Christmas Lost

I considered my next step a stroke of genius. I hired a nanny service to provide a nanny for each. We flew to Cancun as four separate groups and the girls did their very best to pretend they didn't know each other.

In Cancun I bought a fully equipped Lexus LX for cash. Hell, with all the Mexican taxes the damn thing cost almost as much as my H1. I guess it was worth it. I soon discovered that Jake Silverstein was right when he described the Pan American Highway as more an idea than a road. I put that LX through hell by the time I reached Peru.

At a country that I won't name I'd acquired a new identity and new passports. Once in Quito, we flew to Nigeria. There I acquired two different legal citizenships for yet other unnamed countries. There seems to be no end to what you can buy in corrupt countries.

Three months and over two million dollars later I breathed a sigh of relief when I was able to buy a nice villa in one of countries south of Mexico which has English as an official language. Since the girl's birthday, May 21st was only two weeks away I decided to combine a housewarming party with a birthday party for the girls. I had carefully coached them as to their new last name and that they were never to mention anything about our life before, but I was still a bit worried about it.

I decided it would be a great idea to hold a family council to make the point clear and to find out what they'd like for their birthday.

Lindsey was always the boldest and was their spokesman that night. "Daddy, I know that we can't see mommy, but we decided that we want to talk to her for our birthday present. Can you make that happen? We'll dye our hair and get new clothes..."

My head began pounding in the fiercest headache of my life. As I looked at my three beautiful daughters the scales fell from my eyes and I saw what I'd done. I couldn't contain a sob as I told them that I'd make sure they had the best birthday ever.

I fled to my room before my shame overwhelmed me. I couldn't believe the type of person I'd become. I spent the hardest night of my life looking at who and what I was. I tried to dismiss my actions as an extreme case of midlife crisis, but I couldn't. By three AM I knew what I had to do and I placed a call to Houston.

I arranged for a charter jet to be waiting in the morning for Jan to fly down here. Then, in the hardest thing I've ever done I used one of my disposable cell phones to call home. It was nearly six in the morning and I heard Jan's sleepy voice.

"Jan, there's a charter waiting for you at Hobby. It will bring you here for the girls. I'll be gone when you get here so don't delay." I hung up before she could say a word and wept.

In my flight to paranoia I'd bought a special identity to use if I was permanently cut off from my money. I'd used a different source so there'd be no connection to my other aliases. It was full legend, which meant it wasn't just legal name and citizenship to a tiny and corrupt country. This one had a full history, schools and even credentials from a third rate medical school in a different fourth world country. I figured in a worst case scenario I could earn enough as a doctor to support us.

Now I was about to learn just how little a medical degree could be worth. The "exam I'd taken to get the license could have been passed by any junior pre-med student. The jobs available were on about that level, not that I applied for any. Instead I wanted to join "Fingers in the Dike." FID is a private medical charity that sends doctors and nurses into the pandemic areas around the world to provide free care to the most needy.

I almost wasn't accepted. My medical school wasn't fully accredited but after hours of interviews I ended up in front of a elderly doctor whose white hair floated around his bald center like a fluffy halo. He was the first person not to ask about my credentials. Instead he asked about my reasons.

I swear that cherubic exterior was an evil disguise for the soul of Tomás de Torquemada. No, I take that back. Torquemada required hot coals and torture instruments. Father John just needed a gentle smile and eyes that gouged into your deepest soul like a left over tunnel borer from the "Big Dig" in Boston.

I'm not Catholic. Hell, I'm not anything, but I found myself asking if he could hear my confession. When he agreed it all came pouring out in a rush. He listened asking a few penetrating questions and an eternity later I was wringing wet with sweat and limp as a wet noodle.

"My son, don't you think you should go back home and face your wife?"

I shook my head, "I can't. I can't look myself in the mirror much less Jan. My lawyer has the power of attorney to let her divorce me. I've instructed him to give her everything. Right now I'm not worthy to talk to her much less ask her to forgive me. I couldn't stand to be there and not see the girls and I don't trust myself not to try to run off with them again if I were back there. Besides, what's the point? I've had everything a man could want and it didn't make me happy. Maybe if I devote myself to the care of others I might find some measure of peace."

I saw depthless sorrow in Father John's eyes, "It won't help, but I don't suppose you'll listen to me about that either. If you'd listen, I'd send you back to Houston to use your God-given skills to support a dozen less-skilled doctors."

He sighed, "But you'll need to find out for yourself. I'm bound by the confessional not to use the information you've given me. Still, I no longer have a concern that you're not competent to practice tropical medicine. I'm going to send you to sub-Sahara Africa where there is an expanding outbreak of bacterial meningitis. There's not a lot we can do, but it's where we're needed the most."

I spent three months at a training facility to learn how to deal with disease and conditions I'd only read about for trick test questions on medical exams. Then I was off. I went to see if I could somehow balance my Karma by doing good deeds. I was more than appalled at what I found there. I expected conditions like I'd seen in parts of South America where hospitals for the poor still used wards holding as many as a hundred patients. In this African country I saw nearly that many in rooms that were little more that grass huts. There was no sanitation ... there was no running water! I found people left to die with no privacy and even less dignity.

I threw myself into my work, we did have medicines. Many of the major drug companies would provide us with out of date supplies. These were still perfectly good, merely past the point that they felt safe selling them in lawyer-rich countries.

I was only dealing with the worst cases, but there were several hundred worst cases. I found I was performing one or two tracheotomies (a tube inserted through a hole in the throat to allow a patient to breathe) a day because we didn't have the oxygen equipment needed to avoid them. I was also losing about that many patients a day. I was also doing minor and major surgeries, and after a typical twelve-hour day I'd spend as much time as I could hunting for the source of the outbreak.

The problem wasn't finding a source, it was that I had too many possible sources. Sanitation methods would have been laughed at during the Dark Ages. And it wasn't that the country didn't have the money to fix the problem. Aid from first world countries had been more than adequate. The problem was that the money ended up in the pockets of endless bureaucrats, petty officials and especially those at the top. Oh, it would pass simple audits, but these examinations didn't show that every service was overpriced and done by companies owned by those in power. I was beginning to hate corruption.

After I'd been there about three months a light went on. Actually it was more of a "duh" moment. I was sitting in my screened-in desk, a headache pounding while I was writing one of my daily emails to my daughters that I'd store but never send. I was absently scratching flea bites while I tried to tell them what I was doing. Suddenly I realized what I WAS doing. Then it dawned on me that we might not be fighting meningitis, but meningeal plague. The symptoms are very similar and it's easy to misdiagnose meningeal plague, a rare form of medieval Black Death as meningitis. I remember what one of my medical professors once told me about diagnosis, "If you see horse dropping, you don't go looking for a zebra." Well, this was Africa and if you find droppings here it is as likely to be a zebra as a horse.

Energized I took three samples and placed a call to CDC. It's amazing how quickly you can cut through that bureaucracy when you mention plague. In less than 24 hours they had a team on site and were able to confirm my hypothesis. They also confirmed that it co-existed with an actual epidemic of meningitis.

I was a hero! Everyone's darling, and reporters wanted to interview me ... and I didn't care. I already knew that fame was a hollow god. In my depression I also understood that trying to be a plaster saint didn't bring me happiness. I seriously thought about self prescribing anti-depressants, but I was too good a doctor to do anything that foolish.

Father John had arrived with the CDC team, and girding up my loins, I braced myself for another of his probing sessions. It didn't go the way I expected.

I thought that Father John would tell me that the source of my lack of happiness was being isolated from my family. I expected him to send me home to face whatever Jan had in store for me.

Instead, he spent hours and hours making me look at my value system. Tough questions that made me question my actions and search for the underlying assumptions that had led me to my choices.

It was during one of theses sessions that my hands began to tremble uncontrollably. My head felt like someone was trying to carve a replica of Mt. Rushmore inside. It didn't last long, but felt the need to dash to the bathroom before I made a mess in my pants.

The next thing I knew I was waking up in a hospital bed; a clean, fresh hospital bed in a modern hospital room. When I reached for the call button, I had to use both hands because of the trembling. Instead of a nurse Father John appeared, his gaze the sort I hope I never see again.

"Where am I?" Before he could answer I continued, "This is part of my confession Father John, you can't tell a soul about it."

I could see his internal struggle, and then his face relaxed. "How long has this been going on?" his voice grave, concern etched on his face. "Have you have any other full-blown seizures?"

"No! This was the first time for the trembling too, but I've had the headaches for months."

"Physician, heal thyself?"

I gave him a rueful grin, "No, I thought they were just stress headaches. What do you know?"

"You're in Johannesburg, we used one of the CDC planes to fly you down here. An MRI shows a primary tumor we're not sure if it's a Grade II or a Grade III."

I felt a chill go down my spine. Knowing it was a primary tumor meant that I didn't have to worry about cancer in other parts of my body. That didn't give me much comfort though. A Grade II brain tumor gave me an excellent shot at full recovery. A Grade III reversed my odds, a Grade IV tumor was a death sentence.

South Africa had a great medical system. Dr. Christiaan Barnard conducted the first heart transplant here back in 1967. I didn't feel any need to go back to the States as long as they were trying to treat me with radiation. By the time they started using a gamma knife on me I had confidence in the team treating me.

As the girls' birthday approached I was so ill from the radiation I could barely cruise the internet long enough to locate the latest and greatest fad toys for my angels. I had to empty the emesis basin three times during the process. As I looked at the confirmation screen, using my false name I felt tears form in my eyes. I wasn't in hospice care yet, but my prospects were not great. I was going to miss a second major event in my daughters' lives and I was utterly alone. The closest thing I had to a friend was Father John, and ours was a confrontational relationship at best. Worst of all, as I examined my life I realized I still had never found that illusive state of happiness that most TV commercials assure was the human norm, neither in my successes nor in my wealth. All the months of selfless service hadn't made me happy either, and now I was facing my human mortality knowing I ... knowing I knew nothing, I'd accomplished nothing, and if I died I didn't have enough friends to serve as pall bearers. My tears were every bit as bitter as the bile I continued to dispose in my emesis basin.

The next two weeks were worse. A pre-teen doctor trying to mimic a mature visage informed me that the radiation treatments weren't working. The only remaining option was surgery. At least he had the grace not to look at his watch as the delivered the message. His fidgeting left me no doubt about his real motives. He wanted to test his mettle by hacking into my brain. I know he was disappointed that I didn't give him immediate permission.

Three days later I was still trying to decide what to do. If I was going to let someone twiddle my gray matter, there was only one man I trusted to do it, Dr. Jim Murphy.

Dr. Murphy was a few years younger than me, and even more arrogant than I'd ever dreamed of being. Can you call it arrogance, though, if you're even better than you think you are? Dr. Murphy was that good. He was the only person I had ever seen whose stitches were as tight as mine. More important, he had the same gift of healing I had. During my time in South Africa I'd become addicted to "House, M.D." and I was pretty sure that they'd used Dr. Murphy as the prototype but had toned down his personality. The problem was that if I even contacted Dr. Murphy, Jan would know where I was before I got off the phone.

I woke in the middle of the afternoon with another wave of nausea and had just punched for the nurse when my door burst open to a chorus of "Daddy!" which preceded three hurtling bodies. Fortunately I wasn't holding my emesis basin when I was enveloped in little girls.

It had never been possible for me to hear what any one of them said when they were all talking at the same time. At the first pause in the kissing and hugging I pulled back to look at each of them. I'd never had the slightest problem telling who was who. I just always knew, and frankly I didn't think they were fully identical. As I looked at my precious girls, they still looked very different from each other, but I was horrified to realize that I didn't know what name went with which girl. They'd grown and changed so in the year apart that couldn't say which was which.

Tear began to fill my eyes and of course the girls saw it. "Daddy does it hurt for us to hug you? Mommy said you were very sick..."

Until that second I hadn't realized that Jan wasn't here. "Where is Mommy?"

"Oh, she's downstairs. She said that since it was our birthday present that found you we should get to see you first. Now that we found you, you won't be lost any more! Right, Daddy?"

I asked other questions and as the girls used each other's names I got them sorted out. They were full of news, but it was the news that fascinated five-year-olds. CNN didn't have a chance; even Fox News might have been challenged to keep up. Still, they'd been going on adrenalin and one by one they fell asleep clinging to me as if afraid I might disappear again. How can an act of love break your heart...?

Only minutes after the last one fell asleep three young interns appeared and one whispered that they were going to take the girls to a bed in the doctor's lounge area. I couldn't quite read his expression as he addressed me as "Dr. Nelson."

I knew Jan would be here in a few minutes and I tried desperately to figure out what I was going to say. I wanted to apologize for my stupidity with the nurse and with the kidnapping of our daughters, but I also wanted to tell her how much it meant to me for her to bring them to me right now.

Just as I decided to start with the apology, she walked into the room and my heart soared into my mouth plugging my ability to speak. She was so beautiful, so regal, so perfect I felt more tears trying to form.

I saw concern in her eyes as they met mine and then saw it deepen as she saw my hands shaking. "I wish I'd known about this when you were doing all those crazy things..."

I interrupted her before she could continue, "The tumor didn't cause any of my actions. That was me and my lack of character. I wasn't happy and I couldn't figure out why. I had everything a man could want but something was missing.

Her eyes locked with mine, "I know that, but the girls don't. I hoped you'd stand accountable, but the fact is that I don't want to deal with or dwell on that time unless you make it through this ordeal.

"If you're going to die, I want to the girls to think that your brain tumor is what caused you to do all those despicable things. Now this is the last we'll speak of that until we need to deal with our future."

I felt my heart swelling again, "But what did you tell them about our divorce? Don't we..."

She cut me off, "We're not divorced."

I felt my jaw drop, "Why? I left my power of attorney and instructions to give you everything. What happened?"

Jan sighed, "I had my reasons, not least of which was that still being legally your wife made it easier to find you. That's all I want to say about that right now."

I gulped, "How did you find me? I was pretty sure the account I used to email the girls was untraceable."

"It was, but I appreciate you emailing them. I can't tell you how much they looked forward to hearing from you. When you went a full week without a message they were almost impossible to console."

I winced, "There were some times when I didn't have any access to a phone, much less the internet."

I could see the conflict on Jan's face. She didn't want to discuss what I'd done but she desperately needed to know where I'd been and what I'd done. I decided to volunteer the information and let her cut me off if she'd had enough.

"I've been in Africa almost from the day you picked up the girls. I've been working with FID and it wasn't for any noble reasons. It was because I hoped that if I were doing something selfless, helping others, it might make up for all the shit I've done and I might be able to find a little happiness. It wasn't working. I kept thinking that all I was doing could be done by any fourth-rate doctor..."

Pride fleeted across Jan's face, "It took a first class doctor to diagnose plague instead of only meningitis."

I was quite while I tried to figure out what her expression meant. Was she proud of my work with FID or of my luck in diagnosis. Could there be any pride in me? As I thought about it, I decide that I didn't know enough to hazard a guess.

Before I could continue Jan said, "It was the girl's birthday gifts. Your store provided the return address and our detective had your alias and hospital that afternoon. It took us a bit longer to locate you because we'd assumed you were practicing here and not a patient. Getting access to your medical records was a bit more difficult. I had to wait until we got here and show proof that we were married. No one here believed your alias by the way. You're too well known in heart surgery to escape unnoticed at a major heart hospital."

"I talked to Dr. Murphy, I assume you want him to do the surgery. We can get you on a medical flight to Houston tomorrow. Until then just remember the girls think you've been sick for over a year. At their age things don't have to make perfect sense."

Jan's façade cracked and she sobbed for a second, "Has anyone told you your odds?" Her eyes crackled but again as well as I knew her I couldn't read her expression. I just couldn't decide if it was hatred or deep concern.