The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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       16

      Next day the strike hits. All RNs and doctors are put on full time, two shifts. Everything’s on emergency basis. The hospital accepts no new patients and they’re discharging or shipping patients to other hospitals.

      The RNs are forced to do all the bedside and dirty work normally done by LVNs. I volunteer to help wherever I can; there’s no way they’re going to move Dad out.

      I’m concerned he’ll be neglected with all the confusion, so I move in and sleep next to him. Over half the beds in intensive are empty anyhow. A little redhead nurse shows me what to look for with Dad and I change his sheets, his Pampers; give general bedside service. Except for renewing bottles on the IV, there’s not much medical involved. Chad’s cleared things for me to stay, so I’m having no trouble there.

      When I tell Mother about the strike, she wants to shift Dad to another hospital. Joan and I talk her out of that. Perpetual knows his condition and Dr Chad seems to care. The move alone could kill him.

      Mother’s at home. Billy’s sleeping in the back garden room to keep an eye on her. He’s being great about it.

      It’s strange living in a hospital when you aren’t sick, especially sleeping in an intensive care unit. Most of the patients still here are desperately ill, too far gone to move, so the line between the well and ill is even more exaggerated than usual.

      After I’ve been around several days and haven’t bitten anyone’s head off, the nurses are more reasonable. Several times they use me as an extra hand, holding a patient still for an IV insertion or lifting and holding or shifting while they make a bed. I also help with the feeding of other patients.

      Early in the morning of the fifth night, I wake to the usual jingling of glass and metal, the main sound in a hospital. There’s a pale gray light coming through the window and I listen to the early going-to-work traffic. It’s the time when I usually have my most depressed thoughts. I’m lying in bed, half thinking, half in suspended animation.

      I glance over at Dad. His eyes are open and he’s looking at me! I mean he’s looking at me, not past me, or through me or around me! He’s looking into my eyes!

      I slide out of bed on his side and approach carefully. At first, I think maybe he died in the night, but his eyes are live, they follow me, keeping me in focus. I come to the edge of his bed. His mouth opens twice, dry pale lips, paper-frail. But he gets out a sound, a thin, high voice almost falsetto.

      ‘Where am I, Johnny?’

      I can’t believe it! He’s still looking into my eyes, waiting for an answer.

      ‘You’re in the hospital, Dad, you’ve been sick.’

      He nods his head slowly. He looks down the length of his bed and smiles.

      ‘I think I could’ve guessed that one, Johnny. But what are you doing here? Are you sick, too?’

      God, there’s something so clear, so young-sounding! I reach out and put my hand on his head.

      ‘Just take it easy, now, Dad; don’t force yourself. You’re doing fine.’

      He lifts one arm, his right, discolored with IV punctures and tape marks. It’s so thin the muscles are like ropes over bones just under the skin.

      ‘I don’t look so hot to me, Johnny. What’s happened anyway; was there an earthquake or a car crash or something?’

      I don’t know what to say, how much to try explaining. Just then, the morning nurse comes in. It’s the redhead again. Dad looks at her and smiles. She stands there staring, as shocked as I am, but recovers quickly.

      ‘Well, hello, Mr Tremont, how are you feeling this morning?’

      Dad looks over at me.

      ‘Isn’t she pretty, Johnny? I always wanted a redheaded daughter; left-handed like your mother and redheaded.’

      Now the nurse stares at me, bewildered. There couldn’t be a more drastic swing from death to life.

      ‘Nurse, I think you should page Dr Chad.’

      Dad closes his eyes. I’m afraid it might only have been a moment’s clarity before some horrible final descent into death but I don’t want to disturb him. I pull my chair close.

      When Chad comes in, we’re still like that. Dad must not have been asleep, because he opens his eyes as the doctor and nurse bustle into the room. Dad looks at Chad and smiles.

      ‘My goodness, it’s like the House of David baseball team.’

      Chad looks at me, eyes wide.

      ‘He woke this way, Doctor. What do you think?’

      Chad’s taking Dad’s pulse; he puts a thermometer in his mouth. Dad keeps an eye on him; a quivering smile flashes around his eyes, his lips. Chad takes his blood pressure and looks at me.

      ‘One twenty over seventy-five.’

      He checks the thermometer.

      ‘Normal.’

      ‘Hello, Mr Tremont, how are you feeling?’

      ‘I don’t know. How am I supposed to feel? I’ll say I feel mighty tired.’

      Chad’s leaning forward, peering into Dad’s eyes, feeling his skin. He looks under the bed at the urine bottle.

      ‘Well, Mr Tremont; you’ve been sick but you seem fine now. What can we do to make you comfortable?’

      Dad looks down at himself in the bed.

      ‘Well, to start with, could you take off a few of these tubes and wires; then can I have something to eat? I’m hungry.’

      He holds up his withered arms.