8
Balloon Therapy
It was in the crowded, second-floor waiting room of Cherico Memorial Hospital a half hour later that Maura Beth put things in perspective. The Cherry Cola Book Club had switched its focus from snippets of prose to snippets from the ICU, where Stout Fella was being monitored for complications due to acute myocardial infarction. Everyone—including Winston Barkeley and Councilman Sparks, but minus the teenaged Renette Posey—had gathered for the vigil and were variously fidgeting in their seats, blankly turning magazine pages or standing around full of nervous energy.
All except Connie, who had become the liaison between the earnest young cardiologist, Dr. Oberlin, and the others. Each time he ventured out to give the latest update on Stout Fella’s condition to a mildly sedated Becca, Connie was there for the helpful translation.
“They’ve given him a clot-busting drug called streptokinase to stabilize him,” she was explaining to the group after the doctor’s most recent visit, holding on to Becca’s hand all the while. “Fortunately, the blocked artery in question is not the widow maker. The affected area of the heart is on the bottom. Once they’re sure he can travel, they’ll ambulance him to Centennial Medical Center in Nashville where they specialize in cardiac procedures. I know that facility well. It’s one of the best in the country. I would love to have worked there during my career, but I could never quite pull it off.”
Becca continued to grip Connie’s hand tightly as she spoke. “I need to be there. How will I get up there?”
As he had at the library, Douglas reassured her. “Connie and I will drive you up when the time comes. We know every little nook and cranny of Nashville. We’ll both stay with you until he’s completely recovered, and we can even drive you and Justin back when the time comes. My brother Paul and his wife live up there and have plenty of room in their Brentwood house. I’ll give him a call, and he’ll put us all up. No problem.”
“And Justin will recover,” Connie added. “Dr. Oberlin says there are so many positive signs already. For one thing, Periwinkle’s 911 call got him to the ER within minutes. Time is always of the essence with any heart attack. As we speak, I’m sure they’ve reduced the size of the clot. He has had a slight allergic reaction to the streptokinase, though. They haven’t been able to remove the blockage completely, but he’s got some blood flow back in the artery and that’s the most important thing. He’s in no pain at this point, so we can all take a deep breath and think our best, healing thoughts.”
“And the rest of the blockage is why they need to take him up to Nashville?” Maura Beth asked.
“This is a very small, rural hospital,” Connie continued. “They don’t have the equipment or staff to do the next procedure he’ll require. It’s called a balloon angioplasty. They’ll thread a small guide wire with an inflatable balloon from an artery in his leg to his heart. They monitor the whole thing with a camera. Then, once they’ve inflated the balloon—bam! No more clot!”
Despite her sedation, Becca rambled on a bit. “The doctor said the procedure was safe. But is it really? It sounds so dangerous and complicated. What if I lose him? Just tonight we had this silly argument over nothing and everything. I even told him that I could get along without him. Is this God’s way of punishing me for such callous thoughts? Connie, please tell me the truth. Just how safe is this balloon thing?”
“Now, calm down, Becca. I’ve seen the procedure performed successfully so many times, I can’t count,” Connie said, stroking the back of Becca’s hand. “It’s far less intrusive than bypass, and the recovery time is usually a week or less. Some people are back at work in practically no time. This is a maximum recovery situation all around.”
It was then that Periwinkle walked off the elevator with crisp authority, making straight for Becca and extending her hand solicitously. Hugs for Connie and Maura Beth soon followed, and she acknowledged the others with a smile and a nod. “What’s the latest?” she asked, catching her breath. “I haven’t been able to think about anything else.”
Connie brought her up to date with a condensed diagnosis that only a medical professional could manage.
Periwinkle relaxed a bit from head to toe. “Well, I got to close up a little early. Nothing clears a dining room like someone on a stretcher.” Then she brought herself up short. “Oh, I didn’t mean to make light of the situation. Please forgive me, Becca. I run off at the mouth all the time.”
“Forgive you?!” Becca exclaimed, her eyes widening in disbelief. “You’ve got it all wrong. I can’t thank you enough for what you did, Periwinkle. Dr. Oberlin says the paramedics were there in record time. My Stout Fella probably owes you his life. How did you know what was going on so fast?”
“Call it instinct, I guess,” Periwinkle explained, her gum noticeably absent for once. “Your husband called me over to the table and asked if I had some Alka-Seltzer or something for his stomach. He was drinking coffee with his friend over there, but he looked really pale and sweaty to me. I like to keep my restaurant on the chilly side during all this summer heat, so even then I started to wonder what was happening.”
The tall, sportily dressed Winston Barkeley stepped up to add his own observations. “Yeah, I could tell something was wrong with him, too. He kept saying he had indigestion from the moment he sat down across from me. Said he’d eaten too much at a party he’d just come from. But I could tell the Alka-Seltzer wasn’t helping much by the way he kept rubbing his chest.”
Periwinkle nodded and continued, “Then he called me over to the table again and said he was really starting to feel much worse, like there were gears grinding somewhere inside. Well, that did it. I’m never pleased to see indigestion at my restaurant, but this was just way different from the usual drink water and belch, if you’ll excuse my language. ‘I’m going to call 911 right this instant,’ I told him. ‘I don’t like what’s going on here one bit.’ So I pulled out my cell phone and the ambulance was at The Twinkle in . . . well, a twinkle, I guess.”
Becca squeezed Periwinkle’s hand a couple of times. “Bless you, Doctor Periwinkle, bless you. Make all the little jokes you want to.”
“Oh, honey, believe me, it’s just a part of being out there dealing with the public. You have to be on the lookout for everything and everyone. You’re a hero one day—the next day, you’re being sued for all you’re worth when somebody slips on a piece a’ lettuce.”
Becca looked incredulous. “Has somebody actually taken you to court for something like that?”
“Not me, knock on wood. But it happened to a nice-looking fella I met at a restaurant supply convention once. Would you believe he ended up spending most of his savings having to defend himself against some spilled Thousand Island dressing that cost someone a broken leg?”
Becca managed to smile for the first time in a good while. “Well, I’m just thankful my Stout Fella was at The Twinkle tonight. That cup of coffee he ordered was the best bargain of his life.”
An hour later, only Connie, Douglas, Becca, and Maura Beth were maintaining the vigil in the waiting room. The others had headed home with the understanding that either Connie or Maura Beth would notify them of any change in Stout Fella’s status. But the news was as good as it could be for the time being. With all vital signs stable, the doctors had decided that the patient would be ambulanced to Nashville within the hour for an angioplasty early the next morning.
“I know the last thing you want to do is leave this waiting room right now, Becca,” Connie was saying. “But if Douglas and I are going to drive you up tomorrow morning, we need to get you home to do some packing, and we need to do the same. Matter of fact, why don’t you just spend the night with us after we’ve picked up your things? Dr. Oberlin assures me there’s no immediate danger now. Meanwhile, the three of us have got to get some rest for the trip.”
Maura Beth backed her up with authority. “It’s best you listen to her, Becca. Connie knows about these things.”
But instead of agreeing to their advice, Becca suddenly began to tear up. “I know things are going as well as they can, but I just feel like this is all my fault. I’m the one that put all that weight on him. And then I teased him all the time about it, calling him Stout Fella.”
“But you told us he embraced his nickname in the end. Even thought it made him a superhero in his own mind,” Maura Beth said. “Don’t beat yourself up like this. You pointed out to all of us how driven he’s always been. I’ve never seen anyone eat so much food so fast in my life at the library tonight. No one was shoving it down his throat. You can’t be responsible for that kind of behavior.”
“You also said you couldn’t believe he was having a heart attack at the age of... thirty-eight, was it?” Connie added.
“Thirty-nine, actually,” came the sniffling reply. “His birthday was last month. I made him a big, fattening devil’s food cake, and he ate the whole thing. Of course, if I hadn’t baked something homemade, he would have gone out and bought a dozen éclairs from Hanson’s Bakery and put candles on every one of them. That big dope and his sweet tooth!”
Connie smiled while once again assuming her medical professional persona. “There you are. But birthday goodies aside, you’ve got to understand that for someone to be that young and suffer an AMI, there have to be other significant contributing factors. Not just eating habits and weight gain, but issues like management of stress, blood pressure, and cholesterol levels have to be taken into consideration. This is by no means as cut and dried as it seems.”
Becca furrowed her brow for a moment. “He’s supposed to be taking cholesterol medication, but . . . I can’t swear he does. But he does a lot of things he’s not supposed to. I guess he’s paying the price now.”
“You can discuss all that with him after the angioplasty in Nashville when he’s well on the road to recovery,” Connie continued. “Meanwhile, I think we ought to check in with Dr. Oberlin and let him know we intend to join your husband up there.”
It was only after she was told her Stout Fella was being prepped for travel and there was no more time for visitors that Becca finally gave in, and the vigil officially came to an end—at least in Cherico.
“What time do you think you’ll be leaving tomorrow?” Maura Beth asked the McShays on the way down in the elevator.
They exchanged glances and then turned toward Becca. “Six-thirty okay with you? We can go up the Natchez Trace Parkway and be in Nashville well before nine,” Douglas said. “That’s the way we’ve gone back and forth for our vacation time these past six years.”
Becca offered no resistance, nodding slowly while briefly closing her eyes.
“Of course. You have no choice but to get up bright and early,” Maura Beth observed. “And you might need something besides a cup or two of coffee to keep you focused on the way up.”
Connie looked at her sideways. “What on earth are you talking about? Speed? Douglas and I have never gone there, and I worked many an all-nighter at the hospital to tempt me.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. It’s nothing like that. I’ve just had this absolutely inspirational idea, and the closer you get to Nashville, the more excited you’ll be about it,” Maura Beth continued as the elevator doors opened. “I’d like for you to follow me and pop into the library after we leave the hospital. I promise this will only take a few minutes.”
Douglas shrugged. “Okay, might as well. Nothing else has gone by the book this evening.”
It was Connie who accompanied Maura Beth into the library once Douglas had pulled the car up in front of the portico, idling the engine with a drowsy, emotionally exhausted Becca slumped in the backseat. “I hope you’re not going to offer us all the book club leftovers hiding out in your library fridge,” Connie remarked. “If not, I can’t imagine what you could possibly have up your sleeve.”
Maura Beth laughed as she unlocked her office door. “Oh, I assure you, it’ll make all of you feel better once you get to Nashville and get to visit with Stout Fella in his hospital room.” She walked over to her desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. “Aha, I was right. My memory is not failing. I did put them in here.” Then she handed Connie the big bag of balloons she had decided not to use for the Gone with the Wind meeting. “I’d hold off on blowing them up now, but they might make a terrific day-brightener when you walk in and say hello to Stout Fella. You can tell him they’re from everybody in The Cherry Cola Book Club with their very best wishes for a speedy recovery.”
Connie’s face lit up as she stared down at the bag. “In honor of his balloon angioplasty, I presume?”
“His successful balloon angioplasty,” Maura Beth emphasized.
“There’s no other kind in my experience,” Connie added. “Maura Beth, you come up with the cleverest ideas. Did they by any chance teach you that in library school?”
“I don’t remember the course offering, actually. I think I must have an extracurricular type of brain.”
They both laughed, and then Maura Beth leaned down and retrieved a ball of twine from the drawer. “You might also need this to tie the balloons off and string them together. You can make a balloon bouquet of sorts. I think you have to pay a fortune if you order them through one of those delivery services, but I’m going to set you up from scratch real cheap.”
Next, she picked up a Magic Marker from a coffee mug atop her desk. “Here’s something else you’ll need. You can write, ‘Get Well!’ or whatever you want once you’ve blown them up. Just be gentle with the marker. I popped one of the balloons pressing down too hard once way back when, and I thought someone had shot me at point-blank range. Other than that, all you and Douglas need is a little carbon dioxide. But don’t blow too hard, pass out, and conk yourself on the head. We don’t need you in the hospital, too.”
Connie gave her a heartfelt hug and pulled back. “I can’t believe there’s even the slightest possibility that you might be leaving us. Cherico needs more people like you. And I feel so bad that our meeting tonight got sidetracked. You went to so much trouble, and I was looking forward to getting my teeth into To Kill a Mockingbird again. Actually, I was proud that Douglas was, too. That sneaky man of mine had been reading chapters in between his beer and fishing expeditions. How about that? Maybe this retirement of ours will turn out to be fun for both of us, after all.”
Maura Beth waved her off, smiling pleasantly. “Oh, I’m sure it will. And I can reschedule our Mockingbird discussion down the line. In fact, I fully intend to, even though we might have to take Stout Fella’s recovery into consideration. I’m sure we’d want Becca to be a part of it.”
“I just wish Councilman Sparks would stay out of your business,” Connie said. “He found a way to almost get the girls fighting with the boys tonight, and he also went after the lawyers with a vengeance. I saw that exasperated expression on your face at the podium.”
Maura Beth exhaled, unable to put that particular mischief out of her head. “I tried my best not to let it show too much. But don’t worry about me. I’m not giving up so easily. Scarlett wouldn’t have.”
Connie turned to get a glimpse of the front desk clock. “Oh, it’s almost ten-thirty. We have a lot of packing to do, so I better get going. And I’ll give you a call tomorrow morning from the hospital as soon as we know something definite. Then you can phone the others, if you don’t mind.”
A minute or two later, Maura Beth stood outside the front door, waving to her friends as Douglas pulled away from the curb with a staccato honk. The prognosis for Stout Fella looked promising, and she was pleased with herself for coming up with the concept of balloon therapy. But as she went back in to turn out the lights before locking up and heading home, she could feel depression spreading over her like the precursor to an oncoming cold.
Recently, she’d read a very interesting and somewhat controversial book in the collection about chaos theory. She hadn’t completely understood all of it, but the gist was that random events sometimes coincided to scotch the best-laid plans of the most organized and intelligent minds on the planet. She certainly wasn’t about to hold Justin Brachle’s heart attack against him, but that unfortunate occurrence, along with Councilman Sparks’s concerted attempts at disruption, had effectively rendered the second meeting of The Cherry Cola Book Club less than successful.
It was time to rev things up a notch, to treat the book club more like a political campaign. Somehow, some way, people must cast their votes by walking their warm bodies through the front door of the library to take advantage of its services. Maura Beth’s job was at stake, and there were people in Cherico who had stated to her face that they didn’t give a flip about that.