A White Coat Is My Closet (16 page)

“Okay,” Dr. Klein screamed though with a little less vibrato, “now get him the hell into the scanner.” His look at me was little more than cursory. He made no apology. Nor did he conclude he’d been wrong. In fact, I was surprised when he actually whispered a staccato, “Good call, Sheldon.”

From Dr. Klein, that was pretty much the ultimate compliment, and it resulted in a wave of shock and admiration from everyone else in attendance. Miracle of miracles, David had slayed Goliath.

In my mind, I began trying to reconcile my own schizophrenia. I was reasonably confident that though Dr. Klein was incensed about having been challenged, he’d respected that my suspicions had been accurate. I suddenly felt like an insecure kid striving to obtain an indifferent parent’s approval. I was elated that I had perhaps won an even modest amount of admiration from him, but I still thought he was a complete dick. Why was his opinion of me so important?

Begrudgingly, I had to acknowledge to myself that in many respects, I still was an insecure kid. Being gay, I had felt for many years that there was something grievously wrong with me. How could anyone feel confident in who they were if they felt that the majority of their character was flawed? Of course I wanted Dr. Klein’s approval. He was confident, respected, and was indisputably admired for being a superior member of the old boys club. No one questioned either his sexual orientation or his masculinity. I had spent my life seeking validation from men like him. I guess I felt if he respected me, I could respect myself.

I grimaced as I followed the little boy’s gurney toward the radiology suite. I dejectedly thought,
How fucked up was that?

It didn’t take long for the child to be moved onto the platform of the CT scanner. The platform slid back or forth over a track that moved between the lenses of the actual machine. Once the little boy was secured to the platform bed, his whole body could be scanned without having to again disturb him. He would just glide in and out.

I was most apprehensive about the possibility of a significant brain injury because it looked as if his head had sustained the brunt of the impact. From within the observation room, we all stared anxiously at the computer monitor as the initial images begin to appear on the screen. One by one, individual pictures of descending parts of his brain popped up on the monitor, and when all of them were determined to be completely normal, the entire group released a collective sigh of relief.

We had gotten over the biggest hurdle. Though we were still concerned about serious injuries to other parts of his body, ruling out an obvious brain injury significantly increased the probability of him making what we hoped would be a complete recovery.

As the scan continued, we became increasingly optimistic. He had several broken ribs, but all his internal organs looked okay. His liver didn’t seem to have sustained any damage, and neither had his spleen or kidneys. The urine collecting from the catheter had no apparent blood in it, and once the chest tube and been placed, his vital signs remained remarkably stable. He did have a broken left wrist, but nothing that would require surgery. A simple cast would undoubtedly result in complete healing within a few weeks, tops. In fact, it didn’t appear he’d have to go to the operating room at all.

“Good enough, team.” Dr. Klein’s voice sounded upbeat but still lacked any warmth. “Let’s get him up to the pediatric intensive care unit. We’ll keep him sedated while we monitor him overnight, but by tomorrow we should be able to start letting him wake up. Looks as if the kid caught a lucky break.”

At that point a soft voice rose from the back of the crowd. The social worker, Sheila Olson, had made her way in to join the medical team. She now seemed to feel she could safely ask her question. “Dr. Klein,” she said hesitantly, “up until this point no one has spoken to the family. When might one of you be prepared to do so? They’re very anxious to get some information.”

He responded in his typical fashion—gruff and indifferent. “I have to get back to check on some of the more critical patients.” He pivoted his head in my direction. “Sheldon, you go talk to the family. Until now, you’re the only one who’s contributed anything positive anyway. Might as well follow this through to the end. Page me when the kid’s tucked in and you get the initial labs back. I don’t want any more fuckups.”

He picked his lab coat up, threw it over his shoulder, and without another word, walked out.

Silence followed his departure from the room, and everyone looked at one another uneasily. Well, that had been a quick end to a mood that had had a glimmer of being celebratory. I mean, given his rocky start, it looked like the kid might very well be okay after all. In an attempt to break the tension, I cleared my throat. “Something tells me I still top the list of people Klein thinks are fuckups, but let’s get moving regardless.” My comment was met with repressed laughter. I moved over to talk to the social worker.

“Do we know any more about what happened? And has this kid got a name?”

Sheila began telling me the story. Her tone was compassionate and caring. “The child’s name is David. The family is visiting from out of town. They were here for a wedding. In fact, the child was hit in the parking lot of the church. Apparently, Dad thought the boy was with Mom, and Mom thought he was with Dad. Obviously, in the confusion and excitement, they lost track of him. The rehearsal dinner had just concluded, and Dad was walking out to get the car. David saw him from the steps of the banquet hall and raced to catch up. His dad thought he might have been afraid of being left behind.”

As Sheila continued the story, her voice became more heavily laden with emotion. She knew that David’s panic had been needless. Though he might have temporarily escaped his parents’ supervision, they would never have left without him.

“He darted out into the parking lot just as the bride’s father was pulling his car around to the entrance to transfer the gifts. Apparently, the lot is poorly lit, and I get the impression that the guy driving didn’t see the little boy at all. He wasn’t going very fast but didn’t realize David was even in his path before he heard the thud and felt the impact. The accident was witnessed by a bunch of people. Everyone is pretty broken up about it. In fact, I think that by now, the entire wedding party and all the guests have shown up here. There are so many people that security has had to cordon them off in the side corridor. The waiting room isn’t big enough to accommodate everyone.”

I grinned despite the seriousness of the situation. “I’m glad I’ll be able to give them some good news. You wanna walk me over there and make the introductions?”

“Be glad to.” Now her smile began to brighten. “If we cut through the back corridor, we’ll run right into them without having to go through the waiting room. Let’s head out.” She consulted her notes. “Their last name is McGregor. Mom’s name is Christine and Dad’s name is Kevin. The bride is Kevin’s future sister-in-law. She’s marrying his brother. The bride’s father, the guy who was driving, was just cleared himself by the ER doctors. He was so upset by the accident he had a panic attack and thought he was having a heart attack.” She shook her head in disbelief. “This family has had a busy night.”

“Well,” I said, trying to keep it light without sounding irreverent, “if the couple’s relationship survives this drama and they still succeed in pulling off the wedding, I suppose it will survive anything.”

I could hear the rumble of low voices as I rounded the corner. Everyone had been speaking in hushed whispers, but the minute they saw me, silence fell over them so suddenly it seemed as if all the air in the room had been instantaneously sucked out with a vacuum. No fewer than fifty pairs of eyes locked immediately on to me, and no one breathed.

It was surreal. I still had another twenty-five feet of empty corridor between me and where the family stood motionless. It would have been uncomfortable to start talking across such a significant distance, so I just kept walking. It was like something from the movies. The silence was tomblike. The only noise was the sound of my footsteps echoing off the walls. I’m sure that to the grief-stricken family members, it sounded like a death march.

I got to within a few feet of the parents, but before I could offer them a prelude to the good news concerning their son’s condition, David’s mom, Christine, choked out an almost inaudible whisper. “Is my son dead?”

The very effort of asking the question seemed to have consumed the last remnants of strength from her legs, and she could no longer hold herself up. She collapsed backward into her own father’s arms.

“No, he’s not dead.” I wanted to continue to sound clinically objective but couldn’t refrain from disguising the elation in my voice. “In fact, with the exception of a few broken ribs, he’s looking pretty darn good. We’re very optimistic that he will be fine.”

Of course, my intention was to offer a more complete summary of his overall condition, but before I could utter a single additional word, the entire crowd released a collective gasp and any further meaningful discussion was drowned out by the sounds of grateful sobbing.

A huddle formed with David’s mom and dad squeezed in the middle. The words were mostly unintelligible, but the meaning was clear: The nightmare was over. Their son was alive.

Sheila and I stood back, enjoying the opportunity to observe such a raw demonstration of relief and joy. We were both keenly aware that more frequently than not, the outcome was much less fortunate.

Christine and Kevin eventually extricated themselves from the arms of the group, tried unsuccessfully to wipe the tears from their eyes, then asked me to fill them in on the finer details of David’s condition.

They were eager to see him but understood our plan to keep him sedated through the night. As soon as he was settled in the intensive care unit, however, Sheila would escort them up, and they could sit by his bedside.

I suspected he wouldn’t be out of either of their sights for many months to come.

At moments like this, I felt overwhelming satisfaction in my decision to become a doctor. Gay or not, it felt pretty damned good.

I walked over to the phone to page Beth. I hoped she had stayed true to her word and saved me something to eat.

S
ATURDAY
morning, I went so far as to agonize over what to wear. We were biking, for God’s sake. I wanted to look casual, as if I hadn’t given even the slightest consideration into what I threw on, but I also wanted to look good. Finally, I chose a tank top tight enough to flatter my musculature but also allow for comfortable movement and a pair of khaki shorts. In addition, I spent way too much time combing my hair. It was hard to succeed in striking a balance between the “just rolled out of bed” look and the “man, I like your hair” look without having to experiment with three different gels. So much for spontaneity.

At about five minutes after eight, I heard a horn give a quick honk. I grabbed the fanny pack that carried my wallet, keys, and a tube of sunscreen and bolted for the door. I had already taken my bike out of the storage area and locked it to the bottom of the stair railing that led up to the front door. I put on my sunglasses as I stepped onto the front porch, and then I locked the door and turned to wave at Sergio. I felt my heart flip in my chest when I looked down at him.

He had popped the hatchback of his car and was leaning against its side window with his foot braced against the curb. He had his arms folded across his chest, and he was smiling up at me. He, too, was wearing a tank top, and his golden shoulders were a sharp contrast to the navy-blue material. His muscular chest looked like a mountain range surging out from under a cloud-filled sky, and his biceps gave the appearance of being boulders on his impressively defined arms. Most mesmerizing, however, was his smile. A Broadway marquee couldn’t have shone more brightly. I was glad I could distract myself with having to retrieve my bike, or I might have just stood there and stared.

I secured the lock to the bike’s crossbar and wheeled it down the sidewalk. Sergio pushed off the car and opened the passenger door. “You lift your bike into the back, and I’ll reach over and guide the wheel in from the front seat. Hand it to me butt first. Both bikes should fit if we turn your handlebars sideways once it’s all the way in.” Before he bent into the opened door, he added, “It’s a beautiful day. You want to ride from Temescal Canyon all the way to beyond the harbor?”

“Sounds perfect. Is there somewhere in particular that you’d like to eat?” I lifted my bike and began to carefully navigate the back wheel into the small space between his bike and the upholstery on the inside ceiling panel. The bike pedal had barely even neared the doorframe before Sergio yelled in an angry voice, “Zack, watch the toe clip on the pedal. I don’t want the fabric on the roof to get torn.”

The hostility of his tone startled me. It was a tight squeeze into the back of the car, but the pedal hadn’t even gotten close to the roof when he yelled. I froze for a second but then withdrew the entire bike and set it down on the pavement. Sure, I was infatuated with Sergio, but I still didn’t want to get yelled at. In fact, getting yelled at was something I had a huge aversion to. It felt so belittling and condescending. Maybe I was overly sensitive, and maybe I did have compromised self-esteem, but I refused to be yelled at by anyone.