Midlife Crisis
by
Marc J. Yacht
Doctor William Johns, middle aged, balding, overweight, estranged father, twice divorced, and depressed opened the desk’s top right-hand drawer. He groped through loose papers, a screwdriver, scattered photos, and masking tape then captured the object of his search. He removed a small caliber pistol and placed it on the desk. He pulled the drawer further, passed a barrier, and retrieved the loaded magazine. He placed that on the desk. His chair creaked as he sat back. The gun and cartridge clip now rested among papers, patient folders, pill samples and journals. A single lamp lit his inner office. The suite had been closed for the night.
Johns had a
gift. He would open a book, read a
chapter, read the whole text, and recall every detail. Remembered as a quiet behaved boy, he blew
through public school,
John’s, brilliant physician, seizure disorders expert, healer, and dad, stared at the weapon of death. As he moved his right hand closer to the pistol and his left toward the clip, perspiration appeared on his forehead. His breathing became rapid and his heart rate quickened. William paused and withdrew his hands. He spun his chair around and glanced through the window. He peered at the silhouette of trees and noticed the lights from nearby buildings. He glanced upward and observed a star filled clear sky. He searched for the constellation Orion but could not locate it from his vantage point. As he swung his chair around to face the desk, his cell phone rang distracting his melancholy.
He removed
the phone from his belt and accepted the call.
“Yes, Oh hi mom. Everything’s great.
Resident
parties were always raucous. Albert
Whitman, the divorced Neurosurgeon, threw this one at his two-story luxury
center city apartment. Once the
neighborhood housed derelicts in flophouses, now the impoverished district gave
way to
“I am sure
that was ‘Bejamin Frankin,’” claimed Lucy, “he was talkin’ to Weyum’
“I didn’t see those two, but I’m sure I saw George Washington. He seemed upset,” Lily claimed. She followed Lucy back to the large bay window overlooking the square.
Karaoke music played in the den. A drunken resident conducted a group sing. With glasses held high three nurses and four doctors belted out, Dream the Impossible dream….
Johns and Brittany opened the front door to this noisy celebration.
“The brain is here,” the shout came from a resident sitting in a far corner of the room, drink in hand.
Soon a contingent of partygoers formed a line bowing and acknowledging the two newcomers. Soon all in the apartment were performing the human wave in recognition of Dr. John’s entry.
William acknowledged his minions. “I appreciate your accolades but if you don’t mind I will make my way to the punch bowl.”
A corridor opened up for Johns and Brittany as they shuffled over to the Brain Buster punch and filled their glasses.
“A toast,” Johns raised his glass, “To our forefathers.”
“Here, here!” Shouts emanated throughout the room as many scrambled to get punch.
After a few drinks and some snacks, William made his way to the sofa and dozed off. The continued revelry woke him along with the urge to pee. He pushed himself to a standing position, eyed the stairway, and though somewhat unsteady made his way to the master bedroom. There an elaborate bathroom awaited his needs.
He clumsily
opened the bedroom door and entered. Two
partiers were in the rhythmic throes of lovemaking. Johns hastily retreated and closed the door. But just as quickly as he left that room,
blood drained from his face, his legs became jelly and perspiration
flowed. He leaned against the closed
bedroom door for balance. One of the
lovers was his fiancée,
Whitman observed Johns’ decent on the stairs. “Hey William, are you okay? You’re pale as chalk.”
“Just tired. I’m fine.” Will’s depression began. It showed in his downcast eyes and slow walk. He found the lavatory downstairs. He entered and relieved himself. He stood over the toilet and experienced nausea. He heaved and he heaved again. Brain Buster punch and ors d’oeuvre remains filled the bowl. Johns stayed upright by placing his hands forward against the wall. After he stopped vomiting, he grabbed copious amounts of toilet paper and cleaned the mess around the bowl. Johns left the bathroom and quietly slipped out the front door.
Johns retreated to his office as he did whenever he faced a personal crisis. While staring at his small pistol, his mother called. At the conclusion of the call, his left hand reached for the clip while grasping the gun with his right. A slapping and clicking sound disturbed the silence as he made the pistol ready. He placed the cocked gun on the desk. William leaned back in his old wooden chair. He inhaled and expelled a deep sigh. I feel pretty calm he thought to himself as he eyed the weapon. While he reached for the pistol, his cell phone rang. He accepted the call. The ER nurse, Noreen, spoke with urgency.
“Yes Noreen, I see, a twelve-year-old boy thrown from the vehicle. He’s seizing. Uh huh, uh huh. Valium drip started? Phenobarb? Steroids given? Good, good. Cat Scan? Neurosurgeon called? Keep trying to get him. I’m on my way.”
William shook his head, picked up the Beretta then released the clip. He pulled the slide to empty the guns chamber. He carefully slid the loose bullet into the magazine. Johns opened the desk drawer and placed the clip behind the barrier. He then placed the gun into the drawer. He shrugged his shoulders, closed the drawer, and rushed to the Emergency Room.
He passed a very anguished couple in the waiting room. He assumed they were the boy’s parents. Johns went directly to the ER doc. “What’s happening with the boy?”
A weary Dr.
Art Stillwell responded, “It’s bad. He
has a subdural and we can’t get a neurosurgeon here. They’re all busy. Whitman got called to
“Let me see the X Rays and the scan.” They both rushed to X Ray. Marty Feldman, the radiologist, had the films on the light box.
“This is not good! The boy has a developing subdural hematoma in the occipital area. He could herniate at any time. If that happens, he’s dead.” Feldman pointed to findings on both the X Rays and Scans. “We need a neurosurgeon in here, stat!”
The three looked carefully at the films. John’s spoke. “Art, get the administrator on call to give me clearance to do the surgery. Marty get the kid in the OR with a surgical team and meet me there. I’ll talk to the parents and then scrub. We all on the same page?”
Both nodded affirmative. Within minutes Johns stood before two anxious, sobbing parents. He passed Brittany, who had just started her nursing shift. Their eyes met for a moment. This time she paled and her eyes looked downward. It became apparent that she knew what he saw. He looked away and continued to the waiting area and the distraught parents.
“I can do the surgery but I am a neurologist not a neurosurgeon. The boy needs a craniotomy to relieve pressure on his brain. The surgery must be done now and I need your permission.” Johns spoke quickly. A nurse at his side held the release form.
The parents were confused and upset. “Will he live, doctor? Will our boy live?” The boy’s father shook and his words were barely audible. His wife could not speak only sob.
John’s put his arms around both of them. “He’s badly injured. I’ll do everything I can. Please sign the forms and wait here. I’ll get back to you when I know more.”
With forms signed, Johns rushed to the OR. He scrubbed and entered the room. The patient was draped and ready. The radiologist and four surgical nurses had prepared the surgical site. The nurses stood around the patient. The radiologist retreated behind the anesthesiologist as an observer. Johns joined the nurses at the OR table.
“Everyone ready.” Johns queried.
“Ready Doctor.”
“Scalpel.” Johns requested. A scalpel was slapped into his palm. He cut.
“Raneys,” he requested. He clamped the bleeders.
“Adsen,” Johns exposed the cranium. “Place two small retractors” John’s pointed, “Pull, good, enough” One nurse wiped Johns’ bow.
Two long clamps please, now remove the retractors.” The surgical site was fully visible.
“Sponge, syringe,” Johns quickly cleaned the site. “Rex drill.” The cranial cutting began.
Shortly, blood and debris were released as the hematoma had been pierced and the dangerous pressure relieved. The site was washed with saline solution and dabbed dry with a sponge. Johns requested better light as he peered into the site. “Well, let’s hope there’s nothing beneath the meningies. I think we’re fine. Cranial plate!” Johns carefully placed the plate. “Screws,” the craniotomy was covered and secured. Johns removed the raneys, clamps, cauterized a bleeder and proceeded with the closing.
“Vitals stable,” the anesthesiologist looked up at Johns. “Hey, aren’t you a neurologist? Nicely done!”
“Marty,” Johns added, looking at the radiologist, “Bulls-eye, perfect target.”
The radiologist smiled. “My effort was nothing compared to the work of the master.” Everyone laughed. Feldman saluted and left the suite
“Thanks everybody,” Johns gave a short bow to those present. “Let’s get the patient to recovery room.” He quickly left the OR.
One nurse blurted, “That’s why we call him the Brain.”
Johns sought out the parents. “It’s still early to tell but I am optimistic that your boy will do just fine.”
The husband spoke as the woman stood by in silence. “Thank you doctor, I know you did everything you could. Thank you.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him a little bit more and check in on him in the morning. He is still critical but at least we’ve relieved the pressure. We had to do that.” Johns accepted hugs from them both then left the waiting area. A nurse entered and took the harried parents to the Surgical Intensive Care waiting room.
Johns
arrived at his office at
He dozed
off to be awaked by his office phone. He
answered and noted the sun had risen. His
watch showed
“I understand you’re expanding your scope of practice. I always knew neurology wasn’t big enough for you.” Whitman’s voice was jovial.
“Let me tell you,” Johns responded, “You neurosurgeons make such a big deal out of every case. Neurosurgery is easy; my son could have done it. Anyway, how’s the boy?”
“Easy, you’re lucky I’m not standing next to you, you pompous bastard. Aside from that, the boys up, conscious, and talking to his parents. You saved his life, Will. Great work.”
Johns smiled, tears filled his eyes, and he raised his fist in triumph. “That’s great news, wonderful news.”
Whitman continued, “I don’t know if you’re aware of it but you still don’t have Administration’s permission to do the procedure! Anyway, the parents are with the boy and they want to talk to you.”
Johns held the phone. It was the wife who spoke first. “Dr. Whitman said you saved my son’s life. He said no other neurologist would have done what you did. He’s our only child. Thank you.”
The next voice was the father. “What can I say? I have my boy. God bless you.”
Tears fell on Johns’ cheek. “I wish I could express to you both how much your words mean to me. Thank you. I’ll continue to follow the boy.” He hung up.
Johns looked at the top of his desk. He then pushed himself up and went to his old leather couch. He lied down and thought about his first wife who claimed his patients were more important than her. One day he told her they were. He reflected on his two children who wouldn’t speak to him. He remembered his second wife who called him cheap and a lousy husband. Finally, Brittany who gave him the unkindliest cut of all. “Fuck them all,” he muttered as he drifted off to sleep.
END