“You have pneumonia, Nick,” Dr. Kingsbury said, listening to
Nick’s chest with her stethoscope.
“Pneumonia?” Nick gasped, coughing.
“Yes. The flu has
progressed to pneumonia. I know you’re
having trouble breathing, so we’re going to try an oxygen mask, and if that
doesn’t work, we might have to put a tube down your throat to help you
breathe.”
Oh no, that really didn’t sound good. “No,” Nick rasped, “I think I’ll… be
okay. I just need… a minute to… catch
my… breath.”
Dr. Kingsbury just shook her head and covered his mouth and nose
with an oxygen mask. Nick hated it
immediately, but after a short while, breathing became easier, and he was able
to relax.
“There you go, that’s better,” Dr. Kingsbury said soothingly. “Now you keep this on, and I’ll be back to
see how you’re doing in a little while.”
She smiled down at him, and he nodded, waving her off. She left.
So he had pneumonia. Well,
that was just great. It seemed he was
never going to make it out of this place – first he was only going to have to stay
two days for the chemo, then a few more days for the flu, and now who knew how
long he would be stuck there, fighting pneumonia. Pneumonia was very serious, he knew. People could die from pneumonia, even
people who weren’t on chemo or anything like that.
If having the flu had scared him, it was nothing compared to the
fear he felt at the prospect of dying from pneumonia. And now he was all alone – his mother was
gone, Claire was gone… he had no one.
What if he died there, alone in the fishbowl that was ICU? He thought of the many goldfish he had kept
as pets during his youth and how, eventually, he’d found each one floating
lifelessly on its side on top of the water, dead as a doornail. If he could not fight off the pneumonia… that
would be him (except for the floating on top of the water part).
***
“Dr. Kingsbury, his sats are down to 85.”
“Thanks, Mersey. Get me an
intubation tray,” replied Dr. Kingsbury.
“What does that mean?” Nick wheezed through the oxygen mask, as
the nurse left his cubicle.
“It means you’re not getting enough oxygen,” replied Dr.
Kingsbury. “I’m going to have to put
that tube I mentioned down your throat.”
“Oh no,” Nick moaned. “I… I
don’t want that…”
“Nick,” Dr. Kingsbury said seriously, looking him right in the
eyes. “I know that doesn’t sound like
much fun, but if we don’t intubate, you will probably go into respiratory
distress from the pneumonia. And then
you could die.”
Die. The very word
sent icy chills up and down Nick’s body, and he nodded his understanding. “Okay… put the tube in then.”
Dr. Kingsbury nodded, giving him a tight smile. “Now, when Mersey gets back with my supplies,
I’m going to inject some medication into your IV that will put you to
sleep. When you wake up, the tube will
be down your throat, and you will have a respirator breathing for you. It can be a strange feeling, so we will
probably keep you sedated until you can come off the respirator. You’ll probably be a little out of it for the
next few days.”
Nick nodded, trying to hide his terror.
Mersey returned, and Dr. Kingsbury set to work, assembling
supplies and instruments on a stainless steel tray beside the bed. Nick closed his eyes, not wanting to watch.
“Okay, Nick,” the doctor said finally. “I’m going to inject this into your central
line, and you’ll start to feel very sleepy.
Just relax, okay?”
Weakly, Nick nodded and closed his eyes, while she pulled back his
gown to access his catheter, a small syringe in one hand. “There,” she said a moment later, backing
away.
The effects of the medication were almost instantaneous. Suddenly, Nick could barely keep his eyes
open. He let them fall shut, and before
he knew what was happening, he was carried away into a drug-induced sleep.
***
The water was gray and murky, wind-tossed. Choppy waves rolled toward him, high and
swift, some carrying him with their power, others washing over his head,
drenching him in cold salt water that seemed to seep right through his skin,
chilling him to the bone. He coughed and
choked as he was hit with another face full of water. The force of it left his cheeks raw and
stinging, his eyes burning, the taste of salt on his tongue.
He continued to tread water, keeping himself afloat, trying to
dodge the waves, but he was growing steadily more tired. His arms ached, but still, he kept them
moving, knowing they were his only lifeline.
He looked around again, squinting into the horizon, frantic, searching
for any sign of land or life. But all
around him, he could see nothing but ocean.
The very ocean that had been his friend for so long was now his mortal
enemy, desperate to claim his life with its wild, tossing waters.
“Help me!” Nick gasped, his shout cut short as his mouth filled
with salty water. He spat it out,
gagging, coughing, still bobbing in the relentless waves.
His arms were betraying him now, his strength and endurance
rapidly leaving him. Again, he searched
the wide expanse of water for a boat, and when he did not see one, he raised
his eyes to the stormy skies, praying for a helicopter. Lightning forked across the dark clouds, but
there was no aircraft.
He was growing panicky now, his eyes filling with desperate tears,
which spilled down his already wet cheeks, mixing with the salty sea as they
dripped from his chin. He took one last
desperate survey of the scenery around him, praying for a way out, for a
rescue. And that’s when he saw it –
something small gliding fluidly through the water toward him.
Not a boat.
A fin.
“Oh my God,” he breathed, taking in another mouthful of
seawater. He froze, his whole body
tensing up, his pounding heart the only muscle moving within it. It was a shark; it had to be a shark. His greatest fear. And it was coming right at him. He could see the fin rise and dip below the
surface of the water, waves crashing over it, hiding it from his view. But he knew it was there, swimming nearer and
nearer, hunting him.
His mind seemed to freeze up right along with his body, and he had
no idea what to do. Swim? But where?
If not… stay? Try to keep still,
hope that he would not aggravate the carnivorous creature into attacking?
Too scared shitless to hold still and stay near that animal, he
chose the former and, boosted by a sudden rush of adrenaline, took off
swimming, his arms flailing like a windmill, his legs kicking frenziedly behind
him. He was terrified the shark was
right behind him, coming after him, but he refused to look back. He just kept swimming, blindly,
thoughtlessly, acting on pure instinct, the instinct that all creatures possess
– survival. The will to live.
He was slowing down, his lungs burning, his stomach cramping, his
muscles weakening. Water rushed over his
head as he sank in the water, struggling to keep his head above the surface,
struggling to keep swimming. Hysterical,
he chanced a look back just in time to see the fin sink swiftly beneath the
dark water just a few feet away. And
before his mind had time to truly realize what was happening, he felt it. A pinch on his left foot. And he knew…
Just as he realized the shark had nipped him, it came again, only
this time, it was not a pinch, but a sharp stabbing sensation, like a thousand
knives being plunged into his shin. And
then came the tug. Before he could
resist, his exhausted body was yanked below the surface, the pressure and pain
in his leg increasing. He struggled, his
eyes squeezed tightly shut, waving his arms blindly, kicking his right
leg. His foot connected hard with
something, and then the pressure on his other leg vanished.
His heart thudding crazily inside his chest, his lungs screaming,
desperate for oxygen, he used his arms to pull himself back to the
surface. Breaking through the water, he
gasped and choked, sucking in mouthfuls of air.
As the pain in his lungs vanished, his leg began to sear with pain. Forcing his eyes open, he chanced a look down
and saw that the water around him was turning a deep shade of red, dyed with
blood. His blood. Gritting his teeth, exhaustedly paddling his
arms to keep himself afloat, he tried to lift his leg, only to find that he
could not feel it. The pain was
agonizing, but… something was not right…
With a shaking hand, he reached below the surface and gingerly felt his
thigh. His fingertips traveled down it,
reaching his knee, but when he tried to feel lower… nothing.
Crying out, he jerked his hand out of the water. His fingertips were tinged light pink with
diluted blood. Panting, he threw back
his head and floated on his back. And
then, he tried again to lift his left leg.
Pulling up his head as his body began to sink, he caught a glimpse of
his leg raised above the water, and he saw it… the stump. The bleeding stump of a leg, severed below
the knee.
His stomach rolled, and he became violently ill, throwing up right
there in the water. He bobbed up and
down, tossed by the waves, growing dizzy from shock and blood loss, knowing in
some far region of his mind that he was about to die. Weakly closing his eyes, he gave up, quit his
struggle, letting himself sink beneath the stormy waters. But just as his head went under, he heard it.
A voice.
“Hello!” it called, a female voice with a strong British accent.
Up, he urged himself, struggling to reach the surface in a last
ditch effort to live. Weakly lifting his
head above the water, he looked in the direction of his voice and saw a large
rowboat coming toward him, the waves tossing it roughly from side to side.
“Is anyone alive out there?” called the British voice. “Can anyone hear me?”
He was taken back to the movie “Titanic,” which was odd because he
had only seen the movie once, many years ago when it came out, and he had spent
most of the end making fun of Howie for crying at it. And why he was remembering this now, when he
was near death, was beyond him, but the mind works in mysterious ways.
“Help!” he screamed, his breath coming in shallow gasps, water
rushing into his mouth and nose and covering his head. “Help me!”
With the last tiny bit of strength, he reached one arm high above
his head and flailed it back and forth above the water, the desperate signal of
a drowning man. As he was heaved up and
down with the waves, he caught glimpses of the boat coming nearer and
nearer. Then…
“We’ve got you,” said the British woman, and he saw hands reaching
out to him. Frantically, he reached out
to them, and they grabbed him, pulling him up out of the water and hoisting him
into the boat. As his body hit the hard
bottom of the boat with a painful thud, he looked up to see familiar faces
hovering over him… Brian… AJ… Kevin… Howie… Karen, the British nurse from
Oncology… Samantha, the young cute nurse… Mersey, from ICU… Dr. Lugo, the
Spanish doctor… Dr. Kingsbury… and… Claire.
“He’s lost his leg,” he heard Samantha whimper.
“Never mind that,” said Dr. Kingsbury. “It’s the infection we have to worry about.”
“No, not the infection,” said Claire, speaking in a low, droning
voice. “The evil… it lurks down deep
within… hiding till the strike begins… growing stronger every day… it shall
take your breath away…”
“We need to intubate,” Dr. Kingsbury interrupted, pushing Nick’s
head down. “Mersey, the tube.” And Nick watched in horror as the nurse
handed the doctor an empty brown cardboard paper towel roll.
“No!” he cried. “That won’t
fit down my throat!”
“Just relax, Nick…”
“No! No, stop, don’t!” he
screamed, as Dr. Kingsbury hovered over him, tipping his head back and trying
to force his mouth open.
“Cut it out!” shouted Claire suddenly. “CUT IT OUT!”
***