Three
It was their turn. A nurse who looked like she stepped out of a 1950s Doris Day movie called out Michelle’s name and held the door open. Michelle gripped her stepmother’s hand as they entered the inner office. Cathryn wasn’t sure which one of them was more tense.
Dr. Wiley looked up from a chart, peering over half glasses. Cathryn had never met Dr. Jordan Wiley, but all the children knew him. Michelle had told Cathryn that she remembered coming to him for the chicken pox four years ago when she was eight. Cathryn was immediately taken by the attractiveness of the man. He was in his late fifties and exuded that comfortably paternal air that people traditionally associate with doctors. He was a tall individual with closely cropped graying hair and a bushy gray mustache. He wore a small, hand-tied red bow tie which gave him a unique, energetic look. His hands were large but gentle as he placed the chart on his desk and leaned forward.
“My, my,” said Dr. Wiley. “Miss Martel, you have become a lady. You look very beautiful, a little pale, but beautiful. Now introduce me to your new mother.”
“She’s not my new mother,” said Michelle indignantly. “She’s been my mother for over two years.”
Both Cathryn and Dr. Wiley laughed and after a moment’s indecision, Michelle joined them, although she was not sure she got the joke.
“Please, sit down,” said Dr. Wiley, motioning to the chairs facing his desk. As a consummate clinician, Dr. Wiley had started the examination the moment Michelle had entered his office. Besides her pallor, he’d noticed the girl’s tentative gait, her slumped posture, the glazed look to her blue eyes. Spreading open her chart, which he’d reviewed earlier, he picked up a pen. “Now then, what seems to be the trouble?”
Cathryn described Michelle’s illness with Michelle adding comments here and there. Cathryn said that it had started gradually with fever and general malaise. They’d thought she’d had the flu, but it would not go away. Some mornings she’d be fine; others she’d feel terrible. Cathryn concluded by saying that she’d decided it would be best to have Michelle checked in case she needed some antibiotics or something.
“Very well,” said Dr. Wiley. “Now I’d like some time alone with Michelle. If you don’t mind, Mrs. Martel.” He came around from behind his desk and opened the door to the waiting room.
Momentarily nonplussed, Cathryn got to her feet. She had expected to stay with Michelle.
Dr. Wiley smiled warmly and, as if reading her mind, said, “Michelle will be fine with me; we’re old friends.”
Giving Michelle’s shoulder a little squeeze, Cathryn started for the waiting room. At the door she paused. “How long will you be? Do I have time to visit a patient?”
“I think so,” said Dr. Wiley. “We’ll be about thirty minutes or so.”
“I’ll be back before that, Michelle,” called Cathryn. Michelle waved and the door closed.
Armed with some directions from the nurse, Cathryn retraced her steps back to the main lobby. It wasn’t until she entered the elevator that her old fear of hospitals returned. Staring at a sad little girl in a wheelchair, Cathryn realized that pediatric hospitals were particularly unnerving. The concept of a sick child made her feel weak. She tried to concentrate on the floor indicator above the doors, but a powerful, incomprehensible urge drew her eyes back to the sick child. When the doors opened on the fifth floor and she stepped off, her legs felt rubbery and her palms were sweaty.
Cathryn was heading for the Marshall Memorial isolation unit, but the fifth floor also contained the general intensive care unit and the surgical recovery room. In her emotionally sensitive state, Cathryn was subjected to all the sights and sounds associated with acute medical crisis. The beep of the cardiac monitors mixed with the cries of terrified children. Everywhere there was a profusion of tubes, bottles, and hissing machines. It was an alien world populated with a bustling staff who seemed, to Cathryn, to be unreasonably detached from the horror around them. The fact that these children were being helped in the long run was lost on Cathryn.
Pausing to catch her breath in a narrow hallway lined with windows, Cathryn realized that she was crossing from one building to another within the medical center. The hall was a peaceful bridge. She was alone for a moment until a man in a wheelchair with DISPATCHER written across the back motored past her. Glass test tubes and jars filled with all sorts of body fluid samples jangled in a metal rack. He smiled, and Cathryn smiled back. She felt better. Fortified, she continued on.
The Marshall Memorial isolation unit was easier for Cathryn to deal with. All the doors to the rooms were closed and there were no patients to be seen. Cathryn approached the nurses’ station which seemed more like a ticket counter at a modern airport than the nerve center for a hospital ward. It was a large square area with a bank of TV monitors. A clerk looked up and cheerfully asked if he could help her.
“I’m looking for the Schonhauser boy,” said Cathryn.
“Five twenty-one,” said the clerk pointing.
Cathryn thanked him and walked over to the closed door. She knocked softly. “Just go right in,” called the clerk. “But don’t forget your gown.”
Cathryn tried the door. It opened and she found herself in a small anteroom with shelving for linen and other supplies, a medicine locker, a sink, and a large soiled-laundry hamper. Beyond the hamper was another closed door containing a small glass window. Before Cathryn could move, the inner door opened and a gowned, masked figure stepped into the room. With rapid movements the individual discarded the paper mask and hood in the trash. It was a young nurse with red hair and freckles.
“Hi,” she said. The gloves went into the trash, the gown into the hamper. “You going in to see Tad?”
“I was hoping to,” said Cathryn. “Is Mrs. Schonhauser in there, too?”
“Yup, she’s here every day, poor woman. Don’t forget your gown. Very strict reverse precautions.”
“I…” started Cathryn, but the harried nurse was already through the door.
Cathryn searched through the shelves until she found the hoods and the masks. She put them on, feeling ridiculous. The gown was next but she put it on like a coat. The rubber gloves were more difficult and she never got the left one all the way on. With the half-empty fingers dangling from her hand, she opened the inner door.
The first thing she saw was a large plastic enclosure like a cage surrounding the bed. Although the plastic fragmented the image, Cathryn was able to make out Tad Schonhauser’s form. In the raw fluorescent light the boy was a pale, slightly greenish color. There was a low hiss of oxygen. Marge Schonhauser was seated to the left of the bed, reading by the window.
“Marge,” whispered Cathryn.
The masked and gowned woman looked up. “Yes?” she said.
“It’s Cathryn.”
“Cathryn?”
“Cathryn Martel.”
“For goodness sake,” said Marge when she was able to associate the name. She got up and put her book down. Taking Cathryn’s hand, she led her back into the anteroom. Before the door closed behind them Cathryn looked back at Tad. The boy had not moved although his eyes were open.
“Thank you for coming,” said Marge. “I really appreciate it.”
“How is he?” asked Cathryn. The strange room, the gowning… it wasn’t encouraging.
“Very bad,” said Marge. She pulled off her mask. Her face was drawn and tense; her eyes red and swollen. “He had a marrow transplant twice from Lisa but it hasn’t worked. Not at all.”
“I spoke to Nancy this morning,” said Cathryn. “I had no idea he was this sick.” Cathryn could sense the emotion within Marge. It was just beneath the surface like a volcano, ready to erupt.
“I’d never even heard of aplastic anemia,” said Marge, trying to laugh. But the tears came instead. Cathryn found herself crying in sympathy, and the two women stood there for several minutes weeping on each other’s shoulder. Finally Marge sighed, pulled back slightly, and looked at Cathryn’s face. “Oh, it is good of you to come. You don’t know how much I appreciate it. One of the difficult things about serious illness is that people ignore you.”