Bobby Akart - Whiteout

Tucker became suddenly quiet as the doctor stated the facts plainly and succinctly. It was a lot for a fifteen-year-old to process, but he appreciated the candor. Once he was rolled into his mother’s room, he became full of emotion. He raised his right hand, instructing the doctor to stop short of his mother’s bed.

She looked peaceful yet pained. Her face was completely at rest, but her body remained rigid under the layers of blankets designed to keep her warm. A variety of monitoring equipment flashed numbers and lights that Tucker didn’t want to understand. However, he did know this. His mom was alive.

After a moment of studying her from a distance, he asked to be wheeled closer. He wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to hug his mother as he had in the back seat that night in an attempt to keep her warm. A flood of emotions coursed through his mind until suddenly, without warning or permission, Tucker stepped up from the wheelchair using the bed’s side rails to assist him. Dr. Brady and the nurses implored him to sit back down, but he ignored them.

Tucker leaned over and whispered, “Mom, I love you. It’s gonna be all right. I promise.” Then he gave her a tear-soaked kiss on the cheek.

Friday, November 1

Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

La Junta, Colorado

The next visit did not go at all like Tucker had hoped. Convinced to return to his wheelchair, Dr. Brady pushed him farther down the corridor to the ICU room closest to the nurses’ station. Owen, he explained, required very close monitoring at this stage of his treatment. The doctor provided Tucker a similar update to the one he’d given on his mother, with one noticeable exception that Tucker instantly picked up on. Dr. Brady never used the word recovery in connection with his father’s treatment. Phrases like not out of the woods yet and critical condition were used more than once.

Tucker steadied his nerves as they entered his father’s room. At first glance, he saw the same types of monitoring equipment connected to his father’s body as he’d observed in his mom’s room. Likewise, his dad was wrapped in blankets and seemed to be resting peacefully with his arms by his sides. Then something struck him as out of the ordinary.

“Why are his feet bandaged up like that and not under the blankets?”

Dr. Brady sighed. The moment of truth. Mentally, the doctor determined Tucker was ready. His mettle was about to be tested because a decision had to be made.

The doctor positioned Tucker’s wheelchair so he had a full view of his father lying in bed. He nodded toward the door, indicating to the nurses they should leave the room. They eased out and shut the door behind them. Dr. Brady slid a chair over from a corner of the room so that he was sitting by Tucker’s side.

Tucker studied the doctor’s face and scowled. He choked back the tears and sat a little taller in the wheelchair. After another glance at the monitors and his father’s face, he turned slightly and spoke to Dr. Brady. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Young man, I am not going to sugarcoat any of this. You strike me as very mature, and I applaud your parents for raising you to become the man that you are. We have a situation with your dad that requires an adult decision. Today, in this moment, you have to be that adult.”

Tucker swallowed hard and nodded at Dr. Brady without breaking eye contact. Apprehension supplanted sorrow as he prepared himself for what he was about to hear.

“Based upon what we learned from the sheriff’s office, your dad was caught completely off guard by this weather anomaly. The flash freeze hit the west end of the county the hardest. From what they could tell, he did his level best to avoid the frigid air by trying to bury himself in hay in the back of a pickup.

“His efforts kept him alive, but unfortunately, he wasn’t totally covered. The deputy discovered his body because his legs were protruding out from the hay just below the knees. Both extremities suffered fourth-degree severe frostbite.”

“What does that mean?” asked Tucker.

“Well, first degree is skin irritation and pain, the level of frostbite you and your mom suffered. Although, there was evidence of second-degree blisters on your mom’s hands but no major damage. Fourth degree, the level suffered by your dad, is indicated when the frostbite is so severe it causes bones and tendons to freeze.”

Tucker’s eyes grew wide as he immediately looked at his father’s feet. He ran his fingers through his hair and then wiped away the tears that began to seep from his eyes.

He took a deep breath and asked, inwardly knowing what was coming next, “What are you saying?”

Dr. Brady furrowed his brow. He’d learned throughout his medical career that one of the most difficult tasks he faced in addition to saving lives was informing the family of a loved one’s death. Explaining to a son that his father was about to lose half his legs ranked right up there.

“The best treatment for fourth-degree frostbite is hyperbaric oxygen therapy, a process involving breathing pure oxygen in a pressurized room. We don’t have that kind of facility here, and it’s doubtful any of the major hospitals in Denver or Colorado Springs have one that is functioning due to the EMP. Even if they did, there aren’t any helicopters that survived the EMP either.”

“Isn’t there something else you can do?” asked Tucker.

“Tucker, I’m gonna have to shoot straight with you, okay? We’ve waited as long as we can to make a decision.”

For the next several minutes, Dr. Brady explained the options to Tucker. He soaked in the information and then asked to have some time alone with his father. He sat there, crying, asking God why this had to happen to his family. Then he asked for guidance to help him make the most difficult decision of his life.

Friday, November 1

Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

La Junta, Colorado

“How are our patients doing?” Sheriff Mobley asked the ICU nurses as he took another sip of coffee. He’d spent the day defusing a domestic dispute between a local couple who were considered by the community as head over heels in love. He chalked up the heated argument to temporary insanity from being locked down during the adverse conditions.

Dr. Brady appeared from another patient’s room and responded to the sheriff. “Mom is stable but still out. Dad’s slipping. We can’t make any progress because of his lower limbs. A decision has to be made, Shawn.”

“What about Tucker?”

“He’s doing as well as can be expected, physically. Mentally, I took him to visit his mother, and although he seemed distraught at the shock of seeing her that way, he handled it like the strong young man that he is.”

“I can feel a but coming,” said the sheriff. He finished his coffee and handed the Styrofoam cup to the desk nurse, who graciously threw it away for him.

“Shawn, I had to lay out his father’s condition and treatment options for him. We’re out of time, I’m afraid.”

Sheriff Mobley looked up and down the corridor, which was empty. “Is he in his room? May I talk to him?”

Dr. Brady pointed towards Owen’s closed door. “He asked to be left alone. That was half an hour ago.”

Sheriff Mobley gently rapped his knuckles on the counter and winked at his old friend. “Give me a little time. Maybe he needs a sounding board.”

He walked to Owen’s room and stared through the small glass window in the door. Tucker was sitting in the wheelchair, staring at his father’s face. Sheriff Mobley slowly turned the knob and cracked the door enough for his head to fit through.