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Chapter
One of Dawson’s Gift
Monday morning, June 27, 1994: I awoke in a motel room. Alone. No luggage.
No makeup. No change of clothes. No desire to get up, face the day, or to go
home just a few blocks away. Home was a condo I shared with Rusty, my
partner/boyfriend of seven years. He was a loving, caring, giving, generous
man who took charge and took care of people, things, events, and me. He was
attentive, considerate, angry and unreasonable. He could switch from
compassionate to insensitive in an instant when something I said or did
incited the anger in him that seemed to be ever simmering beneath his
congenial demeanor.
Last night was one of those times. We had both
been working very hard, very long hours. He was a firefighter and in
addition to his twenty-four hour shifts at the firehouse, he worked at home
on his computerized embroidery business. I helped with the business after my
nine-hour waitress shift six days a week. We were tired, we were tense and
we argued over little things. But why did an argument over something
unimportant always turn into a major conflict? I hated the yelling and
screaming, of which I did my share, and it never resolved our differences,
it only widened the gap I felt growing between us. I was not afraid he would
strike me in his anger, but the look in his eyes and the ugly words that
came out of his mouth turned my stomach. I could not seem to reason with him
when he got like that, so last night, out of intense frustration and fury, I
fled. With my mind spinning, I grabbed my purse and ran out the door. "But
where will I go? It’s midnight. I can’t go to my parents and upset them.
They don’t know how often or how bitterly we fight, but I don’t want to
sleep in my car and I don’t want to go back in the house." I drove to a
decent motel down the way and registered for the night. I was embarrassed
and felt ashamed. I had been crying and I must have looked a mess. I spent a
restless night and at 8:30 Monday morning, my one day off, I felt I had to
go home. I was concerned about the reaction I would find there. Was Rusty
still angry? More angry? Which one of us would speak first? What could we
say to each other this time?
I walked in the door, Rusty was standing at the
kitchen counter by the telephone, writing on a small, white pad of paper.
When he looked my way, he spoke the words he had just written: "Dawson
called."
"When? What did he say? What did he want?" Dawson
was not inclined to call for no particular reason.
"He said he doesn’t feel well and wanted to know
if you could call a doctor for him. He’s really hoarse and it was hard to
hear him," Rusty answered, looking away.
I was immediately on the phone calling Dawson.
"Hello," he answered, almost inaudibly.
"Dawson, what’s wrong?"
"I don’t know," he said. "I’m so hoarse and my
legs and feet are all swollen."
"Do you want me to come down and take you to the
doctor?"
"Well, I don’t really have a doctor. I was hoping
you could find me one and call for me because my voice is so bad."
"When did this come on you?"
"A couple of days ago," he answered.
"A couple of days? Does Dad know you’re sick?"
"Yeah, he told me to call the doctor."
"O.K., I’ll see what I can do and call you back."
The argument Rusty and I’d had the night before that had seemed so
monumental, now was quite trivial.
I proceeded to call nearby doctors, but none
would see new patients on short notice.
"We cannot squeeze a new patient in today," the
receptionist said.
"But my son needs to see a doctor today," I
pleaded.
"How about tomorrow?" she asked.
Suddenly, I remembered that I knew a woman who
worked in that office. I had gone to school with her and had served her
recently at the restaurant. "Is Rose there?" I asked.
"No, it’s her day off."
When I hung up, I looked in the phone book, found
Rose’s number and called her.
"Hi, Rose? This is Andrea, the waitress at
Tommy’s."
"Oh, hi," she said, sounding slightly puzzled.
"I have a problem and I was hoping you could
help. My son needs to see a doctor, but I can’t find a single one in town
who will take a new patient today."
"Andrea, give me your number. I’ll try to get him
in. I’ll call you back."
When she did, she said the doctor would see him
at 4:00 that afternoon. I called Dawson and told him. "Do you want me to
drive you?"
"No, that’s O.K., I can drive. I don’t know if I
can put shoes on, but I’m all right to drive."
"O.K., if you’re sure," I said. "Call me when you
get back."
When it was getting on to 5:00 that afternoon, I
began to wait for his call. As the minutes passed, I could do or think of
nothing else.
Finally, the phone rang. It was Bill, Dawson's
father. He said, "Dawson's in the hospital."
"In the hospital? I’ll be right down."
"No, no. There’s no need for you to do that.
They’re doing some tests. You wouldn’t be able to see him anyway. I’ll call
you when I know something. And if they let him come home, he’ll call you."
"Oh, God, what is it? What is the doctor saying?
I think I should be there."
"Don’t panic. Stay put. I’ll call you later."
When he did, he told me they were going to keep
Dawson there. He said the doctors weren’t saying much, just doing tests. He
gave me the name and number of the doctor who was treating him and told me
to call him. "You’ll probably be able to get more answers than I will." When
I spoke with Dr. Lee, the internist, he told me Dawson was experiencing
congestive heart failure. "Heart failure?" I gasped.
He said it was treatable and they were giving him
medication that would alleviate the swelling. "But what we need to do now,"
he said, "is to find the cause. He’s resting now and I’ll see him tomorrow
and follow up with more tests."
I thanked him and, immediately after hanging up,
got out my Encyclopedia of Medicine. I read, "Although it sounds
life-threatening, heart failure is usually a treatable condition and
compatible with survival for many years."
O.K., I thought, the phrase congestive heart
failure sounds worse than it is. It isn’t good, but they can treat it. As I
read on, the prognosis was sounding less optimistic. I called Bill to tell
him what I had learned. I told him I would go by and see Dawson the next day
after work.
I was glad the restaurant was only minutes away
from the hospital and when I arrived there, he was sitting up in bed. He was
still quite bloated and seemed short of breath, but I could see he didn’t
want any fussing and I knew he definitely wouldn’t want me to show how
worried I was.
On Wednesday, he called me at work and asked me
if I could bring him some things when I came by that afternoon. Over the
phone, he gave me his list, toiletries, mostly, and some magazines. He
seemed to be in a better mood and I stayed until Bill arrived. Before I
left, a nurse came in and did an EKG, without comment.
When I was leaving, I said goodbye without so
much as touching his hand. What I really wanted to do was hug him and cradle
him in my arms, but Dawson had rejected hugs and kisses for many years. It
had become a joke in the family how he would not let us hug him, and that
only perpetuated his reluctance. He’d stand there, with his arms at his
side, smiling sometimes, but trying to appear too tough for that sentimental
stuff. My mother was never comfortable giving hugs, either, and she told me
she and Dawson had an unspoken understanding. She said, "Whenever I’m saying
goodbye to Dawson, it’s funny. We look at each other and kind of awkwardly
motion with our arms and shrug and smile. We know that it’s O.K., we don’t
have to hug." I had never been one for hugs myself, but getting a hug from
Dawson would have meant so much to me.
On Thursday, Dawson called me at work again. This
time he said, "They know what’s wrong with me."
"What is it?" I asked.
"It’s my heart."
"What about your heart?"
"It’s big," he said.
"What can they do for that?"
"I need a transplant."
"What?"
"Are you coming by today? The doctor wants to
talk to you."
"Yes. Is the doctor there now? Should I see if I
can get off work?"
"No, he said he’d be back later."
"O.K. I’ll be there as soon as I can," I assured
him.
When I got off work, I went right to the hospital
and straight to his room. He was sitting in a chair at a small bedside table
thumbing through a magazine. He looked at me and said, "Dr. Hooper was just
here. He told me when you got here you should go to the nurses’ desk and
tell them you’re here." Shortly after, Dr. Hooper came into the room. Dawson
was still turning pages of a magazine and I was standing. Dr. Hooper
approached me and said, "Dawson’s heart is very bad. A healthy heart pumps
like this," he explained, as he made a fist and repeatedly opened his
hand fully and clenched it tightly. "Dawson’s heart is pumping like this." He again opened
his hand wide, then barely moved his fingertips, drawing them in only
slightly and did not make a fist.
"What can you do for that?" I asked, trying to
stay calm.
"Nothing," he said, showing no emotion.
"What are you saying?"
"It’s fatal," he answered matter-of-factly.
"What do you mean? What are you saying?" I
pleaded, almost shouting.
Shrugging, he answered casually, "Two days, two
weeks, two months . . . I don’t know."
I looked over at Dawson, still turning pages.
When he looked up, the look on his face personified a phrase I had heard
many times, but had never seen quite so literally, "keeping a stiff upper
lip." His face was taut, his mouth tight, his eyes showed shock and fright.
He appeared to be successfully holding back tears. I was unable to hold back
mine. I looked at that doctor standing face to face with me. He stood there
looking back at me. This couldn’t be true. Was I hearing this right? I was
in the middle of a nightmare and I wanted to scream, to wake up and have
this not be true. How could this be true? How could this man be telling me
this so nonchalantly? I would have thought he’d have suggested I sit down
before telling me or have waited until someone was with me. This man had
just told a mother that her only son, who appeared perfectly healthy less
than a week earlier, might have only two days to live. And what was Dawson
feeling hearing this? The doctor just stood there. He did not turn to speak
to Dawson. He did not reach out to me, he did not ask me if I had any
questions, he did nothing but stand there staring into my face. Without a
word, I motioned, gesturing wildly, with my hand, "Get out! Just leave!" I
didn’t know why he was still standing there, doing and saying nothing. I
didn’t know what he wanted from me. I just wanted him to go away. He finally
turned and left. I looked at Dawson and went to his side and made a slight
attempt to hug him, but he was typically unresponsive. He resumed his page
turning and when he spoke, he said, "I’m not gonna die."
The phone rang, he answered it and said to his
dad, "The doctor was just here and Mom’s here. I’ll put her on, you can talk
to her."
"What’s up?" Bill asked. "Did you talk to the
doctor?"
"I talked to Dr. Hooper," I answered. Then I said
a phrase, an odd phrase, one I had not heard myself say in many years,
"Bill, come home!"
When I got off the phone, I told Dawson I would
be right back and quickly left the room. I went to the restroom and tried to
compose myself. I thought it would be impossible. It was as though every
fear and heartache I had ever experienced for Dawson since the day he was
born had been leading to this moment. "Oh, God," I cried, "Please don’t let
this be happening! Not my Dawson, please not my Dawson! God, there must be
something that can be done!"
When back in his room, a doctor came in and
introduced himself as Dr. Burke, the cardiologist. He said, "Mrs. Bell,
you’ve spoken with Dr. Hooper? He’s explained Dawson’s condition to you?" He
then asked me if I had any questions.
"Yes," I said. "What is the condition called?"
"Cardiomyopathy. You’ve probably heard of an
enlarged heart. That’s what it is."
"And there’s nothing you can do for that?"
"When the heart gets damaged and expands like
this it loses its ability to pump properly."
"But the heart has some capability of repairing
itself, doesn’t it?" I asked.
"Yes, it does, to some extent, but when it is
functioning as poorly as Dawson’s, it is not likely."
"Isn’t there any treatment for it?"
"What you are seeing now, with the swelling and
shortness of breath, is a result of the diminished pumping capacity. Fluid
is backing up and he’s retaining it in his tissues. We can treat that. He is
on diuretics and we will keep him on those to avoid this, as best we can.
But beyond that, for the heart itself, the only corrective measure is a
heart transplant."
"Then he could have a transplant," I said in
desperation.
"Well, not necessarily. His liver may also be
damaged. If that were the case, no, he could not get a transplant."
"What can we do?"
"I’m letting him go home tomorrow. He’ll remain
on the diuretics and other medications to help his heart and I’d like to see
him next week. He should take it easy and not do too much."
"He gets to go home?"
"Yes."
"Should someone be with him at all times?"
"Well, if someone could, it wouldn’t be a bad
idea. He should take it easy and not over exert himself. He has to watch his
diet; eliminate salt, stay away from any packaged foods, avoid junk food and
anything that has a lot of sodium."
Then I asked, "How common is this condition? What
causes it?"
"It is not an uncommon condition, but for someone
his age . . . well . . . and as far as what causes it, sometimes, we never
know. The heart can become damaged for different reasons. It can be a virus
that attacks the heart, it can be some kind of toxic poisoning, it can be
alcohol . . ."
"Alcohol?"
"Yes."
I looked over at Dawson. His eyes widened.
"Anything else?" Dr. Burke asked.
"No, I don’t think so. Thank you, Doctor."
"I’ll set up an appointment to see you in my
office next week, Dawson," he said, then left.
I went to Dawson’s side and I said softly, "God,
Dawson, why didn’t you listen?" I hated uttering those worthless words, but
did so out of absolute despair. I hoped he would show some emotion, that he
would cry, that he would say, "Mom, I’m sorry." I hoped he would want me to
hold him. He just looked at me.
Bill arrived soon after and I told him, briefly,
what I had learned. Dawson was looking as though he didn’t believe a word of
it. I’m sure he thought, "I’m twenty-five years old! That’s not going to
happen! Die? Me? No."
Bill and I went out to the cafeteria’s patio and
I went into more detail about everything I had been told. He just kept
shaking his head. He wiped tears from his eyes, as he asked, "How can this
be? How can it be alcohol? Do you know how long some people have been
drinking and how much and their hearts are fine? How could this happen? I
can’t believe this." He cried, "I really love that kid. I can’t lose him!"
We sat quietly, our shock and distress shared in
silence. As a breeze came through the little courtyard and shade fell upon
us, I began to shiver. It was summer, but suddenly I felt very cold.
When I left that night, I told Dawson to call me
at work in the morning and let me know what time he was going to be
released. I went to the phone and called my mother to tell her I was leaving
the hospital and going to her house. When she asked me if I were able to
drive, I assured her I was.
During that twenty minute drive, the words "It’s
fatal" played and replayed over in my mind. I could see Dawson disbelieving
and trying to be brave as he heard those same words. Tears began to spill
from my eyes. He was my child and we were living an unimaginable horror, an
absolute nightmare, one in which your worst fears come true. I remembered
having bad dreams from which I had awakened crying, my cool tears having
brought a feeling of instant relief as I realized that I had only been
dreaming. But this was not a dream, my tears could not soothe me and there
was nothing that could rescue me.
When I arrived, my mother asked, "How are you?"
She was concerned about me. After all, I was her child. I looked at her and
cried out, "This is too big! I can’t handle it! Mommy, what am I going to
do? I’m so scared. Oh, God, you know, I always feared that someday I’d
experience sorrow over Dawson." It appeared that someday had arrived.
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