Forum: A league of extraordinary people

By Lawrence M. Kostaneski, Rapid City. | Saturday, February 17, 2007

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A young man succumbs to the invigorating charm of a glorious December afternoon. The truck pulls out and the options decrease rapidly. He lays it down and his street bike pins him to the truck’s undercarriage.

Cody and TJ arrived first, making critical decisions, and a quick-thinking stranger found the equipment to lift the trailer.

A call from Rapid City Regional Hospital: “Your son’s in critical condition. How soon can you get here?” A few stupid questions as the mind attempts the jump — “Right now.”

Must be coupon day in the emergency room; it’s packed. Nurses, doctors, CT scans, and “wait here, we’ll let you know.” His mom arrives. She’s a wreck. I take her hand. I’m done waiting.

We enter the chaos, looking for signs and find him. Incredibly he’s conscious, alert. It hurts to breathe. The ER crew hovers like a human shield, measuring, monitoring, prepping. I’m angry. I worked hard to bring him home — now this? “I’m not going anywhere, Dad.” Famous last words.

Despite his size, I didn’t sense his presence. Dr. Gregg Drabek, surgeon, “a kidney and spleen severely damaged, ribs, elbow, vertebrae, cuts, scrapes. ... He’ll be in OR in 15 minutes.” Too long, I think.

He’s ready. I issue the unfair challenge. “He’s your son now, doc.” He’s puzzled; then gets it — he’s unflappable. He’s been here, done this, has the hat, shirt and belt buckle.

Everyone is focused now on Dr. D. He has quietly assumed command. He gives the order. We walk beside the bed and part company at second-floor OR. We kiss him, ignoring the blood. “We’ll see you in a bit.” Yeah.

The on-call chaplain just appears — takes our hands, prays. Nurse supervisors just appear: soft hugs, held hands, inscrutable smiles. They have the belt buckle, too.

A call to Bishop Lorenzo Kelly, “I need your help — again.” He responds to the bond formed years ago. “At evening service he’s at the top of the list. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Brave words from a man recovering from a near fatal experience of his own.

Dr. D. again: “He’s stable, next 12 hours, 24, 36, 48. Blood pressure, infection, of course. I spent a lot of time looking around. No bleeders. But he has a ways to go.” The OR crew prevailed.

Wade is lead batter in second ICU. He’s a study in determination, resolve, and relentless attention. Twelve hours of critical activity awaits him. I feel welcome. “He knows you’re here.” Equally important, I know I’m here.

The LCD readouts flash and ping, wild swings make me wince. I’m looking for the E-board message saying he’ll be fine — just numbers. Nurses touch my arm, offer smiles. Regional must buy belt buckles by the truck load.

Supervisors gently hint that I go home. It’s 2 a.m. I agree to compromise, leave the cell number. I’m back before 7.

Wade puts us in the lead. Kathy’s up. The pressure won’t stabilize. She starts two pints of whole blood. She moves like water, everywhere at once. She finally nails it.

Janet fights white count, Toni blood sugar. The list seems endless. The ICU crews pad the score. Lab work and CT scans quick and thorough. Dr. D scrutinizes the white count. The alternative is undesirable. He conducts constant surveillance.

Bishop Kelly announces that he’ll be fine. He doesn’t just believe it, he knows it. How is another matter.

Finally a break — fifth ICU is just as watchful, less intense. Progress: sixth orthopedic focuses on the structural damage, glancing at the numbers. They’re better and improving.

West wing rehab intensifies the work. Walking and arm movement is the goal. They push, gently but constantly.

Right before New Year he hoists his plastic-shelled torso into the truck and we go home.

I understand Newton’s Laws, Bernoulli’s equation and the Pythagorean Theorem, but I don’t understand the power created by prayer, faith or love.

And while I don’t understand small miracles, when the black-cloaked scythe wielder is beaten by a league of extraordinary people, I recognize one when I see it.