Come Alive Ch. 01

"We need to discuss your results."

"We do? Well, how nice of you to include me in the discussion."

"Please, Mr. Taggart. This is going to be difficult enough as is. Stop with the levity, okay?"

"Hey, you handle your world your way. Let me handle mine the way I want, yes?"

"I'm sorry. You are correct."

Even in Norwegian, the words Surgery and Oncology looked vaguely familiar, and even the surgeon looked the part: fair-skinned and blond, his modestly cultivated face full of freckles, and, of course, he possessed a very calm demeanor.

"We are going to need to go into your left breast, perhaps also through the lymph nodes to your left arm," the surgeon said. "Normally we'd do this in the early morning, but I understand you've not eaten today?"

"No, I haven't."

"Well then, perhaps we should think of moving you to surgery right now."

"Excuse me, but that won't work. I've got to secure my boat, take care of things there before I can do anything like that. Anyway, would someone please tell me what the devil is going on?"

The surgeon looked at the radiologist's report. "It would appear you have a malignancy in your left breast, and probably a few lymph nodes are already involved. Waiting is not something you want to do, Mr. Taggart. Am I making myself clear? How long would it take you to secure your boat?"

"I don't know. An hour?"

"Dr. Bauer? Can you accompany him, see that he finds his way around town without difficulty?"

"Yes, of course. Come on, Henry."

Sitting in the back of another taxi he felt detached from his body as they bounced along the cobblestone streets. "Is this really happening?" he sighed, and he didn't resist when she took his hand, then he realized he was crying and looked away, wiped his face as he looked at his reflection in the window. 'I don't know you, do I?' he thought, then he realized that no, he really didn't know the person in the glass anymore. He was a stranger now. Sick, and, apparently, getting sicker. He shook his head, realized she was still holding his hand and he liked the way she felt. Her skin on his. Simple.

He took her back to the Bandit, this time after walking down a long ramp - forgoing the obligatory hop across the water from the wharf - and he talked her through the ship's systems in case he needed to be away for more than a day or two. He packed a little overnight bag, underwear, toothbrush, those things he might need for an overnight stay, then they walked the long way up to the street. Yet another taxi back to the hospital, and she walked him to admitting and he passed over his new insurance papers, his passport, his US medical insurance papers just for good measure, and after the clerk finished with them Bauer led him to the waiting room outside of surgery.

"I'll see you in the recovery room," Bauer said, smiling just a little.

"Why are you doing this?" Taggart asked.

"Nobody should be alone at a time like this. It has fallen on me to be here for you."

He nodded. "It was the least you could do, right? After making me pay for dinner last night?"

She smiled, squeezed his hand, then watched him disappear into the pre-op area before she took a taxi back to her clinic.

+++++

He woke in a haze, an opiate fueled haze of blissful comfort. It was, he realized, a little like sitting in an inner-tube and floating down a river on a sunny day. Pleasant, care free, a lazy day.

Then he saw Bauer and it all came back in a rush.

His throat was sore, his chest felt heavy, and his left arm wouldn't move. This last realization bothered him most of all, because he'd need that arm to steer...

She saw he was awake and stood, came to his bedside and took his hand again.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he croaked, his mouth dry, his voice ragged.

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

He smiled. "Ah, at last. A kindred spirit."

And she smiled too. "I've been to the boat. All is well down there."

"Good. Do you know how long I'll be tied up in here?"

"I should let your oncologist talk about your options before you consider that."

"You're a physician, no? You can't tell me?"

"I could, but I'd rather not."

"Humor me. Go ahead, I can take it," he said, grinning.

"Jokes might not help today, Henry. You might not want to push aside the feelings you'll have so easily."

"That bad, huh?"

"Not good."

"Chemo? Radiation? All those delightful things?"

She nodded. "At the very least."

"Prognosis?"

She smiled, shook her head. "I don't know."

"Well, Hell. 'I don't know' sounds very bad indeed."

Again she just smiled, though she squeezed his hand again.

"Suppose I just check out of this hotel and take off. How long would I have? Enough to make it to Paris for Christmas?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Yeow! Well, now you've got my complete attention."

"This is not my area of specialization, Henry. You really should talk with your oncologist about your options."

He yawned, his eyes watered and she wiped them dry. "Would you like some ice to chew on?"

"All things considered, I'd rather have a beer."

She smiled, shook her head and nodded at an unseen nurse; a minute later she used a spoon to feed him a few pieces of crushed ice, then wiped his forehead with a damp washcloth. The nurse came in a few minutes later and injected morphine into his IV, and within seconds he was adrift on the river again, marveling at how good the sun felt beating down on his shoulders.

+++++

Two days later he - finally - crawled out of bed, and he stood before a mirror when his nurse changed the bandages covering his surgical wound. He looked at the broad, circular cut under his left breast with a curious mixture of dread and outright horror, but the hideously long incision from there to his armpit looked more like something from a slasher flick. When he saw the drain dangling there he started to feel light-headed and asked to sit down.

A little later another nurse came in and wrapped his upper body in a clear plastic wrap, then she helped him walk to the shower. He sat in there and let the water beat down on his head for what felt like hours, but nothing seemed to wash away the sight of those incisions.

His oncologist wanted to start chemotherapy immediately, but he had put her off. When he explained why she shook her head...

"There is a chance we can help you beat this, you know?" she said.

"It's not much of a chance," he countered. "And I'm not sure I want to spend the time I have left vomiting and watching my hair fall out."

"We have new medicines that keep most of these things from happening..."

"And I have places to go, things I want to do."

The oncologist knew she wasn't going to change his mind, and at last she let her guard down. "You know, I think if I was in your position I might do the same thing."

"But?"

"No buts, Mr. Taggart. In a way, your position makes perfect sense to me, and I'll not stand in your way. It is, after all is said and done, your life. So it is your choice to make."

"Okay. Can you give me an idea how long I might have, and how active I can be?"

"I could, but you won't like what I have to say."

He shrugged, then winced as lightning bolts of hot pain tore through his upper chest.

"You'll want to heal before you try to sail again. Maybe a month, perhaps six weeks, but you'll need to take things carefully, slowly."

"Look, all I really want to know is this. Will I make it to Christmas?"

She shrugged. "That's about six months away. You might, but by then you'll be in a very precarious state."

"Define precarious, please."

"Very close to death."

He nodded, felt a cold vice gripping his soul. "Well, that's clear enough."

"I'm sorry."

"Hey. I asked, didn't I?"

"Dr. Bauer tells me you plan on sailing up to the Lofotens. Reine, I think she said?"

"Yes, that's right."

"It's a beautiful trip. I envy you. But, why Paris?"

"Oh, when I was a kid my parents took me there for Christmas. I was seven years old the first time we went."

"You went more than once?"

"Every year, all the way through high school."

"I see. Yes, I think I can understand that."

"Paris feels like going home to me, I think. Anyway, maybe completing the circle is a better way of looking at it."

"You know, for an American that seems pretty unusual."

"I had unusual parents."

She nodded. "Well, I guess that's that. There's nothing more I can say, really."

"Did I buy some time, doc? Doing this surgery?"

"A little, yes. Will it be enough? I honestly don't know the answer to that, Mr. Taggart."

He took a deep breath, winced at the pain and cursed when he saw his hands shaking. "Time for my meds," he said.

"I'll get your nurse."

"Doc?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks. Thanks for everything." She nodded and walked from his room, and he did not see her stop and lean against the wall, gasping for breath or see her crying.

Dr. Bauer came by before lunch, just in time to see his latest reaction to Norwegian hospital food.

"It must be a universal law. All hospital food must, by law, suck."

"Yes, it's our secret weapon. How else could we get patients to leave so quickly?"

He nodded as he looked at the stuff on his tray, in the end pushing it away. "They tell me I can leave in the morning. How's the Bandit?"

"Oh, just fine. My son is onboard, cleaning up a little."

"Your son? I didn't know..."

"He loves boats," she said quickly. "I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not. How old is he?"

"Fourteen, going on forty."

He grinned. "Ah yes, I know the type well. Tell me, is he as sarcastic as I am?"

"Not yet, but give him time. Anyway, I will come for you in the morning around ten. Sorry, but I must get to the clinic now."

And then she was gone.

+++++

His dreams were terrible that night. Nightmares punctuated by flailing interludes of restless turning, and it didn't help that 'night' seemed to last a little less than two hours. By four in the morning he was sitting up on the side of the bed, doing the prescribed exercises that would, hopefully, help get his left arm back into the game. Ever since high school he'd lifted weights, and running every day had kept his legs brutally strong, and he felt like he the reserves of strength necessary to recuperate while sailing Bandit...but time would tell. Thoughts like these played with him, toyed with his sense of himself until he began to question everything he'd ever done.

Nurses came in and drew blood, then one stayed behind and wrapped him in plastic again, this time showing him how he would need to do it by himself once he was back on board, and once again he sat under the hot water, lost in thought.

'I can do this.'

'I can't handle wiping my own ass right now. How on earth can I take the Bandit back out to sea?'

'Maybe I should just put her on the market, go back to California...'

But making it to Paris for Christmas, one more Christmas, still seemed the best thing to do, and sitting there under that endless stream of hot water, he just knew he could handle his little ship and get her there.

A heap of gelatinous yellow muck, something that was supposed to approximate scrambled eggs, arrived after his shower, then that pretty oncologist dropped by once again.

She pointed at his tray: "What in God's name is that?"

"Scrambled eggs. Want some?"

She leaned over, looked at the pile of yellow goo, almost studying it before she backed away in disgust. "Well, no surprises in your lab work, no new infection, anyway, so I'll sign your discharge orders. Do you have any questions for me while you're here?"

"Not unless you can transplant my brain into a new body."

"Sorry. We're all out of fresh bodies this week."

"Ain't it the truth."

"So. It is off to the Lofoten Islands for you? When will you leave?"

"I'd imagine a week or so."

"That is much to soon. Don't do it."

"Okay."

"Where is your boat moored?"

"Tied up almost right in front of the fish market, down in the old town."

"Nice. Would you mind if I dropped by sometime? See how you're doing?"

"No, not at all - I'll look forward to it."

She smiled. "Ah, well, then I'll see you soon. Good morning to you."

"Yes, bye..." he said quickly to her retreating lab coat.

He stood up - too quickly - and the room began to spin...so he sat down and held on to the bed rails until the feeling passed, taking deep breaths all the while, then he tried again...this time more slowly.

"That's better," he said as he shuffled across the cold floor to the little dresser where his clothes had been stashed. He slipped out of his gown and pulled on clean underwear, troubled by how difficult even this menial chore seemed now, then he tried to pull his shirt on...and that proved to be simply impossible. He couldn't raise his left arm high enough to get his arm in the sleeve, so he pulled the shirt off in disgust and threw it on the floor, walked back to the bed.

One of the dayshift nurses came in, saw his shirt on the floor and picked it up. "Having trouble?"

He grumbled, shook his head.

"Ah, I think perhaps you are."

More grumbling, dark clouds forming over his head.

"Try to gather it up and work the shirt up your bad arm, like this," she said, holding the shirt up and gently sliding the sleeve up his left arm. "Now, over your head, then get the other arm through, like this."

"Okay," he snarled. "Now, what about socks, and tying my shoes?"

"One thing at a time."

By the time Bauer arrived, he was covered in sweat and his mood had darkened considerably. And he had still not managed to get his shoes on. She saw his frustration, then all his sweat-soaked clothing, and bent down, put on his shoes without saying a word. An orderly helped him into a wheelchair and got him to the street; Bauer helped him into a small van she'd hired to pick him up.

Getting onto Bandit proved even more problematic, and by the time he made it up into the cockpit he was almost in tears. Doing even the smallest things required two hands, and that meant two working arms, yet his left was still strapped to his torso, and now totally useless. Sensing his mood, Bauer left him on deck and returned to her clinic.

After school let out, Rolf Bauer met his mother there, and they went down to Bandit together. She'd thought about postponing this meeting but Henry had insisted, wanting to thank the boy for his hard work.

"So, this is your boy?"

"Yes. Rolf, say hello to Mr. Taggart."

"It's Henry, Rolf. Okay?"

"Okay. Nice to meet you, Henry."

"Well, you did a bang-up job up here, really great. Many thanks!"

"You are welcome. Mother tells me you are sailing up to the Lofotens?"

"Yes. Yes, indeed."

"I've never been."

"Ah. Well, what did you have in mind?"

"I could act as crew, maybe?"

"Rolf!" his mother cried. "You cannot ask such a thing, it's simply not polite to make such a request."

Taggert watched the interplay between mother and son, all his pent up hope and her surprised reprisal, with a sense of brooding déjà vu streaming through his mind's eye. Rolf, he saw, was a budding Henry! A real 'smart ass' in the making! A true kindred spirit! His mother? Overbearing, a little too controlling, kind of like someone he remembered...

"Excellent!" Henry said. "I could use an extra pair of hands!"

Which stopped mother and son dead in their tracks.

"What did you say?" mother and son said in the same breath.

"Sounds good to me?" Henry said, now grinning sheepishly. "And now, I need some food. Some real food. Anyone care to join me for dinner?"

"I would!" Rolf said, holding up his hand like he was still in school.

Henry looked at Bauer. "You too? Or are you going to stand there and pout all night?"

"Yes, of course I'll join you," she said.

"Do you know," he chimed in, "that I have no idea what your name is?"

"Britt," Dr. Bauer said. "I'm sorry, I just thought..."

"Britt? Britt Bauer? Okay, so BB it is..."

"BB?"

Rolf burst out laughing. "I love it! BB! Ha-ha-ha..."

"Oh, this is going to be a fun evening," he said as he passed Britt on his way to the swim platform.

She rolled her eyes.

When they'd made it up to the street he looked around, shook his head.

"No seafood for me tonight," he snarled.

"I want Indian!" Rolf blurted out, and as his mother was about to correct him he cut in.

"My favorite! I didn't know y'all had Indian food up here?"

"Really?" Britt said. "You really like it?"

"Hell yes, the hotter the better."

"Me too!" Rolf cried.

"I feel a contest of wills building here, boy. You better not be foolin' around, 'cause I'm a pro from way back."

She walked behind them, watched this frightful old American and her equally frightful son getting along like best friends who hadn't seen each other in years and she couldn't help but wonder...could this work? Could her son help this comedic lost soul? Could this lost soul fill in the gaps, help her son grow out of his years long depression? Was it worth the risk?

"Damn, it's getting cool out," he said after a few minutes walking.

"You're anemic, cold will effect you a little more now."

"Of course it will. Why not?"

"I will put you on an iron supplement tomorrow."

"Maybe I could just buy a sweater, like that one!"

There was a shop full of sweaters in a window display but she held out her hand. "Those are very expensive, you might want to try another shop..."

"Nonsense, these look fantastic. Dale of Norway. How about that..."

"It is pronounced like the word doll."

"Of course it is," he said as he stepped into the shop. He walked right up to one he liked and held it up to himself, checking for size. "Think this one is too big?"

"It might be a little difficult to put on," she said, trying to be helpful.

"True. A cardigan it is, then." He found one and she helped him with it. "Now this is comfy. Warm, too."

"They are the best sweaters in the world," Rolf said.

"And I'll bet you have two of them."

"No," he said, frowning.

"Well, pick one out."

"Really?"

"Rolf," his mother said, "no!"

"Rolf, ignore your mother."

"You have no right to do this!" Britt cried.

"I have every right. Your son worked for hours on my boat. I need to do something for him, don't I?"

She looked crestfallen and turned away.

"And you might as well pick one out, too."

They walked out of the shop ten minutes later in black sweaters. There were lots of smiles all around.

Rolf ordered a beef vindaloo at the Indian place, and asked for it 'extra hot'...

Mom order chicken tikka masala, mild.

"Lamb masala. Napalm."

"I beg your pardon, sahib?" their perplexed waiter said.

"So hot it'll melt my fork?"

"You are sure, sahib?"

"Oh yeah, baby. Bring it on."

"I beg your pardon, sahib?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Very good, sahib."

He sat back and looked at BB, really for the first time since they'd met. She looked to be 35, maybe 40 years old, and she looked like a mother. He didn't know why, but she did. Maybe a little too stressed out when Rolf was around? Like she was in over her head? Beyond that, she looked like almost every other Norwegian girl he'd seen since he got here: tall, skinny, big tits, blond hair and a huge, toothy smile. In short, they looked like every other girl in Southern California, and probably ninety nine percent of the girls in Newport Beach.

The major difference, as far as he could tell, was that BB spoke better English than the girls in Southern California, and he'd long ago given up trying to understand girls from the San Fernando Valley...the so-called Valley Girls. They were an alien species.

Even so, he didn't find her all that attractive, and sitting there beside her he wondered why. She was, really, objectively pretty. She was obviously intelligent, too. 'So, why don't I find her cute?' he asked himself.