Friday, May 15, 2009
Hunting Rhinoceros in Intensive Care
I’m sitting at the bedside of a man in the intensive care unit, watching his face as three thousand dollars worth of clot-dissolving drugs drip into his arm. The man is having a heart attack. But he’s slow to accept this fact, racing ahead in full blown denial like a rhinoceros in a TV safari show, soon to be enlightened by the tranquilizer dart sticking out of his hide. I’m the chaplain, like the Marlin Perkins TV host, following the rhino in my Jeep. Waiting for some sign that this man, forty-nine, married and maybe dying, is coming to terms with the reality of his situation. It’s not coming easy.
“No, I don’t want to call my wife!” he shouts. “Where the hell’s the doctor? I’ve got a sales meeting tomorrow in Chicago.”
So what brings you here? I ask.
“I’m not sick!” he gallops along. “Never been sick a day in my life. Its just my ulcer.”
Well, that is strange, I say. Wonder why they’re keeping you here?
“This is bull---Rrrrrr!” he grimaces. “Feels like a piano on my chest!” The rhino staggers, breathing hard, then jabs his finger at me. “You know what’s wrong with hospitals? No respect for people’s time.”
You sound a little angry, I observe. People here disrespecting your time?
“No, no, I’m not angry!” he spits at me. “Wouldn’t you be?” Bam, the rhino spun around and slammed into my jeep. I hang on, and don’t react. I need to save my energy: he could thrash around like this for hours. But he’s bleeding. Energy, options, fear. I’m patient.
“Oh now what?” he groans. His nurse appears with a small paper cup of pills.
“You want us to call your wife yet?”
“No,” he says, “You call me a cab, that’s what you do. Where’s my phone?”
“No phones allowed in intensive care,” the nurse says, sliding out the door.
The minutes crawl by. The man tosses, turns, complains, demands to see his doctor. His doctor, knowing what a joy this man is, is sipping bad coffee in the break room, writing orders.
Back at the bedside, the rhino-man puzzles aloud. “I kept telling the doc it’s just my ulcer, but he’s not doing anything for it.” He looks at his bare legs sticking out of his gown and settles down a bit. I move closer in my Jeep.
Yes, I was meaning to ask you, I say. What brings you to the hospital tonight?
“Never sick a day in my life,” he mutters, drumming his fingers on the side rail.
I wait.
He shakes his head and groans, less animated now. He’s weakening. “Aw hell,” he says. “They say I have a little--heart problem.” The rhino is standing still now, wobbling.
A little-- heart problem? I say. What’s a little heart problem?
“Aw, you know. These doctors ain’t so smart.”
I wait.
He looks up at the ceiling, over at the IV pole, down at his legs.
“If I can’t work,” he says quietly, “I don’t know what I’ll do.” Then, silently, barely perceivable, his chin begins to tremble. “I brought a lot of this on myself,” he says.
And I sit back in my Jeep. Exhausted. I pick up the phone, which was right behind him on the night stand, and hold it out to him.
He stares at it. Then he reaches for the dial.
A random pick from more than 400 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:
April Lidinsky -- More essays by April
Jeff Nixa -- Hunting Rhinoceros in Intensive Care / More essays by Jeff
Ken Smith -- More essays by Ken
Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- More essays by Jeanette
Heather Curlee Novak -- More essays by Heather
David James -- More essays by David
Elizabeth Van Jacob -- More essays by Elizabeth
Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe
Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise
Jonathan Nashel -- More essays by Jonathan
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About the series
Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, Ken Smith, Heather Curlee Novak, David James, and Elizabeth Van Jacob.
Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.
Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.
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