Young Writers Society

This story is an excerpt from a planned anthology I'm working on with a few colleagues. Hopefully the added introductory piece will make it make sense. It's unfinished but i wanted to see what the initial feedback would be. Enjoy!

A Tale of Many Lives

An Anthology on Reincarnation

"Welcome back,” says a gentle soothing voice like a gentle breeze tickling wind chimes. I feel the soft touch of velvet on me and as I pull back the sheet of my bed, I look around bewildered at my surroundings. Everything is opulent and beautiful; the glass in the windows of the room is filled with streaks of dazzling prismatic spray. The window is framed in two toned gold and silver that swirls out in artistic waves of noble metal. But it pales in comparison to what lays beyond the window. A waterfall of clouds descends majestically outside my window.

"Where am I?" I ask.

"This is Creation," answers the voice. The voice seems to come from the entire room itself.

"Is this heaven?"

"That is what some souls call it"

"Who are you, where are you?" I ask growing exasperated with the short answers.

"I'm the Creator though much like Creation I go by many names. As for where I am, I am all and one, I am the bed you lay upon and the fabric of what you are. But if you would like I can appear as a physical avatar"

"I think that would be better than talking to the room." I reply smiling wryly.

Glitter appears from nowhere upon the immaculate floor, rising, forming a calm dust storm, then undulating into a large sphere of light that is difficult to look at because of its brightness

"Could you possibly turn down the light?"

The sphere glows a little bit dimmer becoming like a sun on brisk windy day rather a hot summer beach.

"So can I assume that since I'm here that I'm dead?"

"Yes, though you'll notice that you probably don't remember any of your previous life. You still have your ability to communicate but most of your memories of your world have been stored elsewhere."

"Why take my memories"

"Because some experiences one has in life are traumatic, you strengthen yourself in life by living with them but once you reach me you have the right to get out of the marathon, to just be. You can always visit them while you're here; they're kept in the Mausoleum of Memory. For example you didn't die of old age, you were killed. Experiencing Creation with those kinds of memories would be less than euphoric.

"Oh," I say momentarily taken aback. I bit my lip, "so, what happens to me now?"

“Well that's actually already been decided by you. Before your memories are stored we allow your beliefs to decide your fate, while you lived you believed in reincarnation therefore, you have the opportunity to go back to the world of the living. Would you like to see?"

"Yes"

Suddenly the velvet four poster bed, and the idyllic sky paradise is gone replaced by a long hallway which seems to go on forever in both directions. The walls seem to be made of the same silver and gold that the previous room was. The silver material frames doors with crown molding of gold. However, the doors themselves are the marvel of this room. Each door seems to randomly be decorated, the one on my left covered in leaves of vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows. The door on the right is covered in scientific equations in stark blacks, whites and reds. Every door as far as I can see is colored and decorated differently right down the handles some are animals, or weather symbols or letters. The possibilities seem to be endless.

"What is this place?"

"This is the Hall of Life's of Life’s Possibilities; here reincarnaters have the opportunity to have a glimpse of their return to life. Each door you open will give you a look into a life. Open as many doors as you would like, some of them you'll experience as an active participant, others you may experience as a passive watcher. But remember these are not guarantees of anything. You will see what happens but only what you see will certainly occur and when you return to life you won't remember what you've seen. I will implant within you the desire to make these things come to pass, I will assist you but free will is and will always be yours. Choose wisely"

With that the floating light pops, leaving a spray of warm light which slowly fades back into the material of the hallway. I reach for a door and I'm pulled into possibility.

To Do No Harm

I see the door in front me. It’s not an attractive door like the one next to it which is a riot of color. No, this one is more serious; perhaps even moody if a door could be so inclined. The door’s frame is blood red, not dripping like something out of a horror movie, yet not completely dry like paint. It shines like fresh blood but I touch it and feel it is smooth with lacquer. I let my eyes drift intently over the door. If the frame is interesting, the door itself is downright boring. It’s covered in words:

“I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant:

I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know. Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God.

I will remember that I do not treat a fever chart, a cancerous growth, but a sick human being, whose illness may affect the person's family and economic stability. My responsibility includes these related problems, if I am to care adequately for the sick.

I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.

If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.”

“Louis Lasagna”

The door handle is an ornate thing. The handle is a dark reddish brown vertical cylinder with an even darker green serpent wrapped around it. The door has a sense of foreboding to it. The door isn't bright, but it isn't completely dark either. It seems to radiate- for lack of better word- a middle path. I run my hands slowly over the words "I must not play God." The words aren’t just written on the dark door, they’re etched. I feel the impressions of the words beneath my fingers. This door, I have to know what's on the other side of it. I pull the handle down with my hand and find myself pulled into a void, blackness consuming me, then….

"This is it!" I think to myself with excitement. "All the hard work has paid off," I finish the thought, rubbing my name badged etched with the sweet words: Danny Freed: Resident, Ocean Springs General Hospital. There were days I wondered if I would ever make this far. The long road from high school to doctor had almost ended in my junior year when I thought I wanted to be a writer instead. Luckily my father had convinced of the error of that notion, none to gently either. But it was all worth it! I was a doctor-and with no debt, to top it all. I was as high on cloud nine as you could get. I strutted down the sterile white hallways lined in soft lines of green and blue. This was my castle and I was king. I moved to the nurses station to take my first audiences for the day.

"Hail the conquering hero!" I say in a faux British accent.

"Who filled you up with helium?" responds the ever stoic nurse Lanya Curing.

"Don't you know what today is?" I ask, feeling my good vibrations beginning to slow.

"I'm just teasing you."she responds in a familiar monotone

"You're paradox, you know that right? you tease me in the same monotone voice you use to scold me. It confuses the hell out of me."

"Well Jesus said to cure your neighbor of his hellish influences."

I swear her cross necklace winked at me when she said that.

"If by hellish influences you mean my inability to touch the patients then yes, you've certainly cured me of that.

“I thought it was endearing that you couldn’t touch any of them when you came. It was uplifting to watch you grow from awkward intern to attending doctor. But enough of the chick flick hour. It’s your turn to take a rotation.”

“A rotation on what?”

“The Schneider case.”

“Sounds like I’ve stepped in it this time.”

“It’s more of how good you’ve gotten to be. The Schneider’s are the largest investors in the hospital. They’ve asked for yet another new doctor for their daughter Winifred. They assume that there’s something wrong with the doctor, but really it’s just they can’t accept the diagnosis. Winifred is in that room right over there. Her parents will be in this evening to meet with you.” she hands me her chart on a digital clipboard.

I take the clipboard and tuck it under my arm, as I move around the nurses’ station. I pause before entering the room looking through her chart. The story the chart tells isn’t a happy one. Winifred was born healthy but has been showing symptoms of Multiple Sclerosis and Ehlers–Danlos syndrome since she was born. Typically, MS is easier to manage the younger it starts; but Winifred’s progression was following the inverse course, and with the addition of EDS her prognosis was grim. She was admitted here a little over a year ago and since then she had steadily weakened as nerves and joints deteriorated. I walk into Winifred’s room and see her for the first time; she’s pale colored whether that’s from being bedridden or if it’s her natural color I can’t tell. She has a young emotionless face and framed with dark hair cropped short. It’s hard to see a girl her age in a hospital bed, especially knowing she’s been in one for a while. I can’t tell if she’s tall from her lying in the bed but I can guess that’s she in her mid teens. Her auburn hair is messy and she’s not wearing any make-up, though judging from her chart she might find it difficult to put on by herself. She’s drawing in a notebook with soft strokes of a pencil, the picture half done. The sketch shows the view from outside her window where cars continually pass by the hospital and outlet mall. It’s one of the busiest intersections in the city.

“Good morning, Winifred. How are you feeling today?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Do you like to draw?”

Yet again she doesn’t answer; she doesn’t even acknowledge me. It’s time to try a new tactic. I take off my stethoscope, lay the clipboard down on her bedside table, and sit at the end of her bed. I watch her continue to draw.

“You have a very soft touch,” I say as I watch her stroke the paper with the pencil, like a mother would stroke a child’s face.

“I have to, otherwise I would break my own fingers,” She replies, her voice a soft note against the beeping and clicking of the minutia of equipment keeping her alive.

“Winifred, my name is Dr.Freed; I’ll be your new doctor.”

“You mean you’ll be my parents’ new lackey.”

I look at her puzzled. She stops drawing, looking at me for the first time. Her eyes are a pale azure, soft and hard at the same time.

“Since I’m underage I can’t make decisions for myself. This almost invariably means that no matter what I say, my doctor will demonstrate that he’s actually their pawn. “

“How about this Winifred, If you promise to be honest with me and communicate with me, then I will work with you to help your parents understand. What do you say?”

“I think that you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I think that if two people make a promise with an earnest desire to see it through then it has no choice but to come true.”

“We’ll see what you say after you meet my parents. They should be here this evening.”

“So I heard. Well how about this then? I will keep my offer open until you accept it, whether that is after I talk with your parents or somewhere else down the road.”

She doesn’t say anything again, but I suppose that’s not surprising.

“Is there anything I can get you before I go?”

“No, just leave.”

I smile at her warmly. She doesn’t show any signs that it’s affecting her.

“Okay I’ll see you later.”

I leave the room, closing the door behind me. I return to the nurses station and replace the chart.

“Did she speak to you?” asks Lanya.

“Yes just a little. She even gruffly said good bye- or dismissed me depending on who you’re asking,” I say shrugging my shoulders.

“Wow, I’m surprised! I’ve given her medicine for the last couple of weeks and she’s never said a word.”

“It’s hard to see defeat and acceptance in a face so young.”

“It’s your job to keep her apprised of her options.”

“What if there aren’t any?”

“One option is still an option.”

She doesn’t have to tell me what that option is. We all know death is our coworker in the business of medicine. When I’m not sure what my odds are, I always go to the same place for guidance. When I was just an intern I was assigned to work with a mentor who later became one of my greatest friends. He’s a quiet guy, not prone to emotional outburst like me. I suppose that’s why we get along so well. Dr.J likes to spend his breaks reading poetry on the old worn out couch in the break room. As I walk the clean but crowded halls I find him there as I always do. He sits composed one leg crossed over the over on the couch by the window. The old couch giving to his weight far more than it should. He lab coat lays folded across the arm of the couch. His face is blocked out by the colorful pages of a book of poetry, The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou.

“Hey Dr. J.”

The top of the book slides down a hair, revealing bushy brows and eyes sparkling with intelligence under them.

“What’s up Dan? “Dr. J asks.

“Do you have any background on Winifred Schneider? Her parents will be here this evening and I would prefer not to be going in blind.”

“It’s a textbook case of parents not wanting to accept the prognosis that medicine has to offer them.”

“Yes, but what do I do about it? I’m not used to working with the kids.”

“Consider this a learning opportunity then”

The book moves back up, but I don’t move. One of those long pauses goes by where one person thinks the conversation is over and the other person doesn’t. The book finally moves back down again.

“Did you need something else?”

“Um, I was sorta of looking for some advice.”

“Obviously, Dan, but I’m reading and this is my first break in eight hours. The best I can offer you is a few lines of poetry.

“It’s not anything depressing is it? I remember when you read me The Wasteland. I wanted to hang myself after that.”

“It’s certainly not supposed to be, and it’s definitely not, compared to that work.” The book finally lies flat, revealing the face of my mentor. He’s in his early forties, but keeps himself very fit to keep his blood sugar under control. If you look closely you can even see the insulin pump on his hip, though it would be easy to mistake it for a pager. His face speaks to his tired demeanor. Usually, he’s much more open to helping. He begins to read, letting the words roll off his tongue.

“The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom,”

The book returns to the upright position, and I can tell that it is not coming down again anytime soon. I walk out of the break room chewing over the words of the poem, ruminating on their meaning. “The caged bird sings of freedom-what could he mean by that?” I don’t have long to ponder that thought as I quickly get pulled into the lengthy list of appointments I have to keep.

I’m not able to even look in on Winifred until four in the afternoon, by which time her parents have arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Schneider are quite the pair, judging from the look of them. Mr. Schneider stands with stern posture in red and white checkered pattern shirt and dress khakis. His hair is jet black and short enough that it stands up on its own. His face is handsome but has a sternness to it that doesn’t mesh with the rest of his demeanor. Mrs. Schneider, on the other hand, is dressed like she’s at a party, not a hospital. Her dress is a long red fashionable thing with ruffles and frillery all about it. Her hair is well styled and her cosmetics make it difficult even for me as a doctor to tell her age, though I can guess at least that she’s over 30. Her expression is one of boredom and misgiving. Needless to say, I’m thrilled to speak with them. I walk over despite my expert body language reading.

“You must be Mr. and Mrs. Schneider. I’m Dr. Freed,” I say.

“Dr. Freed, please allow me introduce my wife Charlene, and I’m Charles, “he says, appropriately cordial.

“It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance.” I say hitting them with my best smile. Unfortunately they’re not even fazed by it.

“Please don’t mistake our rudeness for lack of geniality; we just want to get down to business since you’re the 5th doctor who has cared for our doctor at this hospital alone. We’re hoping you can give us the good news we are looking for. “

“I’m afraid that would be hard to do. Winifred’s prognosis isn’t good and the opportunity for improvement is slim.”

Mrs. Schneider chews her lip and her husband’s already stern expression hardens.

“I was hoping to hear better news.”

“I’m afraid I’m in the business of telling the truth, sir. Winifred’s MS is exacerbated by her EDS. When she arrived here she was solid at around a 5.5 on the Expanded Disability Status Scale. You’ve seen it yourselves; when she arrived here she could have walked a football field by herself. She’s been here for nearly a year now and she’s dropped 3 points on the scale; she’s unable to leave that bed and for the most part is unable to use her lower body. She seems to have stabilized for the most part, but I don’t know how long that will last. In my professional opinion you need to be looking at end of life care.”

“I’m afraid that’s wholly unacceptable. What other options are there?”

“There are some surgical options which may improve her condition temporarily , keep her alive longer; but to be frank most surgeons wouldn’t even be willing to try it. The probability of success is low and even if they were successful the amount of improvement isn’t usually worth the risk. Winifred’s EDS means that she can suffer a catastrophic failure of her major arteries under duress. It’s a huge risk to do an elective surgery.”

“I’m afraid it is a risk we will have to take.”

I bit my lip at his candor of offering his daughter up to the surgeon’s knife and take a deep breath.

“I can see if any of our surgeons would be willing to try the procedure.”

“Thank you Dr. Freed.”

I’m appalled to see that Winifred’s parents don’t even go in to see her. They apparently only came by to speak with me. I suppress my disgust so that I can inform Winifred of the news. I go in to find her just laying on the pillow her eyes in a daze.

“Winifred, can you hear me?” I ask in a tone that probably tells more about how the conversation went then I would like.

She blinks her eyes slowly and turns to look at me.

“Guess that means you survived your first encounter with Zeus and Hera,” she responds weakly.

“Why do you call your parents that?”

“They’re all powerful beings, or so they think; and I being just a humble mortal am expected to completely obey their whims. They left right after they talked to you, didn’t they?”

I nod.

She smiles. “So what did they want you to tell them?”

“That you’re going to get better.”

“Am I?”

A pause of an eternity passes between us. I take a breath and look into pale azure eyes.

“I don’t think so.”

“Thank for not lying to me. You can stop calling me Winifred I suppose in return for your honesty. When I had friends they called me Win.”

“Win.” I say the name, feeling it on my tongue. “Well then, Win, your parents want to schedule you for another surgery. I can see from your chart that your last one didn’t go so well.”

She doesn’t respond.

“What do you want to do Win? Do you want to go through another surgery?”

“No.”

“Okay, then I’ll do my best to stall them until we can change their minds.”

“I don’t doubt that you can stall them, but they won’t change their minds.”

“We’ll see who’s right this time. Remember last time you said you’d be right as well.”

“Once just means you’re lucky.”

“Twice means I’m moving up then. Look Win, you need your rest. I’ll check on you in the morning.” I turn to leave and wrap my hand around the handle for the door.

“Dr.Freed, why are you helping me?”

“You’re my patient, Win; that trumps everything.” With that I slip out. My shift is over, but somehow it feels like the longest shift I’ve ever worked.

I pull into my Ocean Club condominium in Biloxi and park my car in the garage underneath. It’s late, and I’m the only in the garage. My steps echo across the concrete as I stride to the elevator and hit the button. I step in, greeted by the sound of cheery Muzak which doesn’t suit my mood at all, and press the button for my floor. It’s a short walk from the elevator to my condo on the seventh floor. Upon entering the condo I’m greeted by the sound of unfamiliar Indie music; my “roommate” has a strange taste in music. I put my lab coat on the hanger by the door and immediately go to the liquor cabinet in the living room where the floor –to-ceiling windows offer a “breathtaking view of the ocean” - or so the brochure said. I pour myself a tall glass of amaretto, drink it down, then repeat the action. Finally I pour the ice from the bucket into my glass and then fill the glass to nearly overflowing.

“That kind of day?” My “roommate” asks.

“Yeah, that kind of day,” I reply slowly.

I turn around to look at my roommate. Her long hair is light brown, a rat’s nest of curls and muss. She’s got a petite pretty face with a cute button nose, and small but full lips which are framed with smile lines. However, her sad eyes make her face seem a constant contradiction. She’s wearing a dark dress printed with Van Gogh’s Starry Night. She’s as hauntingly beautiful as the day I met her.

“You know, I told you that you shouldn’t drink like that,” she says.

“I also remember you telling me that you used to drink like this, so don’t be a hypocrite,” I snap back at her.

“Take it easy. What’s going on? “She replies.

“Just a tough case at work.”

“Well I won’t pretend that I’m a doctor.” She turns to walk away.

“It’s not like that.” I take a pack of cigars from the stack on the liquor cabinet and step out onto the balcony with my drink in hand. My third drinks of the evening goes on the table as I light my first cigar of the evening and take a deep pull from it. She follows me out onto the balcony. I offer her a cigar from my pack but she waves me off. She takes out of a pack from her bra and lights a skinny cigar of her own.

“Feminist,” I sigh out with a cloud of nostalgia.

“Something things never change.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Stop stalling. When this cigar’s out, I’m going to decide whether to stay or go. You should probably get to the interesting part by then.”

I chuckle and decide to give up the goods.

“I have a patient who’s not going to make it. Young girl, mid teens. She should be out there making out, not sitting in a hospital bed. Her parents want me to save her for reasons unknown.”

“What do you mean? That’s their daughter. Shouldn’t they want to save her?”

“In the short exchange I had with them I didn’t see any sign of love from them towards her. After my meeting with them they didn’t even stop in to check on her.”

“That’s cold.” She takes a long pull on her cigar and turns to look at me, leaning her back against the rail of the balcony. “So what do you think is motivating them to save her?”

“Damned if I know.”

“What are you going to do then?”

“I’m going to help my patient like my creed says I should. Only problem is my patient isn’t in charge of herself.”

“I’ve never known you to be one to throw in the towel.”

“I haven’t; there’s just no happy ending.”

“This can’t be the first time a patient has died under your care.”

“It’s the first time I’ve had to act through a legal guardian who I don’t think has my patient’s best interest at heart. Like I said, there’s just no happy ending”

“You remember what I told you back in school when you thought for a while that you wanted to be a writer.”

“Yeah.” I take a long pull of the last of my cigar, holding in as long as possible. “Sometimes the only ending that can be written is a tragedy. I switched my major back to Pre-Med the next day, and then told my dad that he had convinced me.”

“Just because you’re not writing with a pen or a keyboard anymore doesn’t mean that you’re not writing.” She puts her hand on mine and her dark eyes make it clear what she wants. Just like always, I’m captured in her spell. She pulls me back to my bedroom, where words aren’t the language spoken.

When the “discussion” is over I sit up partway against the headboard, her head on my chest and her hand in mine.

“Why do we always do this to ourselves, Liv?”

“Why do you always ask such stupid questions?”

“Humor me.”

“Because you’re broken in the same way I am. We don’t fit together like soul mates, but we fit together too well for someone else that fits better to come in.”

“Is that how you broke me up with Katherine?”

“I didn’t have to do anything. You were drunk and I took advantage, but the next morning was all you. You can’t really expect me to be sorry about that, can you? I wanted you. I feel bad that I hurt Katherine, but I won’t apologize for getting what I want.”

“There you go again casting spells, you witch.”I say chuckling.

“I hate that you insist on calling me that when we’re arguing.”

“It’s what I started calling you when we weren’t talking. Old habits die hard.”

“Why are you bringing this up again anyway? Are you thinking about kicking me out?” She turns over and looks up into my eyes, her eyes sad but not fearful.

“No, just wondering at the infinite possibilities that fate offered me and why I chose this one.”

“Things could have been different, but we’re both too stubborn to forgive. By the way, you sounded like a pretentious asshole just now. “

“I’m a doctor now; that’s what I am.”

She laughs, a soft thing that meshes well with her Indie music which plays on

“Do you think we’ll always be like this?” I ask.

“Why are you asking me? It’s your condo; I just live in your second bedroom.”

“This case with this girl, it brings back all the regrets. I just don’t want to regret how things work out on this case. It just makes me think of how you never did tell me how you really felt back then.”

She pushes back and moves to the other side of the bed.

“You didn’t either. I meant what I said back then, there’s never going to be an “us.”You’re just the best of the worst options. Too many things went wrong for it to be any other way.” Her dark tanned skin makes it almost impossible to see her in the moonlight. It’s just like when we first met; I could never see her coming, and still can’t today. She leaves the bed in a quiet huff and I’m asleep by the time the Indie music stops.

I wake to the smell of vanilla tea, my favorite morning refreshment. I walk into the kitchen to find nothing but the well appointed mahogany cabinets, granite countertops, and a single mug on the counter steaming with vanilla chai tea. I search the condo but Olivia is nowhere to be found. She’s a muse- when she gets a story idea she has to chase it; but I take the tea as a sign that she’s not upset, unless of course it’s poisoned. I laugh out loud at the thought; she’s not the type. I hurry through my morning rituals and grab my lab coat as I dash out of the condo. My thoughts drift as I make my morning commute. For some reason I’m reminded of Dr. Hill’s Medical Ethics class. His baffling love for Cheetos aside, I can’t help but think of his lessons. He would always ask us, “Is it morally permissible to do this?” I couldn’t help but wonder- “Is it morally permissible to abandon Win, like the doctors before me? Do I have a responsibility to her parents to ensure they feel that their daughter’s care is up to them? What do Win’s choices about her health have to do with the situation?” I need to know more about what Win wants if I’m to help her. But there was one thing that still nagged me thinking about Dr. Hill. He was a believer in the supererogatory, the idea that it’s morally possible to go beyond what is morally permissible; essentially, the idea behind a hero. Was I trying to be hero? And if I was would I have a job at the end of this ordeal? The gear shift in my right hand slides into park as I finally arrive at the hospital. As per usual when I’m lost in thought, I’ve arrived a little early. Typically this involves me running to the hospital café to get another cup of tea, but this morning I’ve got someone I have to speak to.

Win’s chart is in my hand as I knock on her door.

“Come in,” says a strong voice.

I’m surprised to find that it’s Win’s voice when I open the door. She’s sitting partially up and her expression is much brighter than it was yesterday. Her drawing pad is on a new page and her halfway drawn picture from yesterday now hangs on the wall complete, a beautiful capture of the outside world.

“Someone’s chipper this morning!” I respond with brightness in my voice.

She doesn’t respond but she can’t hide her smile either.

“I had a little extra time this morning and I was wondering if you wanted to talk.”

She nods meekly, obviously unused to being so open. I pull up one of her visitor’s chairs next to her bed.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“Can you tell me what’s been going on with me? Why am I not getting better? I’ve had seven surgeries. I’m tired of half truths.”

I can tell that she can see that I’m shocked. Her fingers tighten their hold on the sheets. She’s wondering if I’ll be like all of the others. This is my moment to prove that I’m never going to lie to her. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

“Win, you have what’s called Multiple Sclerosis. The body communicates with itself through the use of cells called nerve cells. These cells are coated in a myelin sheath which insulates the electrical signal the body uses to communicate. The myelin on your nerve cells is breaking down, and the electrical signals are getting lost or jumbled. Basically, your brain is sending the signals but the message is not being received. You have a very malignant case of it as well.”

“Is it fixable?”

“Unfortunately there’s no medical method of forcing the myelination of nerve cells. The medicine we’ve been giving you has been keeping your acute attacks at bay but you’re on second line drugs.”

“Second line?”She asks not understanding.

“It means you’ve stopped responding to the first line of treatment. Unfortunately you condition is further exacerbated by your Ehlers Danlos Syndrome”

“Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome?”

“Those were the names of doctors who first discovered it. There’s something wrong with your genes which code for collagen.” I rub my fingers over my lips “Lips, for example are made of collagen. If you bite your lip, it returns to its original shape, which makes it excellent for use in joints and blood vessels because it’s flexible but it returns to a set form. Unfortunately, in your case it isn’t just affecting your joints.” I reach for her ear and run my finger where the lobe would be. I then take her hand and gingerly run her finger over my earlobe.

“As you can see, you lack an ear lobe because that too is made of collagen. That is a symptom of vascular EDS, which means that your organs are extremely fragile. Your blood vessels are prone to rupture so that precludes many physical therapy techniques which could help with your EDS.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” she asks, her eyes showing courage it takes to ask such a question

“There’s no cure for either of your conditions. Either one of them would give you at least another twenty years, but together….” I bite my lip and close my eyes, “they’re tearing your body apart.”

“Why hasn’t anyone told me it’s this bad?”

My eyes pop open, and I grip the arms of my chair.

“You mean nobody told you!?” I say in a harsh whisper. She shakes her head.

“I don’t know, Win, but I intend to find out. Is there anything I can get you before I clock in?”

“No, but can you come back tonight before you leave?”

“Sure I can do that, but can you do me a favor? Can you be nice to your nurse for me? She’s a friend.”

She nods and I leave her to creating her next masterpiece. As I close the door, I can feel my anger and frustration pushing on my temples, pulsating and pounding like a percussionist. What is going on with this girl? This is a massive conspiracy. This girl has been relegated to a lab rat in a test seemingly designed to find out how much pain a person can endure. How has this been happening under everyone’s noses? I stride over to the nurses’ station and angrily slam Win’s chart back in its slot, eliciting several stares. Lanya, sensing the trouble brewing hurries over.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, showing concern for me in her voice which stops me cold. I take several moments to collect myself before I take a deep breath and reply.

“I can’t say, but can you see if the Schneider’s can stop by tonight?” I pause and turn around. “In fact, don’t ask; tell them I need to see them.”

“What am I supposed to say when they ask?” she asks, flustered by the request.

“Tell them I didn’t say why,” I respond coldly.

“Are you going to tell me?” she says, crossing her arms in an unusually expressive manner.

“I wouldn’t want you to lie,” I say as I walk away to clock in and hopefully find some answers.

I rush through my morning rounds so that by lunch I have a full ninety minutes to get some answers. I know I have to be careful because this kind of paper shuffling required to turn a 15 year old girl into a lab rat takes finesse and influence. I start with my closet ally who once again is on the old floral couch by the window. This time I’m in no mood for poetry, I pull the book from his hands and fold it over my lap as I take a seat. Dr. J looks at me, bewildered by my sudden arrival and even more sudden question.

“Did you know the full details of the Schneider case?”

“What are you talking about?”

I look into his eyes intently, searching for even a hint of duplicity. I can’t afford to take risks. If I’m going to get caught I want it to be here to my face, not a stab in the back; and when you’re dealing with hospital politics, you have to remember everyone knows how to use sharp objects. But in his eyes I see the kindness that’s always been there. I take a deep breath and let my shoulders sag.

“My patient has been subjected to surgeries against her will. Someone in authority has to be signing off on these things.”

“Your patient is underage she has no will. She’s in a state of legal guardianship,” he says in a professional tone.

“She’s a living, breathing, speaking teenage girl!” I respond with contempt in my voice.

“I’m really glad you came to me first with this. You’re way too attached to this case; you need to recuse yourself.”

“Are you kidding me?! The doctor before me toadied to her parents. The girl’s not mute; it’s just no one’s ever listened to her. Look, I need you to handle the authority side of this; I need to know who I need to work on to get the surgery delayed more than a few days. Check her chart and see if you find out who’s been signing off on them.”

“Can’t you read the signature?”

“It’s some guy I don’t know about, and you know that the chief of medicine is probably involved too since it’s an elective high risk procedure.”

“This is really a case for the patient advocate.”

“Trust me, that is my next stop.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? You don’t know how high it goes.”

“I’m sure. Patient care always comes first.”

Dr. J smiles and says with pride in his eyes.

“Good, I wouldn’t have forgiven you if you had.”

We go our separate ways, both searching for answers.

My next stop is the patient advocate. I’ve only dealt with him a few times, but he’s always good for a chat over coffee. I knock on his open door before stepping in.

“Hey Dan, what can I do for you?” says an Irishman with a strong accent

“Hey Riley, I was wondering if you’ve had any dealings with the Schneider case?”

His face shows a brief flash of fear, terror in the eyes, a gritting of teeth and a deep gulp. Then the public relations mask once again takes over he replies calmly.

“I’m afraid not. The family declined to my services and I’ve received no reason to intervene any further.” He says the word declined like a dirty word

I grab my right shoulder, taking comfort in the gesture and breathe a deep sigh.

“Look Riley I someone’s probably putting pressure on you, to not talk about what’s going on but this is a blatant human rights violation. It’s your responsibility to get involved”

“I’m only responsible if the patient or guardian of the patient requests my services, the legal authority in question has strongly declined my assistance so I have neither obligation nor intention to get involved. “He says in a firm tone.

I can feel my frustration turning to one hell of headache and my face scrunches up in anger.

“That’s a cop out and you know it! You can at least tell me why they’re trying to keep her alive this way.”

“No I can’t and I don’t want to know. Look Danny I like you, but you need to be thinking past this patient. Asking too many questions or the wrong questions could end your career. This is way above both of us.”

“If you won’t do anything then, I’ll do it on my own.”I shout as I storm out of his office closing the door angrily. I stand in the hallway looking down, and I can feel people staring out our little dramatic commotion as they walk by. How long has this been going on? This is practically human experimentation to see how much someone can take pain. Someone at the hospital has to be condoning this, cooperating with Win’s parents to put her through this pain.

I squeeze my eyes shut hard as the last thought crosses my mind; I have to find out why. I hear the piercing shriek of beeper; I unclip it purposely from my belt praying that it won’t be who I think it is. My prayers are unfortunately in vain, the room code is 413. I have to find out soon, time is running out for Win.

There are three speeds for movement in the hospital. There is the slow dignified stride of a doctor who’s got nothing to do or is waiting on labs. The second speed is the power walk of someone who’s late for an appointment. The third speed is get-out-of the-way-someone-is-dying speed, and I was putting those years of soccer to good use dodging orderlies and patients like something out of a bad action movie, feeling my stethoscope beating against my chest like a hammer. I grab the corner skidding around in my tennis shoes knocking someone down in the process; I shout an apology without knowing who it is. I check the panic door with my hip and hit the stairs like I’m training for marathon. However, somewhere around the eighth set of stairs my body remembers that I’m a doctor and not an Olympic athlete so much that I’m worn out by the 4th stairwell entrance. As the jog down the hall towards Win’s room I see the commotion through the blinds as nurses are moving in a chaotic dance around the bed. I open the door and quickly close the door behind me. Lanya, clearly amused by my flushed appearance laughs when I enter.

“Was the elevator broken?”

“Knock it off- what have we got.”

“She started spasming in multiple muscle groups; she’s been nonresponsive since it started. I already have the corticosteroid steroids ready just need your go ahead.”

“Do it. The sooner they’re in her system the sooner she’ll improve.” The room is cacophony of noise as nurses move about the room checking vitals and trying to pad the bed to keep her spasms from breaking her fragile body. The sound of her tiny body flapping against the bed echoes in the hospital room. I hold Win’s arm gingerly as Lanya injects the steroids directly into the peripheral IV in her arm. Her arm tugs against my hand as try to gently soften the blows to her bones to keep her from breaking them or dislocating something.

“Get some straps we need to tie her down, it’s a going to bruise her like a tomato but if she breaks one of her bones or dislocated something she could rupture a major artery.”

There’s no need for affirmatives as one of the nurses quickly exits the room to get the supplies from storage.

“Her vitals are getting weak” says one of the remaining nurses who is monitoring Win’s vitals, “BP’s 90/45, pulse is 37”

“Tell the technicians to get the MRI machine ready for us. We’re going to scan her as soon as she stops moving to see the damage.”

I move to Win’s side as she is being tossed by the movement of her own body’s rebellion. I take her head in my left hand and open her left eye with my thumb being careful not to scratch her cornea. I shine my penlight into her eye, her pupils dilate in response.

“Win, listen I don’t know if you can hear me. This is Dr. Freed; you’re experiencing some pretty severe muscle spasms right now. Please come back and see if you can give us a hand with them.”

“Do you really think it’s appropriate to ask that of her? She probably can’t even hear you.”

“If she was going to quit she would have done it a long time ago. She wouldn’t have said anything to me. Besides she’s too stubborn to go like this.” I say looking Lanya in the eyes across the bed. I turn my face down to look at Win again.” Win, I think I know what you’re going to ask tonight but we still need to talk about it. So don’t you dare quit before then.”

Win’s eyes blinks once, twice. Her face becomes a grimace of pain but she manages to croak out “Are you always this persuasive?”

“Only under pressure”

“Too bad for me it works.”

“Pulse is back up at 50” says the nurse monitoring vitals

The nurse runs back in with the bands which we quickly use to secure Win’s spasming limbs.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to restrain someone having a seizure?” groans Win obviously pained by the restraints on her bruised skin.

“Normally that’s true but the benefit of restraining you far outweighs the negatives, you’ve already been pulverizing yourself for nearly three minutes” I say looking at Win’s muscles, they’re mostly quivering by this point. It’s a bittersweet thought that it’s considered lucky that her muscles have atrophied so much that she’s incapable long term movement. I turn to Lanya “Let’s get her in the MRI while she’s relatively stable. I turn to one of nurses who is heading back to the nurses’ station.

“Let them know we need the scanner prepped and ready to go when we get there. Find out which surgeon is on call and let them know the situation.” I have to shout the last bit since we’re so far down the hall by then.

I lead the bed down the hallway to elevator, grateful that I won’t have to dash down the stairs like I did going up them. We take up the whole elevator so it’s just Lanya, Win, me and a terrible Muzak recording of the Backstreet Boys, “Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely”. The song lightens the moment, for all of us. I press the button for the second floor where all the imaging equipment is. The doors slide closed sealing us in with the pop band’s misplaced but mood-lightening sound.

“I’ve always loved this song.” I muse aloud and humming to the tune.

“Who is this? Is it one of One Direction’s old songs?” asks Win weakly

“I should sedate you for such seditious talk, confusing the idols of my youth with the British scourge of this generation’s pop culture. It’s obvious someone needs to give you a musical education.” I respond with a mock scowl which quickly turns into a smile

Lanya laughs I honestly think for the first time since I’ve known her. Unfortunately I don’t have time to savor it as the doors open and we extricate ourselves from the musically inclined space onto the busy halls of the second floor. I can see the portly Javier, and the lanky Brax, waiting for us at the door, Brax opens the door wide so we can fit the bed through.

“Heard you had an emergency” says Javier

“Had to bump a cancer patient” quips Brax

“Trust me it’s worth it. I’m concerned about internal bleeding especially in the major arteries.”

“If it’s there we’ll see it” respond the partners in crime

We position her bed next to the tray so we can move her.

“On three” say taking a corner of Win’s sheets in my hand

“One, two, three” and with a quick movement, the four of us are able to place her gently in the tray to be slid into the MRI tube.

“Does she have any kidney problems?”

“No, kidney function is normal”

“Okay then we are going to use some contrast to give us a better picture then. “Brax saunters over to cabinet and removes a vial. He takes a hypodermic needle and takes Win’s IV implant in his hand using it insert the contrast into her blood.

“I assume this isn’t your first time in the scanner,” I say looking down at Win.

“You must be joking, MRI is my favorite acronym,” responds Win in a sarcastic tone.

“Glad to see you’re in good spirits, normally I’d ask if you’d like a sedative but since you’ve already had a three minute nap I think we’ll skip that“

“And I assume you don’t want me to be unresponsive to till you know what’s going on.”

I look down at her smiling wryly “You may be too smart for your own good. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

She looks up at me her eyes so filled with pain and yet overflowing with innocence. “Will you hold my hand until it’s over?”

I kneel down so I’m right next to her so I can be eye level to respond.

“Of course I will.” I say softly taking her hand in mine as Lanya pulls up a chair for me. I nod to Bill and Brax to go ahead and slide her into the tube. The machine begins to whir and hum and I squeeze her hand to check to see if she’s still with me. I pray that she squeezes back, and this time God answers my prayers as she squeezes back feebly. I‘m all prayers as the minutes of the test go by, because I know it’s a test that will decide how much longer Win has to live.

60 minutes later

“Dr. Freed come in here,” says Brax peeking his head out of the viewing room.

“I’ll be right back!” I shout into the loud MRI machine. Win responds by turning her hand over and giving me a thumb up. I stride back into the viewing room which is soundproofed to keep them from going death due to the sound of the machine. The room is filled with displays and the computer is one of those huge Mac displays. The pair, which always reminds me of the priests from the Prince of Egypt, are tutting over the visual display in front them.

“It doesn’t look good,” says Brax.

“Could be worse,” replies Javier.

“What’s the verdict?” I ask hoping the “could be worse” means that’s it’s something not immediately fatal.

Brax places his fingers on the display of Win’s body in the chest area. He moves his finger apart enlarging the image to focus on the heart which we can see beating live before. Immediately I can see what they’re tutting about, her aorta the largest artery in her body is over twice the size its’ normally supposed to be. The computer is showing it at being 4 centimeters across. With her connective tissue disorder it’s a miracle it hasn’t already ruptured.

“Obviously you know what this is,” says Brax looking at me “however usually when they’re this large they’re mildly symptomatic. Has she complained about chest pain or a pulsing sensation?”

“No, but she was only transferred to my care yesterday. She’s not very responsive under the best of circumstances with the nurses so I’m not surprised it’s not in her chart.” I respond quietly

“Well, I would recommend we run a CT as well to get a better idea of how far it can stretch before rupturing, though I doubt we have long with her disorder. The CT will also give the surgeon a more comprehensive picture. She’s got some other minor bleeds in her right arm and left leg but they’ll likely clot on their own. The aneurysm is definitely the critical issue here. You were definitely right to bring her over when you did.”

“Okay. I’ll take her over there myself.“ I step out of the viewing room back into the MRI chamber. It’s so quiet now that the machine isn’t running. I can’t even hear the bustle from the hallway in here. I want to stay in this quiet, peaceful place forever, but adults don’t get to live in fantasies. I call Lanya over and give her the bad news.

“Have you called her parents?” I ask softly so Win won’t hear.

“I didn’t have the chance yet.”She replies softer than my loud bass voice ever could.

“Please let them know what happened. Stress that the situation requires their presence to proceed. I think the only way we’re going to get some straight answers is if get them from the source.”

“Alright I can do that. I’ll see you back up on the floor.”

I press the eject button for MRI scanner, and slowly Win appears before me. She’s hardly recognizable as the girl I first met twenty-four hours ago. She’s canvas of bright red, blue and purple bruises all across her body. Only her face is unmarred by recent events at least in the physical manner. As she fully slides out on the MRI tray, her face is a grimace of pain. The shock on her body has worn off. She’s feeling all of the damage that’s been inflicted on her frail body.

“What’s the damage?” She asks looking up at me.

“We’ll talk about it once we get you up into your room; we’re going to be taking you over to the as soon as the contrast from the MRI has passed through you.”

I can tell that she’s unnerved by my dodging of her question and additional tests, but it can’t be helped at this point.

“Yay! CT, my other favorite acronym.” She responds quietly in mock cheer. I know she’s expecting me to banter back in forth with her as usual, but I just don’t have the heart to do it. Then she says words that stop me dead.

“If I’m going to die soon that’s no reason to treat me differently. Whether I live to be one hundred or just one day older don’t make me feel different just because you feel guilty or pity me.

I swallow hard and nod my head. “Okay, I can handle that. Let’s get you back up to your room.”

I pull her bed towards the door leaning forward to reach for the handle. The door opens right into my face, and blackness claims me before I even hit the floor.

One Headache Later

I wake up to the scent of Caesar salad. I blink my eyes a few times before I realize I’m in the on call room. I slept here enough times as an intern that I would recognize the feeling of these saggy beds anywhere. I sit up and carelessly bump my head against the top bunk.

“You probably shouldn’t incur anymore head trauma till we’ve had time to do a CAT scan,” says a voice that garbled by the chewing of salad. I turn to see that the scent of salad and source of the voice comes from a mousy girl with dark horn rimmed glasses. Her face is framed by blond hair showering down in a controlled but wild fashion. She’s sitting in a chair next to my bed lunch tray in her lap.

“Who are you?” I ask rubbing the two protruding bumps on the head.

“I’m Tiffany; I’m the new CT tech. I’m also the person who hit you with the door. I was trying to rush and see if the MRI guys wanted to grab lunch together. “

“And that necessitated knocking me unconscious?”

“It wasn’t in the plan.”