Authors: Susan Vaught
Big Fat Manifesto (8 page)
"Definitely career tracks for the future," Marlene agrees, even though Mona glares, because she's heading toward corporate
law. Sort of the mother ship for NoNo's vast array of enemies, the way I see it.
M
&
M don't react when I scoot closer and join the conversation. Even they look nervous, in their narrowed eyes, and in the tight,
stiff way they sit. Pressed and starched, like their brown and green suits. Burke's mom and dad stay quiet, and check the
clock more often than I do.
7:00.
7:10.
7:30.
I try to chat, but I wonder what Burke's doing. If they found those bizarre tight hose he's supposed to wear in a size that
will fit him. I wonder if they even have a gown Burke's size, or if he's mad because his butt's hanging out.
The conversation turns to whether or not college majors are really important, since grad school or professional school is
what makes all the difference, career-wise. Noise doesn't travel much in this room, and the other clusters of family-friends-bystanders
sound like they're whispering. They probably think we're whispering, too, except for Mona, who gets loud when she's passionate
about something.
As much as I can't stand M
&
M sometimes, I can't help admiring their brains. Burke's whole family—college people. Professional people. Nobody works at
the local Cost Cutters or grocery store or delivery service. They don't watch television when they have a family meal, and
they probably don't eat beans and cornbread that often.
I want to go to college.
I
really
want to go to college, then on to whatever graduate school or professional school calls to me. I want to write for a living,
about life and the weather and Burke and our children and academics and the state of the world. More than anything, I want
to sound like these smart, educated people, look like them, be around them,
be
them.
Burke and I will have a family like this.
Finally it's 8:00, and we all go church-quiet as the clock hands tick into place. Burke's getting gassed and knocked out,
and it'll be four hours before I know for sure that he'll wake up again.
"Intense," NoNo mumbles, and Freddie nods. Burke's mom holds his dad's hand, and M
&
M glance around the room at other clusters of people.
Freddie asks the question I don't dare put into words, and she directs it at M
&
M. "Are you sure this is okay?"
Silence expands around the group of us, our light brown chairs and our private patch of light brown carpet.
Nobody answers.
Marlene gazes at me like I put Freddie up to asking the question, but I meet her eyes with no guilt at all. My mind slides
back and forth between her angry face and wondering what's going on with Burke.
8:05. Is he asleep yet? Has the doctor started cutting?
If I have this surgery, who will be out here in the waiting room
for me?
Mom would probably insist on going in with me, but Burke threatened his folks about that. Maybe I would, too.
I'm so not having this done.
But maybe I could.
My stomach aches. I should have eaten more breakfast.
Mona finally starts answering Freddie's question, and she uses the phrasing I've read on hundreds of Web sites when I researched
Burke's surgery. "The risks of staying overweight far outweigh the risks of this surgery."
Marlene picks up the party line right away. "It's curative for diabetes, and it might keep him from getting hypertension—which
you know kills black men more than anyone else. And it lowers cholesterol. Burke will feel better about himself. He'll live
longer."
"If he comes through the procedure in good health," NoNo adds in the same thoughtful tone she used when discussing law school.
Everyone, me included, glares at her. "No bad energy," I remind her. "No hexing."
"There's no such thing as hexing," NoNo shoots back, but Marlene pats her hand.
"Just for today, honey, there is. Let's be positive."
"The studies only cover like sixteen to twenty-four months, by the way." I can't help myself. It's my nature. What can I say?
"You can't make the leap to words like
cure
and
prevent.
Not yet."
When everybody takes a turn staring at me instead of NoNo, I explain. "The studies that talk about 'curing' all those problems
and 'preventing' other stuff. They only cover a short span of time. A lot depends on long-term diet and exercise, which would
be true with or without bariatric procedures. Now that weight-loss surgery is big business, it's almost impossible to get
solid, unbiased information."
Marlene shakes her head. "I knew you'd be negative about this. I asked Burke not to let you come."
"Marlene," Burke's mother says in a warning tone.
"I'm not being negative." My face is getting hot. I can feel it. I'm probably red as an overripe apple, and Freddie's expression
turns severe, warning me just as surely as Burke's mom warned Marlene. "I'm just stuck on the actual facts, not the hype,
and it worries me. There is a downside to bariatric surgery, and that's why doctors argue over whether or not teens should
have it."
"I think that's enough from everyone," Burke's father says in his deep, calm voice. "The boy did his research, and so did
we, and so did his doctor. For Burke, this is the best choice."
"Teens do better with the procedure anyway." Mona locks eyes with me. "Because they're in better health to start with. Did
you read that
fact
in all the hype you're talking about?"
"Yes." My fingers curl on my empty, wordless notebook, and my pen drops to the floor. "I'm not being negative, really. I'm
hopeful. I'm—" I look away from her. Let her win the damned staring contest. I don't care. Maybe it'll make her feel better.
And what am I, anyway?
Mad?
Scared. Terrified. Half-sick inside. Wishing it would turn 12:00 in a hurry, and we'd hear how Burke was doing.
For some reason, Heath's voice pops into my head.
You
don't have to be such a bitch all the time, Jamie. I'm trying to be
nice...
"I'm just worried," I finish, in as not-bitchy a voice as I can muster, which loosens the tense you-promised-you'd-shut-up
lines from Freddie's face and brings NoNo a few lightyears closer, back from Planet Nostenfast.
Burke's mom gives me a sympathetic look. "We're all worried, honey. It's okay. I know it means a lot to Burke that you came,
that you're supporting him."
I'm sweating now, my face is hot, and my throat's tight from trying not to say anything else. Do I stink? I probably do.
8:31.
9:47.
10:02.
When noon comes, my nerves fizz like shaken soda. We're all clock watching now, all sweating.
The nurse informs us that Burke's been moved to recovery, and I slide down in my seat. Flat soda now. Drained. Listless. He
lived. Thank God he made it through the procedure. Thank God.
But now more waiting, for him to get stable and wake up, so we can see him. His parents first, then his sisters. Then me.
I can handle that. I can wait my turn, so long as he's alive and okay and Burke, and he doesn't die.
After fishing some change from my pack, I shove out of my seat, leave Burke's family and Freddie and NoNo, and go in search
of a snack machine. A pack of peanut-butter crackers will kill a little time and take the edge off. But I end up wandering
halfway around the hospital trying to find the snack room, which I never do, and then can't find my way back to the waiting
room.
Damn
it.
I'm following the orange line!
What if that phone's ringing and there's news about Burke, and I'm not there? Shit. Shit and a half.
I keep weaving down the hallway, following the orange line, until I'm finally back at surgical admitting. When I ask, the
nurse points the way back to the family waiting area. Exactly two steps later, I nearly bang into a guy standing dead center
on the orange line.
When I jerk my head up, shocked, I see Heath Montel.
He's so out of place with his floppy blond hair, relaxed-fit jeans, and monogrammed polo shirt, that for a long moment or
two I don't recognize him.
When I finally regain my wits, I shake my head and ask, "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in school?"
He hesitates, and his grin seems as out of place as the rest of him. "School business. I got a pass to come see if you got
this week's Fat Girl done yet."
Blank stare from me. I know I'm doing it, but I can't stop.
Way to go, Miss Superior-Intellect College Girl.
"Burke's still in recovery, Heath." My lips feel numb.
Heath gives me a nod. "Yeah. Well, that's okay. I mean, I didn't exactly expect you to have it done." Dashes of red slide
across his cheeks. "What I really mean is, I came to see if you were okay. If you needed anything."
A Valium, no, ten Valiums, a pack of peanut-butter crackers, and
some antistink body spray. Got any of that handy?
"That's sweet." I do mean that as I say it, I just don't really know what to do with him. "I'm . . . you're . . . that's just
sweet. Thanks."
"You've got my number, right? You can call if you need something later. And tell me how things went?" "Sure." The word comes
out too slowly. "I'll call."
"I can bring you guys dinner." Heath clenches his fists like he's mad at something, but I know it's not me. He looks generally
freaked out and nervous, which is even sweeter.
"I'll tell Burke's parents. They'll appreciate it." I want Heath to move so I can get back to the waiting room. But at the
same time, I want him to stay, to walk me back and sit with me. He's more comforting than the light brown color scheme and
low lighting, though I can't really say why.
Before I see what's coming, Heath gives me a fast hug, then takes off down the green line, back toward the main entrance.
When I look up, Freddie's standing a yard or so away with her mouth open.
"Heath came to see if we were okay," I babble, not sure why I'm talking so fast.
"I'm sure he's worried about
us,
yeah." Freddie eyes me with one eyebrow cocked. How does she do that? I can't, even when I try.
Her face shifts from bothered to worried. "Come on back to the waiting room, Jamie." She beckons for me. "The surgeon called
from recovery. There's a problem."
REGULAR FEATURE
for publication Friday, September 21
Fat Boy Chronicles III
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
Burke stopped breathing.
Not during surgery. During recovery.
He.
Stopped.
Breathing.
No air. No breath. No nothing.
The nurses said he lost his color, started gasping, and grabbed his chest. His heart rate shot up, his blood pressure tanked,
and he passed out.
He's back on the operating table while I'm writing this. Live and raw. This is it, folks. This is the real deal.
A pulmonary embolism. Which, according to the surgeon, is "an occlusion of the pulmonary artery—in Burke's case, one of the
short segments—by fat, air, or a blood clot."
Translation: Even though Burke wore those stupid old-people support hose during the surgery, something broke loose, got stuck,
and BURKE CAN'T BREATHE.
Because it's big and bad and he's young and it's only in one of the short segments, and because Burke won't be able to take
the anticlotting drugs to fix it, the surgeon has to CUT THE THING OUT.
"Don't worry," Mr. Surgeon said. "It's a common complication in our teen patients. We'll get in there, fix it, and he'll be
good to go."
Hello?
Common complication?
Teenagers who have gastric bypass have trouble breathing after they get cut? Did I miss this somewhere in my reading?
It seems to me the ability to
breathe
would be essential to all these good outcomes I read about, all these wonderful cures for so many medical problems.
Let's take a poll, okay? To keep me sane for the next five minutes. Here it is.
1. If I was fat, I'd rather be
A) fat
B) dead
C) sent back in time to the Middle
Ages where everybody wanted
to be fat and happy.
2. Bariatric surgery is
A) psychotic
B) demented
C) what, you expect me to give you
another option?
3. Burke will
A) live
B) die
C) it doesn't matter, Jamie should
kill his family and his doctor
anyway.
4. I would _____ this surgery.
A) do
B) never do
C) OUTLAW
Are you praying for Fat Boy?
I am, and you'd better be.
"He looks so so " Freddie can't finish. She's about to . . . crack the fingers on my right hand, she's squeezing them so tight.
Helpless,
my mind supplies.
Flat. Still. Burke's too still.
I don't know what I expected, but not this. Not near this.
Burke looks dead.
Except for his chest, which jerks up, then down, up, then down, in time with the ventilator's pumping and clicking sounds.
I feel dead just looking at him. The universe drains down to empty, like somebody sucked out all the air and Tightness.
Why did this have to happen?
Freddie's grip digs into my skin, but I don't care. The pain keeps me here, reminds me I'm not dead, he's not dead, but he
looks it, oh my God, he looks lifeless and helpless and pitiful. Not Burke. Not my Burke.
Why did he have to do this endlessly
stupid
surgery—and why, why, why did it have to go wrong? My ribs ache from the force of holding in my screams.
I knew this was wrong. I knew it was bad.
All I can do is stare at Burke and his breathing machine through the door of his glass room in the Intensive Care Unit. He's
hooked to intravenous drips on both sides, and the ventilator joins his throat at a little knot of bandages.
The surgeon explained about the ventilator. Temporary, to help his lungs recover from surgical trauma.
The surgeon explained about respiratory complications for teens—totally normal.
The surgeon explained everything, yeah, and assured us Burke will be just peachy, but right now, he's sedated and breathing
through a friggin' tube in his throat. Actually, the surgeon said "mechanically assisted respiration." He probably said other
stuff, too, but I only caught bits and pieces after "mechanically assisted respiration."
He'll have a scar on his throat, small and round.
Assuming he wakes up with normal brain function and ever gets
out of that bed, like he's supposed to.
God, I need to stop this.
Standing in the door of Burke's glass cubicle, I don't feel totally sane or even real. Freddie and I keep not moving, not
talking.
Should we whisper to him so he knows we're here? Yell to wake him up? Are we supposed to be bouncy and magically cheerful
so he doesn't think we're scared shitless he's about to die?
One-two, one-two, one-two, one-two. Up and down, jerk, jerk, jerk goes Burke's chest and belly. It has to hurt to breathe
that way, with a machine jamming oxygen into your lungs. It has to.
Is he in pain?
Please don't let him be in pain.
I wonder if he can still smell anything with that ventilator attached to his throat. I hope not, because the nurse's station
behind us reeks of alcohol and fresh cotton—and even that doesn't mask the sweet-rotten stench of blood, infection, and other
body stuff I'd rather not think about.
"Burke probably thinks he died and went to hell," I whisper to Freddie.
"He's fine," she shoots back.
"We're
in hell."
"Shhh," says a nurse from the nurse's station, and Freddie and I slip inside Burke's glass cubicle before we get shushed again.
My breath jerks along with Burke's, like a machine's pumping stuff into my lungs, too.
Freddie says, "Oh, my God, I'm suffocating," and I want to hit her. Blood pounds in a vein standing out on her left temple.
My body seems to be following everybody else's lead, so my blood pounds in time with hers. My eyes study the windowless back
wall, the two glass side walls, the square white ventilator with its blue tubes, the IVs, the hospital bed. No televisions
in here. No chairs. Just the machines, and places for nurses to stand, and wires and tubes and monitors. I notice everything
in glowing, etched detail, except Burke, because now that I'm closer, I can't look at him at all.
I don't want to look at him. But I don't want to leave either. I never want to leave him again, because what if I leave and
he dies? Nobody should die alone.
He's
not
going to die.
My eyes flick to flat, chest-jerking Burke.
He is
not
going to die.
He's been out of his second surgery and recovery for about three hours. Only two people can visit at one time, and only once
per hour, for fifteen minutes. His parents took the first slot, and M
&
M got the second.
"Do something, Jamie." Freddie interrupts my distracted thoughts as she gestures to Burke's hand. "Maybe he can hear us."
I know she's not expecting me to heal Burke or work any miracles, but it feels like a huge miracle that I can even stand to
touch him. My eyes stay on his hand, which seems as still and flat as the rest of him, except it jerks, jerks, when the ventilator
pushes air. Forcing the brightest smile I can force, I take his hot, dry fingers in mine. His hand twitches with each pump
of the machine.
"Hey," I whisper to him in between ventilator clicks and
whooshes.
My gaze drifts from the blue baggie-thing pulled over his dreads to his smooth, perfect forehead, and lower to his nose and
mouth and broad shoulders, covered by a white hospital gown. Louder, over the machine noise, I tell Burke, "You need to wake
up, seriously. You're wearing something that looks like a towel. It's kind of cute. I know you hate being cute."
No movement but the jerks from the respirator.
I glance at Freddie, who gives me a
keep going
expression, all wide-eyed and fearful like I might ask her to say something.
"Freddie's here," I tell Burke. "She's a total chickenshit, but not as bad as NoNo. NoNo was worrying there was blood on everything
she touched."
"Blood products," Freddie corrects.
"Whatever." I'm pretending Burke's eyes are open now, and he's looking at me, and he's smiling. Will I ever see that again?
Will he ever be able to smile again? "That's why we had to send NoNo home. I know you understand."
Nothing.
But I imagine there was something. I want there to be something, so, so badly. A small move of his lips. A glimmer of awareness.
"I've got to get this week's Fat Girl turned in, but I wanted to have next week's ready, too, since we're moving to longer
practices with
The Wiz,
and I'm afraid I'll run out of time." When I squeeze his fingers, I wait for him to squeeze mine back, but he doesn't. God,
how can he already look smaller? "Wake up and talk to me, so I can give my next column a happy ending."
"He's not in a coma, Jamie." Freddie moves closer to the bed and puts both of her hands on Burke's leg. "He's sedated. He
can't—"
"Just shut up, okay? I know that." But it still feels like a soap opera, where the hero's in Twilight Land, and the heroine
wakes him with a passionate speech and gentle kiss. I wish I could wake Burke with a kiss. He's my prince, right? I should
be a better princess, with a powerful, magical kiss.
Hoping past logical hope, I bend down and brush my lips against his soft cheek. So hot. So still and tight. I've kissed Burke
that way a thousand times, but usually he makes a noise way down in his throat, like some big, happy tiger.
Now, there's nothing.
I can't wake him. I want to, but I have no power at all.
He twitches with the ventilator, but makes no sound, no indication he hears me or feels me, or knows I'm alive.
After he's skinny, it'll be like this,
says the mean part of my brain.
He won't know you're alive.
My breath jerks with Burke's.
But maybe I'll have the surgery, too, and get skinny with him. Maybe he'll have to stand beside
my
ICU bed after some nasty complication.
Jesus H. Christ and his brother Mervin, too. Have you lost your
friggin' mind? Do you want to die?
I don't, I don't, and I don't want Burke to die, either. I want his surgeon to take him back to the operating room and undo
this nightmare. Put him back like he was, walking and talking and on his feet, holding me, hugging me, smiling at me, and
kissing me back.
"Are you hurting his hand?" Freddie tugs at my wrist. "Ease up, chica. You're cutting off blood flow."
"Come back to me," I whisper to Burke as I let him go. "Don't worry. You won't have to do this alone. I won't let you. I'll
be right here."
Damn it. I wish I could be. Fifteen minutes at a time, I will be. Once an hour. I hate this!
Since we don't know what else to do, Freddie tells him about her cable piece on teen bariatric surgery. She says she's doing
it over, this time an expose about the hidden risks. She orders him not to be her bariatric surgery horror story poster child.
One of the nurses pops his head into Burke's room. "Time's up, ladies."
The sound of the nurse's voice makes us both jump. It's like the guy took a hammer and shattered a perfect moment—if you don't
count the Burke-breathing-through-a-tube thing.
Freddie glares at the nurse even worse than I do, but she steps out of the glass room after giving me a little push back toward
the bed. "Take a second with Burke," she instructs before she walks to the nurse's station.
Okay, finally.
I open my mouth to start yelling, but my gut twists and my throat catches and tears jam into my eyes. Coughing, choking, I
spin away before he can see me or hear me, but he has to hear the sobs. I can't stop them. I can't even breathe until I lean
down, hang my head, and squeeze my eyes shut so tight I see stars.
With each deep, sucking breath, my sobs break off a little sooner. I'm dizzy. I want to puke, but I can't puke in an ICU.
It might hurt Burke, or freak out his nurses, or make them say I can never come back to see him again, and then I
would
die.
Finally, finally, my words come back and I manage to turn around and tell Burke, "I hate that you're in this ICU. If you were
in a regular room, I wouldn't have to leave you."
Burke doesn't move.
I take his hand and squeeze it and flop his arm, careful not to dislodge the IV stuff. "Please open your eyes. Please try
to say something. I need to know you're in there. Please, Burke.
Pleasel"
Burke still doesn't move.
I sob all over again like a giant moron and stroke his dreadlocks through the blue baggie-thing while I kiss his cheek over
and over. At least it's warm. I don't know what I would do if his skin got cold. I'd probably lie down on his bed and freeze
solid with him. I couldn't stand it.
Shivers hit me in fast rushes as I think about a quiet, colorless, soundless world with no Burke. He's a light for me, an
oasis, a place to stay when all the other places close me out. I'd be homeless without him, in an inside-way. I'd be less
than I am, in ways I can't even imagine.
"Don't get cold, baby." I'm probably cutting off the blood flow in his fingers again, but I don't care. I want to yank his
hand until he notices me. Until he notices
something.
"Wake up for me. Burke?"
Another nurse steps into the cubicle and clears her throat. She looks a lot more serious than the other nurse.
She tries to talk nice for a second or three, but Freddie's voice is louder when she says, "Hey, Fat Girl. Get your ass out
here now. You want the vampire twins swooping down here to suck your blood?"
I'm not sure what freezes Nurse Serious and the first nurse in their tracks—the vampire blood-sucking part, or the Fat Girl
part. They stand aside, kind of stupefied, as I give Burke's motionless hand one last kiss before placing it gently back at
his side. I make sure his covers are pulled up and tucked under his arms, run my fingers across his forehead, and tell him
I love him.
Then I hold up my head and start walking past the silent, staring nurses with as much dignity as I can muster.
Jamie can't leave Burke's room. No, not me, not the me who loves him so much I feel like I got my own gut stapled.
It takes Fat Girl to do something this brave and painful.
Feeling?
Something tells me
That It's more than I can deal with.
"Can I Go On?"
from
The Wiz
