Ghosts of Manila - Mark Kram [91]
On the hospital bed in Hilton Head, Ali opened his eyes, his lips parting like manhole covers, and asked the nurses: “You die here…they take you home?” The nurses rolled their eyes and smiled, struck by his innocence; it had nothing to do, they knew, with morbidity. He was not joking, either. The practical aftermath of death seemed to stimulate his curiosity on these days. Nothing urgent, mind you, just something that began to get in your mind when watching 15,000 cc’s of blood move in and out of your body for five hours. But the procedure was not dangerous and there was no discomfort, except for the heavy tedium for someone who had spent his entire life in chaotic mobility. The nurses noticed his blood pressure, slightly rising. They believed he had to urinate. He couldn’t bear being helped to urinate; the idea of women aiding him made him anxious. His eyes were closed. One called out: “Come on now, Ali.” His breathing was barely audible. “Stop it,” the nurse begged. “Please.” She knew he liked to feign death. He didn’t move, then suddenly his head gave a small jerk, then his eyes bucked wide open, and he said, “You thought I was dead. Got no funny people round me anymore. Have to make myself laugh.”
Hospitals had always frightened and bored him; most of all, they got in the way of life. He now decided to tell a joke: “Abe Lincoln went on a three-day drunk, and what’s he say when he wakes up?” He held for a beat, then said: “I freed whoooooo?” He laughed. “Stop it, Ali,” a nurse warned. “You’ll drive the needles through your veins.” Ali calmed, then said: “I’ll never grow up, will I?” That was some of the problem. No one had ever wanted the toy to be real, or obsolete like everything else. He was in better form than the night before when his head had nearly flopped into the dessert. He was like a faraway signal that came in and out, and often he asked, in the airports during the trip down, when people alighted by his rigid, stoic body like birds pecking for proximity to fame: “Where am I?” Dr. Rajak Mendenica, full of cheer, came into the room. He had had a lot of famous clients. His office contained photos of a senator, a Saudi prince, and an ambassador, all of whom signed their pictures with hearty appreciation for his cancer work on them.
But there were questions of a commonsense variety. The very expensive procedure he was using on Ali was called plasmapheresis. The blood cleaning removes the immune complex, which in turn removes toxins. It was a solid treatment for a blood problem and would provide an energy bounce for any patient. Did Ali have a blood condition? “He’s been poisoned by pesticides,” Mendenica said with confidence. The comment startled. It was contrary to an earlier finding by Dr. Dennis Cope of U.C.L.A., who found that Ali had “Parkinson’s syndrome, secondary to pugilistic brain syndrome.” In short, he had taken too many head shots. Certain that Ali would recover completely, Mendenica said: “I find absolutely no brain damage. The magnetic resonator tests show no damage. When I became his doctor, I watched a number of his fight films. He did not take many head blows.” Film would have shown him precious little of true impact. Was he kidding?
“No,” Mendenica, an émigré from the Balkans, said. “I do not see many head blows. When I first began work on him, he was in bad shape. Poor gait. Difficult speech. Vocal cord syndrome, extended and inflamed. He is much better. He just travels too much.” Earlier, a mention was made in Ali’s room about a comment by Floyd Patterson, who was critical of the treatment. Ali insisted on hearing what Floyd had said. “No brain damage?” Floyd had said. “Next you’ll be hearing Ali was bit by a cockroach. He’ll drop dead in a year.” Ali thought a moment, then said: