The Heavenly Heart (21 page)

How I got a case of it is beyond me. I don’t remember anyone coughing or spitting on me. What I do know is I went to the doctor for a regular before school check-up and what they found nearly caused my mother to have heart convulsions.

“Are you aware this child is very ill?” the doctor said and gave my mother a raised-eyebrow look that thoroughly upset her.

I felt absolutely fine. Well, I
was
sweating a bit, but it was Indian summer and very hot in Atlanta, and besides taking my clothes off at the doctor’s office always made me sweat.

“You are the doctor here,” my mother pointed out. “Sick with what?” she added, like he wasn’t a very good one to begin with.

“Mycoplasma Pneumonia,” he answered.

“Oh,” my mother said, and collapsed in the chair she was standing next to like she no longer had knees.

“Not to worry; she won’t require hospitalization. It’s normally responds to treatment quite well at home,” the doctor explained. “
Complete
bed rest, plenty of fluids, lots of tender loving care—I should think two, three weeks—and she’ll be back to her normal self.”

I was feeling perfectly normal already, but the thought of bed rest and lots of attention had me very excited. He gave my mother three prescriptions and directed her to the nursing station where a treatment sheet was provided by the nurse.

My mother immediately phoned my father at work who joined her at the drug store. When he got there he scooped me up in his arms like I was a China doll and would break in two at any moment. It was wonderful. It’s a miracle I didn’t develop a full blown case of Munchausen syndrome.

In seventh grade I did a paper on that very subject for my science class while everyone else chose frogs or snakes. I got an “A”. What’s particularly interesting about this disease is that the seeds for this condition are planted early in life. This is the sickness where people with false disorders pretend they’re sick. They exaggerate their symptoms or worse, they self-induce the symptoms so they can become the “patient” and get a lot of attention that feel they can’t get in any other way. A more well-known branch of this illness is Munchausen’s Syndrome by Proxy, which almost always involves a person abusing a child by seeking medical attention that’s totally not needed. Usually it’s the mother that does this. Sometimes they fake the symptoms in her poor little kid by adding blood to their urine or their stools. Sick. Or they withhold food, or fake fevers, or use even more disgusting methods like infecting IV lines. These children are often hospitalized and made to suffer through very uncomfortable tests. During this time the mother is completely attentive and seen as self-sacrificing and entirely devoted, making diagnosis even harder. The mother’s frequent visits of course make the child all the more accessible to her so that she can think up more symptoms. It all stems from psychological problems in the adult. This attention-seeking behavior’s aimed at recapturing a previous time in their life when they got unlimited attention and sympathy from others.

You see where this is going. I loved all the attention I got when I was recovering from walking pneumonia. After I did my science project on this very subject, I was worried silly that I’d get this stupid syndrome. I’m sure what saved me from such a fate was that after three solid weeks of complete bed rest, lots of crayons, coloring books and paper dolls, a ridiculous diet of soup, soup and more soup, I was determined never
ever
to set foot in a sick-bed again.

Each morning my mother would appear with the dreaded thermometer—she insisted the rectal variety was the only one with an accurate reading—and a jar of Vaseline. With Onetta’s assistance they would wrestle me into position. Temperature assessment was followed by medication and a breakfast of oatmeal without the delicious brown sugar I was used to. My mother also determined that sugar or anything that tasted sweet would only add to my condition. For some reason she decided that only bland foods would do for a child with walking pneumonia and also only those foods that didn’t require chewing. My vegetables were pureed, my meats were pureed—pureed beef is the pits—and my fruits were pureed. To this I stay clear of the baby food aisle at the grocery store. It activates my gag reflex.

Breakfast was followed by medication and a large dose of castor oil, which if you are not familiar with tastes like decayed fish. After a week of this
tender loving care
I willed myself to be well. Finally, three weeks after the pneumonia symptoms appeared the doctor declared me cured.  Regardless of all of the pampering and attention I received, I did not develop Munchausen Syndrome. I think that any person in danger of getting this disorder can be totally cured by eating pureed foods and taking castor oil for twenty-one days.

I put that in my research paper, too, but the teacher put a question mark by it, maybe because I didn’t list any sources in my foot notes to support my conclusions. But, I still got an “A”. Plus, I definitely noticed my mother was a much more attentive and nurturing person after I got over being sick.

All was not lost. And it’s another reason I love my mother so much. She was really there from the git-go, you know?

*         *         *

 I’m resting in the Golden Window making a list of everyone I know who has one of my organs. The outcome so far is as follows:

      
Golden Window
                                
Silver Lining

My father: has my heart         My father: deceased/no heart available

Mona: has my kidney          Mona: has the motorcycle man’s kidney

Kirsten: has my kidney         Kirsten: has the church lady’s kidney

Garret: has my liver   Garrett: has a piece of Dennis Frailey’s kidney

Mr. Powell: has my corneas              Mr. Powel?

I’m listing the “what is” and the “what if”. With all my forays through the Silver Lining, the final
results so far
are as follows:

      
Golden Window
                              
Silver Lining

My father/deceased                     no heart available/deceased

Mona/recovered/Andy fine             recovered/Andy deceased

Kirsten/recovered/dumped            recovered/engaged to Jeffery

Garrett/very sick with my liver     doing great with donor transplant

Mr. Powel/into pornograph          to be determined

It blows my mind to see the different direction their lives take depending on whose organ they receive. My father didn’t do well in either window, of course, but Kristen’s life would be very different if she’d
never
received one of my kidneys. Mona had complications no matter whose kidney she got, but Andy only survived because she received mine. Andy could go on to have children and grandchildren of his own someday, all because Mona received my kidney. Like I said before; it’s like a ripple of water. It goes on and on. Garrett’s not doing well with my liver. For him it would have been much better if I’d survived, so he’d gotten a piece of Dennis Frailey’s.  Mr. Powel is wasting my eyes. I’m curious to see if he’d of wasted someone else’s, as well. Who knows? Maybe another persons corneas wouldn’t work so well for him, at least in the beginning, and then when he finally can see he has a major appreciation—a religious experience or something—and thinks too much of his eyes to waste time looking at junk. The only way I’ll know for sure is to take another shot at the Silver Lining. I’ll have to hurry. Pete’s still determined to dismantle it.

SIXTY-SEVEN

The Golden Window

I’m going to check on Garrett first. He’s far more important to me than Mr. Powel.

Garrett’s still at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center, but this time it’s for real, no silver lining here. He’s too sick to be considered for a transplant—cadaver or living donor. His parents have received permission to bring Toby and Daisy to his room!  They’re having a great time sniffing everything in sight.

The nurses all like them a lot. Except for this Mrs. Elkhart, who’s a big crab. She has a permanent frown-line on her forward and keeps a look on her face that says
Don’t even ask
. You can tell she’s had it with these pigs. She’s got her arms crossed and she’s breathing in and out of her nose so loud you can hear the air going back and forth.

“If you don’t hurry and get well,” Pamela Riley, the nicest nurse of all, says, “I’m going to have to take these little darlings home with me.” She pats Toby on the back, then, scratches Daisy behind the ears, and laughs.

“Would you?” Garrett says, but he’s not laughing.

“W-w-well, I-I-you—Garrett, how could you survive without these guys—?

“We both know I’m not
going to
survive,” Garrett says and doesn’t blink an eye. “So, would you? Take them?”

Pamela takes Garrett’s hand in hers. “Tell you what,” she says, “If you
really
want me to, then yes, I will.” She kisses the back of his hand before she lays it back down, and smoothes the sheets.

So it’s decided. Pamela will adopt the pigs. Toby and Daisy like her very much, already. They
snurdle
their rubber ball across the floor to her and wait for her to send it back, just like dogs. If they could wag their tongues I bet they would. Pamela slides the ball across the floor, instead of tossing it to them. Just the same, they love this game. They could play it till next Christmas. Pamela goes back to her rounds. Daisy follows her down the hall,
ha-ha-ha-ing
all the while she waddles after her. Pamela brings her back and pulls the door shut, leaving just enough room to peak her head around the corner of it.

“Now, stay! Surprise! Dixie does. “Good girl,” she says and closes the door.

I think they should take the pigs up to the children’s floor. They go bonkers when a cat or maybe a dog is brought around—I saw it on the news once—so, can’t you just see them with these pigs? Toby and Daisy would be in pig heaven sniffing all the smells that come from kids. You’d never get them out of there. It’s not going to happen. Ms. Elkhart’s probably proposing a pig ban to the hospital administrator this very minute. She’s leaving Garrett’s room now. She has that look in her eye that says
Enjoy yourself while you can. It’s not going to last, Buster.

Garrett turns to his mother.

“Did she call?” he asks.

His mother sadly shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Garrett.”

“I thought for sure she would. Are you sure the line’s working?”

“I’ll double check, okay?”

Garrett’s not convinced. Evan after Amy Jo—the little snot—told him that he was just a bet, Garrett still believes in her, still loves her. It’s such a waste. He deserves better than that. He deserves someone that really cares about him. Someone who’d treat him really good. Someone who’d wouldn’t play games with him. Someone who would make his last days on earth matter.

“Maybe you could call and give her my cell number,” Garrett says.

Someone like me.

*        *        *

I’m visiting with my little brother, Christopher. One day in this nursery must be like a month on earth. He’s as big as a three year old and he talks like one, too. He can even say my name.

“Lor-lei,” he says. “Slide,” he says and points to the giant playground next door.

He puts his chubby hands around my neck and off we go. We pass that Window of Dreams. The door has all the colors of the rainbow on it. Kids love it.

“Go there!” Christopher says.

 “Alright, we’ll go there.” I’ll gladly take him any place he wants to go. I want him to know how much I love him. I want to give him everything in heaven and see his face light up like the sun.

Instead, I pretend I’m a swing and spin him around and around and around.

SIXTY-EIGHT

The Golden Window

There’s trouble in paradise—Mona’s paradise. Her husband’s packed his bag. He’s leaving. Not on a business trip. He’s leaving as in
he wants a divorce
. Now you tell me how this happened? You turn your back a few days and boom! Everything changes.

It’s pathetic. Mona’s pleading with him to stay.

“Please, Rob, don’t go,” she says.

She’s got Bradley on her hip and he’s crying. Bobby, Jr. and Allison must be in school. They’re nowhere in sight.

Mr. Scott picks up his suitcase. “I’ll call you when I find out where I’ll be staying.”

“We can go back to counseling,” Mona says. “We can—”

“Don’t,” he says.

“Daddy, daddy,” Bradley says, and holds his arms out to his father.

“See you later, Sport,” he says and pats him on the head.

I can’t understand this man. He has three children, a wife who’s been through transplant surgery and survived. A wife who’s rescued their neighbor’s child from the swimming pool. A wife who’s willing to go to counseling. Still, he’s leaving.

Men make me sick.

*        *        *

Things just continue to get worse. When I check in with Onetta, I find her visiting with my mother, who’s in tears. She has breast cancer. Not my mother. Onetta. But, it’s Onetta who’s comforting my mother.

“The doctor say, I be’s fine, maybe,” Onetta says. “Just gots to have time off work.”

My mother blows into her handkerchief.

“Who he think pays the bills?” Onetta says.

My mother’s eyes are swollen and red from crying. She sniffs twice and tucks her handkerchief in the pocket of her sweater.

“Can you loans me some money, Mz. Goodroe?”

My mother stands up. She takes Onetta’s hand in hers and leads her into the Florida room, and motions for her to have a seat in my father’s chair. Onetta’s only been in this room to clean it and to serve us breakfast. She looks around like she’s in a foreign country.

“Please,” my mother says, her palm extended towards the wing-back chair.