The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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       10

      The next day I phone Dr Ethridge. He’s been Dad’s doctor at Perpetual the past fifteen years. After being put off several times by switchboard operators and nurses, I get through.

      I explain what’s happened. Ethridge goes into his act.

      ‘Ahh, Mr Tremont, this kind of thing happens all the time. Dr Santana knows exactly what he’s doing; he’s a fine young surgeon. I’ll go see your father this morning; he’s been a patient of mine a long time. You know, we both come from Wisconsin.

      ‘We might just have to accept it, Mr Tremont, this could be the onset of senility.’

      He’s giving me the same bullshit as Santana.

      ‘So fast, Dr Ethridge, instant senility? I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

      ‘Well, Mr Tremont, you know he was getting forgetful.’

      I keep at him.

      ‘But, Dr Ethridge, he went in for the operation perfectly aware and now … well, wait till you see him.’

      I pause, he doesn’t say anything.

      ‘Dr Ethridge, would it be all right if I come with you when you see him this morning?’

      There’s a pause again. He could be reading or writing something at the same time he’s phoning.

      ‘Oh, no, that won’t be necessary. I’ll see him on the morning rounds and phone you after lunch.’

      He hangs up.

      I tell Mother I’ve talked to Dr Ethridge and he feels everything is going to be all right, we aren’t to worry. Of course, she wants to go see Dad.

      ‘No, Mom, the doctor says we’re not to visit; he needs rest and sedation. Dad’s nervous and anxious about the operation; an older man like him doesn’t adapt easily.’

      ‘Jacky, if we can only get him home, he’ll be all right.’

      She’s convinced if we can get him out of the hospital he’ll be perfectly fine. She can take care of him and that’s what he’s used to, ‘instead of niggers pawing him over.’

      ‘Mother, you can’t take care of him. If we bring him home, I’d have to do it and I’m sure they can do a better job with him at the hospital.’

      Dr Ethridge finally calls at four.

      ‘Mr Tremont, I saw your father and at this time he seems confused. I also talked with Dr Santana and he feels you’ve attacked his professional judgment.’

      This gets me.

      ‘Dr Ethridge, Dr Santana was absolutely wrong telling my father he had cancer after I’d warned him repeatedly concerning his unnatural fear of this disease. The result is there now. My father fell into this state immediately after Dr Santana told him.’

      ‘Mr Tremont, these are decisions we doctors make. If your father uses our hospital facilities, you must trust our judgment in these matters.’

      Then he goes into a harangue on the theme ‘we know our business.’ I listen till he winds down.

      At this point, I’m ready to drop Ethridge, Santana, Perpetual, the whole mess, and start over. But I don’t; I’m too unsure, angry, scared.

      Dad’s in the hospital five days. I spend all the time with him I can. Joan spells me with Mother. I talk to Dr Santana every day and he’s getting more and more nervous. I never let a day go by without asking for neurological and psychiatric testing, observations. I’m combing a new copy of the Merck Manual I bought at the UCLA medical library, looking for some reasonable explanation to what’s happened.

      I’m up against stone walls with the hospital staff. At the same time, I’m trying to stay calm at home around Mother, assuring her everything is proceeding fine.

      At the hospital they keep telling me it will all go away when he recovers from the shock. But Dad continues in his deep, disturbed, anxious, removed condition. He’s lost control of his bowels and bladder. He needs to be hand-fed and it’s very difficult feeding him. He doesn’t have any desire to eat, and is beginning to waste away. All his senses seem cut off.

      The nurses are too busy to get sufficient food into him. I take over the feeding; they don’t mind much. It can be two hours just getting half a small meal down. It’s worse than feeding a six-month-old infant. He bites down on the spoon so it’s hard to get out. He twists his head back and forth. A good part of the time I’m waiting for him to swallow. He’ll tuck the food into one side of his mouth or the other like a squirrel, or sometimes spit it out. He avoids my eyes or stares at the spoon, or nothing, but not my eyes. I talk to him about the food, about Mom, about Joan, anything I can think of, but there’s no response.

      Now the hospital СКАЧАТЬ