Tim Washburn - Powerless

Upstairs the nurses prep Robert Marshall for his cardiac catheterization. A sudden whirring noise sounds and the nurse leans over and begins to shave the groin area of his right leg. His body tenses.

The nurse stops. “Relax your leg, Mr. Marshall. No need to be embarrassed. I’ve seen just about everything there is to see.” She has a singsong voice, an accent Robert can’t place. Her round, dark face is creaseless, making it difficult to guess her age.

He relaxes slightly, but as the battery-powered shaver runs against the area near his testicles, his cheeks blush. The nurse clicks off the machine and swabs the shaved area with Betadine while another nurse starts an IV in his left arm.

“Okay, Mr. Marshall, we’re going to wheel you into the cath room. You’ll be given a mild sedative and the doctor will numb up your groin area before making a small incision. Then he’ll thread the catheter up your femoral artery to your heart. Using a fluoroscope and a contrasting dye inserted through your IV, the doctor will be able to pinpoint the blockages. Then he’ll place a metal stent into your coronary arteries to improve blood flow. Are you ready?”

“Do I have a choice?” he says.

The question goes unanswered as the nurse wheels him across the hall into a room where the lights are dimmed. They transfer him to another, firmer bed and wheel the empty gurney out of the room. Someone pushes a needle into the port on his IV line and he becomes sleepy, until he feels a sharp stick very near his manhood.

“Mr. Marshall, we’re going to start the procedure.” His groin goes numb, and he feels the pressure of the insertion, but no pain. He nods off as the catheter is slowly fed up his artery.

As the head of the catheter nears his heart, the room is plunged into darkness.

“Everyone freeze!” the doctor shouts. “I don’t want to rip open a coronary artery because I can’t see where the damn cath is.”

They wait for the automatic generator to power on. The doctor holds his gloved hands a good distance from the device tickling the edges of Robert Marshall’s heart.

“What happened?” A nurse says.

“Don’t know, but it couldn’t have happened at a worse time,” the doctor says.

The darkness is profound, and the only disruption to the silence is Robert Marshall’s steady breathing. After a few minutes, the lights come on, but they have to wait a few more moments for all the hardware to reboot.

Once they’re up and functioning, the doctor shakes out his hands before grasping the device. “Let’s get this over as quickly as possible.”

Downstairs, Zeke and his mother are sitting in the waiting room when the lights go out. Zeke feels his mother’s hand fumble for his.

“There should be a backup generator,” he says.

“What about your father?”

“He’ll be fine.”

The lights flicker, then burn steady. The admissions people scurry around behind the counter, repowering the computer system as a steady stream of need-to-be-seen patients hovers around the counter.

Two ambulances approach, their lights sending waves of red and yellow pulses across the waiting room. Zeke stands and walks closer to the window to see what’s happening. Another ambulance zooms by and all three screech to a stop at the emergency entrance. There’s a flurry of activity as paramedics and nurses remove the injured. Three gurneys are wheeled through the automatic door of the ER. Zeke walks over to the admissions desk. “What happened?”

An older woman behind the counter answers. “Traffic accident. Apparently most of the traffic lights quit working. You’d think they’d have the sense to slow down if the light was out.”

Zeke drifts away and returns to his seat.

“What’s all the commotion?” his mother asks.

“Big traffic pileup. Something about the signal lights not working.”

“That’s odd.”

Zeke glances at the overhead lights, a tickle of something creeping down his spine.

A nurse, dressed in purple scrubs, steps through a side door. “Marshall family?”

Zeke helps his mother from the chair and the nurse leads them into a small, private consultation room.

“The doctor will be in shortly,” she says before disappearing behind a different door.

The two share a glance but don’t speak. The doctor walks in and introduces himself. He sits wearily and hands across a couple of photographs of Robert’s heart.

“Mr. Marshall is a lucky man,” the doctor says. “We found eighty-five percent blockage on two coronary arteries, and ninety percent blockage on a third. I inserted three stents to reduce the blockage and improve blood flow. He should feel like a new man.”

“When will he be able to go home?” Barbara says.

“We’ll keep him overnight to make sure the incision site clots off.” The doctor stands and shakes both of their hands before leaving.

“That’s good, Mom. His heart attack could have been much worse,” Zeke says. “If you’ll hand me your cell phone I’ll call Ruth to fill her in.”

As they exit the small room Zeke powers up the phone. No service. He walks toward the window hoping to get a better signal. No luck. He walks toward his mother. “I can’t get a signal on your cell. I’m going to try a landline phone if I can find one.”

Zeke hands the phone back to his mother and strolls down the hall in search of a landline phone. He finds one tucked into a corner near the elevator. He punches in his sister’s number and puts the phone to his ear—and hears nothing but the faint echo of his own breathing. He flicks the small white button where the handset rests and listens for a dial tone. Still nothing. He replaces the phone and steps over to the volunteer desk, manned by a pair of white-haired elderly ladies.

“Are you having phone issues?”

The one on the right offers him an apologetic smile. “Only if you’re trying to make an outside call. It works for in-hospital numbers but for some reason we can’t get to an outside line.”

Zeke ponders this for a moment. “This happen when the power went out?”

“Why, yes, it did, come to think of it.”

He taps the counter with his knuckle. “Okay. Thanks for your help.” He returns to where his mother is sitting.

“I can’t get the call to go through. Doesn’t even ring.”

“That’s strange. I’ve never had any trouble getting through to her.”

A different nurse appears in the waiting room and leads the Marshalls into the recovery room. Zeke’s father is lying flat on the bed while a nurse applies pressure to the incision site. She’s standing on her tiptoes, placing most of her weight on her outstretched hands. Robert Marshall grimaces under the pressure.

Zeke says, “I think your old ticker is ready for a marathon now.” He turns to the nurse. “How long do you have to keep pressure on the wound?”

The nurse blows a stray strand of light blond hair from her face. “Just a few more minutes.”

Zeke’s mother approaches the bed and brushes her lips across those of her husband.

“You scared me to death,” she whispers.

“It’s not my fault I had a heart attack, Barb.”

“How long have you been having chest pains?”

“I don’t know. A month or two.”

Barbara Marshall is on the verge of a scolding tirade when another nurse enters the room.

“Mr. Marshall, I know you were told that you would be with us overnight, but there’s been a change of plans. The hospital is now running on reserve power and we need to discharge as many patients as possible. The generator is not large enough to power the entire hospital.”

“I thought there were concerns about his incision site closing off,” Zeke says.