Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [269]
With Hema's help, her soothing voice, I did my best to calm down, to let the machine push air into me, and the nurse retreated. When I felt better I wrote, How is Shiva?
She didn't have to reply, because just then my other half came in, led by Thomas Stone.
My brother, whom I had not seen for seven years, looked haggard, not at all like the picture in the Times. I felt vertigo in seeing my reflection moving independently of me. Shiva wore a hospital gown, one palm resting carefully on his belly, the other hand pushing his intravenous pole ahead of him, and using it as a walking stick. My brother wasn't given to laughing and most jokes were wasted on him, but when he saw me, he grinned like the chimp who'd locked up the zookeeper.
You monkey, you, I wanted to say, and I reached hungrily for his hand, our fingers interlocking. You should laugh more, it suits you: see how the furrows around your brow vanish and your ears ease back? I felt fluid running down my temples, and his eyes were full, too. I squeezed his fingers, a Morse code to convey what was in my heart. He nodded—You don't have to tell me anything is what he was saying. He bent forward gingerly, and I wondered what he was up to, surely not a kiss … He clinked his skull against mine. It was such an unexpected, jarring, and surprising act, a throwback to being little boys, the softest of testas, that it made me laugh, which made that horrible tube scratch the inside of my throat, and so I had to stop.
I pointed to Shiva's belly. He pulled aside his gown and I could see some of the incision, though a gauze pad with a drain passing through it hid the remainder. I raised my eyebrows at him, asking if it hurt. And he said, Only when I breathe, and we both laughed and both had to cut that off because of the pain. Stone stood looking on at this silent dialogue, amazed, a strange expression on his face.
Little did I know that Shiva's recovery had been complicated by a bile infection requiring antibiotics. Or that he had developed a blood clot in the vein in his right arm through which he'd been getting fluids. He was on a blood thinner, and the clot was resolving.
I held his hand for a long time, content to look at him, to thank him with my fingers, but he kept shrugging off my thanks. I reached for my pen, and Hema pushed the pad in front of me and I wrote, Greater love hath no man—
He didn't let me finish. He held my pen. He said, You would have done the same. I had my doubts, but he nodded. Yes, you would.
That evening, Deepak drained fluid from around my right lung, and my breath expanded in that direction. Then he took the wretched tube out of my throat. My first words were “Thank you,” and when that ugly blue machine left my room, I fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning was full of small miracles: being able to turn and gaze at the window and see sky, being able to say “Ouch” when the movement pulled on my incision. Hema wasn't around. The ICU was quiet. My nurse, Amelia, was unnaturally cheery. I assumed it was still early morning. “We have an X-ray to do downstairs,” she said, unhooking me from the tethers, and readying my bed to roll.
In Radiology I was lifted into the doughnut for a CAT scan, but oddly, it was of my head and not my belly. Surely it was a mistake. But no, the order was from Deepak, and it read, “CAT scan of the head with and without contrast.”
Back in my room and by noon, still no sign of Hema, or Stone, or Shiva. Amelia said they would be along presently.
The physical therapist helped me stand beside my bed for a few