ambulance?”
“Yeah, no problem,” he said, before turning to his wife. “What about a bag? I’ll need some things in the hospital.”
“I’ll bring whatever you need later, hon.”
“Okay, then,” Jon said, sounding relaxed and calm, “let’s go.” He followed the attendants, Trina walking at his side.
Within minutes they were out of the quiet neighborhood and in heavy traffic. Smiling ruefully, Jon said. “You know, I’m disappointed. No siren! No drama!”
Trina nodded but said nothing.
The attendant who rode with them remained silent, continuing his observation of Jon.
Looking out the side window, Jon watched the blurring traffic move against the maze of store fronts slipping past without being identified. Suddenly, pain hammered again at his skull, stretching to a frenzied threshold he had never before experienced, not even while regaining his sensibilities on the floor of their living room. Opening his mouth to speak, he slipped into unconsciousness, slumping forward.
“Jon!” Trina gasped.
“Better hit the horn, Jake,” the attendant snapped through the intercom.
“Okay, Tim.” The raspy answer punctuated the rising scream of the siren.
With Trina’s help, Tim eased Jon onto the empty stretcher. After checking the heart with a stethoscope, he rolled one of Jon’s shirt sleeves up to record his blood pressure.
Trina sat close to her husband, holding one limp hand while the attendant held the other arm.
Several long minutes later, the ambulance’s siren ended its wailing when the vehicle pulled into the emergency entrance at the medical center. Throwing the back door open, Tim helped the two male nurses waiting at the entrance. Strong hands grasped the stretcher bearing Jon, withdrawing it hurriedly but gently, and rushed him into the hospital.
The window blinds remained drawn, as they had been since he was placed in bed shortly after his arrival at Presbyterian Medical Center. The soft night light, barely illuminating the room, managed only to create heavy shadows everywhere except on the wall behind Jon’s head.
Trina, sitting near her husband, studied the visible contours of Jon’s face. He looked peaceful, appearing to be sound asleep: Reaching out, she delicately caressed his hand. She had no idea what she would do if the doctor discovered something drastically wrong with him. She would survive, but she felt it would be an empty existence without Jon. Their life together had been more than the love story for which she had hoped. It had been an adventure in living, loving and learning about each other—and about life. In time, in the near future she had hoped, they would begin thinking about having a child— another person to share their life odyssey. An irrepressible sob shook a tear loose from her wet lashes. The future. Did they have a future? Would they have all the tomorrows they had planned together?
“What’s wrong with you, Jon?” she asked quietly. “Why is this happening to us? Why? Why us? You’ve got to be all right! You just have to be.”
She stood, tiptoeing to the window. Pulling back one side of the shade, she gazed out at the glow of the traffic streaming by many stories below. The horizon glimmered mockingly with its halo created from street lights, signs, marquees and the endless flow of cars. She dropped the shade, returning to stand at the foot of the bed. Jon moved his legs. Reaching out, she patted his feet. Could something be wrong with his legs as well? Or was it part of this schismatical nightmare?
She recalled Friday, when she had first noticed Jon’s limp. During the next two days, she had observed him favoring one of his legs several times. It was slight but nevertheless a distinct, halting gait. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his legs when she first perceived it and she wondered if he might not be aware of it. The lame pace seemed to be replacing his normal walk.
Sunday afternoon, she had finally mentioned it.
“Now, I ask
“Yeah, no problem,” he said, before turning to his wife. “What about a bag? I’ll need some things in the hospital.”
“I’ll bring whatever you need later, hon.”
“Okay, then,” Jon said, sounding relaxed and calm, “let’s go.” He followed the attendants, Trina walking at his side.
Within minutes they were out of the quiet neighborhood and in heavy traffic. Smiling ruefully, Jon said. “You know, I’m disappointed. No siren! No drama!”
Trina nodded but said nothing.
The attendant who rode with them remained silent, continuing his observation of Jon.
Looking out the side window, Jon watched the blurring traffic move against the maze of store fronts slipping past without being identified. Suddenly, pain hammered again at his skull, stretching to a frenzied threshold he had never before experienced, not even while regaining his sensibilities on the floor of their living room. Opening his mouth to speak, he slipped into unconsciousness, slumping forward.
“Jon!” Trina gasped.
“Better hit the horn, Jake,” the attendant snapped through the intercom.
“Okay, Tim.” The raspy answer punctuated the rising scream of the siren.
With Trina’s help, Tim eased Jon onto the empty stretcher. After checking the heart with a stethoscope, he rolled one of Jon’s shirt sleeves up to record his blood pressure.
Trina sat close to her husband, holding one limp hand while the attendant held the other arm.
Several long minutes later, the ambulance’s siren ended its wailing when the vehicle pulled into the emergency entrance at the medical center. Throwing the back door open, Tim helped the two male nurses waiting at the entrance. Strong hands grasped the stretcher bearing Jon, withdrawing it hurriedly but gently, and rushed him into the hospital.
The window blinds remained drawn, as they had been since he was placed in bed shortly after his arrival at Presbyterian Medical Center. The soft night light, barely illuminating the room, managed only to create heavy shadows everywhere except on the wall behind Jon’s head.
Trina, sitting near her husband, studied the visible contours of Jon’s face. He looked peaceful, appearing to be sound asleep: Reaching out, she delicately caressed his hand. She had no idea what she would do if the doctor discovered something drastically wrong with him. She would survive, but she felt it would be an empty existence without Jon. Their life together had been more than the love story for which she had hoped. It had been an adventure in living, loving and learning about each other—and about life. In time, in the near future she had hoped, they would begin thinking about having a child— another person to share their life odyssey. An irrepressible sob shook a tear loose from her wet lashes. The future. Did they have a future? Would they have all the tomorrows they had planned together?
“What’s wrong with you, Jon?” she asked quietly. “Why is this happening to us? Why? Why us? You’ve got to be all right! You just have to be.”
She stood, tiptoeing to the window. Pulling back one side of the shade, she gazed out at the glow of the traffic streaming by many stories below. The horizon glimmered mockingly with its halo created from street lights, signs, marquees and the endless flow of cars. She dropped the shade, returning to stand at the foot of the bed. Jon moved his legs. Reaching out, she patted his feet. Could something be wrong with his legs as well? Or was it part of this schismatical nightmare?
She recalled Friday, when she had first noticed Jon’s limp. During the next two days, she had observed him favoring one of his legs several times. It was slight but nevertheless a distinct, halting gait. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his legs when she first perceived it and she wondered if he might not be aware of it. The lame pace seemed to be replacing his normal walk.
Sunday afternoon, she had finally mentioned it.
“Now, I ask
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