Amazing News – A Fictional Story

A what-if story, based on a writing prompt. The back story in this is my true story, up to just before the phone call that opens the story. Events in the story itself are fictional.

Amazing News �" A Fictional Story

 

            “Hello, Ms. Barry?”  The voice on the phone had a soft, warm lilt, which suggested an older African-American woman.

            “Yes,” Debbie confirmed, with a touch of hesitancy in her voice.  She didn’t recognize the number her cell phone had read out as the call came in, and she was unsure what the woman might want.

            “Good mornin’ Miz Barry,” the voice said, in a gentle sing-song, the “z” in “Miz” strongly pronounced.  “I’m callin’ from th’ Experimental Eye Surgery program at New York City Hospital.”  Her voice went up an octave on the last syllable, as though asking a question; that speech mannerism made Debbie cringe, but she waited patiently for the woman to explain.

            “You’ve been chosen t’ partic’pate in a’xper’mental stem cell program.”  Her voice went up an octave again, but still managed to sound like she’d finished.

            “Um … what program?” Debbie asked, haltingly, confused.  “Where’d’jou get my name?”

            “I’m sorry, Miz Barry; I can’t give ya any details.  I jus’ need t’ make an appointment fer you t’ meet wi’ th’ doctor in charge o’ th’ program.”

            “Appointment?  When?  Where?” Debbie asked, her mind racing, her thoughts tripping over each other in her stunned confusion, excitement, and disbelief.

            “He’ll be in Detroit nex’ Tuesday,” the woman replied.  “Can ya be at Detroit Receivin’ at ten?”

            “Uh, yeah, sure,” Debbie replied, hastily opening a new Word screen on her computer, and typing the date, time, and the details of where she should go.  “I’ll be there.  Who’s the doctor?”

            “Doctor Rashid’s runnin’ th’ program.  You’ll be seein’ ‘im.”

            “And what’s your name?”

            “My name’s Sheila.”  The woman’s smile was carried through her voice as she said it.

            “Thanks, Sheila.”  Debbie hung up, and stared at the phone.  If she concentrated, she could almost read the numbers through the grayish fog of her vision.

            Four years before, Debbie had suffered a sudden, catastrophic illness.  The rare condition had destroyed her optic nerves, replacing healthy nerve cells with inert protein cells.  The doctors had saved her life, and had saved as much of her sight as they could, but the damage was severe, and her vision loss was profound.  The doctors had told her there was nothing more medical science could do.  Not, that is, unless a new medical breakthrough came along.  Until then, the doctors had urged her to pray for a miracle.

            Had her miracle come, in the form of an experimental stem cell procedure?  Debbie hardly dared to hope.  She whispered a prayer to the Blessed Virgin.  Then she called her husband.

            “Google, call ‘Ice Pat,’” she said.

            The phone vibrated gently.  “Okay, calling ‘Ice Pat,’ mobile,” replied the cheerfully feminine, digital voice.  On the second ring, the call connected.

            “Hello?” her husband answered the phone in his measured, professional voice.

            “Hey, it’s me,” she said.  Quickly, she recounted the call from New York.

            “Next Tuesday?” he asked, when she had finished.  “I’ll tell them I won’t be in.”

            “Thank you, Baby,” Debbie said, gratefully.

            “Of course.  I love you,” he replied, emphatically.

            It was Thursday.  Next Tuesday was exactly one week before Christmas.  She sat back in her chair, and gazed at the large, dark blur, flecked with fuzzy bits of colored lights, and topped by a white glow, which she knew was the Christmas tree, decorated with LED lights and the family’s special ornaments, and topped by a lighted angel.  Four years ago, she had seen that tree, when they’d put it up during the first weekend of Christmas break.  Just days later, she’d fallen ill.  She’d seen only the blur for each Christmas since then.  Might she actually see next year’s tree?

            The days passed far too slowly, despite the bustle of the holiday season, and then, suddenly, it was Tuesday morning.  Debbie and her husband, Pat, made the drive down to Detroit, creeping through late morning commuter traffic on the highway.  Finally, they arrived.

            The illness that had taken Debbie’s sight had also resulted in a severe reduction in her mobility, so they used one of the courtesy wheelchairs provided by the hospital.  A doorman wheeled her into the warmth of the lobby, while Pat went to park the car.  Debbie waited anxiously, thinking of her imminent appointment.  Then Pat was there, and he wheeled her to a waiting room, where she gave her name to a receptionist.  Remarkably quickly, they were taken up to a room on the third floor, which contained a large chair, surrounded by familiar optical examination equipment.  A nurse helped her into the chair, and laid a file on a nearby desk.

            “Dr. Rashid’ll be right in,” she said, in a deep, contralto voice.  She left them in the dimly-lit room, closing the door gently behind her.

            Less than five minutes passed, and then the door opened again.  A small group of people came in, wearing bright, white lab coats.  The one at the front of the group stepped up, and said, “Miss Barry, thank you for coming.  I am Dr. Rashid.”  His words were clipped and almost overly precise. 

            Debbie guessed that the doctor was offering his hand, so she extended hers; he shook it, his fingers long and slim as they gripped hers, and his palm cool and dry.  “Hi, Doctor.  Yeah, thanks for calling us,” she replied.

            “D’you think you can help my wife?” Pat asked, shaking the doctor’s slim, brown hand in his large, strong grip.

            “We will see.  We will see,” Rashid replied, opening the file on the desk.

            Three figures in lab coats stood huddled in the shadows near the closed door.

            “They are residents,” Rashid said, gesturing vaguely toward the group, his eyes fixed on the file.  “They will watch, maybe help.”

            For the next hour, Rashid examined Debbie’s eyes, and the nerves behind her eyes, and the three residents �" a man and two women �" repeated each of his tests and checks.  Various drops were placed in her eyes, puffs of air and delicate probes tested the pressure in her eyes, and she was asked to move her eyes in various directions.  Debbie felt the urge, as she often did, to cry, “Up periscope!” when she leaned into the optical examination device, and stared through its lenses.  After a time, she was taken to another room, where a tall, jovial woman, who smelled strongly of coffee and salami, when she got close, took an extensive series of photos of Debbie’s optic nerves.  After that, she went to another room, where a petite, Asian woman, with heavily accented English and a musical laugh, used an ultrasound machine to produce a different sort of images of Debbie’s optic nerves.

            “You go eat lunch now,” suggested a tall, male technician, with a Far East accent, escorting Debbie and her husband to the elevator.  “First floor, go right, there is café,” his smile reaching his voice as he patted her shoulder.  “Come back in two hour.”

            Two hours later, they were seated in a tidy office, facing Dr. Rashid across an impeccably clutter-free desk.

            “Miss Barry, I have looked at all your test results and images.  I think you are a perfect candidate for our procedure.  If it successful, you will get back maybe ninety percent of sight you have lost.”

            Shock and elation flooded through her.  Even a chance of restoring so much of her sight was a miracle.  It was the miracle for which she’d prayed.  Debbie listened as Rashid explained the procedure in detail, and then as Pat asked very sensible questions about outcomes and risks.  She signed a number of forms, and then a technician took Debbie and Pat to another room, where they scheduled the procedure for early in the New Year.

            The next few days were a blur.  On top of Christmas celebrations with their family, and Christmas celebrations at church, and the last two parties before Christmas Eve, Debbie and her husband spent a lot of time organizing plane tickets to New York, including arrangements for her wheelchair, and booking a reservation at a hotel recommended by the doctor.  The hotel offered special rates for families of hospital patients.  Debbie made arrangements for her cousin to take care of the cats and take in any mail and packages while they were gone.  Pat scheduled a leave of absence at work, because the hospital stay was expected to last about six weeks.  It was hectic, but a joyful, hopeful sort of hectic.

            On New Year’s Day, Debbie and her husband boarded a flight from Detroit to New York.  An airport limo took them to the hotel, where neither of them was able to sleep, because of the anxiety and excitement.

            The next day, Debbie checked into the hospital.  The first week was filled with more tests, to be sure she really was a good candidate for the procedure.  Dr. Rashid was still out of town, interviewing potential candidates.  Finally, one evening, Rashid appeared in Debbie’s room.

            “We will do the procedure tomorrow morning,” he told her, after the usual pleasantries.  “You are ready?”

            Debbie agreed.  She was more than ready.

            That night, a priest from the chaplaincy program heard Debbie’s confession, gave her the Sacrament of Healing, and gave her the Eucharist.  He prayed with her until a nurse came to inject a mild tranquilizer in her IV.

            “Doc wants ya well-rested t’morra,” she said, cheerfully.

            Debbie was left alone, and she slept.

            The next morning, Debbie awoke to a phlebotomist drawing her blood.  The anesthesia nurse came to review her chart, and then the surgical nurse repeated the process.  The anesthesiologist came in next, but he had fewer questions, and offered more encouragement.  Finally, it was time.  Debbie held Pat’s hand until the transportation technician made him stay behind at a pair of security doors.  The drugs took effect then, and Debbie remembered nothing more.

            Many hours later, a cheerfully persistent nurse gently jostled Debbie.  “Ms. Barry?  Ms. Barry, can ya hear me?  No, don’t open yer eyes, Ms. Barry; jus’ squeeze my fingers, if ya can’ talk yet.”  Debbie struggled up through the fog, until she finally fully regained consciousness.  She squeezed the fingers that were pressed into her palm.

            “Welcome back!” said the same cheerful voice.  “No, now don’ touch ‘em, neither.  Ya gotta keep yer eyes closed, an’ leave that dressin’ on, ‘til th’ doctor says ya can open ‘em.  Jus’ you be patient.  ‘Kay?”

            Debbie nodded, understanding the need.  “Thirsty,” she croaked, her throat sore from the surgical breathing tube that’d been used.

            “Well, I can fix that!” the nurse said.  “Diet Pepsi or Diet Sierra Mist?”

            “Pep … si,” Debbie whispered, the word broken by the sore dryness.

            After sipping a can of ice-cold Diet Pepsi through a plastic straw, Debbie felt better,  The nurse gave her a packet of pretzel twists to eat, so she wouldn’t have too much soda on an empty stomach.  Then they whisked her away to a room, where Pat was waiting.

            The next five weeks were a blur of hospital routines.  Her vitals were checked every four hours, and she got a heparin injection twice a day.  The dressing on her eyes was changed the second day, and then every three days, but she was not allowed to open her eyes, even a crack. 

            Finally, the day came when Debbie and Pat received the long hoped-for, but still almost unexpected, and truly miraculous news.  Dr. Rashid removed the dressing in a darkened room, and told Debbie to open her eyes.  Slowly, the light level increased, and the hospital room came into ever-sharper focus.  Finally, the light was fully on, and Debbie blinked the last bit of blurriness away.  Shaking but certain, she read the eye chart, all the way down to smaller than she’d seen since getting her first glasses, forty years before.  She looked at the red and green dots and trhe blue and orange dots, and she correctly identified every number hidden in the dots.  She read an article from the morning newspaper.

            “Miss Barry,” said Dr. Rashid, “the procedure was a complete success.  The stem cell therapy has completely regrown the missing cells in your optic nerves.”

            After another week in the hospital, to complete the IV antibiotics and steroid step-down, Debbie was released.  Pat took her to the hotel.  She’d lost some weight in the hospital, but the clothes she’d packed still fit.  After a shower and a nap, she felt like herself again.

            “How d’you wanna celebrate, Baby?” her husband asked.  “You’ve got all o’ New York to choose fro,”

            That afternoon, and every day for the next week, Pat pushed Debbie’s wheelchair through one museum after another.  Debbie gazed at the beautiful art and artifacts, seeing them as she’d thought she never would again.  She was enraptured.

            At the end of the week, Debbie saw Rashid in his clinic, so he could check her new vision one more time.  That afternoon, they boarded a flight back to Detroit, and Debbie spent the whole flight gazing out the window, really seeing at last.

Author's Note

Initial reactions and constructive criticism welcome. I decline to get into a morality debate about stem cells, or other topics. This is a fictional story of what-if.