The Edge of Death - John Benedict (romantic books to read txt) 📗

Retrieving a soggy washcloth from the pile of dirty dishes overflowing the sink, he swabbed up the spilt tequila. There, clean as a whistle. He tossed the rag back toward the sink.

Movement caught his eye and he peered out the little window of his third floor apartment’s kitchenette, eyes following a sparrow fluttering down to join several others hopping around in the brown grass of his tiny backyard. Geez, when had the grass gotten that brown?

An unexpected wave of sadness came over him as he remembered when things had been different. Very different, in fact. Everything had been going well—really well—until that awful decision involving Michelle six months ago. How could he have been so stupid as to believe her? Was it really possible to fuck up your life so badly in such a short time? This line of questioning never failed to make his head hurt.

Out in the living room, Frodo was talking worriedly to Gandalf. Commercial break was over. Drink in hand, he sauntered back into the room and plopped down on his worn sofa, not five feet from the boob tube. The taco chips were there waiting for him. Salt always went well with tequila, right?

He checked his watch. He had to be at work in . . . let’s see . . . nine hours. Or was it eight? His subtraction skills were sub-optimal at the moment. Taking a siesta. Wasting away again in Margaritaville. Whatever. Plenty of time. He had experience in these matters. Besides, how alert did you have to be to watch the stupid cardiac monitors in the ICU? The newer computer-driven monitors had sophisticated dysrhythmia detection algorithms that rarely missed identifying a dangerous rhythm and then sounding the alarm.

Chip plucked his iPhone out of his pocket and set the alarm. Couldn’t afford to be late for work; he’d never get back into med school that way. So responsible . . . Dad—or should he say the great and fearless Colonel Allison—would be proud. He was always big on responsibility. And integrity. Which explained why he was so disappointed when he found out about his delinquent son.

Chip tried hard to get his dad’s face and stinging words out of his mind. Luckily, just then, the black riders rode across the screen, snorting and wailing, gnashing their teeth, blood dripping from their foaming mouths as they galloped down the road toward the Shire. Chip sat there mesmerized, crunching absently on some chips. Usually, he really liked this part of the movie. Today, however, Chip shuddered a little as he imagined the riders were somehow coming for him. He drained the tequila.

CHAPTER 4

Wednesday, 11:45 a.m.

The late-morning sun eventually cleared the nearby building and light poured in through the venetian blinds, bathing the ICU room in a garish, almost phosphorescent light, rousing him awake. Chandler squinted hard and cursed at the painfully bright horizontal stripes. But he quickly retracted his curse. The light was a wonderful thing, after all; it meant he had survived the night, something his good doctors had thought unlikely. Somewhere between his last conscious period and now, he’d discovered a will to live.

Chandler took inventory of his body. His heart had been ravaged by an especially virulent infection that had started it all. What had they called it—a viral myocarditis? They’d said his heart was ruined. Except he detected internal evidence that his immune system was rallying, locking onto the viral protein coat and taking out the virus. He could tell his heart was on the mend.

Similarly, his lungs were repairing themselves, the damaged capillaries starting to shore up their leaks and the oxygen exchange steadily improving across the delicate alveolar membranes. As the extracellular fluid diminished, the compliance of the pulmonary tissue improved, thereby decreasing the need for high pressures to ventilate him. Soon, he knew, the ventilator would not be necessary. His kidneys and liver were also responding to the improved cardiac output and no longer spiraled toward total shutdown.

He could see all these changes in his body as he had never seen before. How was that possible? He certainly wasn’t a doctor. Besides, even a doctor couldn’t see the inner workings of his own body. But it was more than that. He sensed that his brain was somehow directing these wonderful changes, manipulating his autonomic nervous system to improve blood flow here, tweak perfusion there, in a kind of intelligent design approach to healing by following the innate blueprints of his body, right down to the cellular level. Again, he sensed this was all a manifestation of the transformation he had somehow undergone.

The urge to sleep came over him again, but he resisted. He knew their goal was to keep him sedated, and to that end, he was on round-the-clock narcotics and a propofol drip. He’d have to deal with that before long.

He heard people entering his room and was careful not to open his eyes; no need for them to know he was conscious just yet. He was beginning to connect names with the voices. The attending doc, cardiologist Dr. Leffler, was speaking.

“Gorman, why don’t you examine the patient and tell us all where the endotracheal tube is, instead of cutting corners and just saying it’s in good position. Good for what? Medicine is not a field for sloppiness, young man.”

One of the med students, presumably Gorman, leaned in close to him. Chandler felt a slight touch on his lips, then his tube was jostled a bit. He struggled to remain still and fought back an overwhelming urge to gag.

“Tube’s at twenty-two centimeters at the lips,” Gorman said, adding with a hint of irritation, “Still in good position.” But the next part was not spoken aloud. Chandler saw the words form clearly in Gorman’s mind, then heard them just as plainly in his own: Doesn’t really matter where the goddamn tube is, now, does it, Leffler, you frickin’ asshole! This guy’s toast! This surprised Chandler so much that his eyes almost flew open.

When Gorman stepped back to join the group, the connection was broken.

Dr. John Benedict, husband and father of three sons, graduated cum laude from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute and entered post-graduate training at Penn State University College of Medicine. There, he completed medical school, internship, anesthesia residency and a cardiac anesthesia fellowship. He currently works as an anesthesiologist in a busy private practice in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

To learn more, please visit the author's website at www.johnbenedictmd.com

Publication Date: 03-09-2014

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