Together: A Novel Of Shared Vision Part 3

Smitty had to acknowledge he was just marking time, since he really didn't know what to do next. Beth was probably right: he couldn't keep checking Bart back into school as a beginning dog candidate. He had already broken all the very firm rules about not allowing more than two recycles of new masters for any dog. However, he was convinced that Bart was the best dog he had ever trained, and somehow he could not let this animal go without fulfilling his mission. Beyond that, Bart got to him on a deep emotional level, and Smitty knew he crossed professional lines when he allowed his heart to get involved.

He hated the idea that Bart had been rejected twice, and he had only himself to blame. He was the one responsible for matching Bart with the two men who had been his temporary masters. Looking back, he couldn't say either choice was ideal, but sometimes when a dog is ready to go, the perfect match doesn't come along. That's the toughest part of all, Smitty thought. You can't keep these dogs hanging around until they're three or four years old, waiting for the right person-you want to get them active in the work while they're sharp. You tend to forget that some of those blind people aren't right for a guide dog in the first place.

Smitty chuckled as he bit into his sandwich. It's like an online dating service. The match may not be perfect, but sometimes the natural order of love and commitment will fill in the s.p.a.ces. Sometimes. Not every time.

Smitty continued to enjoy his sandwich, in spite of Bart's big dog eyes.

"Looks like your last master must have been feeding you from the table, boy. Bad idea. At least that's one rule we won't break."

Smitty understood completely that Bart was a lot of dog to handle. He thought of him like a precocious child-a genius when applying himself to the work, but a terror on four paws when he was off duty and tempted by food or things to chew or be curious about. At two and a half, he was like a teenager slow to develop maturity.

Looking into the bright eyes, Smitty was aware yet again that this fellow was something more. No dog he had ever trained grasped concepts so quickly. No animal was more aggressive or definite in his work when he made a decision. Yet no dog could be more loving, which was obvious every night when Bart collapsed next to him, taking up most of the double bed they shared.

Smitty reached a finger to scratch between those bright eyes fixed on him.

"I won't give up on you, my friend. If I ever manage to get you back in the field again, it will only be with somebody good enough to deserve you. And strong enough to handle you!"

It was halftime in the Lakers/Warriors basketball game, so Smitty put his plate and beer can in the sink and picked up the paperwork on the group of students who would be coming into his next cla.s.s. The string of dogs that he presently worked was the J litter of that year, meaning that all of the names began with the letter J. As Smitty scanned them, reality dawned as to what the next step must be.

"Bart, my boy," he said, looking at the big animal on the floor whose tail responded immediately, "we have to change your name-one more time. Then we just might try to sneak you into the next string of dogs."

Smitty glanced back at the papers in front of him.

"When I finish this J cla.s.s-let's see, uh-based on the number of trainers, I'll probably be getting the N litter. Okay. Who will you be?"

The tail wagged again.

"You're such a great guy. Even after a couple of masters, you're still an optimist. So what should we call you?"

On the big screen was a news update being given during the halftime break in the game. The anchor talked about Oprah Winfrey's contribution to South Africa. She recently provided over forty million dollars to develop a school for girls, and the news showed pictures of the opening ceremony. Smitty watched as Nelson Mandela, the revered leader of his people and n.o.bel Prize winner, helped Oprah cut the ribbon for the opening of the wonderful new school.

"That's it! Nelson!" Smitty clapped his hands, causing Bart to lift his head, curious at the sound. "Nelson," Smitty said again. "That's exactly who you're going to be. Bart, my boy, you're going to be Nelson."

The dog tipped his head and took on a quizzical look, trying to figure out what a Nelson was.

Over the next few days, he would find out. Smitty had done this before. Dogs, he knew, could adjust to a different name if it was introduced in the right way. The approach was to blend the monikers, so as the animal worked, Smitty would say, "Sit, Bart; down, Nelson," or "Come, Nelson; heel, Bart," and then gradually phase out the original name.

Over the next two weeks, that's exactly what the trainer did, and by day fifteen, Bart the black Lab converted to Nelson, a dog in the N string looking for a new master.

chapter six.

When Mora got the call from Flight for Life telling her that she could be helicoptered to Grand Junction and St. Mary's Hospital, her first thought was what to do with Gus. He had a doggy door, and she could leave him with food, but she went next door and asked a friendly neighbor to keep an eye on him.

Then she picked up the phone and called Lindsey, not because she cared whether Lindsey was there or not, but because she felt the need to do what Brenden would have wanted. Lindsey mattered to Brenden. She mattered very much. And so Mora made the call.

Lindsey was already in cla.s.s listening to a lecture on contracts. When her cell phone buzzed, she climbed over a few people to leave the room and answer it.

"h.e.l.lo," she said, with a tinge of irritation in her voice.

"Lindsey? It's Mora, Brenden's mother. There has been an accident, and they're bringing him down off the mountain to St. Mary's Hospital in Grand Junction. They've offered to helicopter me up there to save time. I thought you might want to come to the house and join me."

"That's horrible!" Lindsey said. "Is he all right? Do you know anything?"

"Charlie Evans is with the climbing team that found him. He says that Brenden is unconscious and probably suffering from a concussion or more severe head trauma. That's all I know at the moment. Can you get here quickly?"

The beat before Lindsey responded took a little too long.

"I think so. Yes. I can join you. I need to talk to a couple of professors. I mean, we're in the middle of midterms and everything."

Mora cut her off. "I can't wait for you, Lindsey. I'm going to go ahead, but I know Brenden would like you to be there as soon as possible when he wakes up. You know where St. Mary's is in Grand Junction? It's about a two-hour drive. Get there as quickly as you can."

Mora hung up, not giving the girl any time to respond.

Lindsey stood there, the cell phone in her hand, wondering why she hadn't just said, "I'll be right there, Mrs. McCarthy." Was she that selfish? The thought lit briefly in her mind and just as quickly flew out again. After all, she had been worried. In truth, she hadn't slept all night, wondering where Brenden was and if he was okay. She put those thoughts aside and returned to contract cla.s.s, figuring to talk to her professors at the end of the hour and then head for Grand Junction.

Dr. Mark James, the neurologist on call for St. Mary's Hospital, hated being brought in on cases like this. A young guy unconscious with head trauma, they told him. Probably hemorrhaging. Probably bleeding somewhere into the brain. He arrived at the hospital before the helicopter landed and immediately ordered an MRI after the patient was stabilized.

On the first examination he knew right away that the patient was in trouble. He was clearly in shock with extremely low blood pressure. Everything pointed to a very dangerous situation, and the MRI didn't help. There was major bleeding in the occipital lobe of the brain, and he knew that they had to try and bring down the edema in the area. He didn't want to have to operate in that section of the brain. He knew from past experience that anything could go wrong. So for now he decided to try medications. Actually, steroids. He chose Decadron, knowing it was fast acting and time was essential.

This was the worst part of his job: the waiting. No, actually the worst part of his job was having to talk to families, which was exactly what he had to do now. A second copter brought the boy's mother to the hospital, and so, here they were in a stark waiting room with the doctor aware that he had very little comfort to offer.

Dr. James was struck by the quiet strength and poise he saw in the face of the woman sitting opposite him. This is a woman, he thought, who has seen a lot in her life and, thank G.o.d, has good coping skills. After explaining the injury and the immediate course of treatment for Brenden, the doctor was impressed with her next question.

"Dr. James," she asked, "the occipital lobe area of the brain, what does that-I mean, will this kind of injury affect Brenden's ability to think? Or maybe limit his movement? I mean paralysis? What are we talking about?"

The doctor took a deep breath. "Mrs. McCarthy," he said carefully, "this part of the brain controls the vision center."

The doctor saw the woman's hands begin to shake slightly as she leaned forward. "You mean, he could be-he could be-" Now her hands went to her face, as if she tried to hold back the Words.

The doctor went on gently. "The truth is, Mrs. McCarthy, we won't know to what extent Brenden's sight will be affected until he comes out of the coma. Right now, we're using drugs to bring down the edema-the swelling on the brain. We simply don't have a clear picture of his prognosis. We know the occipital lobe has been affected, but there is no way to truly measure the extent of the damage. The truth is, we won't know until your son tells us himself."

The woman seemed to pull inside herself and then quietly asked, "You mean, he'll be blind?"

"It's possible, Mrs. McCarthy, but until we get the edema under control and induce Brenden's regaining consciousness, we simply don't know. I'm sorry that I can't be more specific, but in these cases, we basically have to take a wait-and-see approach."

Mora took a deep breath. "To see. I suppose that really is the question, isn't it, doctor?"

Brenden's first awareness was of movement and vibration. Then a jarring and the vibration stopped. Then motion again. He was being moved, his mind only taking in impressions, not thoughts. No clarity. Just snippets of perception. He fought the haze, then succ.u.mbed to it, fought again and then rested, each time moving a little closer to being aware, swimming to the surface. He could hear voices, but he could not understand what they were saying. He lay on a hard surface, and there was a repet.i.tive banging sound. Was that in his head or from the outside?

Again he felt himself being moved, and the surface became soft. He felt the needle in his arm but only registered it as a slight sense of pain and then nothing, as he rested again. Each time he tried to climb out of the haze, the monumental effort seemed as impossible as Everest. He wanted to be in the world, but getting there-it was so hard to get there.

After working things out with her professors, Lindsey Reynolds broke every speed limit as she rocketed toward Grand Junction. She refused to consider whether it was compet.i.tive adrenaline or guilt that drove her. But as in everything she did, she was in full concentration, driven to the max by whatever motivated her.

Thankful that she hadn't been stopped by the highway patrol, she skidded into the parking lot of St. Mary's after an hour and thirty-seven minutes. As she entered the hospital, she noticed Charlie Evans's beat-up Ford truck already there. She found the waiting room and joined the watch-and-wait group.

Not long after she arrived, Dr. James came out and told them that he was pleased. Twenty-four hours pa.s.sed with the patient still unconscious, but a second MRI indicated that the edema was coming down. On further examination, the patient's eyes were beginning to flutter, and involuntary muscle spasms suggested definite neurological activity. All very good signs.

Now Brenden could hear people talking, and words began to take shape, though he could not yet quite connect them into sentences. He could feel the warmth of the sheets and smell-what was that smell? He remembered. Hospital. The days with his father. It was a hospital smell. And now yesterday came back: the mountain and the fall. His head banging down the rock face. No! No! He thought he screamed and then knew he hadn't. He willed himself this time not to move upward but to sink back into the quiet. Sleep. To sleep. He wanted to sleep, but someone wouldn't let him. Hands gently shook him. Voices were becoming even more clear.

"He's coming around," someone said. "Wake him up. Come on, people. Wake him up."

All right, he thought reluctantly, let's wake up. I can hear everyone, but where are they? My eyes. Let me rub my eyes.

Slowly, slowly, Brenden's right hand began to move, and the people in the room saw it with a surge of hope.

"Brenden? Brenden?" Mora said, leaning even closer to the bed. "Brenden, are you awake?"

His hand reached his eyes and rubbed them.

"Mother? Mom? Is that you?"

"Yes, dear," Mora said softly, "I'm right here. Charlie's here, too, and Lindsey."

He could smell Lindsey's perfume and heard Charlie cough. But where were they?

He croaked the words out. "I can't-I can't-see you. You're here. All of you are here, but I can't see you."

"Brenden, I'm Dr. James."

Someone took his hand.

"You've had a pretty bad bang on the head, and it may have affected the occipital lobe. Can you understand me?"

The occipital lobe. Brenden struggled to work his way out of the haze and grasp what he was told. "The occipital- The occipital- I can't see anyone. The occipital-lobe."

"Yes, that's right," the doctor's voice said. "It's the area of the brain that governs vision."

The thought seared through the haze of his concussed state. It was as sharp and clear as an electrical current. It exploded in his head like a bolt of lightning and expressed itself in a cry so guttural, so basic in its primitive pain, that no one in the room who heard it ever forgot it.

"I can't see! I can't see! I'm blind! Blind! Bl-ind!!"

The shot quickly administered by a nurse who had seen this before sent Brenden back into blessed sleep.

Dr. James looked at the people in the room.

"I hate to do that when he's concussed, but with the bleeding going on, we can't have him upset. That kind of agitation could cause additional hemorrhaging. I'm sorry, but we're going to have to put him in restraints."

Lindsey gasped audibly, and Mora clutched the rails of the bed.

"No," she said, "Dr. James, you don't have to do that. We'll monitor Brenden. We'll keep him relaxed."

"I don't think so," the doctor said quietly. "You all need to understand that this is not just simple vision loss. It isn't temporary. Your son had it right. Barring a miracle, he's going to be permanently blind."

chapter seven.

Dark. Darkness. I will forever live in a state of darkness. To be blind means to live in the dark. To never see the light. To never know a sunrise. Never see color-the gold of the aspens in the fall; the blue of the ocean; the reds, yellows, purples, and oranges. To never see a sunset. Being blind is to never see a smile or to see my Lindsey's eyes when they dance at the pleasure of a joke I've told.

I am blind. I won't live like this. I can't live like this. Life, my life isn't worth living if it's going to be like this, if I'm going to exist in a constant state of darkness, never being able to see the light.

Brenden McCarthy thought all of these things as the reality of his situation began to replace the haze of concussion. He tried to sleep to blank out the pain of his thoughts, but the pain was overwhelming, and it enveloped him in an impenetrable blanket of self-pity. No one could touch him. Love could not breach the walls he built up.

Already he had constructed a personal ident.i.ty that said he would never be a doctor, and he would never treat patients. He would never even be able to care for himself. He would be forever helpless, dependent, worthless, handicapped, blind. From Superman with super thoughts and dreams, hopes and ideas, Brenden had become Clark Kent-invisible, vacuous, disconnected-and all of this occurred in an accident that took only five seconds.

He expressed none of these emotions. Time had not yet allowed him to come to terms with his feelings, much less to communicate them, and so he did not speak. Not to his mother, who constantly sat at the end of his bed, or to Charlie, who hovered at the far side of the room, or to Lindsey. He registered that Lindsey came and went, like a restless bird, not willing to perch or nest.

He registered this information but did not indicate he knew. He worked to keep his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, wanting to remain alone. He heard their m.u.f.fled conversations, wondering oddly if his newly acquired blindness already improved his capacity to listen. They spoke quietly, sometimes with each other in shorthand and sometimes with the doctor, a good man who came in twice a day to check on him.

When that man asked him how he was doing, the manners that his mother had so diligently worked to teach him instinctively took over. He said he was fine, that nothing hurt, that he wanted to go home as soon as possible, and then when the doctor left, he would turn his face to the wall, especially after the physician confirmed to all of them that the damage to the occipital lobe, causing his blindness, would quite likely be permanent. Surprisingly, they did not press him. In fact, they, too, seemed uncomfortable about sharing any conversation that would open up the floodgates to feelings so new and not yet understood.

He heard them discussing the preparations they were making with the hospital's rehab people regarding what they might do to make his homecoming easier. They would be signing him up for adult cla.s.ses in mobility and rehabilitation. His mother talked about finding a counselor who would help him begin to move forward with his life. Charlie even talked about things that they could still do together.

Brenden heard it all, absorbed it, and then threw it all away. He was blind, and that meant life was over. Oh sure, he had read about people like Helen Keller, who overcame her double disability; Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles, who were remarkably gifted in music; and there was even this guy, Eric Weihenmayer, who recently climbed Mount Everest. But they weren't Brenden McCarthy, and he wasn't willing even to try to get his life back. What was the point? G.o.d had dumped him on that mountain, and so he would quit, give up.

Lying there in his hospital bed, the weight of his situation crus.h.i.+ng his chest, crus.h.i.+ng his heart, he was sure that G.o.d would not punish him for wanting to escape. Wasn't it G.o.d who had caused his injury? And so shouldn't G.o.d cut him a little slack, forgive him for his sin and grant him his place in heaven?

Visiting hours finally ended, and the blessed night settled over the hospital. He was so glad his mother and Charlie had gone back to the motel and he was alone. And where was Lindsey? He didn't know, and his recognition that she wasn't there profoundly deepened his sense of hopelessness and self-pity.

Time moved slowly because he was unable to sleep, and in that state he found himself unable to shut off his mind. For the hundredth time, he considered how he could bring his now worthless life to an end. He wished that his head had split wide open in the fall. He so wished that he had died that way, certainly causing his mother grief, but nowhere near as much as she would feel when he acted on the decision he knew he was going to make.

How to end it, he thought. How to rid the world of a useless young man with an infirmity. How to check out of my personal existence.

The limitations of his blindness reduced his choices, even in this ultimate act. He knew from listening to conversations that he was on the second floor of the hospital, probably not high enough to jump, even if he could find and then open a window. There were no pills available, and nothing sharp within his reach. So what did all that mean? He would have to go home and work on his demise from there. And yet that wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be fair to his mother. No. He would have to create an alternative, and that would require him to at least tacitly begin some kind of rehabilitation process, even if it only meant that it got him out of his house and into a different environment. So tomorrow he would go home, and then he thought of a phrase that almost made him laugh. He would keep his eyes open-ha!-until he found the opportunity to-what? He knew the inevitable answer to that question.

HOW MANY DAYS HAD IT been? Mora wondered as Charlie drove her back to the motel where they had been staying. She actually couldn't remember. Time ceased to exist, and like her son, day and night did not seem to have any significance. The world turned, but hers stopped. She had buried her husband, and now what? What did the fates-or more relevant to her, faith-really mean? What did G.o.d have in mind? What test was she expected to cope with now? What was she supposed to learn?

After thanking Charlie and closing the door to her room, she flopped onto the bed and buried her face in the pillows. She wanted to scream. She wanted G.o.d to hear. She wanted him to know how unfair it all was. I could cope with Brian's death, she thought, but my son being blind; I don't know if I can handle that. More to the point, I don't know if he can. Or even more to the point, I don't know if he has the will.

Her thoughts somehow became a prayer. Dear G.o.d, please give Brenden the strength to understand the way and to accept his burden as your will. Amen. Like a hamster on a wheel, the thought kept revolving-the same prayer over and over again.

Over the last few days, she had done what she always did-jump into any crisis and try to become organized. She had talked to the Colorado Rehabilitation Center for the Blind and been referred to a counselor in Denver, who surprised her when he spoke by telling her that Brenden's reaction was not particularly unusual.

"There has to be a grieving period," he said, "and from what little I know about your son, there also has to be some time to allow anger to be expressed. Stabilizing him psychologically will take time, Mrs. McCarthy. It's a long road with a great many pitfalls, but we'll work on it together, one step at a time."

"Is there anything I should be doing? I mean, in terms of preparing our house for his coming home?"

The man on the other end laughed softly. "I'm sorry, Mrs. McCarthy. I didn't mean to laugh. It's just that people ask me that all the time. What's most important for your son and for any newly blind person is that everything in his surroundings be the same as he remembers when he was sighted. We'll be trying to plug his new, developing sensory capacity and mobility into the mental pictures of environments that he already had before his accident."