“You want money?”
“Please,” I said, “let’s try to fix the problem, not make it worse.”
“Make what worse? I offered to help you. Now you’re ready to blackmail me.”
“I don’t want money. I want you to admit to the principal what you’ve done and to explain to him how you’re going to fix the problem.”
“You preposterous little twit. You can’t be serious. I have simply been helping students. I was going to help you.”
“You were going to help me cheat.”
She stared at me. I stared at her. Finally, she shrugged and said, “I can’t just go to the principal. He wouldn’t understand.”
“If you don’t tell him, I will.”
She was staring past me now. “Is there nothing I can offer you…?”
“Today’s Monday. Please see the principal by Friday.” I rose and left.
*****
Mrs. Golden went to the principal, admitted her crimes, gave the money that she had extorted to charity – rather than to her student partners in crime – made a public apology to the school, and volunteered to help students, on her own time, write applications to colleges and universities. In return, the principal put her on probation for three years. She left Murrow three weeks later.
As for me, I was rejected by every University of California campus because my grades were too low, I received a poison pen letter from Mrs. Golden, and Sal never spoke to me again about anything. But, I did receive this message a few days later: “Wes, please submit your story for the crime section of the next edition of the Lucky Strike. Marie Dudley.”
Like a Finger Poking me in the Back
By Maniel
“Is something wrong?” asked Yumi.
“Just a slight pain,” I said.
“What kind of slight pain? Where?”
“It’s like a finger poking me in the back.”
“Just now?”
“Yeah, just now, walking back from getting the drinks.”
“Did you strain your back playing tennis?”
“Not that I know of – guess I’m just getting older.”
“Come on, you’re forty-four. Have you had this before?”
“I’m not sure. I may have.”
“Do you feel anything else? Dizzy or anything?”
“No, it’s a little thing. I’m fine.”
“Tell me if it happens again.”
“Yes, nurse!” I replied. There are advantages and disadvantages of being married to a registered nurse. She’s terrific in an emergency – she can patch up a cut or splint a broken arm in nothing flat – but every little pain is a warning of impending doom.
“The only seats are in the front rows,” I said, reading the hand-lettered note under the Shamu, the Great Killer Whale sign.
“The kids won’t melt – it’s only water.”
The July sun was almost directly overhead, but off-shore breezes were keeping the temperature under control. “Let’s put more sunscreen on those little faces and arms,” Yumi said, producing a green plastic bottle shaped like a frog. “More sunscream, Mommy,” said Joseph, now two and a half. Cindy, just a year old, hid her face in a dark corner of her stroller.
We walked past the signs, to take seats just two rows from the huge transparent plastic tank. Yumi lifted Cindy out of the stroller which I folded to fit in the aisle next to me. The show began almost immediately and our rows quickly became wetlands. Joseph, sitting between Yumi and me, and Cindy, on Yumi’s lap, gaped, mouths open wide, as the great black and white Killer Whale soared above, and then screamed along with those seated near us she hit the water and the resulting wave overflowed the tank. The show lasted about fifteen minutes, including several more orca tsunamis. “That was fun,” said Joseph.
“You want to see it again?” I asked.
“No, too wet.”
After the show, we followed the crowd, through the puddles near the tank, away from the stands. Yumi produced an enormous orange beach towel from her bag, dried off the children and the stroller, and handed the towel to me. She lifted Cindy into the stroller.
“Let’s visit the shark tank,” I said, eager to find shelter from the sun.
“Sure,” said Yumi, handing me the bag and turning the stroller toward the Shark Park.
Inside, there were sharks of all sizes swimming in tanks along the walls and ceiling of the grotto. It was crowded, but it was less oppressive than the direct sun. My mind wandered back to yesterday’s tennis match at the club. I had lost to Mitch in two long sets. Mitch is what people call a “retriever” because he runs down and returns just about every ball, rarely hitting winning shots. I had been very tired at the end and had rested at the snack bar before going home.
“Hello, earth to Wes.”
“Oh sorry, I guess I was lost in thought.”
“I think the kids have had it. Looks like you have too.”
“Do you want to stop to eat on the way home?”
“We could pick up some ice cream.”
“I scream, you scream, I scream, you scream, I scream, you scream, I …”
“We all scream,” said Yumi.
“I scream, you scream, we all scream.”
“For.”
“Ice cream,” screamed Joseph.
*****
“I’ll put the ice cream in the freezer. Can you take Cindy up to her crib and change her?” Cindy was asleep when I carried her into the house and immediately up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, I felt that finger again, poking me in the back. In the bedroom, which she shares with Joseph, I laid Cindy in her crib and changed her diaper.
*****
“Are you okay? You look a little pale.”
“I felt it again.”
“You mean your back, the poking in your back?”
“Yes.”
“Going up or coming down?”
“I felt it when I got to the top of the stairs, like a finger poking me.”
*****
Dr. Krieger had been our family doctor for twelve years. He had immigrated from Germany after getting his medical degree from Heidelberg University. A man of about forty-five, about six feet tall with an athletic build earned through long bicycle rides and regular hours at the gym, his dark hair was beginning to show a little gray. He greeted me with a friendly handshake and said, “come, follow me, we talk first in my office.” He examined the chart that his nurse had prepared following my weigh in. “Weight and height unchanged – we don’t expect changes in your height,” he smiled, “pressure normal. So, tell me what is going on with you,” he said, leaning forward from behind his desk.
I explained the events of the last couple of weeks.
“So, finger poking in the back. You can touch this place in your back, yes?”
“I can.” I used my right thumb to show him.
“And energy, your energy is okay? You still play tennis?”
“To be honest, no. I feel that my energy level has dropped.”
“Well then, two possibilities: muscular-skeletal or cardio-vascular. I can check you for muscular-skeletal, so let’s do that now. Follow me!” He showed me into an examination room with two chairs and an examination platform. “Please take off all your clothes except for under shorts and socks and then sit up here.” He put me through a series of stretches and maneuvers. “You did not have pain when we did this, right?
“Correct, no pain.”
“I was quite thorough. I am quite sure that your problem is not muscular-skeletal. Also, you have not been injured and I see nothing abnormal. Wes, I want you to have a stress test. We can’t say for sure that you have a cardio-vascular problem, but a stress test is the best way we have to find out. Dr. Martin is chief of cardiology here at the hospital. He can give you a treadmill test.”
I was silent.
“Look, don’t worry. We will find out what this is and correct it. Dr. Martin is excellent. Please come to the front desk when you are dressed. The nurse will give you a card fo
r Dr. Martin. I will send him a letter today about your condition. Okay?” He shook my hand and gave me a pat on the shoulder.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Don’t worry – you’ll be fine.”
*****
“Hello, I’m Helen. I assist Dr. Martin. I need to ask you a few questions before we begin.” Helen appeared to be about thirty-five and was four or five months pregnant.
“What was your age on your last birthday?”
“Forty four.”
“Why are you here today?”
“Dr. Krieger referred me. I have been having a symptom, like a finger poking in my back, when I do something physical, like go up a flight of stairs.”
“Have you ever had a stress test?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And have you had anything to eat or drink in the past four hours?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I’m going to wire you up for the test and, when we’re ready, Dr. Martin will come in. I need to shave parts of your chest – most men hate this part – then we’ll wire you up for the electrocardiogram.” She shaved parts of my dry chest with a dry safety razor that looked like a plastic toy, pasted electrodes on the shaved areas, and attached wires to the electrodes from a belt that she buckled the belt around my waist. “Perfect,” she said. She took too my blood pressure and left the cuff on my arm.
A man in a white lab coat entered the room. Short, balding and of medium build, he did not fit my image of a cardiologist. “Mr. Daniels, I’m Dr. Martin.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. Okay, looks like this will be your first treadmill test. We’re going to build your heart rate up slowly and take it down slowly. Just rest your hands here and walk with the machine. Are you okay?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good, I’ll start the machine.” The treadmill began to move and I began to walk slowly, at a slight incline, hands on the bar in front of me.
“I read Dr. Krieger’s letter. He says you’ve had some back pain. I want you to tell me right away if you feel that pain, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s very important – tell me right away. Okay so far?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to take your pressure: one-thirty-five over ninety. What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m an engineer for Erickson Systems.”
“Engineer huh. Still doing okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
After three minutes, the treadmill incline became steeper and the machine sped up. I walked for another minute and then I felt the finger poking me.
“Now sir, I feel it.”
“Stop and get off immediately.” He grabbed my right arm and pulled me off the treadmill. Dr. Martin was frowning. He ran his free hand through his thinning hair. “The electrocardiogram showed deterioration. For your safety, I stopped the exam.”
“Does that mean I failed?”
“You could say that, but at least now we know more. The pain in your back is almost certainly angina. We also call that chest pain.”
“And what causes it?”
“Your heart isn’t getting enough blood.” Dr. Martin was watching my electrocardiogram results scroll by. “Helen, you can clear the electrodes now.” She unbuckled the belt and started ripping the plastic holders off my chest. I tried to ignore the small, sharp pains. “You probably have arterial blockage. We won’t know how much until we do an angiogram.”
“An angiogram?”
“Yes, an angiogram. We put a catheter into an artery in your leg, inject a dye, and then take films of the dye flowing through your arteries. That will show us the flow of blood to your heart and, I think, let us know what is causing the pain. That ‘finger in your back,’ as you call it, may wind up saving your life.”
*****
“’All diseased,’ he said, ‘all diseased.’” Yumi had been crying. “Dr. Martin, comes out of the operating room and says ‘are you Mrs. Daniels?’ Then he says ‘all diseased, all blocked up.’ He made it sound like you were going to die in the next five minutes. I started to cry. Then Dr. Krieger arrived and calmed us both down. They talked to me together.”
“Wow, is it that bad?”
“Your arteries are blocked. Two of your coronary arteries are completely blocked – you only have three you know – and the third one is partly blocked." I started to change my position in the bed, but she said, "Try not to move around. It takes about twenty-four hours for that wound in your leg to heal. Dr. Krieger plans to come by to talk to you late this afternoon. I’ll try to change my hours so that I can be here.”
“Thanks. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
*****
“I looked again at your films. I would say serious but not hopeless. You have what we call 'atherosclerosis,' which means you have blockage. The blockage is causing your pains.”
“Dr. Martin scared me to death,” said Yumi. “I’m so glad you came when you did.”
“Yumi said that the blockage is pretty bad. How bad is it?”
“Two coronary arteries are completely blocked. The third is about half blocked – that and some collateral support are keeping you alive.”
“What is collateral support?”
“When the heart can’t get enough blood through the coronary arteries, it tries to get it from other ways. Lucky for you, your body opened up some small, new blood vessels. We have some good news. You are young, you are just in your forties and otherwise healthy. You can play even some tennis, but no more tennis until we correct this.”
“What next?” I asked, feeling like a dry leaf, my destiny carried by an alien wind.
“I spoke with Dr. Martin. We see two choices. First, we have some drugs called blockers that can slow or even stop the plaque forming in the arteries. You are still young, so we like to postpone surgery.”
“So the other choice is surgery?”
“Yes, we can do a bypass and you will recover quite nicely.”
“Would drugs solve his problem?” asked Yumi.
“No, I don’t think so. There is too much blockage.”
“So he would eventually have to have surgery anyway, right?”
“Yes. In medicine sometimes two plus two makes five, but yes, I think so.”
“Does it matter that he hasn’t had a heart attack?”
“This is a very good thing. It means an excellent chance of complete recovery.”
“So don’t we want to do it soon? He could have a heart attack any time, right?”
They couldn’t be discussing me. Four days earlier I had played two sets of tennis.
“You are lucky to have so smart a wife. If you go on the drugs, you accumulate risk, risk of a heart attack. We do not want that, so we will now discuss bypass, okay?”
“Okay,” I answered, drawn back into the discussion of my fate.
“We have two wonderful thoracic surgery teams in town. Dr Phillips’ is here at this hospital. If I am in your place, I choose him. He does this every day, sometimes two times in one day. Dr. Arroyo is also excellent, but he is at All Saints Hospital, so it may be less convenient.”
“Are there major differences in these doctors?” asked Yumi.
“Not really, but you’re a nurse, so you know other doctors to ask. I will write down the names for you.”
“That’s okay, I have them: Phillips and Arroyo.”
“Right. So, questions?”
“Tell me about bypass surgery.”
“They cut open your chest, stop your heart, take some good artery or vein that you don’t need so much, put a graft around each blocked artery, and put you back together. About one week in the hospital and six or seven weeks at home to heal your chest.”
“And then, am I all better?”
“Yes, but after you are healed, you and I work together to keep you healthy. Okay, lie still. The leg has to heal over night. No fun, but we know now what to do. We are lucky we found
this.”
“Next we talk to surgeons?”
“Yes, talk to the surgeons. Call me when you decide or if you have questions.”
“Thank you, Dr. Krieger.”
“You will be fine.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Yumi.
“I am prescribing nitroglycerin tablets. If he has any pain walking around or on the stairs, one tablet goes under the tongue. Get those before checking out tomorrow.”
*****
A tall, broad-shouldered man in his fifties, with confident, piercing eyes, Dr. Phillips had the look of a man who spent the majority of his time indoors. He smiled warmly and said, “Good morning, folks.”
“You come highly recommended, Dr. Phillips,” said Yumi.
“Oh no,” he said, “You’ve been talking to my mother.”
“Is it true that you have done four thousand bypass surgeries?”
“Yes, young lady; I may not look ninety-five, but looks can be deceiving. Mr. Daniels, I have looked at your films. I am very happy to get you before your heart attack. And if you had not come to see me, there is no doubt, none whatsoever, that you would have a heart attack.”
“So we’re in the right place,” I managed.
“Yes, sir. We’re going to repair the damage and when you’re all healed up, you will realize just how sick you were.” He smiled and looked down at Cindy in her stroller and Joseph clutching Yumi’s hand. “This is just great. You have everything to live for.”
“So what’s the procedure?”
“We’ll schedule you for a morning surgery. We call it elective surgery since, lucky for you, you haven’t had a heart attack, so, strictly speaking, it’s not an emergency. We’ll saw through your chest, take a couple of mammary arteries – the ones that supply women’s breasts but that men don’t really need – and a vein from your leg, and patch around the blocked arteries. You’ll spend five or six days recovering in the hospital and another few weeks at home until the bones knit. Right after the surgery, you’ll feel like you’ve been hit by a truck – that’s because we do beat you up – but you’re young, you’ll do just fine.”
*****
I opened my eyes. Yumi smiled. “Welcome back to the world of the living,” said Dr. Phillips. “I’m going to remove a couple of drainage tubes. Man that smarts,” he groaned on my behalf as he yanked two metal tubes from under my rib cage. “We’ll keep him here another hour and then find him a room. Now that you believe he’s alive, I suggest you get your lunch. We’ll come get you when we move him. By then, he’ll be warmer and won’t look like a corpse.”
*****