Someone Dies, Someone Lives by Lurlene McDaniel
“I’m glad,” her mother said. “Even though the procedure is risky, it’s your only hope.”
“Seems weird to be waiting for someone to die so that I can live, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as an opportunity to help a part of somebody live beyond their appointed life span,” her dad replied.
“The operation will cost a lot of money, won’t it?” Katie changed the subject because the idea of extending someone else’s life through herself was too mind-boggling.
“Don’t you think one bit about that part, Katie,” her mother said. “We can’t put a price on your life.”
“Use the Wish money.”
“My health insurance at work will cover the transplant,” her father told her.
Suddenly, Katie’s chest tightened and pain shot through her. She was afraid that she might pass out.
Seeing her distress, her mother turned up the valve on the oxygen tank. “Do you need a pain pill?” she asked anxiously.
Katie shook her head. She disliked the dopey feeling the medicine gave her. Instead, she took great gulps of pure oxygen until she felt the pain subside and her head clear.
“Think of something fun you want to do with the money,” her mother said, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation. Katie could hear a fearful tremor in her voice. “Your father and I will handle the finances. You pick something exciting for us all to do once this is over and you’re better.”
Katie gazed around her room to her desk heaped with books, to shelves that held countless ribbons and trophies for field and track events she’d won over the years. “All I want to do is run again,” she whispered.
“Even if the transplant’s successful, you may not get to do that,” her mother said.
Katie couldn’t imagine her life without running. “But if the transplant works, why can’t I do everything I always did before? They can’t fix me up, then tell me I have to be an invalid for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t get overly excited, dear. We can talk about the future once you’ve had your transplant.”
“I want to live,” Katie persisted, looking at her parents’ worried faces. “And for me, living is running. I had a real chance at a college track scholarship before all this happened.”
“You’ll go to college,” her mother declared. “I wouldn’t fret about that. You’ll discover other things to be interested in, other things to be involved with as you get older.”
Katie knew from meetings with the transplant staff that heart transplant patients had a survival rate of eighty-five percent for their first year following the procedure, and a fifty percent chance of living five years. In five years, she’d be twenty-one—of legal age to vote. If she lived … if she first survived the surgery.
“Let’s not think about what you’ll be losing,” her father added, sensing her disappointment. “Let’s think about what you’ll be gaining.”
“The chance to live,” Katie said. How fickle life could be. Months before, she’d been a regular teenager, a top track star with a lifetime of plans and dreams. Now, because of some complications from a virus, she was struggling to stay alive. Her thoughts turned to her mysterious benefactor, who’d written, “… you and I have much in common.” Had JWC needed a transplant, too? If so, had he or she gotten it? Had JWC survived? If it had turned out well, then why had JWC chosen to remain anonymous? Didn’t JWC realize that a personal visit to prove that all was well was worth more than a cryptic letter?
Katie sighed and glanced at her parents’ concerned expressions. “So, we get the beeper and wait for it to go off,” she summarized.
“That’s right,” her father said. “Now, all we can do is wait.”
And pray for somebody’s heart, Katie added to herself.
Three
“GRAMPS, HURRY UP! We don’t want to miss the kickoff,” Josh Martel said, glancing back over his shoulder at the elderly man shuffling through the crowd behind him.
“Hold your horses,” Gramps grumbled, juggling a lap blanket, a program booklet, and a Michigan football pennant. “You’re sixteen, and I’m eighty. You can move faster than me, boy.”
Josh slowed, purposefully stepping to the older man’s side and relieving him of his pennant and folded blanket. “Let me carry this stuff for you.”
The two of them made their way to their box seats at the fifty-yard line of the stadium. “Don’t see what the big hurry is, anyway. Kickoff’s thirty minutes away,” Gramps said.
The box seats were chairs, not benches, like the majority of the stadium where most of the fans sat. “I didn’t realize Aaron got us such good seats,” Josh said, spreading the blanket across his grandfather’s lap. He studied the football players warming up on the field.
“Do you see him?” Gramps asked.
Josh pointed. “That’s Aaron. Number nine.” He felt an inordinate sense of pride over seeing his older brother dressed in the blue and yellow of the Wolverines. He scanned the program after flipping it open to the team roster. He pointed to his brother’s name. “See, Gramps: ‘Aaron Martel, Kicker.’ He’ll be doing the field goals and extra points.”
“I know what a kicker does. I’m not senile, you know.”
Josh suppressed a smile. The grizzly old man grumbled a lot, but he was pretty cool. There weren’t many men his age who would have taken in two teenage brothers on a week’s notice. Of course, Aaron had already been accepted to Michigan on football scholarship and was moving to Ann Arbor, anyway; but things had been so bad at home in Indiana that he’d demanded Josh be allowed to come with him. He could live in Ann Arbor with Gramps, Josh had argued, and go to Ann Arbor High. That way, the brothers could see each other often. Gramps had agreed, and their parents had let them go. Otherwise, Josh would still be stuck in his nightmarish home situation.
Josh saw Aaron jog over to the side of the wall and signal for him to come down. “Be right back,” Josh said, and bounded down the stadium steps until he was at the wall, looking over at his brother.
“How’s he doing?” Aaron asked, glancing toward the old man.
“You know Gramps—he grouses and pretends this is such a drag, but he’s really proud. I heard him telling his neighbor that ‘his grandson was going to kick some Irish butt in the game today.’ ” Josh grinned. “Do you think the Notre Dame bench is scared of the hot-shot freshman kicker from Indiana?”
“Terrified,” Aaron answered with a grin. “Not as scared as I am, though.”
“Come on … You had great high school stats. That’s why they gave you a scholarship.”
“This is the big time, little bro. High school doesn’t count for squat. Speaking of that, how do you like your new school?”
Josh shrugged. “It’s awfully big, and I still get lost in the halls. I signed up for cross country. It’ll help keep me fit till track starts in the spring.”
From out on the field, a whistle blew. “I’ve got to get to the locker room,” Aaron said. He shoved his helmet over his dark curly hair and stepped backward. “I’ll see you after the game, and maybe you can come over and shoot some pool with me and the guys next week.”
“Sounds cool,” Josh called. He watched Aaron wave and disappear into a dark tunnel in the concrete side of the stadium wall.
“Good day for a game,” Gramps commented as Josh returned to his seat. “Good day for a win.”
Josh had to agree that the September day was perfect as he gazed up at the cloudless blue sky. The air was so crystal clear, it sparkled, and cool nights had already tipped the treetops with red and gold. Josh felt a deep sense of satisfaction in knowing that after years of unhappiness, his and Aaron’s luck had changed. He was beginning a new life, getting a fresh start—and he was more than ready.
When the starting whistle blew, thousands of fans surged to their feet. Josh yelled for the Michigan Wolverines, but his eyes were on his brother, who booted the football into the opponent’s end zone. By the start of the third quart
“Here we go,” Gramps yelled. “Do us proud, boy.”
The team hunched into formation, and Josh leaned forward in anticipation. The ball was snapped to the holder, who steadied it on the tee. Aaron started running forward, then stopped. Suddenly, he grasped his helmet with both hands, staggered backward, and dropped to one knee. From there, he fell to the ground in a heap. The referee blew his whistle as confusion erupted on the field and disorder in the stands.
Josh felt time begin to move in surrealistic sequence. A group of coaches ran out onto the field and surrounded their downed player, shielding him from thousands of curious eyes. Fans gasped and buzzed with questions. The announcer’s voice came over the PA system, “Kicker Aaron Martel is down. Official time-out has been called.”
“What’s wrong?” Gramps asked, snapping through Josh’s stupor. “Why’s he lying down?”
Josh shook off shocked numbness and felt adrenaline shoot through him. “I’ll be back!” he yelled to his grandfather. In several long-legged bounds, he shot down the stadium steps, boosted himself over the wall, and ran across the field. He barely remembered shoving aside the cop who tried to stop him and continued to chase him.
Coming up to the crush of men hovering over Aaron, Josh shouldered his way through. “He’s my brother!” he yelled. “Get out of my way! Let me through.”
Hands tried to push Josh away, but not before he saw Aaron lying stretched out on the ground, his helmet off, his face ashy gray. Two coaches were giving him artificial respiration, one pumping Aaron’s chest, another blowing air into his mouth. Terror coursed through Josh’s body.
Strong hands grabbed him and spun him around. “I’m Coach Muller,” a broad, heavyset man said. “Let’s give our men room to work.”
“What’s wrong? What’s happened to my brother?”
“We don’t know. He’s being transported to the hospital.”
“Hospital! But how’d he get hurt?”
“We’re doing all we can, son.” Coach Muller’s hands rested firmly on Josh’s shoulders.
Josh staggered backward, a heavy sweat flooding over him and turning into a biting chill. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him that Aaron was in desperate shape. Soon, he heard the wail of an ambulance, then saw more men rush out onto the field, rolling a portable stretcher. One immediately took over the chest massage, and another thrust a bag over Aaron’s mouth and began squeezing. Snatches of dialogue floated over the scene.
“… not breathing … IV’s started … bagged and ready for transport …” As the rolling stretcher went past him, one medic held high an IV pouch, which was attached by a long tube to Aaron’s arm. Others pumped the bag protruding from Aaron’s mouth and pressed repeatedly on his chest.
“Where’re you taking him?” Josh cried. His voice sounded raspy, foreign.
Coach Muller pulled on Josh’s arm. “Come with me. I’ll drive you. Are you alone?”
Josh suddenly remembered his grandfather up in the stands. “No. Gramps—”
Coach Muller interrupted. “Give me your ticket stub, and I’ll have the police bring him.”
Obediently, Josh went with the coach, through the darkened tunnel, toward the side gate leading to the coaches’ parking lot. From far away, he heard the moan of the ambulance’s siren. Its forlorn sound faded into the autumn air like a lost and lonely cry.
* * *
The emergency room of the small local hospital was practically empty, and a TV set was tuned to the game. A video replay of Aaron crumbling on the field played at regular intervals, and an announcer kept saying, “No word yet about freshman kicker Aaron Martel.” Josh stared vacantly at the endless scene, each time feeling anew the horror of watching Aaron fall.
At some point, the police arrived with his grandfather, whose eyes looked confused and watery. The staff showed Josh, Gramps, and Coach Muller to a small anteroom off one of the corridors, where they sat silently.
“What’s taking so long?” Josh sprang out of his chair and paced like a caged animal. “It’s been over an hour. Shouldn’t they know something by now?” He wanted to burst through the doorway and go find Aaron, but the coach restrained him.
“They’ll let us know as soon as possible,” the coach said soothingly.
Josh heard loud voices in the hallway and realized that the police had sealed off the area. Reporters had already flocked to the hospital.
“Do you think the doctors will be able to find us stuck off here in this little room?” Gramps asked. “Do you think they’ll remember where they put us?”
Josh gazed down at the old man, sitting hunched in a chair. He looked small and helpless, and Josh felt a surge of pity for him. He crouched beside Gramps and took his hand. “Do you want something, Gramps? Some coffee? Water?”
Gramps peered hesitantly into Josh’s face. “Aaron’s a good boy. You tell the doctors that. He doesn’t do drugs like some kids. He’s a real good boy.”
Josh felt a knot form in his throat. He forced it down, replacing his urge to cry with renewed fury. “This waiting is stupid! They can’t lock us up in here like this!”
Before he could flee, the door opened and a man dressed in green hospital scrubs came inside. Josh stood, feeling as if all the air had been sucked from the tiny room. “I’m Dr. Wright—the ER physician.” Behind his thick glasses, his expression looked haggard and defeated.
“What’s wrong? How’s Aaron?”
Dr. Wright put his hand on Josh’s shoulder. “Your brother’s dead, son. He died before he hit the ground.”
Four
“YOU’RE LYING!” THE words exploded out of Josh’s mouth. He took a swing at the doctor and might have connected with a punch, but Coach Muller grabbed his arm.
Stunned, the doctor jumped backward. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. We’ve got him on a respirator, and we’ve completed testing—he’s totally unresponsive.”
The door opened, and another doctor hurried into the room. “I’m Dr. Lowenstein, a neurologist. Please, let me talk to you.”
Josh felt his heart thudding inside his chest like a runaway train. He felt lightheaded and queasy. Dr. Lowenstein took his elbow and guided him over to a chair next to Gramps. “Son, I know how difficult this is for you, and I’d give anything if I could tell you otherwise, but your brother suffered an aneurysm in his brain—a rupture of a major blood vessel.”
“Aneurysm?” Gramps interrupted. “That’s for old people. Aaron was just a boy.”
“I’m positive it was a congenital defect, something he was born with,” Dr. Lowenstein explained.
“I don’t understand what an aneurysm is,” Josh told the doctor. It’s a mistake, his mind shouted. A terrible mistake.
“Picture a garden hose with water rushing through it. Now, imagine there’s a bulge in the hose. The more pressure applied by the rushing water, the weaker the bulge becomes, until finally it bursts.”
“But he was so healthy. He was a football player, very physical.” Coach Muller had come alongside of the trio.
“His physical condition has nothing to do with it. The aneurysm was a time bomb waiting to go off. Nothing could have predicted it. Nothing could have prevented it from happening. I’m sorry.”
Josh didn’t believe the doctor had a right to be sorry. He didn’t even know Aaron. “I want to see my brother,” Josh said, standing.
“Of course. He’s in Intensive Care.” Dr. Lowenstein nodded to Dr. Wright, who opened the door and led the way down the hallway.
They rode up the elevator in silence, got off, and walked down another long corridor to a door marked NEURO ICU. There, Dr. Lowenstein paused and turned to Josh and Gramps. “First, let me tell you what you’re going to see. There’s a lot of ma
“I want to see him,” Josh insisted.
Inside the ICU, Josh was aware of nurses and a desk area with beeping monitors. He kept his eyes straight ahead, not wanting to establish eye contact with anyone. He didn’t want to be in the room with these people. He wanted to take his brother home to Gramps’s. Dr. Lowenstein led the way into a small cubicle. There, on a bed, lay Aaron. A tube protruded from his mouth, held in place by crisscrossed tape. All around him, machines hissed, beeped, and hummed.
Aaron’s eyes were closed, and his dark, curly hair looked matted. His skin looked flushed, almost rosy. Josh felt a momentary surge of relief as he remembered Aaron’s awful gray color on the field. “Can I touch him?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Slowly, Josh walked to the side of the bed, where he reached out and took Aaron’s hand. His flesh felt warm, alive. He looked as if any minute he might awake, sit up, and ask what all the fuss was about. The doctors were mistaken, Josh thought. Aaron couldn’t possibly be dead.
Gramps shuffled over and stroked Aaron’s forehead. “Doesn’t seem possible, does it?” he mumbled.
Josh turned toward the doctor. “How can you be sure? How do you know he’s really dead?” A hard knot of fear had risen inside him. “What proof have you got? We can’t just take your word, you know.”
Dr. Lowenstein shook his head. His expression was somber, yet compassionate. “What you’re seeing is an illusion of aliveness. Believe me, medicine has some highly accurate criteria for determining death.” He counted off on his fingers. “Your brother has no response to external stimuli, no reflex activity—most important, no upper brain activity. He has no brainstem or automatic reflexes, meaning his pupils don’t react to light, he has no gag or cough reflex.
“When I was called in, I ordered an EEG to measure higher brain activity. Aaron was a flatline. I also ordered an arterial blood flow X ray. That, too, confirmed that he had no brain activity.”