Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,118
fell asleep on his couch.
Meredith woke up about seven, very groggy but too concerned to go back to sleep. He brushed his hair and brushed his teeth, washed his face and sprayed his armpits, put on a fresh shirt and tie from his file cabinets. He wondered why he bothered to pay a monstrous mortgage for their home. He phoned his wife to see if she might stay with Maureen a few hours while Ashley was at school, and to say privately to Janice that things weren’t going well—she knew that—and that he’d be home for dinner on time—she doubted that. Hell. This hospital was home.
Dr Meredith knocked back a cup of coffee at the administrative office, had another, tossed a buck into the coffee fund. He hated coffee. About time for morning rounds, and then he had group at eleven. He wished he were as young as his med students, or even the residents. Youth and enthusiasm. Hell, he wasn’t that old. He wished he had learned to play an electric guitar. Joined a rock band. Better the devil that you know. He poured another cup of coffee, then went to rounds.
Bob Breenwood was asking for him from the Intensive Care Unit as soon as they removed the balloon from his esophagus. Meredith delayed an outpatient appointment and went to see him instead of taking a late lunch. He wasn’t hungry.
Cousin Bob was a year and a half older than Meredith, something he wouldn’t let Meredith forget when they went skinny dipping together and Bob was growing hair on his crotch and Meredith was too young. Much later, Bob got him laid for the first time, doubledating in Bob’s family’s Nash Rambler with the fold-down front seat and a friendly high school girl and a convenient cemetery.
Meredith sat down on one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs at the bedside. Bad practice to sit down on the bed.
Maureen was sniffling, holding Bob’s hand. She was a stout brunette with acne scars, but a good cook, which is why Meredith reckoned Bob had married her, because she couldn’t keep house and the rest was none of his business.
Bob was as chunky as his wife: blue eyes, blond hair, rather short, no tattoos. Meredith had always thought them a good match. Happy, harmless couple. He was waiting for dozens of clueless offspring to appear.
Instead.
“Maureen,” said Bob. “Could you let me talk to Kirby in private? Just for a few minutes. After all, he’s a shrink.”
“Sure.” Maureen left the room.
Cousin Bob glanced around the Intensive Care Unit. There was fear in his eyes. Understandably.
“Liver’s gone, they say.”
Dr Meredith had read the charts. “Always a chance for a repair. This is 1973, after all.”
“Kirby, they’re saying I’m just a drunk. I don’t think they really give a damn”
“I’m here for you. I’m staff.”
“Did you know that I had TB years back?”
“No. You never told me.”
“Friend of mine got it doing time in some shithouse reform school. We’d pass cigarettes and beers back and forth. They found some spots on my lungs after he’d been diagnosed. Put me on their two-drug therapy. Public health shits coming by to make sure I took all my pills. Isoniazid and something, I forget. Took them for ten years or so at their lawful command. Turns out that the combination wipes out your liver long-term.
“Shit.” Meredith was familiar with the situation, but could think of nothing more profound to say. He wished he’d known about Bob in time.
“So now I’m here with a trashed liver, wiped out by the best medicine you can offer, told that I’m an alcoholic, serves me right. And they want to operate. Womak procedure, I think they call it. What do you think? I’m ready to walk.”
Dr Meredith had read his cousin’s chart. “Well, for whatever reasons, you are in liver failure, and you’re bleeding internally. Very badly. It will start again and maybe not stop. I’m a shrink, and your surgeon can explain it far better. Basically, they’ll remove your spleen and the region of your stomach and lower esophagus where these varices—knotted-up-blood-vessels—lie. The liver can take a lot of abuse, and only a small portion need recover. There’s work on liver transplants. I don’t see it happening soon, but you re buying time.”
“Then you think I should do it? The surgery?”
“I don’t see any real choice. I mean, if you start bleeding again....”
Bob grabbed his hand, weakly. “Kirby, I’ll go for it on your word.”