Conversations With John: A Life In The Balance Post 1

The Accident: Sailing.

On a foggy morning in late July, Drew Carter’s white Honda Accord Hybrid sailed out of the northbound lane and over the railing of the Golden Gate Bridge. Practical to the end, Drew thought Thank god I missed the support tower.

Day 1: John: The Call

            The call comes at 11:15 that morning.

            I’ve just walked Phyllis, our Wheaten Terrier mix. I was pissed off and left my cell phone on the kitchen counter. Goddam tile. Why can’t Drew just trust my choice? I’ve done this a hundred times. I unleash Phyllis and set my keys on the kitchen counter next to my phone which issues intermittent chirps: you have seven missed calls.

             All from USCF MED. My stomach tightens. I can sense things. Something is terribly wrong.

            I arrive at the trauma center fifteen minutes later.

Day 1:  Drew: Neither Here Nor There.

I’m pretty sure I’m not dead. But it feels like it won’t be that long.

So this is what it’s like, on the way out. A man and a woman are having a muffled conversation, the volume rising and falling, then silence. But, like most things in this limited consciousness, it simply doesn’t matter. How long have I been here? Why can’t I feel my arms, legs, or hands? Where’s John? Did he remember to feed and walk Phyllis? And what’s that humming noise?

Drew relaxes into a sea of unanswered questions. Time passes. How long seems irrelevant.

Day 1: John: No Good Answers

“When can I see him?” I don’t like to be kept waiting. I pace. This is excruciating. I won’t believe Drew is alive until I see him.

            The attending physician is a short, dark-complected young woman in blue scrubs. “I need for you to understand, your husband has been through a lot, Mr. Catelli. He’s being assisted by feeding and breathing apparatuses. He’s had three surgical procedures. One to relieve the pressure in his cranium, one to repair the bones in his ankle and one to set his right arm. He won’t be able to move, talk or respond to you. He has cuts and bruises on one side of his face. It can be pretty upsetting to see. I just want to warn you.”

“I’ve been waiting for over ten hours. I want to see him.”

She leads me through a maze of curtained off beds, each emitting its own set of mechanical noises.

“What the hell?” I gasp as she pulls back the curtain that ensconces Drew’s bed.

She hadn’t exaggerated. Drew’s face is so swollen he’s almost unrecognizable. I walk around, inspecting the machinery and the tubes as if I somehow my inspection might reveal an error, one I could correct. A way to be useful. Finally, I sit next to Drew’s bed, unable to make anything happen.

Drew’s inert body is draped in a crisp white sheet. If not for the tubes and cables running from various machines into Drew’s limbs, and if I ignore the injuries to his face, Drew could almost pass for being asleep. It’s after midnight. Drew has been in intensive care for 12 hours. I had been there most of that time. Where else am I to go?

            Dr. Creasy, Drew’s trauma physician, arrives on rounds around 4:30 a.m.

Looking fresh and efficient, he methodically explains  what had happened to Drew’s body when it hit the white caps of the bay at almost 80 miles per hour. Never one to handle blood or gore very well, I ask for a simplified version, “in English, no med-speak, bottom line, please.” 

            “Bottom line, as you put it: the patient….”

            “Drew. He has name, please. Drew.”

            “Of course. Drew’s body is pretty beaten up. A broken leg, arm, ankle, four ribs, a punctured lung and severe head trauma.”

            “So when will he wake up?” I look earnestly at Dr. Creasy and then back at a mechanically assisted Drew.

            Dr. Creasy sighs heavily. “We don’t know.” He looks at me with a smile that is supposed to be reassuring, but his eyes telegraph worry. “Mr. Catelli, the comatose state is one way our body signals a need to repair itself. It could take days, even weeks for Drew’s head trauma to improve. In the meantime, the rest of his injuries will be healing.”

            “So, he could be like this for weeks?”

            Dr. Creasy nods.

            “Jesus. Months?”

            “It’s possible, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

            I pace, then bark out, “Dammit, we’re already ‘ahead of ourselves’ doctor.” I catch myself. “Can he hear us?”

            “It’s very possible he can hear us. It’s widely believed that in a comatose state, hearing is one of the last senses to go.”

            “Outside.” I storm past Dr. Creasy into the hallway. Once a safe distance from Drew, I begin.

            “You realize, of course, that Drew, my husband, has an Advance Directive, right? No machines, no heroic measures. And yet,” I gestured toward Drew through an antiseptic glass wall. “He’s got all that.”

            “Mr. Catelli.”

            “John.”

            “John. When Drew arrived, he was in pretty bad shape. As a matter of course, we stabilize the patient and search for ID and any medical directives they may carry with them. When we didn’t find any specific directives we made the decision to place him on life support. Then we called you. If we had waited until we reached you first, Drew would have died.

            It’s the first time anyone has said it. Death.

Sobered, calmer,  I shake my head. “Of course. I realize that. I’m sorry.”

            “No one can make a split-second decision to withhold care. Especially when we don’t know the extent of the injuries.”

            “No. Of course not. It’s just that, seeing him like this.” I turn away as tears stream down my face, then wipe them away hurriedly. I feel the stubble on my chin and realized I didn’t shave yesterday.