LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

get the right medicine into you.”

      “When will that be?”

      “We’ll know more this afternoon.”

      He shifted a little and looked directly at me. His eyes were rimmed with red – I noticed that last night as we ministered to him. “Where are Peter and Emma?”

      Diane broke in. “They’re at home, with Kristin.”

      “I want to see them.”

      “They’ll come to visit. You’ll go home soon, when you get better.”

      “When?”

      “Listen,” I replied, “be a big boy and help the doctors. Will you do that?”

      “Okay.”

      “Whatever they say.” I looked up, the Doctor made a gesture with his head. “Listen, Paulie,” I said, kissing him on the cheek, “get some rest. We’ll be back soon.”

      “Okay, Dad.”

      Diane took my place and fussed with his bedclothes, then kissed him. We left the room. Outside, I stopped Dr. Charpentier. “I realize it’s early but what are the possibilities?”

      “I don’t want to alarm you. It could be nothing or it could be something.”

      “But what is something?”

      He shrugged. “Since you insist on worrying, the boy is symptomatic for influenza.”

      “Influenza,” I said, “that’s not so bad. You can treat that, can’t you?”

      “Of course, but I repeat, we don’t know enough yet to say what is going on. His joints ache and he is having some difficulty breathing, thus the oxygen. We will make him as comfortable as possible.”

      The ordeal was taking its toll. Peter was worried about his little brother and Emma went around with a long face. Diane spent most of the day in the hospital and I got there at noon and stayed the afternoon. More tests – they still weren’t sure.

      On Wednesday morning the doctor’s office called, said he wanted us to meet him at the hospital. Diane and I held hands in the taxi, not speaking, trying not to look at each other. There were several patients in the waiting room but we were waved in.

      “Monsieur and Madame Bernard, we have determined that, yes, Paul has the flu. The first results were inconclusive but the second set confirmed the diagnosis.”

      “What does this mean?” I asked.

      “His flu is a rather common strain, it normally runs its course in a week to ten days. I am worried, however, that it could trigger a recurrence of his rheumatic fever, though my immediate concern is the underlying weakness in his heart from the first episode. Come.” He stood and went to a backlit screen on a wall, putting a piece of paper up and fastening it with a clip. “This is the EKG we took when Paul was admitted.” He pointed at one of the lines. “You see this irregularity, and the rate?”

      We nodded.

      “The left side of his heart is not functioning as it should. The heart is not pumping efficiently which means less oxygen is getting to the brain and vital organs.”

      He put a second chart on the screen beside the first. “This is the EKG from his last physical examination in March. The difference, do you see it?” He pointed to closely bunched lines on the first EKG stretching almost off the page. “It tells us his heart has deteriorated significantly in the last three months. He has a condition we call cardiomegaly. The flu attack probably put more strain on his heart and caused it to weaken. Here, look at this,” he put an x-ray on the screen. “This chest x-ray shows us the heart is enlarged.”

      He took the x-ray down and put up another transparency. “An echocardiogram, a picture taken by the use of ultrasound, a new procedure we have just begun to employ. You can see the left atrium is enlarged. This tells us precisely where the problem is, the mitral valve between the upper and lower chambers of the heart.” He pointed to the left side of the heart. “The valve is damaged so it does not open and close as it does in a healthy heart.”

      I spread my hands. “I hear what you’re saying but what does it all mean?”

      “I am concerned that all this strain has taken a toll on Paul’s heart...”

      “But...”

      “...which means he is running a significant risk of congestive heart failure.”

      “My God!” Diane put her hand to her mouth.

      “Can’t you do something!” I shouted.

      “We’re doing everything we can, Mr. Bernard, but our science has its limits. Recall we discussed the possibility of surgery when he was first admitted. Unless your son responds within the next several days, that course of action will be highly advisable. It may represent his only chance to recover, let alone live a normal life.”

      We visited Paulie in his room. His little body showed the diagnosis playing itself out. In three days he had become pale, his breathing labored. Instead of getting better he was worse. As we walked in he raised his head and managed a wan smile.

      “How’re you doing, old man?” I said, gently tousling his hair.

      “My throat hurts.” He grimaced, trying to swallow. “That thing,” he pointed at the oxygen tank, “it hurts to breathe it. It like burns me here.” He pointed at his chest.

      “Well, just stay with it. You’re doing fine.”

      He stared at me for several long seconds. “I’m not doing fine,” he said. “I’m not getting better, am I.”

      “Sure you are. It’s just taking longer than they thought.”

      “Mommy, I don’t feel so good. Can’t they make me feel better?”

      “They’re trying, darling. They’re doing the best they can.”

      He fell silent and his eyes closed. “I better sleep. I feel better when I’m asleep.”

      Diane and I looked at each other. “We’ll stay here,” she said, caressing his forehead. “Close your eyes, we’ll be here.”

      Two hours later he awoke. The nurse brought a tray of scrambled eggs, a cup of yogurt, and he downed some of it. The intravenous was pumping nutrients since the sore throat made it difficult to swallow. His face was noticeably thinner than it was when we brought him in. I didn’t want to admit it, but he was failing. My heart was broken.

      That afternoon I gathered Peter and Emma and brought them in. Peter tried to be cool, cracking jokes. Emma hung in for about ten minutes then began to sob and Diane led her from the room. At home afterward, I sat them down and told them the bad news, their brother might not make it. Peter said, “You mean Paulie’s going to die.”

      “We don’t know that...”

      “He’s going to die, isn’t he?” he said, his eyes filling with tears.

      “I don’t know, Peter. The doctors are doing all they can.”

      “But what did he do to deserve this?”

      “Nothing,” I said, putting my arm around them. “God works in mysterious ways.”

      Peter was quiet for a moment. “Maybe he’ll have a better place in heaven if he gets there first.” He nodded. “He can have mine.”

      We went back that evening, Dr. Charpentier was there. “No improvement?” I asked.

      He shook his head. “Sadly, none.” He was holding Paulie’s chart. “I notice under Religion is written Roman Catholic. It would be well to have a priest come if that is your desire. It is not too early.”

      Diane looked at the chart

Скачать книгу