Part 1: Emergency
I am on the edge of worry. She says the pain is getting worse. The ache is an old intimate acquaintance. She bears it stoically, as is her way. Surely, this ache will pass in the way of its bothersome brothers in times before. (I tell myself.)
She has been testy this evening. No fault of mine, but that of an inconvenient discomfort. It will pass. Such thoughts are comforting.
Time grinds slowly onward. The malady rides along on its back — a poison slug digging into quivering flesh. It is a chore to keep its presence in the dark rooms of my mind — a specter one tries not to see.
Twelve midnight. Talk of emergency rooms peeks through the curtains of resistance. Concern blossoms into bilious worry.
One a.m.: My wife struggles urgently out of bed, driven by intense bathroom needs… Horrible hacking vomit sounds. They extend into an endless series — a tortured spirit expelling swallowed demons, mortified at what issues from its mouth. Worry explodes into knife-edged fear.
“Oh God, call nine-one-one. I need to go to the emergency room,” she gasps.
While waiting, I rush to gather things. Heart and mind races. Diane huddles on the couch. Her dog cuddles protectively against her. My dog, Barney, is tense, his movement frenetic, random, confused.
One thirty a.m. Phone rings. A woman’s voice, “The rescue squad can’t find your house.”
“Describe where they are,” I say. Miraculously, my voice is calm, my head clear. “Describe their surroundings.”
“They’re in a cul-de-sac on top of a hill,” she answers.
“There are two cul-de-sacs and two hills. One is just above my house. I’m going out to look. My cordless phone may disconnect. I could lose contact with you.”
The winter night is cold. Inappropriately beautiful half-moon light enables my half-blind eyes to navigate as far as the end of my driveway.
“Are you still with me, sir?”
A mix of incompatible thankfulness and dread emotions engulf me as I see flashing lights on the hilltop — red lights of Christmas and of devouring fire.
“Tell them to drive down the hill, and I’ll wave them in.”
At the door, Chloe and Barney make their usual frenzied welcome — tails wagging –the hound barking and howling — the little dog jumping and prancing on hind legs. Chloe cuts it short to return to her mistress’s side. The two burley men put the dogs at ease -veterans of canine encounters in human rescues. Chloe does not challenge them as they ask her mistress questions and take her vitals. But when I try to move her from Diane’s side, to put her in the basement, she snarls and bares her teeth. I dare not push this to a contest of wills. I know she will cooperate once her mistress is gone. Somehow, she tells me so.
Diane walks to the ambulance without complaint. Thus is her strong soft manner. Chloe howls mournfully from the basement. Diane is secured to the ambulance gurney. One rescuer plies his saving arts. I am not allowed in the back of the truck to be with her.
A narrow three-foot tunnel separates us. Strewn with impediments, it is three miles long.
I worm and climb my way through and rub her head to let her know I’m there.
“Can you go back in and get my purse?”
I struggle back to the front and search blindly for the door release. After an eternity, my fingers find the lever.
“Why can’t they put these things in the same place of every vehicle? If there were a fire, I’d be fried.”
At the front door, the unlocking procedure proceeds in a fumbling, bumbling farce. When I get back, they are ready to leave.
Leonard I. Tuchyner, Author