The Splendor of Ordinary Days (2 page)

Memorial Day, Watervalley, Tennessee

A
s a doctor, I tend not to be superstitious.

I don't believe in ghosts, or that eating an apple a day will keep you well, or that a rabbit's foot will bring good luck, unless you're a rabbit.

However, numbers might be the exception. I've come to think of certain numbers as lucky, others not. For me, six is an unlucky number, seven can go either way, and the luckiest number of all is three.

But that notion changed on Memorial Day. During my frantic rush to the softball field to save Toy McAnders's life, I painfully recalled my med school professor's lecture about the Rule of Threes. This was the lecture about death.

On average, the human body can live for three weeks without food, three days without water, and three hours after subthermal exposure. These lousy situations share one small positive. Typically, they don't involve panic. The mind has time: time to process, to plan, to hope.

Lack of oxygen is a different matter. The “game over” bell on an ­oxygen-­deprived body is about three minutes. It terrifies us. We panic. It's in our DNA.

And panic is contagious. Watching someone desperately gasp for breath creates a sympathetic physical response. It's automatic. . . . Heart rate and respiration accelerate, pupils dilate, skin perspires, and panicked people tend to talk in ­high-­pitched gibberish. Understanding them is like trying to have a conversation with Flipper. Unfortunately, being a doctor doesn't make you immune.

So as I was heading out the door on that Memorial Day afternoon, I was thinking about barbecued ribs and fireworks and the beautiful smile awaiting my arrival. The ring of my cell phone changed everything.

“Dr. Bradford! Oh, thank God! He can't breathe! How soon can you get here?”

Startled, I blurted my response. “Hello, hello, who is this?”

“It's Sarah, Sarah McAnders. I . . . Help us. Can you come! He can't breathe!”

“Sarah! Slow down. Who can't . . . Where are you?”

“At the softball park. He's not breathing, Dr. Bradford. He's choking! Oh my God! What do we do?”

I began to run toward my car.

“Who are we talking about? Who's choking? Is it Sam?” Sarah was the young mother of a ­one-­year-­old son.

“No, no. It's Toy! The softball . . . His throat . . . It hit his throat! Where are you?”

I was trying to keep calm, stay focused, but a dozen thoughts were fumbling through my head and the blasted car wouldn't start. I looked down and realized I was trying to use my house key in the ignition. Like I said, panic is contagious.

“Sarah, how long ago did it happen?”

“Just now! I mean, l don't know. Maybe a minute ago!”

If this was correct, it was the only spark of good news. Toy was her husband, a strong athletic man in his ­mid-­twenties. I looked at my watch. The softball park was five minutes away. My hope was that Toy's windpipe wasn't completely closed. That would buy me time.

“Sarah, I'm on my way. I'm going to hang up and call the EMTs. I'll get there as fast as I can. Do you understand?”

“Yes! Yes! I think so. Please hurry!”

I squealed onto Fleming Street.

A quick phone call got the EMTs at the fire station moving. They would be only a minute behind me. This was the hazard of being the sole physician in a remote Tennessee town. When emergencies occurred, there was no bench of reserve players. With my staff nurse out of town, the EMTs and I were it.

Fortunately, the softball park was a direct shot out Shiloh Road, set apart from the downtown, away from either one of Watervalley's two traffic lights. I put my emergency flashers on and pressed hard on the gas pedal. I needed to calm myself, to think clearly. I ran various scenarios through my head, trying to anticipate what I would do upon my arrival. I checked my watch. A minute and a half had passed.

The air passage to the lungs, the larynx, is made of flexible rings and typically bounces back . . . unless the impact crushes it along with the hyoid bone, better known as the Adam's apple. In that case, there are hemorrhaging and swelling that force the airway closed. But swelling takes time, and time was what I, and Toy McAnders, needed.

The damnable Rule of Threes was hounding me.

There was little traffic. I managed to pass one or two cars. Thankfully, a few pulled over to let me by, recognizing my Corolla with its flashing lights. Again I checked my watch. Two and a half minutes had passed. I might just make it.

Then, everything stopped.

After rounding a curve less than a half mile from the ballpark, I had to slam on the brakes to keep from ­rear-­ending the car in front of me. Stretched in a long line ahead was a row of vehicles at a complete standstill.

It was unthinkable. Traffic jams simply didn't happen in Watervalley, and yet at this ­ill-­timed moment, that was what lay before me. The road ahead curved with woods on either side, limiting my vision. This made no sense. There were no police sirens, and dispatch at the fire station hadn't mentioned anything.

I pulled the Corolla into the vacant oncoming lane. After a hundred yards, I had rounded the curve far enough to see the problem. Ahead was a flatbed truck stopped in the middle of the road. Strewn everywhere were slatted wooden crates, each the size of a large suitcase. Some were flipped sideways, some upended, some busted. All were filled with chickens. Stacked and strapped onto the truck bed, the crates had apparently come undone and spilled over the road and shoulder, completely blocking traffic.

Volunteers were casually helping the farmer reload the crates. I laid on my horn as I approached. From around the corner of the truck, heads appeared with irritated faces at the impatient honking. A couple of men recognized me and began to walk toward my approaching car.

“What's going on, Doc?”

“You gotta let me through, fellows. There's an emergency at the ballpark.”

They exchanged glances and immediately ran back toward the others.

“Make a hole, boys! Doc needs to get by!”

Time came to a standstill. I tapped my finger rapidly on the steering wheel, and in those dead seconds of waiting, I started to feel that ­heavy-­throated, sickening apprehension that everything was going south. Panic was overtaking me, screaming into my consciousness. Too much time! Too much time!

By now the EMT van was behind me. Six minutes had passed since Sarah's call, twice the threshold of the Rule of Threes. I was sweating, short of breath, consumed with a nauseating reality: Toy McAnders was probably dead.

I finally passed through, accelerated down the ballpark entrance, and pulled directly onto the field, where a large crowd circled the pitcher's mound. The EMT van followed. I slammed on my brakes, burning long ruts in the grass. In one fluid motion I grabbed my physician's bag and was out the car door, running headlong toward the center of the crowd. Instinctively people moved aside, availing a large opening. I halted in midstep three feet away from Toy, stunned at the sight before me.

Toy McAnders was seated on the ground against a stack of athletic bags. Protruding from the small of his throat were two large drinking straws. Sarah was standing beside him, a hand covering her mouth. A woman I had never met was on her knees next to Toy, calmly giving him instructions. Blood covered the front of his shirt, but he was alive.

The woman was intermittently dabbing a cloth around the tracheal opening made in Toy's neck, trying to check the bleeding. The setup was gruesome and unnatural looking. He had a weak consciousness and was struggling to breathe. But he was alive.

I dropped to a knee on Toy's opposite side.

“I'm Dr. Bradford.”

The woman, who looked to be in her ­mid – to late thirties, nodded and continued to address Toy's mild bleeding as she spoke.

“This fellow looked away after a pitch, and the softball caught him square in the throat. Smacked him pretty hard. At the ­four-­minute mark, he lost consciousness. I made an incision over the suprasternal notch and a lateral incision into the trachea, enough to get the two straws inserted. From what I can tell, heart rate is about one twenty, jugular pressure seems good, respirations are around thirty. It looks bad, but I estimate only about thirty milliliters of blood loss. I had to use my pocketknife, so he'll need an antibiotic. He lost consciousness for about ninety seconds, long enough for me to insert the straws.”

She wore jeans and a T-shirt. She was small in size but athletic looking with brownish blond hair cropped in a pageboy. She had methodically given me a thorough medical ­report—­clearly something she had done before.

By now the EMTs, Clarence and Leonard, were beside me with the gurney. We quickly lifted Toy onto it and into the van, where we could fully monitor him for transport to Regional Hospital in the next county.

Once Toy was loaded, I turned to the woman, extending my hand. “We haven't met.”

“Karen.”

She didn't offer a last name. “Nice work, Karen. You probably saved his life.”

She pursed her lips and nodded.

Clarence called out to let me know they were ready to go. I turned and spoke briefly to him. When I turned back to Karen, she had been absorbed into the crowd.

I tossed my car key to a fellow I knew and asked him to move the Corolla to the parking lot. “Leave the key in the ignition,” I said. “If I'm lucky, someone will steal it.” I hustled to the ambulance, and we took off.

During the ride, Sarah McAnders explained what had happened. After Toy's collapse, amidst all the panic and shouting, the mysterious Karen had appeared from the crowd and spoken calmly.

“Ma'am. If you'll let me, I can save him.”

At the time, I didn't know anything about Karen. None of the EMTs knew of her either. But something in the way she carried herself: something about her orderly manner in the face of such a traumatic event, gave me a clue.

The Clinic

N
obody liked Luther Whitmore, including me. He didn't have anything nice to say to, or about, anybody. He'd as soon spit on them.

Nevertheless, during a medical exam, I always try to look past the hard exterior that people sometimes exhibit. With me, they have to be honest, open, vulnerable . . . and it scares them.

So every time Luther visited me at the clinic, I approached him with this simple, accommodating ­mind-­set. I would patiently hear him out. I would listen, and assess, and look: into his ears, into his eyes, and into his soul. And I always came to the same conclusion. He was a mean jackass . . . no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Nope, I didn't like him.

He was also the owner and editor of the local newspaper.

Luther came to the clinic on the Tuesday afternoon following Memorial Day. Admittedly, I didn't want to be there. Outside, it was a cosmic, perfect day, and I was yearning to be part of it. The valley and surrounding hills were displaying the last of a glorious spring. Everywhere the landscape was painted in rich, thick hues of green, the flowers were at their pinnacle, and a sweet, intoxicating breeze floated in the air.

Throughout the day, I had stolen moments to step out the clinic's back door and absorb what I could of this splendid existence. I couldn't get enough of it. But the clinic staff giggled at me behind my back. They knew the real reason for my exalted state. I was in love, floating euphorically, and eager to be with her at day's end.

First, however, I had to deal with Luther.

I had been told that in his youth, Luther was a strong, powerful athlete. Now, he was a tall specter of a man with a large, bald head, prominent nose, and pointed chin. His face was invariably framed in a sour sneer, accentuated by bushy eyebrows that hung gloomily over the deep sockets of his eyes. He gazed upon the world like a vulture, hungry for the next victim of his critical tongue. Luther's only virtue was his penchant for truthful, unbiased reporting. Then again, Watervalley was not a hotbed of scandal, given that the majority of the police reports involved parking violations.

So, I took a deep breath, rose from my office chair, and proceeded across the hall to exam room one, which now could be appropriately thought of as the lair of the dragon.

“Hello, Doctor. 'Bout damn time.”

And so it began.

“Nice salutation, Luther. And just when I thought you couldn't get any cuddlier.”

There was a weak knock on the door followed by the timid entrance of Nancy Orman, the clinic's kind and corpulent office manager.

“Sorry, Dr. Bradford, sorry. I just need to get this cart out of here.” She proceeded to grab the small supply bin used to stock the exam rooms. I stepped aside as she snatched it and backed out the door. All of this fell under Luther's leering scrutiny.

“Humph. A woman that big ought to make a beeping sound when she backs up.”

I rewarded him with stiff silence as I perused his chart. Luther got the message.

He sat on the exam table, looking straight ahead, regarding me out of the corner of his eye. When he spoke, his curdled tone smacked more of inquisition than inquiry.

“You still got the gate key to the lake, Doc?”

He was referring to Moon Lake, a small slice of heaven that sat atop a treeless hill in the northern part of the county. The property had belonged to Luther's family for generations. But when Luther had inherited it forty years ago, he'd had it fenced, padlocked, and posted with no-trespassing signs. Why, no one knew. It was a grand and curious mystery. Even though I shared the burning curiosity about why Luther had so spitefully closed off Moon Lake, I had held on to my inquiries for a simple reason. I enjoyed a special status with respect to Watervalley's most enchanted spot. I had a key.

Several months back, in a rare act of kindness after I had helped cure him of hemorrhoids, Luther had lent me the key. Something in this exchange seemed symbolically in keeping with his personality.

“I do have the key. You want it back?”

“Nah, keep it. Just don't let anybody in there to fish. You're too much on the wussy side to be much of a fisherman yourself. Doubt you could do much damage on that account.”

“Yeah, sure. Anyway, I, uh, I appreciate your letting me have it. It's a nice place to visit from time to time.”

“Well, if you want to turn that gratitude into something tangible, you could have the place bush hogged. It's getting pretty overgrown.”

I continued studying his chart, speaking vacantly. “Bush hogging is not exactly in my wheelhouse, Luther.”

He rubbed his chin, still regarding me with a tired disdain. “Yeah, I figured. Eh, don't worry about it. Just a thought.”

“So, Luther, are you still smoking?”

“I'm down to two packs a day.”

“And how's your alcohol consumption?”

“Not more than a fifth a night.”

“Hmm. I see. And last time you were here, I gave you a ­low-­cholesterol-­diet plan. How have you been doing with that?”

“I tried it for a couple of days and decided to hell with it.”

“Nice.”

“Hey, look. I still don't drink coffee. There ought to be some points for that. All coffee does is make people do stupid things faster and with more energy.”

“Tell me, Luther. Do you lie awake at night just waiting for a heart attack to happen?”

He glared at me with poorly masked contempt. “Ah, get off my back, Doc. You and I both know that except for my cholesterol, my annual physical and blood work last year weren't that bad. Passed my stress test, had a clean colonoscopy, and no prostate issues. I'm fit as a damn fiddle.”

The worst part of Luther's venomous response was that he was right. Simply put, Luther had excellent genes. If med school had taught me anything, it was that poor genes were almost impossible to fix and great genes were hard to mess up. Lifestyle is a huge factor in good health, but genetics is the trump card. Despite his deplorable habits, Luther's DNA had made him ridiculously bulletproof. He even had good teeth. And, true to form, he was pretty arrogant about all of it.

I exhaled and offered him a thin smile. For the life of me, I didn't get Luther. I couldn't understand his rotten nature. Continued coaching would be pointless.

“I heard you and the Chambers girl are dating?”

My answer was clipped. “That would be correct.”

“Well, good for you. She's kind of a looker. Women are enough of a pain in the ass. They shouldn't be ugly on top of that. The ones that are should just stay home.”

“Sounds like the making of a great editorial.”

Luther grunted in response. My mind went immediately to his ex-wife, Claire. They had no children and had recently divorced. She was another odd chapter in Luther's story.

Claire was from California. They met and married when he lived there for a couple of years after serving in Vietnam. Claire was actually a lovely, engaging soul. Given Luther's hard personality, people wondered what in the world Claire could have been thinking when she married him and why it took her forty years to divorce him. Most folks concluded that instead of California, they had met on a deserted island with no hope of rescue. That would explain Claire's impulsive decision. Either that, or she had a mother she wanted to get back at.

Luther spoke with an air of barely concealed contempt. “By the way, what was the Mennonite fellow doing here?”

He was referring to a patient I had treated earlier. Luther had likely seen the man departing. A modestly sized Mennonite community bordered the northern part of the county.

“Luther, I think that comes under the ‘none of your business' category.”

“Humph, seems a little out of place. Maybe the ­black-­hat boys should just pray a little harder.”

“I see. And you know this from experience?”

Luther turned to me with a lecherous grin, quoting scripture. “‘If you diligently heed the voice of the Lord, I will put none of the diseases on you which I have brought on the Egyptians.'”

“You know, Luther, somehow when you quote Exodus, it doesn't have the same appeal as when my pastor does.” I had been quick to respond, but even I had to admit that considering he was such a jerk, Luther's knowledge of scripture was impressive. I refocused the conversation.

“So, what brings you here today?”

“My eyes. I seem to be losing vision in the center.”

Finally, here was one thing about Luther that I did understand. Loss of central vision is the hallmark of macular degeneration, a disease that causes blindness in the middle of the visual field, leaving only peripheral vision. This would explain Luther's constant glancing from the side and perhaps even the ­higher-­than-­normal acidity in his remarks.

I did a thorough eye exam, including a test called the Amsler Grid. My suspicions proved correct. Luther had early onset of the disease. I prescribed some medications and recommended a strict follow-up schedule. In spite of Luther's noncompliance on all of my other medical recommendations, I gathered he would be diligent with this plan of care. Luther wasn't dumb or lazy. He was just mean.

And so it was I witnessed the first chink in the armor of Luther Whitmore's seemingly infallible genetics. Age and disease were a great leveler of the arrogant, and perhaps in the months ahead, I would be seeing a humbler, kinder version of Luther.

Then again, I doubted it.

In either case, actually liking him would remain a monumental task.

As he departed, I was thinking how pleasant it would be if Luther was abducted by aliens. Who ­knew—­maybe he already had been. That would explain a lot.

It was nearing five, and I was expecting Christine, my beloved and beautiful girlfriend, to arrive at any minute. She had called earlier to tell me she had some exciting news and would drop by after work.

I returned to my office to gather my things, including a medical journal with an article I wanted to read. It was somewhere in the stack of magazines I'd tossed on the floor behind my desk. I was bent down on one knee looking for it when there was a simultaneous knock and opening of my office door, the typical entry of Nancy Orman.

“You have a visitor, Doctor.”

I continued thumbing through the journals, thinking it odd that she would announce Christine. “Sure, send her in. I'm expecting her.”

I was engrossed in looking for that blasted article, still on my knees behind my desk, when I heard the door open again. I spoke without looking up. “Hey, beautiful. Want to go grab some dinner?”

Christine didn't immediately respond, and there was nothing but stale silence in the room. So, I turned and peered over my desk.

Gazing down at me with a rather confused expression was Karen, the woman I had met at the ballpark the previous day. “Well, thanks for the offer, but I've already got a date with the Laundromat.”