Chapter Fifty-Seven
Bobbie stopped by Lucky's room at the hospital on her way home from Pentonville. She noticed that room 2B was unoccupied and walked over to the nurse's station. "My nephew, Lucky Spencer, was in room 2B," she stated. "Where is he now?"
The nurse at the station replied, "I just started my shift, let me take a look." The nurse pulled his chart and said, "He's been moved to a locked unit."
"What?" asked Bobbie. "Does his chart indicate why?"
"They think he's starting to wake up, and his behavior may be unpredictable," she read from the chart.
"Well, I'm a General Hospital nurse, and I'd like to see my nephew. Will you please buzz me in?" asked Bobbie.
"Sure," said the nurse as she exited the nurse's station with her access card in hand, heading toward the locked doors.
~*~*~*~
Bobbie slowly approached Lucky's bed in
the locked unit. There were no chairs or extra furniture in his tiny, spartan room, so she
stood next to his bed and looked down at him. His eyes were closed with his head turned to
one side, and the steel guardrails on the hospital bed were raised to prevent him from
inadvertently falling out. The appearance of Lucky lying there sleeping reminded Bobbie so
much of Luke in his younger years. Spencers don't get off easy in this life, she reflected
sadly.
*** "Luke, Luke, what did he do to you?" asked Bobbie with a note of panic in her young voice. "Luke, wake up!" Bobbie shook her older brother by the shoulder, but he lay silently and brokenly on the floor where he'd fallen minutes earlier. As she looked at her brother, Bobbie's lips quivered, and tears welled up in her eyes. How many times had she seen this same scene in the Spencer home? A black eye was starting to form on Luke's left eye, a match for the bruises fading away on the right side of his face, a testament to an earlier beating.
Their dad was spiraling further out of control, drinking almost constantly, raging and hurling verbal and physical abuse on whoever was handy. Luke was his favorite target, a reminder of his own inadequacies as a father. The young man growing up in front of him was like a mirror reflecting back his own ugliness, and he wanted to extinguish the promise and hope in that young face.
Luke moaned and knit his brows together. "Luke," said Bobbie plaintively. "Please wake up." Luke rolled over onto his side and held his battered head with a shaking hand. "Barbara?" he asked softly. As she helped him into a chair, Bobbie whispered, "We've got to figure out a way to get out of here. He's going to kill you."
At that instant, the Spencer dad rounded the corner with a fresh bottle of whiskey in his hand. He looked at his children and tipped the bottle back, letting the liquor flow into his mouth. He wiped his hand across his mouth and belched. He raised a thick, red hand and pointed his index finger in their direction. "Trash," he said drunkenly, stumbling to the side, then catching himself before he fell. His bulging, bloodshot eyes took in the closeness of the two siblings, and the anger boiled in his blood. "No good, kidzz," he slurred. He walked over and kicked Luke on the leg. "Can't even fight," he grinned stupidly.
"Stop it!" yelled Bobbie before she could think of the consequences of her actions. Her eyes grew wide when he turned his head sharply and focused his attention in her direction. He swayed, then took a drunken step near her, grabbing her roughly by the arm and dragging and pushing her onto the couch. She fell back, too terrified to scream or cry. He knelt near her, his knee separating her legs. Luke attempted to rise, but fell back down in the chair. He made a supreme effort and lunged off of the chair and onto his father's back, grasping the man's shirt with desperate fingers. "Stop!" he yelled.
Luke's dad swung around in rage and
bashed his son in the temple with his open whiskey bottle. The spilled whiskey mingled
with the blood running down the side of Luke's head as he crumpled to the floor in a
broken, youthful heap. Bobbie shrieked in her little girl's voice when her father turned
toward her again. She raised her hands and flailed at him, trying to fend off the force of
Tim Spencer's heavy body. ***
"But when the going gets tough, Spencers fight back," Bobbie said aloud. She ran her hand gently down the side of Lucky's cheek and was surprised when his brows knit together in a light frown. "Lucky?" she asked hopefully. "Lucky, are you awake?" She picked up his hand and squeezed it. "Lucky, can you feel that?"
Lucky didn't move, but his brows rose, and he made a very soft mewing noise somewhere between a moan and a sob. Bobbie's eyes lit up. "Lucky, can you hear me? Baby, you're going to be alright, aren't you?" She continued to hold his hand and stroke his arm, trying to elicit another reaction, but he remained motionless and mute. After half an hour, she left his bedside, more hopeful than when she first arrived. Bobbie headed for the nurse's station, ready to tell them about the latest improvement in her nephew's condition.
~*~*~*~
Next morning, 8AM
Kevin reviewed Lucky's chart and focused hsi attention on the notation about Lucky's facial movement and verbal expression. He handed the chart back to the nurse and walked toward the locked door nearby, sliding his access card into the assigned slot. He walked to Lucky's room and entered. Lucky's eyes were open, as they always were after sunrise even in the absence of a window in the locked unit.
Kevin said, "Lucky, can you hear me?" as he pinched his forearm and looked for a reaction. Lucky lay motionless and expressionless as usual throughout Kevin's battery of tests. Kevin stood back with a hand on his hip, watching Lucky for several minutes until he turned and left the room.
~*~*~*~
8:30AM
Lucky was loaded onto a gurney and traveled with the orderlies to OR2 for his fifth ECT treatment. The orderlies were busy talking about the latest college football game and didn't notice that the index finger on Lucky's right hand jerked. As they laughed loudly, they missed the tiny moan that escaped Lucky's still lips. When they transferred Lucky to the metal table, his eyebrow twitched so slightly that no one noticed. The cold conducting jelly that was applied to his forehead made him shiver, and the clanging of a dropped instrument on a metal tray registered somewhere in his consciousness. The muscles in his face and limbs tightened. A confusing swirl of sounds around him faded to black as the anesthesiologist injected propofol into his IV. His fifth ECT treatment was underway.
~*~*~*~
Lucky's four previous ECT treatments had proceeded uneventfully, so the medical personnel, although attentive, were relaxed as the fifth seizure was induced. Kevin glanced at his watch and counted the seconds after it was confirmed that he'd begun a bilateral seizure. He frowned and tension in the room mounted as the seconds quickly accumulated past 60, 70, and 80. At 120 seconds, Kevin ordered, "Diazepam, 5 mg IV." Lucky continued to seize for another minute and a half, then abruptly stopped. He'd been seizing continually for nearly four minutes. The technicians indicated that Lucky's blood pressure and pulse rate were outside the normal range.
"Maintain his ventilation, and we'll keep him here until his vitals normalize," Kevin directed. He motioned to Tony and Monica, who had been tensely watching the proceedings, and the two specialists began reviewing the EEG and EKG monitor readings.
~*~*~*~
"What happened in there?" asked Tony loudly with fear invading his voice and features.
"Lucky experienced a prolonged seizure for unknown reasons," explained Kevin.
"His EEG readings were on the mark, but I'm still concerned about proceeding with more treatments," said Tony. "It's not safe for his blood pressure to be that high. What's the guarantee this won't happen again?"
"There's no guarantee, Tony. Each ECT treatment is unique. It could happen next time or never again. That's why we are prepared for that possibility."
Tony shook his head and smacked the wall in frustration, rubbing his palm afterward. "I'm not comfortable with this," he said tensely. "Shouldn't he be awake now after five ECT treatments?"
"My expectation was that he'd begin to react after three to four treatments, and he has shown signs of waking. It's wait and see for two days until his next scheduled ECT."
"I need an emotional break, a breather," complained Tony. "This is really getting to me."
"I have a couple of tickets to the hockey game tonight," said Kevin. "Care to join me?"
~*~*~*~
9:35PM
"I've never been to an American hockey game," said Ian with an excited look on his face. Kevin stood up from his seat and held up three fingers to the beer merchant, pointing in the direction of his companions. He passed over a $20 bill and handed out the three beers. "Drinks are on me," he said to Tony and Ian. "I can always collect later at the next dart game."
"Sit down," directed Tony with an impatient wave of his hand. "Your big head is blocking my view."
"Okay, gentlemen," said Kevin. "It's time to play name your specialty."
Ian looked at Kevin with a raised eyebrow. "Make your point clear, man."
"We take turns diagnosing the various moves that the players make," explained Kevin logically. A man from the opposing team swung his teammate too wildly, and the man slammed into a wall. Kevin pointed at the fracas. "Psychiatry. Diagnosis: Misplaced Aggression. See? Name your specialty and make your diagnosis. Ian, you're next."
Ian placed his beer under his seat and rubbed his hands excitedly as he watched the players skate by. An opposing team member threw a sharp elbow into a PC player's ribs, causing the man to stumble backward and twist his ankle as he fell on the ice. Ian half rose out of his seat and shouted, "Emergency Medicine. Diagnosis: Sprained ankle. Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation."
"Geez, what a suck-up," laughed Tony as he elbowed Ian. "You're giving free treatment, too."
Ian shrugged. "I'm just a simple country doctor, unlike you big city folk."
Kevin shook his head. "Come on, Ian, you're just a country boy, huh? Then give us a rendition of 'Danny Boy'. Every Irish tenor worth his salt can choke that out. Let's hear it!"
"But I'm a deep, deep baritone," Ian protested as his face flushed. "Give me another beer or two, then we'll see."
A PC player hit an opposing team member in the head with a hockey stick, and Tony leaped to his feet, waving his arms and shouting, "YES!" at the top of his lungs. "Neurology. Diagnosis: Mild concussion." He glanced at Ian and shrugged. "Rest, no deep sleep for 12 hours."
A distinguished looking older gentleman with balding white hair turned around and threw a pointed look in Tony's direction. Tony stopped shouting, slowly lowered his arms and sat back down in his seat. He picked up his popcorn and made a "pfff" sound with his lips as he threw a piece of popcorn at the bald guy's head. The popcorn found its bullseye on the crown of the distinguished man. Tony snickered and aimed a second piece of popcorn, which landed on the gentleman's shoulder. The older man whisked the popcorn off of his shoulder with an abrupt motion of his hand. He slowly turned and glared at Tony. Tony smiled very widely, and held out his bag of popcorn to the man. "Popcorn?" Tony asked. The man huffed and turned back around in his seat.
~*~*~*~
2:01AM
Lucky's hand moved like it was having a muscle spasm. He uttered a series of groans and pseudo-language guttural noises, but without the formation of actual words. His eyes remained closed, but his eyelids flickered several times. He frowned and yelled loudly as his left arm swung out forcefully, yanking the IV pole toward the bed until it toppled onto his leg. He began breathing faster, and a thin line of perspiration ran along his forehead.
~*~*~*~
3:30AM
"Hey!" exclaimed the night nurse who checked in on Lucky. She crossed the room and righted the IV pole that lay draped over Lucky's bed. "Did you win round one?" she chuckled as recorded his vitals.
~*~*~*~
8:05AM
Lucky's eyes had automatically opened fifteen minutes earlier when the sun began to rise. At first, they stared blankly, not registering the light, color and shapes that surrounded him. After several minutes, his heartbeat and respiration increased slightly. He grew agitated and turned his body back and forth on the bed, his arms and legs moving madly.
At first, the gray invaded his consciousness, and he emerged into a foggy world of shadows and light. He felt nervous and ill at ease, unaware of the meaning of the shapes that intruded into the level plain of his mind. Ever-present dread consumed him and stabbed around his peace until he shook with the fear of the unknown. His eyes moved up and down and side to side in confusion, unable to distinguish the function behind the form.
Protective instinct took over where his mind left off. He cringed at the sounds that emerged from far away: clicks, beeps, disembodied voices, slamming doors, thudding footsteps, and creaking wheels.
~*~*~*~
9:15AM
Lucky lay still in terror, not catatonia. Someone entered his room and moved around him. Inwardly, he cringed at the first invasion that his conscious mind had experienced in two weeks. He began panting as the shards of panic stabbed at his heart and mind. When the person touched him, he shook with a terror that soon turned to protective rage. He reared up with an unnatural scream and wildly swung his left arm out to the side and down to the level of the threatening form that moved beside him. The form swiftly fell away, and he toppled off the side of the bed, crashing to the floor. He kept trying to get up on his feet, but his weak legs were unable to support his weight.
~*~*~*~
9:17AM
"Helen!" shouted the other
nurse as she bent to help her colleague to her feet. Helen staggered and placed a hand to
the bleeding side of her head. "Place a call to Dr. Collins!" she said
breathlessly. "He's not supposed to be restrained, but I'm calling a code if he makes
another move." The two nurses stared at Lucky, who had dragged himself to a corner
and desperately hugged the wall.
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