At the Seams

Chapter 8: Day 1 - 10:28 am

Chapter 8: Day 1 – 10:28 am

Sam walks for ten minutes to find the hospital’s only designated smoking area, a greasy little dumpster bay at the grounds' furthest northwestern corner. The walled-in trash area reeks like dirty dentures, a mingled bouquet of rotting food and infection. Nurses, janitors, cafeteria workers, and even a couple doctors, who clump together in a corner, away from the others, jam themselves into the cramped, putrid space to kill themselves in communion.

None of them notice when Sam joins their ranks. He fumbles a cigarette from the pack, finally lights it after several attempts. When he takes the first draw, his mouth fills alarmingly with saliva. He blows the smoke without inhaling and spits a surprising puddle onto the dirty pavement. Already knowing that smoking isn’t for him, but wanting to avoid appearing foolish, Sam takes two more small puffs from the cigarette, attempting to inhale only the second. His bronchial tubes punish him severely, constricting to pinholes and reducing him to a red-faced, choking lunger. Sam recovers, crushes the cigarette under his shoe, and departs the fetid death haven, handing his pack to a befuddled nurse on his way. During the half-mile back to the lobby, Sam vomits once and his head turns soft and swimmy. "How could anyone do this to themselves?" Sam slurs aloud in the elevator, his mind shifting gut-wrenchingly to Mary.

Sam gets off on the third floor and shambles drunkenly to Mary’s room. He pours himself into the uncomfortable plastic chair, exactly where he started, only now uncomfortably ill. Figures, Sam sulks, people in hospitals are either sick or waiting. Now I'm both. He drops his head back, the spinning intensifying momentarily, and closes his eyes. After a while—long enough for the nausea to subside but not for his spins to peter out—Sam opens his eyes when two women enter the room. One woman, dressed in neat blue scrubs, goes to Mary without a word, checking the equipment and Mary's responsiveness. The other woman, wearing a sharp pantsuit and flapping, white lab coat takes the chair next to Sam, groaning as she does. "Damned plastic chairs,” she mutters. “You know I had to buy my own ergo chair for my office? Damned, cheap-ass hospital admin."

The woman looks at Sam a moment, as if expecting a response. All Sam can muster is a single, blank blink. The woman, suddenly remembering herself, straightens in her uncomfortable chair and dons a genuinely apologetic expression. She speaks again, her voice gentle, not chummy. "I'm Dr. Olivette. That’s Jackie. She's the head nurse of the neurology wing. She's going to take good care of Mary."

Sam glances at the woman in blue scrubs, Jackie, as she leaves Mary's bed and starts pulling objects and tubing from one of the carts. One eyebrow raised, Sam glances back at Dr. Olivette’s handsome, kind face. He briefly wonders if she didn’t miss her calling in Peter Jackson films. He nods his head toward the nurse, eyebrow still raised, urging Dr. Olivette to explain what Jackie is doing.

She does. "Mr. Conlin, we have to insert a feeding tube, now. Mary’s been unresponsive for at least five hours and she needs nutrients. We can do a little with the IV, but we'll keep her healthier with the tube. We also need to set her up on a ventilator. Though she’s breathing on her own, her diaphragm muscles will weaken with atrophy, and her breaths will become shallow. The ventilator helps prevent pneumonia and other bacterial respiratory infections by keeping the lungs fully inflated with each breath."

Dr. Olivette pauses and Sam, sensing she requires a response, nods slowly. Dr. Olivette continues. "We've been watching Mary's EEG, which remains normal. This is uncommon in unresponsive patients, but certainly not unheard of. You said she hit her head last night? But didn't exhibit any signs of serious injury?"

Sam nods again.

Dr. Olivette gives him a frank, curious look and continues. "She’s scheduled for more tests throughout this morning. It seems likely she’s suffered some kind of brain damage. I’ll have a more complete picture soon."

Sam's face is gray, his lips pressed together, his blue eyes like saucers. He nods again, this time rotating his hand in a "come on, already" gesture. He doesn't mean to offend, but Sam believes in taking his beatings like a man—with a straight face and all at once.

Dr. Olivette proceeds, albeit slowly. "Mary's neck is okay, no spinal injuries, just whiplash. It's severe, and painful, but will heal fine. We're giving her medication for any physical pain, but she's unaware of the discomfort. Her blood work came back normal, as you suggested it would." She pauses, her face and voice softening. "Mr. Conlin, she appears to be in a coma. Until we know more, all we can do is what we're already doing.

"Besides the testing, we need to keep Mary here to monitor her condition. I encourage you to go home, get her some pajamas and anything else she might want nearby. When you return, we should have results for you."

Sam finally finds the wherewithal to speak, his voice high and breathy in his ears. "Is Mary going to be okay? You still haven't really told me that."

Dr. Olivette shrugs, her face still as kind and empathetic as Sam has ever seen a doctor manage. "I guess that depends on what ‘okay’ means. Her life is in no apparent danger, if that's what you mean. Mary has been unresponsive for a relatively brief period; this means her chances of waking are higher. We still don't know what's causing the coma. That can have some bearing on her chances of a full recovery, also." Dr. Olivette shrugs again. "I'll know more, later."

Deeply unsatisfied with the doctor's answer, Sam still nods. No sense in losing patience this early, but, dear God does he want to go home and fill his empty house with howls of rage. Dr. Olivette, perhaps sensing the unsettled foundation beneath Sam's collected exterior, stands without another word and goes to Mary, pulling on gloves as she walks.

When the doctor reaches the bed, Jackie hands over what looks like a toothpaste tube and another, more vicious implement. To Sam, it resembles both a siphon and a vacuum cleaner attachment—a thick tube, meanly curved, tapered at one end and funneled at the other. Dr. Olivette smears the tapered end with thick, opaque gel, then inserts the tube into Mary's right nostril. She pushes the tube in just a little, jostling it when it lodges temporarily. After a few prolonged seconds of fumbling, the doctor defeats whatever inconvenience Mary's nasal anatomy has presented, and then the curve of the tube is inside Mary's face.

After that, Sam has trouble watching. Dr. Olivette feeds feet of greasy, opaque tubing into Mary's face, her gloved fists endlessly shoving plastic through Mary's nostril and down her throat. Sam guesses Dr. Olivette is being gentle, but it looks like torture from his chair. He drops his eyes to his lap until the doctor says, "All set," and removes her gloves with an unmistakable pop. Sam looks at Mary as Jackie tapes the funnel end of the tube to Mary's good cheek. The nurse grabs a bottle from the table next to her and shakes it, then opens it and pours the contents into the newly installed funnel.

"That," Dr. Olivette says, "is a glorified protein shake. It's designed for people who have trouble moving, to reduce the withering of their muscles. As I said, there's still a good chance Mary will come around. If we get that lucky, we want her to feel as good as possible. For now, Mr. Conlin, go home. Kill some time."

Sam rolls his eyes on that last, amused and resigned that even handsome, kindly doctors still struggle with bedside manner. "Thanks, Doc," he says, meaning it but sounding sarcastic. "I'll be back later." Sam heads to the lobby to catch a cab.