"I" Piece- FINAL draft

Triple A

The closer I got to the hospital, the more electrified I felt. The call came in at a little past nine. It was my turn. An older gentleman was en route to the operating room at University Hospital. Triple A – abdominal aortic aneurysm – a case I saw more than any other. I knew what to do…I’d run the cell saver on several of these cases already. I anticipated the situation and wondered what the outcome would be today. Had the aneurysm burst yet? Would we help him in time? Would there be massive blood loss? I hoped not, but I knew through experience that this might be a long, messy night. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Scooting into my baby blue scrubs, I hurried to change out of my street clothes.

Standing on the sidewalk, my tiny hand grasped my mother’s hand securely. The further we walked, the more implanted my feet became, harder and harder to lift as if I were dragging concrete blocks, not my feet. Like ivy, my limbs entangled themselves in my mother’s long legs until they intertwined so tightly there was no opportunity for me to move.

I rushed through the halls of the hospital, through winding and deserted underground tunnels. I had one goal in mind: get there in time. With a brief glance at the scheduling board, I noted my case, operating room 2A. I grabbed my cell saver machine, whispered a silent prayer to myself that the aging beast would not choose today to malfunction, and rolled into the operating room. A gruff voice greeted me, “Hook that up quick. I expect we’ll need you today.” The patient was not yet in the room. A sigh of relief; I wasn’t too late.

The red and blue lights blinked and circled, turning heads as pedestrians passed. I began to sob. I did not want to go. It was too late. No amount of reassurance from my parents, grandparents, or the police officers themselves could convince me to climb into that car. I had no logical reason to be afraid. Perhaps, at some deeper level of intuition, my three-year old self understood the symbolic implications this ride to the airport would later have. All cajoling was to no avail. I would not ride in that police car.

Just as I finished attaching the saline and unwinding the yards of suction tubing, the two-way door swung wide open. A large man grunted as the bed skated into the room. He was conscious and talking, both encouraging signs. He clasped a small paper to his heart. As the nurses prepped him, his fingers massaged the paper’s corners. A friendly young nurse wondered, “What do you have there?” All of the preparatory action seemed to suspend in time. I guess we all wondered what he was holding so dearly. “This here’s a picture of my grandbaby,” he boasted. “She’s the light of my life. I wanted all of you to see it so you’d know who was waiting for me to come home.”

As they loaded the car, I can imagine there were tearful hugs, sobbing goodbyes. Grandpa’s heart had gotten worse. They were no longer able to help him in St. Louis. I shared my love and good luck wishes, my reassurances that I would see him soon. I gave him one last hug. I waved as Grandpa rode off in the police car. The plane was awaiting his arrival at Lambert International for the flight to Houston. He needed the surgery, now, if he was to survive.

Today, I was determined. The same triple-A would not rob a grandfather from the beautiful girl whose photograph was clutched in this man’s shaking hand.

Pictures in an old shoebox of my Grandpa as a World War II airman. He was a proud Army man, a member of the 101st Airborne Division. He jumped from war planes over the coast of France and escaped heavy artillery fire over Germany.
His uncanny resemblance to Robert Duvall. One afternoon I was watching a Duvall movie and I had an unnerving feeling, he reminded me so much of my grandpa. I could not shake the sensation. I called my mom and relayed my emotion. She was very quiet. “I always thought they were so alike, too. He looks and sounds just like him. I can’t believe you remember…that’s just how he sounded.”
His hidden stash of my favorite butterscotch candies, special for me, for when I would stop over. Without fail, every time I’d visit he would slip me a butterscotch and every time I’d choke on it. He would flip me upside down, dangle me by my feet, and out that yellow disk would pop. But every visit, I would come back for more.

Grandpa died when I was barely three.

I knew nothing about this man splayed out before me…but he was this girl’s grandpa and, like my own, he faced surgery with a failing aorta. That was enough. Today I could change history.