american stories: the fixer

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  • 8/9/2019 American Stories: The Fixer

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    American Stories: The Fixer

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    The Fixer

    "My husband always said, 'My wife can fix anything.'"

    Her name was Karen. A moment before, I hadn't known her. I'd stood alone in thecrowded waiting room of the hospital--so many people in it I couldn't find any place tosit down, every chair lining the walls already taken, every table encircled by chairsalready filled--and looked around, a bit lost. Unless you're in a hospital waiting for anew baby, a waiting room isn't the happiest place to be. People were coughing.People were nervous. People were fidgeting. Otherwise they weren't moving. Theywere going nowhere. The only seat left open was next to a very well-dressed womanwith beautifully braided hair, and her large purse was in that chair. I hesitated;luckily she noticed me, and nodding said the spot actually belonged to her son, butsince he had gone down to the cafeteria for lunch I was welcome to have it, at leastuntil he came back. I sat and told her I was grateful, that I was waiting on a loved

    one, and overly anxious, and that it meant something just to be able to sit down.

    "Are you waiting on a loved one too?" I asked.

    "My husband."

    "And are you nervous?"

    "I'm at peace."

    We both hesitated. A hospital is a private experience, no matter how public the room.

    Neither one of us wanted to pry. But at length I asked her how she managed to be atpeace.

    "It's because I know it's going to be okay."

    "But how do you know that?"

    "Because I've been through all this before."

    With our hands on the table across from each other, most of our shyness slipped awaynow, and she told me, straightforwardly, that she was waiting for her husband,

    Curtis, who had already been through a heart transplant. It had started three yearsbefore, when he'd come down with nothing but a funny cough. At first, they'd boththought it was just a reaction to the chemicals he had to pick up at the Houstonplants where he worked as a truck driver. She was a nurse, and she couldn't findanything wrong with him; and so they went on. Until that one evening when Curtistold her he couldn't breathe out of his left nostril.

    "'Oh, don't be a sissy,' I told him, 'you just have a cold.'"

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    "'No, honey,' he says, 'I'm serious. Something's wrong. I can't breathe out of one side ofme.'"

    And then he collapsed.

    The doctors decided it had been, not a reaction to harsh chemicals, but rather a rarestrain of virus that had attacked and destroyed his heart muscle. He was put on thelist for a transplant, but wasn't likely to make it, she was told. There just wasn't time.They were about simply to go home, with a portable pumping device attached to himto give him a few more weeks, when Curtis had looked her in the eye with a look thatsaid, No.

    "And that's when I said, 'Okay, you wait here'--and I left him and I went down to thehospital chapel and prayed. I'd never even really talked to God before. We were neverwhat you would call intimate. But I said, 'Lord, I know I've always been able to fix

    everything myself, but obviously I can't fix this. I think I need help. My husband needsa transplant. I don't know what to do. I just don't.' And the next day my husband wasgiven the heart of a nineteen-year-old. I didn't stop to ask questions. I was justthankful.I remember at two in the morning the surgeon came out and he told me thatyoung heart was beating all on its own inside my husband's fifty-six-year-old chest,that it knew just what to do. And a week later, we were sent home. And a few weeksafter that, Curtis went back to driving his truck around again."

    Her eyes fell. She didn't seem to want to go on.

    "Is he . . . in for his heart again now?" I went on, heedless. Because her story had

    made me forget mine. I had transplanted, substituted it for mine.

    "No. Something else."

    "I'm so sorry."

    "But I'm at peace."

    "Because you've been through this before."

    "Yes. Yes."

    This time--she spoke after a long pause--her husband had fallen down and hit hishead. Hard. It had had nothing to do with his heart. He had fallen, and they had donea CT-scan, and discovered that a huge lumpy mass had planted itself on the front lobeof his brain. He was in neurosurgery. They'd taken him in at nine that morning, and hewasn't expected to be out until three that afternoon.

    I looked at the clock on the waiting room wall. It was only one.

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    "But I'm at peace," she repeated.

    Then I heard my name being called out. My own loved one was out of surgery. Thesurgeon wanted to see me. To talk to me. I stood, nervously.

    "Honey, thanks for talking to me, what's your name?" she asked quickly. "Mine isKaren." She stood.

    We held each other, chest to chest, heart to heart. A long moment.

    Mylne Dressler

    Photo credit: Bruce Barone