By Lucy Iscaro
There are four of us actors sharing this stage. My husband’s brother John is the star; the role he has been assigned is very ill patient. Five years ago he had an audition for this part but recovered his health and therefore the part went to someone else for a while. This time he’s completely believable, obviously close to death and yet conveying an inner strength.
To the patient’s right, leaning over him straining to hear and interpret his raspy whispers, is the female lead, the wife, my sister-in-law Audrey. She is dressed in her costume, the protective apparel we all must wear in this room, a gown of baby duckling yellow and jonquil purple plastic gloves. Her red hair is streaked with gray and is worn in the short curly style necessitated by her own recent chemotherapy.
To the patient’s left is the second male lead, my husband Jim, the loving older brother. His gloved hand is on the star’s shoulder. He is visibly trying to keep his manly composure here.
The set is a modern well-equipped room with switches, monitors, and medical machines. The action revolves around a raised hospital bed. Various rubber tubes are going in and out transporting fluids.
The walls are an unnatural shade of gray beige, like the hue of non-dairy creamer with two teaspoons of instant decaf splashed in.
Light tries to filter in from the window but the shades have been drawn in order to block the view of the parking lot. Occasionally the muffled banshee cry of an ambulance is detected over the drip of the IV. There are muffled voices beyond the door and at times a jarring announcement of a code over the loudspeaker
John’s costume defines his role; he is dressed in the iconic, and in his case, eponymously named johnny gown. Out from the end of the bed, because even though he is much too thin he is still a tall man with long legs, his feet emerge from the blankets clad in aggressively cheerful pumpkin-colored socks. The bottoms of the socks have zigzags of nonskid white rubber even though the script has not called for him to walk for days.
Near the foot of the bed I stand unsteadily, ready to move over and cede the place should anyone more important appear. I’m a bit player in this family medical drama. It’s a part that must be played with delicacy. Several weeks ago I had a more challenging role of daughter of the dying father in a play out of town. In that drama the script called for me to sit at the side of the bed and hold a cold hand in mine and whisper endearments and offer up prayers. Today I am here to support the others.
I speak my few lines softly, my hand on Audrey’s arm, “Go ahead Audrey. You go take a walk or something while he sleeps. We’ll be fine here.”
John ate some food. It’s cause for optimism because it meant his infection was starting to clear and he was able to digest something besides intravenous glucose. Once he has had a few bites of mashed potato and pudding he wanted to turn and sleep. Although there are nurses and doctors and other medical personnel steps away none of us ever want to leave John alone in the room.
In this scene Jim and I sit facing the bed and read. A nurse peeks her head in and we wave her away. He’s sleeping. We’ve got this.
Twenty minutes later John groans and calls, “Jimmy.”
Jim jumps up and leans over the bed, “How you doing John? Sleep well?”
“It hurts. I feel like I can’t take a breath.”
I am still in my seat, holding my own breath while I listen. The script does not have lines for me here.
Jim opens the door and calls for help. Within seconds, very long seconds, a nurse looks in. When she hears the words pain and chest she does a quick costume change and pulls on the yellow gown and gloves while she asks clarifying questions. “Are you nauseated? Do you have a fever? Do you feel dizzy?” Even though he answers no to all questions she looks at his face and remarks in a stage whisper that his color is not good.
“I’ll be right back,” she promises, and makes her exit peeling off the protective gear.
New players are introduced. Two young women roll a cart piled with a portable EKG machine. While one of the women swiftly attaches suction cups to John’s chest the other tries to straighten the wires that are now tangled like cartoon Christmas lights. As she works she mumbles, “Who does this?”
I watch silently, after all I don’t have any lines worth saying. I want very much to ad-lib, “Stop fumbling or I will slap you,” but my character’s profile has made me cheerful and quiet.
The wires have been sorted out and they have been connected to the machine. Now one of the women says, with an edge of fear in her voice, “It says the left arm is not connected. It’s not giving me a reading.”
A fourth woman, older and wearing her efficiency like a uniform, strides in. As she walks she slips into her own protective gear and looks over at the situation around the bed.
She gives an impatient cluck of her tongue. “You put this on the wrong side. You were thinking your left not his left.”
Within seconds the test is complete and the cups are being removed. The same veteran nurse chides, “Don’t pull it. It hurts when you pull it.”
I want to give her a standing ovation.
During all the action my husband and I are transfixed watching this twist in the plot.
A doctor pokes his head in, he doesn’t want to take the time to suit up, and tells us he’ll be right back after he reads the results. We nod to indicate we heard and understood.
The test was negative, the medical term that means it’s okay. In the ordinary world a negative on a test would mean you failed, in the hospital it means you aced it.
By the time Audrey comes back everything is back to normal, the current definition of normal, again. The pain was from abdominal pressure and not his heart.
After some time I am surprised by my hunger. My stomach rumbles loudly, as rude as a curse in church, and betrays me. We take a lunch break; an intermission in the action is called. As we walk down the long chilly hallway toward the cafeteria a wall-mounted television reminds us that there is an outside world.
Apart from the sick-room cubicle, away from this many-storied medical monolith, there has been news of other events in other settings. Hurricanes sent thousands of people in Florida and the Caribbean into the dark and destroyed their homes. One man with one gun in Las Vegas killed scores of people seemingly because he could. Much of the beauty of California’s wine country has been lost in horrific wild fires. There has been death and dying and rape and betrayal all over the world. We see the coverage and acknowledge the sadness but this one story is ours and while we are playing out our parts we have no energy to participate in any others.
At the end of the day we speak our last lines, take no bows, and gratefully back off the hushed stage for the night. Tomorrow and tomorrow we will reprise and redefine our roles until the final curtain comes down on the play’s sad conclusion.