The Brain Bomb Explodes

It is another astounding Indian summer afternoon in Door County, the northeastWisconsin peninsula that juts into the sky-blue waters of Green Bay and LakeMichigan. The misty atmosphere virtually vibrates with the jewel tones ofnature—garnet, sapphire, topaz, and ruby—all set in shimmering gold. No wonderDoor County is the Midwest's artists' Mecca. The patio door of my harbor-sidehome is wide open to an unusually balmy breeze off Lake Michigan. I've beenlured to my easel by the siren call of seagulls, lapping waves, and chirpingbackyard birds. Puffs of clouds are racing seagulls across the cobalt sky.Truly, this is paradise. Nothing can ruin my ecstatic mood as I paint thespectacular landscape I can see from my studio.

Earlier in the partly cloudy day, I had been moping around, still trying torecover from a weeklong bout with bronchitis. My housemate and best friend, Eve,had not too subtly suggested I get some fresh air by mowing the lawn before shegave the yard a final trim for the season.

Despite my initial reluctance, mowing turned out to be no chore at all. It wasinvigorating. As the sun claimed more and more of the sky, the temperatureresponded accordingly, eventually creating a perfect fall day. I even thankedEve for getting me moving again.

Now I feel good enough to return to my painting, while Eve zips around the yardwith her weed whip. As the birch shadows lengthen in the late afternoon sun, Iam totally lost in the mesmerizing process of creativity. Certainly, it takes meseveral minutes before I realize that the weed whip is silent, replaced byanguished cries of distress mixed with the background noise of nature.

"Help me! Help me!" The words finally register in my mind.

Oh, Lord, I wonder if Eve has chopped off a hand or foot. Dropping thepaintbrush, I race out of my art studio into the dining room.

I hear the cry again, but I don't know where it's coming from. Sound playstricks in a lakefront house. I run out on the deck. She's not in the yard. Backinside, I fly through the kitchen to the front door. Nope, not there. Maybe thelaundry room? Bathroom? Where is she? I hurry into the living room and peer downthe dark hallway to our side door. There she is! Eve crawls out of the hallwayshadows and collapses at my feet, moaning, "Help me."

At first, I'm frozen, then panicked. "What happened?" I shriek. "Did you cut offa foot?" Quickly checking, I'm relieved. No blood. Her legs and hands areintact. Thank God, I don't have to retrieve a body part from a bush.

Eve is crawling again to the middle of the living room. Now she's rolling aroundon the rug, legs thrashing, clutching her head in her hands. She's berserk withpain.

"What's the matter? Please tell me." I'm begging for an answer.

"Don't know. Felt like I was shot between my eyes. Fell to my knees ...passing out ... crawled in ... God, the pain!" The words come tumbling outin one breathless rush.

I lean over and check her head. Maybe a stone hit her? Maybe a wayward bullet?It's deer hunting season, isn't it? Nope, no holes. Suddenly, she's quiet. I'mgrateful for the silence. Then I notice that her eyes are rolling back. Itappears she's losing consciousness.

"Eve, are you fainting?"

"Going to be sick."

"No, wait," I squeak, "not on the living room rug." Like a raving lunatic, I runinto the kitchen and fling open the cabinets, looking for a plastic bowl. An oldone. What's the matter with me? Just go help her, stupid. Then a thought occurs.Hey, wait a second. This is probably just a migraine. Eve gets one every othermonth. Sometimes she vomits. Yep, that's what it is, a dumb headache.

I hurry to the living room and thrust the old bowl at her face in the nick oftime. I close my eyes until she's finished gagging. Nervously, I check in thebowl. Uh-oh. It doesn't look like lunch, nor does it look normal. "Please," Ibeseech her, "tell me, do you think this is a migraine?"

No answer. She's losing consciousness again. She's never done that before.

I jump up and run to the phone. "Eve, is this migraine or should I call 9-1-1?"I wave the receiver in the air threateningly. Precious moments pass.

"Call," she says weakly.

As Eve passes out, I punch the buttons.

"Emergency operator."

"I'm not sure. I think we need help. An ambulance. My roommate hurt her headsomehow. She's losing consciousness. I don't know if it's a migraine." I vaguelyhope the operator will shed some light on my dilemma. "I think she's unconsciousnow."

"Where are you?" the calming voice asks.

"In Baileys Harbor." I recite the street directions. It feels like I'm talkingin slow motion. "Yes, the driveway is on the right coming from Sturgeon Bay."

This is going to take forever, I think. Sturgeon Bay is 40 minutes away. But nosooner do I hang up than there is a pounding at the backdoor. Who needs visitorsnow?

I run to see who's there. It's the owner of a restaurant down the street. She'sholding a duffel bag. Really, I don't have time to chat now.

"I just got the emergency call," she says breathlessly. "I'm a medical firstresponder. I know CPR. What's wrong? Is it your roommate?"

"Oh, yes, she's in the living room. Thank you. Please hurry." As I open thedoor, I see two more first responders running up the driveway. I wave theminside and direct them to the living room. Amazing. Where are these peoplecoming from?

"Does Eve have a heart attack history?" a responder asks. "How about stroke?"

"No," I answer. "No!"

Now the three first responders are kneeling next to Eve. "Well, it might be amigraine," one says. "We need some ice."

I run to the refrigerator. Another knock at the door. Another first responder.

"Get some blankets," someone shouts. "She might be in shock."

I know I am in shock. I'm racing around like the proverbial headless chicken. Iretrieve the ice from the refrigerator and run to the linen closet to find ablanket. Where are the damn blankets? Oh yeah, way up on the top shelf. I pullone and they all come tumbling down.

I hear the distant wail of a siren. Wow, that ambulance got here fast. Soonthere's another knock at the door. "Paramedics," they shout in unison.

Armed with oxygen and a stretcher, they quickly take over. I'm crowded out ofthe living room trauma scene. Standing in the doorway, I feel so helpless asthey call out more of the same questions. They're all shouting at Eve to stayawake. I overhear one of them talking to the hospital on his cell phone. "Mightbe a migraine," one paramedic says. "I don't think so," counters the other.

In the blink of an eye, they've strapped petite Eve onto the stretcher. Thefirst responders rise in unison as they watch the medics cart Eve down thehallway and out the door. The first responders parade out behind them. As ifit's an afterthought, one paramedic runs back into the house to talk to me.

"We're transporting Eve to the Door County hospital in Sturgeon Bay. You'll haveto drive yourself." She turns and heads back to the ambulance.

As quickly as they came, they're gone. Standing alone in the kitchen, I'm notsure what to do next. First, I better change from my grubby painting attire. Myhands are filthy. What a sight. The spooked cats, Ozzie and Lola, are meowingloudly for their dinner. My head's throbbing; I'm not over the bronchitis yet.Wish I had taken a nap earlier. I feel intensely sleepy; it's my own peculiarreaction to panic. Not a very helpful defense mechanism at the moment.

Robotically, I proceed through the tasks at hand. I'm unsuccessful at calmingthe cats, but I manage to divert their attention by throwing food in theirbowls. Next, I ransack Eve's desk drawers, searching for the medical power ofattorney documents. I haven't a clue where they are. Eve is keeper of thebusiness papers. Eventually, I find the old Illinois power of attorney (POA), arelic of our Chicago past. It'll have to do. Finally I lock up the house andhead to the hospital.

All the way to Sturgeon Bay, I browbeat myself. Why, oh why, did I call anexpensive ambulance instead of putting Eve to bed? This will probably cost us$500 that we can't afford. Of course, it must be a migraine headache. She has ahistory of them. Eve was obviously overacting and, as usual, I am overreacting.

I hate to admit I'm so squeamish. My nursing skills are limited to fixing a cupof tea or dispensing an aspirin. If the situation gets any messier than that, Irecommend calling a doctor. This time, however, my immaturity is going to costus big bucks. I'll bet the ambulance crew was snickering all the way to SturgeonBay, making fun of the ditzy lady who cried "wolf" when it was only a lamb.

I arrive at the hospital and haul my bruised ego into the emergency center. Areceptionist directs me to Eve's room. She is sitting up in bed, looking alittle dazed. No one else is in the room. I fear that Eve's going to reprimandme for sending her off in an ambulance.

"How's your head?" I ask.

"It really hurts."

"Do they think it's a migraine?"

"Not sure."

Just then, a doctor bursts through the door, followed by a nurse. Two unfamiliarparamedics are trailing behind.

"Who are you?" he asks me bluntly. I explain that I am Eve's roommate.

He frowns. "So you're not a blood relative?"

"No, but I have this power of attorney paper." He smiles. Obviously, I said themagic words. He grabs the paper, and nods as he peruses the document.

"Okay, here's the situation. We've performed a CT scan and detected blood on herbrain. Our diagnosis is a subarachnoid hemorrhage. We don't have the facilitiesto treat a cerebral hemorrhage here, so we're transferring her to Green Bay.First, we need you to sign these papers." He nods to the nurse, as he exits toanswer a ringing phone.

"I'll sign," Eve pipes up in a meek little voice.

The nurse bypasses me and hands Eve the clipboard. Looking over her shoulder, Isee Eve scrawl something. It sure doesn't look like her signature. I feel sicknow.

The nurse looks at the signature doubtfully. "Here, you better countersign," shesays to me. "And you look a little green. Why don't you sit down for a minute?"

The doctor reappears. "We've just received confirmation that a neurosurgeon isstanding by waiting for Eve's arrival at the hospital in Green Bay. We'vealready called a long-distance ambulance company to take her."

At this, the two paramedics step forward to shake my hand. "I'm Rose. I'll bedriving the ambulance. We want you to leave right now for the hospital. We'llpass you on the highway with lights flashing and sirens going. Don't be alarmed,that's just the way we drive. You stick to the speed limit, understand? Staycalm."

"Can't I go with you? I don't know where the hospital is," I whine.

"No, you can't. Joe, here, is writing out directions for you. Now get going."She touches my cheek sympathetically.

"Here, honey. Don't worry. I'll be riding in back with your friend. I'll takegood care of her, I promise," Joe says, as he gives my shoulder a reassuringpat.

I believe him.

No Extraordinary Measures

As I drive down State Highway 57, the setting sun's last rays are lighting upthe clouds gathering over Green Bay. It looks a little ominous out there.Amazingly, I'm not at all tempted to speed. In fact, I'm driving about fivemiles under the limit. Truth is: I don't want to go to Green Bay. I'm playingwith the idea that if I run away, the problem will go away. That's what I wantto do. Just keep driving past Green Bay, through the cornfields of Iowa, acrossthe plains of Nebraska, all the way to the Colorado Rockies. Perhaps the PacificOcean. Anywhere but here. Actually, I have no idea what a cerebral hemorrhageis. Is it life threatening? Is this trip a precautionary measure? Heck, what's alittle blood on the brain, anyway? Can't the doctor just go in there and sop itup with a sponge? My mind hops from one solution to another, searching for acomforting thought.

Green Bay, next exit. Despite my desire to run, I dutifully turn off the highwayand continue down side streets to northeast Wisconsin's regional brain traumacenter.

Turning into the hospital driveway, I notice a sign for valet parking. How aboutthat? Don't know why I'm so surprised. Green Bay isn't exactly a small ruraltown. I drive up and lower the window to ask for directions to the emergencyentrance.

The friendly faced valet says, "Evening, ma'am. I'll park your car. Walk throughthose double doors, go down the hall, and turn right."

Inside, the lobby is deserted. It's a sight I've never seen at 8 P.M. in aChicagoland hospital. It looks like everyone, including the staff, has gone homefor the night. My footsteps echo down the empty corridor. Rounding the corner, Irun smack into Joe, the ambulance paramedic.

He grabs my shoulders. "I'm sorry, honey. But we had a serious problem on theway here. Eve suffered a grand mal seizure in the ambulance. She's in criticalcondition. Run, don't walk, to the fifth floor neuro-ICU."

My body freezes in place. I'm stupefied. What happened? I thought he said hewould take care of her. My mind is totally blank. All I can do is stand thereand stare at Joe in stunned disbelief.

"Come with me," he says kindly. "I'll take you upstairs." Then he turns mearound and pushes me toward a bank of elevators.

The elevator ascends in slow motion. Finally, the doors open on the fifth floor.The scene before me is utter pandemonium. Four nurses are gathered around acrash cart, clapping their hands and shouting, "Wake up!" I cautiously approach.One nurse sees me and calls out, "Are you her friend?"

I look and nod dumbly.

"Here, see if you can wake her." There's urgency in her voice. She pushes me tothe front, as the nurses part.

"Eve," I whisper hoarsely. "It's me. Wake up." Eve's eyes are tightly closed;her skin is sickly pale. No response.

Okay, I'll try again a little louder. "Please, wake up." No response. Time toget tough. In a voice that would wake the dead, I bellow, "Eve, wake up now!"

Eve's eyes fly open. "Huh, what?" she asks, then shuts her eyes again.

"Great! Okay. Let's go!" the nurse commands, as she grabs my sleeve. "You come,too."

The nurses move so quickly down the hall with the cart that I have to run tokeep up with them. We all crowd into another elevator. Eve looks dead to me. Anurse informs me that we're on our way to radiology for pictures of Eve's brain.The elevator opens on a darkened reception area; a desk lamp is the only sourceof illumination.

"Where's the radiologist?" the panicked ICU nurse asks a girl sitting behind adesk.

"We've paged him. He's on the way." The girl rises from the desk and steps outof the shadows. She must be the radiology technician, but she looks so young.

The ICU nurse is impatient. "We've got to get this patient hooked up. Now! She'shanging on by a thread."

"We're setting up the equipment," the tech replies. She's backing up to thedoor, away from the threatening ICU nurse. "Go ahead. Take her in."

If I had any cookies to toss, I would've done so at that moment. Sheer panicpervades the atmosphere. The nurses bulldoze their way through a door with thecart and disappear into a harshly lit room. The door closes on them, but I canstill feel the panic.

At that moment, an outside door opens and a handsome young guy in a joggingoutfit runs in, waves hi to me, and continues on into the room. His Nikes lookbrand-new. In a flash, he's back.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Jenkins, the radiologist," he says with a movie-star smile. "I cameas quickly as I could. While they're setting up, let's look at the scans fromSturgeon Bay and I'll explain what's happening to your friend."

He spreads pictures of Eve's skull on a light box. "Hmmm," he says. "It appearsshe's had a brain aneurysm. See? This area here is the blood on her brain." Hemakes a sweeping hand circle.

I have no idea what I'm looking at. Which area? Is it black or white or gray?Who cares? Whatever, it seems to me to be everywhere.

"Well, they should be ready for me now. The neurosurgeon upstairs needs ourscans to decide whether to operate. He'll talk to you then. But, for now, whydon't you sit in that waiting room down there?" He points down a dimly lithallway. "We're hurrying, but it's still going to take some time. We'll come foryou when we're done."

In the darkened waiting room, I manage to discern a lamp in the shadows andswitch it on. I scan the room for a pay phone and then realize there's a phoneright next to me on a magazine-covered table. Hope I have my calling card. Icheck my wallet. Here it is! But whom should I call? All of our close friendsare five hours away in Chicago.

Since Eve and I devoted our first year in Baileys Harbor to rehabbing our 50-year-oldhouse, we barely know our next-door neighbors, let alone anyone else intown or Door County.

But it's getting late; nearly 10 P.M. Must have lost some time in the black holeof panic. I'd better call somebody to calm me down. Maybe Cass.

Digging in my purse, I find Cass's crumpled business card. She's Eve's closestfriend down in Naperville, Illinois, our old stomping grounds.