all this but admits he’s only taking shots in the dark.

      But he’s trying and I let him know how much I appreciate it. I only wish this kind of care had been given from the beginning. The nurses need to prepare these brews for the IV by filtration sterilization because they’d be destroyed by heat. This is a lot of additional work and they’re not happy.

      Still I hang in there, Chad hangs in and, most important, Dad’s hanging on.

       15

      In the morning, we’re soaked. The tent’s sagged so it’s on top of us. We crawl from under like worms slithering in the grass.

      The sky is blue and warm with large drifting clouds, but the grass and trees are water heavy; drops sprinkle every time we move.

      Dad stretches and almost falls over. It’s past nine-thirty; those reds sure sent us off. There are huge water puddles on our tent where it sagged the most. We carefully pull out the tent pegs, ease down the tent poles, then try to roll the biggest puddles off without soaking the blanket more. We each take an end of the blanket, wring, then spread it on the car roof. The car’s already so hot the blanket steams.

      At the other end of the lay-by there’s a rest room we didn’t see before. We head there, wash, scrub our teeth and work on getting our eyes unglued. We’re still wobbly. Our clothes are wet and wrinkled, so we come back and pull clean clothes from the suitcase. Aunt Joan washed for us just before we left and the clothes smell clean, dry and Californian.

      When we come out of the rest room, the tent’s half dry but the blanket will take time. We roll up the tent and stash it. Dad’s carefully making a neat roll of each rope. We spread the blanket over the tent in the trunk.

      Dad takes our wet clothes and puts them on hangers from his suitcase. He slips these hangers over little hooks on the inside of the car by the back windows. We’re beginning to look as if we might be bushy reps making our yearly tour for a lingerie company.

      It’s ten-thirty before we get rolling. Dad takes the wheel. I put on the Dylan tape but keep the volume down. I’m still sleepy, so I recline the chair and close my eyes. It’s amazing how much better you hear with your eyes closed.

      We resist two Pizza Huts and eat on the other side of Vandalia, Illinois. It’s a diner in a Quonset hut. We have fried chicken and dumplings. There’s also little lumps like French-fried mothballs.

      It’s half a chicken each and I switch a leg for Dad’s breast. He’ll eat any part of a chicken, including the heart, liver, lights and the pope’s nose. I only really like white meat. In our house, the whole mob, except Dad, are white-meat eaters. The rest of us scramble for scraps while he gorges himself on thighs.

      We finish at three, then head off toward Indianapolis. I want to check out the Indy 500 track but Dad isn’t enthusiastic about getting all tied up in city traffic. I’m driving now, but he’s boss.

      We’re about ten miles past the Indiana СКАЧАТЬ