Remember Who You Are

Ch 8-10

Chapter Eight





When Wesley breathed deeply, the smell of cheap cologne, dead fish, and beer filled his lungs. So he chose not to breathe deeply. Still, the warm August sunshine kissed his closed eyelids and cheeks. The birds were singing and the beer was cold. It was a perfect afternoon.





“You fish as well with one good wing as you do with two.”





Wesley cracked open one eye, he had been dozing, and asked, “How many have you caught?”





“Don't change the subject. The point is, you haven't caught a fish since we started fishing - and with one arm shot up you're not any worse.”





Wesley laughed and thought, but you're still alive, so I win, but said, “You've only caught three and two were babies.”





“I have a freezer full of fish to prove I can fish. You might be bad luck. My albatross.”





Wesley remembered how much he had hated reading Rime of the Ancient Mariner. “You never seemed like a guy who would blame someone else for his own shortcomings. I'm just saying.”





Simon laughed. God's laugh. “I wonder if preachers can swim. I'm just saying.”





Wesley laughed. Last week, after losing his wife of sixty-two years to a tragic fall, Simon had been ready to join her. He had given up and felt like there was no reason to live. Hearing Simon laugh so soon after Thelma's death was music to Wesley's ears.





Though Wesley knew he was faking it.





“Just let me finish my beer first. The way you fish, I don't think my splashing will affect that any.”





Simon laughed. “You coming by for dinner?”





“Sure. As long as you taste everything first, I'm game.”





The mood changed immediately. Sobered, each man remembered Thelma and her excellent cooking. Prior to her death, after their weekly attempts at fishing, Thelma would treat Wesley and Simon to a lovingly prepared meal. There were always leftovers and often an extra casserole for the bachelor minister to take home. Now, Simon did the best he could for himself – when he ate - which usually consisted of grilling or deep-frying. They finished fishing in silence. Each man lost in his own thoughts and his own pain.





Saturdays suck sometimes, thought Wesley.





“What's wrong? Catfish got your tongue?”





“Simon?”





“Simon?"





Wesley dropped his rod and reel and reached over to check on Simon. He was unconscious and fell over to the right - away from Wesley when Wesley touched him. The boat was too small for much maneuverability so Wesley did the best he could. He slid his arm out of the sling, grabbed the bucket that held the caught fish - which was empty - and dropped it into the lake. He repeated that action with the cooler holding all of their coveted beer. Scrambling into a position where he could check on Simon, Wesley was careful to not fall in the lake himself. He felt for a pulse. Nothing.





Wesley leaned over and tried to feel Simon's breath.





Nothing.





Wesley felt for a heartbeat.





Nothing.





Grabbing his cell phone, he punched in his security code to dial 911. No signal. Wesley shoved his phone back into his pocket and turned Simon a little, remembering his Army training, he started applying CPR. Swiping Simon’s mouth, he breathed two sharp breaths for the older man. Interlacing his fingers, he pumped Simon's heart for him. Wesley breathed again for Simon.





Nothing.





Repeating the pumping motion and the breaths, Wesley's wounded arm started hurting and he was starting to tire. The combination of too much beer, anxiety over Simon's heart attack, and the unhealed gunshot wound made Wesley uniquely unqualified for this. Looking around for a miracle, and seeing nothing, Wesley said a quick prayer.





Wesley realized that his friend was going to die. “But not today, damn you.” Interlacing his fingers again, Wesley rocked back and forth, performing chest compressions, “If we have to make out for two hours, in order for you to make it, then that is what we do.” Two breaths. Wesley listened for breathing.





Nothing.





Chest compressions. “After all this kissing, you gotta buy me dinner.” Two breaths. Nothing.





Chest compressions. Wesley was tiring and his arm was on fire. “Some people will do anything to keep from admitting that I am a better fisherman.” Two breaths.





Nothing.





Wesley was exhausted. He took a minute to catch his breath and started again. Laced fingers. Arms locked. Rocking back and forth for fifteen compressions.





A heartbeat.





Wesley lay across Simon's chest and caught his breath. Grabbing his cell phone again and checking for a signal proved to Wesley he was still all alone. Checking again, and still finding a faint heartbeat, freed Wesley to do other things.





First things first. Wesley scrambled to the rear of the boat and started the engine. Using the tiller, he piloted the small fishing boat back to the shore. Finding a tree root, he tied the boat to it - hoping the boat would be there when they returned for it. There was no way he was going to take time to try to get the boat back on its trailer.





Climbing out of the boat, he pulled it as close as he could to the shore and surveyed the situation. Standing knee deep in slimy water, he looked at his still unconscious friend and asked, “How am I going to get your big ass in that truck?” He checked his cell phone again. No signal.





Wesley cut off the engine and reached into the boat. Grabbing Simon under his arms, and grunting with the effort, he pulled the much larger man out of the boat. Not anticipating the awkwardness of two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight; when Simon's legs cleared the boat and his body dropped into the water, the force pulled Wesley completely into the water with him.





Panicked, Wesley sputtered to his feet and dragged his friend, slipping and sliding, slowly up the wet bank to relatively dry land. Afraid that the dunking could cool his body and lead to shock, Wesley sat long enough to catch his breath and check his patient.





Still unconscious, at least Simon was breathing on his own. Help me Lord, Wesley prayed. The throbbing in Wesley's arm became so pronounced that he could ignore it no longer. Grabbing his shoulders with his left hand and applying light pressure to help ease the pain, Wesley noticed blood for the first time. His sleeve was soaked. Great he thought. Looking down, he saw his blood-soaked bandage and knew that any healing that had occurred since Sunday had been erased. “I doubt I'm bleeding bad enough for it to be a problem.” Wesley said aloud to no one. Regaining his breath, his strength, and his composure, Wesley stood and resumed dragging Simon up the bank towards the truck that would take both patients to the hospital.





Wesley stopped every few minutes to rest, catch his breath and check on his friend. Simon was still breathing on his own - despite being dunked in the lake after having a heart attack and being dragged from the lake to the truck. Wesley gasped from exertion and pain. Wesley knew he was close to losing consciousness. He knew if he could get Simon into the truck - which was not guaranteed - that he could set him to the hospital. Wesley dreaded the idea of maneuvering the much larger man into the truck - considering Wesley's weakened state. Help me Lord.





Wesley lay across the hood of the truck and caught his breath. The hood, warmed by the sun, felt like an embrace to Wesley's battered body and mind. The throbbing in his arm matched the throbbing in his head and blood ran freely down his arm - slickening his grip on Simon. Still, his friend lived and Wesley had increasing hope for a positive prognosis - if he could get Simon to the hospital in time. But first, he had to get him in the truck. Wesley knew there was no way he had the strength to lift Simon and put him in the truck. He would have to find an alternative. While he thought, he checked Simon's breathing (still breathing); grabbed a rag and tied it around his still bleeding arm; and he fished the truck keys out of Simon's pockets. Opening both doors, he found a half empty bottle of water and, after smelling it in hopes of determining its age, he drained it. He slid the truck seat all the way to the back - which proved futile since the seat was as far back as it could go - given the size of its owner.





Wesley positioned himself behind Simon, slid his arms under Simon’s armpits, and dragged him to the passenger's side.





“I am putting you on a diet. And not a Gary Meade diet either… gasp…where you...sneak pizza…on a boiled chicken and broccoli diet.... That's it. You are…too damn…heavy for me… to have to pull you...around.”





Wesley pulled and complained until he was in the passenger seat and Simon was half hanging out of the truck. Scooting himself backwards, Wesley was able to exit the driver's side door. Stopping to catch his breath and squeeze his arm in pain, he knew he only had a little energy left. He prayed it was enough.





Situated behind the steering wheel, his patient - and now passenger - safe and secure in his seat, Wesley leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and whispered one more prayer. Shifting the balky transmission into reverse, Wesley looked over at Simon and said, “you die on me now and I will kick your ass.”





 





Chapter Nine





“Who brought in the older gentleman?” Wesley cracked his eyes open. The speaker was a slender man, tanned, and fit.





Glued to the waiting room chair by exhaustion, dehydration, and blood loss; Wesley lifted his hand from the armrest and said, “I did.”





The young man moved to Wesley and asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”





Wesley could hardly move and he did not want to talk. “I told the paramedics everything.”





“I'm sure you did, sir. To guarantee I received all the relevant information would you please relate the episode to me again.”





Wesley cracked open his other eye. His vision was so blurred he could barely make out the man's last name. Patel, M. D. Fighting exhaustion and only wanting to lie down, Wesley said, “Sure.” And he did.





After Wesley's abbreviated re-telling of the “episode,” Dr. Patel said, “Well, sir, the inopportune dunking of the elderly gentleman could have proven disastrous. We are very lucky no irreparable damage was visited upon this gentleman due to your carelessness.”





Forcing his exhausted body out of his semi-reclined state and into a position that was better suited for the chair he sat in, Wesley leaned over to the sitting Dr. Patel and beckoned him closer with one finger. Dr. Patel leaned in and turned his head so he could hear Wesley’s whisper. Wesley reached up and grabbed the lapel of Dr. Patel’s jacket. “What I don’t need,” Wesley whispered through clenched teeth, “is a smart ass doctor second guessing my actions. I did the very best I could do for my friend. I suggest you do the same. Or I will stomp your ass.”





“Sir!” Dr. Patel snatched himself free and stood. He started to say something else, thought better of it, spun on his heel and left.





Wesley resumed his semi-reclined position and closed both eyes.











“Most people try to avoid trouble.”





Wesley cracked an eye open. A quick glance at the clock on the wall showed him he had been in the waiting room for over an hour. If possible, he felt worse. The adrenaline that had gotten him this far was gone and his semi - reclined position had left him stiff. And his damn arm hurt worse. The bleeding had slowed but not stopped. Wesley could feel it running off his fingertips. Remembering he had heard a voice, he tilted his head left and looked into the kind face of a very old man with wise eyes. "Hi Doc."





“Hi yourself. I thought you were going to take it easy for a few days.”





Wesley laughed. Every muscle in his body punished him for laughing. “Don't make me laugh. Hell Doc, I was taking it easy. Lying on a boat, drinking beer, and pretending to fish. It doesn't get much easier than that."





Doe Kirby laughed. “Have you heard anything?”





“Aren't you the doctor? Can't you go back and get the latest scoop?”





“I don't have hospital privileges anymore. Besides, most of the ER doctors are new and they don't know who I am.”





“Oh. Pull up a chair. Take a nap.” Wesley settled back into his semi-reclined position - too stiff and sore to do much else.





“I do have one thing I can check on.” Doc Kirby stood and hustled out of the room.





“Damn whippersnappers. Always in a hurry,” Wesley's slurred voice diminished to a whisper.





*****





Wesley awoke on a gurney.





“Hey sweetie, enjoy your nap?”





As Wesley’s vision cleared he realized he was still in the hospital and the woman who addressed him looked like a nurse. She looked ninety years old but had a nice smile and was holding a cup with a straw. Turning and lifting his head towards the cup, he opened his mouth.





She moved the straw close enough to his mouth so that he could get a sip. “Not too much sweetie, just a sip or two.” She removed the cup before Wes was sated but he felt better.





“How did I get here?”





“Sweetie, you passed out in the waiting room from loss of blood. Doc Kirby had already informed the staff that you needed attention but would probably be difficult.” She smiled. “By the time Dr. Jonas got to you, you were unconscious and no trouble at all.”





Wesley dropped his head back down. “What happened?”





“We gave you three units of blood and re-stitched your wound. You were exhausted, so a local was all we administered for the pain. You are on fluids now but this is just precautionary for dehydration. You know sweetie, being a hero is tough business.”





“Hero?”





“Doc Kirby told us how saved your friend. Probably the whole hospital knows now. Too bad though.”





“Too bad?”





“Yeah. You hadn’t heard? An hour after he arrived, your friend suffered a stroke.”





 





Chapter Ten





“I need to see Simon.”





“You should be strong enough. Son, listen to me. For a few moments there, you were touch and go. You had lost a lot of blood. Luckily you are young and fairly healthy – if not too bright. I’ll take you to I.C.U. but let’s take it easy, ok?” Doc Kirby helped Wesley to a sitting position and then assisted with the placement of a sling on his wounded arm. He unhooked the I.V. which triggered and alarm which brought a nurse running in but Doc Kirby charmed her out of a report. Helping Wesley stand, Doc Kirby grabbed a hospital gown to replace the shirt that had been removed. Shirtless and barefoot, Wesley wearing only jeans and a sling staggered to the door. “Let’s get a wheelchair.”





“No time.”





Doc Kirby shook his head and muttered, “People like you made it easy for me to retire. We have to get a wheelchair.”





Wesley sighed deeply, but waited patiently while Doc Kirby retrieved a wheelchair.











Each lost in his own thoughts, neither man spoke as they neared their friend's room. Wesley, still weak and moving forward only on stubbornness and will, looked up from leaning on the armrest and noticed a young doctor moving towards them. Wesley straightened a little - not wanting to be seen as weak in front of a younger man.





“Hello, Doc,” said the young man. A little shorter than Wesley, the new guy had straight black hair and brown eyes and wore the thickest pair of eyeglasses Wesley had ever seen. There was a sense of thinness about the man. His glasses rested upon a thin aquiline nose, his lips were almost non-existent, and there was a rail-like thinness about his entire body. He moved with an abundance of energy - even a bit of twitchiness - that fatigued Wesley just having to watch him.





“Hello Doc,” replied Doc Kirby with a smile.





“This our hero?”





“One and the same. Just being stupid as ever. Wesley, this is Dr. Stan Jonas, Stan, meet Reverend Wesley Aames.”





“Nice to meet you Reverend. Anything I can do to help?”





Wesley only had enough energy to grunt a “thanks” and shake his head.





Doc Jones replied, “Only if you have a shot that prevents preachers from acting like jackasses.” Both doctors laughed. Wesley was too tired to care.





“Don't make me laugh,” he grunted. Both doctors laughed again.





“I assume Simon is your patient,” said Doc Kirby.





“I was on call,” the younger doctor nodded.





“How is he?” asked Wesley.





“He is stable and being monitored. The heart attack was mild and your ministrations saved his life. However, the stroke is the bigger problem. I just left the room and he is conscious but it will be touch and go for a while. Our biggest concern is, of course, another stroke or another heart attack.”





“How bad was the stroke?” asked Doc Kirby.





“He's paralyzed on his right side and he cannot speak. However, there is often rapid recovery in the first seventy-two hours after a stroke - if there is not another stroke - so there’s hope for a full recovery.” Wesley was silent. The two doctors stopped talking as if they were waiting on him to respond.





“Can I see him?” asked Wesley.





“I don't see why not. His family is out of town - they have been contacted - and I think a friendly face or two, even yours Doc,” the young doctor said with a smile, “would be welcome.”





The room was dimly lit when the three men entered. The beeping and flashing lights of diagnostic and monitoring equipment were distracting but focusing on the still, seemingly lifeless body of Simon - was both easy and painfully difficult. Two I.V. bags emptied into his arms. Probes were attached to various parts of his chest, a catheter ran to an empty bag, and he was on oxygen. The television mounted on the wall played an insipid talk show that no one watched. The room smelled like death.





Standing, Wesley quietly and gingerly moved closer to the hospital bed. Planning to only stay a moment and say a quick prayer, he was surprised when Simon opened his eyes.





“Hey pal,” whispered Wesley, leaning closer to Simon.





Simon shook his head no.





“Some people will do anything to get out of fishing with me.” Wesley kept his voice low. For some reason he felt like this moment needed to be private.





Simon shook his head no.





“We have to get you better. You owe me dinner.”





Simon shook his head no.





“Doctors are pretty positive about your recovery. You have an entire church praying for you pal.”





Simon shook his head no. He opened his mouth to speak, “Behbebi.”





“Say it again pal.” Wesley leaned close and placed his ear against Simon's mouth. He remembered how he had used the same motion earlier when he was checking for breathing after Simon's heart attack.





“Behbebi,” Simon whispered.





Wesley pulled back and saw the pained pleading in Simon’s eyes, the drooping face muscles on his right side, the down-turned mouth, and the sallow lifeless skin. His heart broke when he saw the damage done to this strong vital man so soon after losing his wife. He leaned closer to Simon and in a gesture that seemed oddly romantic rather than confrontational, cupped Simon's face and whispered, “No way pal. No way.”





Simon's eyes widened. “Behbebi.” He said a little louder.





“Forget it. You're gonna get better. I promise.” Between clenched teeth, Wesley's promise sounded like a threat.





“Behbebi.”





“I said no.” Wesley had straightened and was speaking in a normal voice. The two doctors could hear every word.





“Behbebi! Behbebi. Behbebi.” As Simon’s voice became weaker he started struggling - as much as his weakened, half-paralyzed body could struggle.





Wesley leaned in and grabbed both of Simon's shoulders - thankful for the local anesthetic in his arm - and growled right into Simon's face, “God is not through with you, and neither am I. I will chase you to the gates of Hell before I let you give up. You hear me old man?”





The two doctors moved to Wesley and pulled him off Simon who had stopped struggling. His movements, however, had triggered enough alarms so that two nurses sprinted down the hall and into the room.





Doc Kirby spun around and confronted Wesley directly as they forced him out of Simon’s room. “Are you crazy? Do you realize how close he is to dying?”





Wesley was furious. His face had flushed from his exertion and anger and he was gasping for breath. “He's ready to give up. I can't let that happen.”





“How do you know he is ready to give up?” asked Dr. Jonas.





“He told me. He kept saying, ‘Let me die.’”





“How do you know that was what he was saying?”





“It’s what I would have been saying.”





*****





“I can't make you take it easy. But the more you use that arm the longer it will take to heal and the more scar tissue you may have. You may never have full use of that arm again if you keep messing with it.” Doc Kirby had given Wesley a ride back to the parsonage and had been lecturing him the entire way. Wesley sat quietly and took his well-deserved tongue-lashing.





“Yes sir,” he replied meekly. Thinking of basketball, and Thad, Wesley was determined to do all he could do to facilitate healing.





“Hmpf. That sounded a bit too accommodating.”





Wesley laughed. “God bless you, my friend. I know you mean well and you are right. I need to heal and I need to rest. I will try to do both. Can I still go to the cookout tomorrow after church?”





Doc Kirby eyed Wesley warily. “As long as you promise not to do anything but eat and be charming.”





“Well, I'll definitely eat.”