Rebels (John Bates) (7 page)

Monday morning comes way too soon; my father and I have to wake up before five o
’clock in order to get to Birmingham in time. As I get dressed, my father comes in to see what I am wearing, which is shorts and a T-shirt. This seems good enough to me, but my father has other ideas.

“Son, I think maybe you might want to wear jeans and a light jacket.” It will be almost ninety today, but I don’t question. My father is usually right about these sort of things, so I put on long jean pants and tie the sweat jacket around my waist and, for luck, I grab the cap my grandfather gave me before he died. It is green with a convenient rim in the front and the word Mayflower stitched on top in yellow letters.

Mother sees us off, handing us each our own brown paper sacks while holding back her tears. My father carries with him a large, red backpack he gets out of the closet; I am amazed that I have never seen it before. We walk to the bus stop and wait for it to come and take us to the station. There we switch buses and get on one that is heading to Birmingham.

I stare out the window, watching one eroded building after another past by. I wonder if life will ever return to what it used to be. Where people were truly free, free from the State, with the ability to choose their own fate. I hope this surgery will be successful—not only for myself, but also for my family and those I have been helping. It feels like the bus is going extremely slow as every passing minute feels like an hour. I can feel anxiety building within my mind. I take in deep breaths and focus on how this is a good thing and how in the end somehow, someway, this experience will work to my good. As I focus on these new thoughts, my heart calms down, and then my father leans into me whispering.

“It will be okay, John. No matter what life throws at you, remember you are never alone.”

We arrive in Birmingham at about twelve thirty. As we draw closer to our stop, my father points out building after building that belongs to the hospital. The hospital is a city unto itself. Having eaten our lunches on the bus, we stride forward to the enormous UAB Hospital. We walk under an impossibly large awning that leads to the entryway of this massive structure that is full of gigantic cement pillars as big as redwood trees must be. I look up in awe and wonder.

Again, I don’t understand how the State builds such edifices while so many of its citizens live in poverty and others die because they decide who lives and who doesn’t. I understand the importance of research, but to neglect those who empowered you makes no sense and reminds me how fortunate I have been to be in the Young Army, or otherwise my life would have been forfeited due to the expense of this procedure.

“It’s built this way to make you feel small,” my father said. “To make you feel insignificant to their greatness and authority.” We go through the large doors that open by themselves. I have never seen anything like it. I want to go back and try them again, but the security guard at the front desk stops me.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“John Bates,” I answer him, turning around in order to face him fully. The guard sits behind a vast mahogany desk it is shaped into a semicircle. The lobby is full of giant trees that are artificial but are surrounded by other living plants in the same container. Other plants are placed along the wall and in boxes around the glass and metal escalator. I wonder if they are real or fake. The flooring is granite tile. A giant government flag hangs from the second floor, and above it all is a fantastically large pyramid-shaped skylight. The first thing I do is walk forward calmly and take a map of the hospital from the desk, folding it and placing it into the back pocket of my jeans. The security guard rustles through some papers that are attached to a white clipboard and asks, “And why are you here?”

“Heart surgery,” my father answers before I can.

The guard continues to rifle through the papers.

“Yes, I see your name here.” He comes forward, placing on my left wrist next to my watch a hospital ID tag. This thing is little more than paper and some glue. “Your father will not be able to accompany you beyond this point. When the nurse comes, your father will have to leave.” My father only nods and then turning to me, he thrusts the red backpack into my arms and hugs me tightly in his monstrous embrace.

He whispers in my ear, “Remember, son, remember that I love you, remember who you are, remember that you are a patriot, remember that you are a God-fearing man, and son, remember Jesus Christ.”

Just as he let go, an enormous, well-built woman dressed all in white comes down the hall. “You must leave now,” the nurse sternly instructs.

My father turns to depart and as he does so, I can see a glistening teardrop in the corner of his eye. Without so much as waiting for an okay, the nurse leads me up the escalators, across a suspended walkway between the buildings, with only glass and metal between me and the road below, down a generic hospital hallway before stopping in front of a small room. “I am Nurse Garrison,” she says, pulling a device out of her pocket. “Give me your arm.” I give her my right arm. “No, the other one, with the watch.”

I place my left hand inside her free one. She takes the small device and scans it over my watch, and it releases its grasp on my wrist as link by agonizing link withdraws from my skin. The pain is exquisite, and I have to bite my tongue in order not to cry out, as the chains retract back into the disk, ripping and tearing the tissue that had grown over it. It leaves a white wrinkly circle on the back of my wrist with a gash on either side that quickly fills up with my blood; the nurse wipes it with an alcohol wipe and wraps it in gauze and tape. Obviously, she is not the caring type. I can tell she and I are going to be best friends.

My wrist feels strange to me, with the watch no longer attached—the watch that made sure I brushed my teeth, ate my vegetables, told on me when I had eaten too much candy, made sure I went to church and recycled. If I run out of here right now, the government will never find me. But by the looks of this place, escape would be challenging, especially if all the nurses were built like her. But for a few minutes I would be free. But then I remember my heart condition. How long would I truly last? I am going to wait and see how this plays out. These thoughts soon fade away as I return my attention to Ms. Sunshine.

She hands me a set of hospital clothes and escorts me into a room where she leaves me to change into the white jumpsuit made out of a cotton fabric that looks to be quilted together. Before I dress, I take out the map of the massive hospital and study it, memorizing every useful detail. Truthfully, it isn’t a very detailed map. For example, this room is not on it. It only shows each building and how each walkway is connected to the different structures and where various exits exist throughout the facilities. I do this because you can never be too prepared. Who knows if there might be a fire or any other disaster that would mean immediate evacuation of the building. Understanding and knowing the map might be the difference between life and death. When I am done, I carefully fold the map and place it back inside my jeans pocket.

I dress in the white hospital attire; it is extremely comfortable, not at all what I had expected. When I finish changing, I am told by the stern nurse that I am to leave my things and follow her. We walk down the pastel hallway as one of the overhead lights flicker, threatening to go out. We turn right and then left before going through a set of double doors that leads into a brightly lit room. The room has dull carpet and various pieces of exercise equipment in it. Sitting in an orange chair is a man with a dark complexion and a white overcoat. He is deeply engrossed in his clipboard.

“
Dr. Pruitt?” the nurse calls, though there is only one person in the room.

“Yes,” answers the African-American man with graying hair, without looking up. He wears an orange tie that matches the dingy plastic chair, the kind they have in schools, the ones that only reveal their true surface with a good pencil eraser.

“This is John Bates, Doctor.”

“Is this the last one?” the man asks the nurse, continuing to study the clipboard.

“Yes, Dr. Pruitt, he is the last,” her stern voice bellows, never leaving her monotone frequency.

“Good, then we will not need you any more. You may go,” he says, never looking up from his clipboard.

She finally takes her cue and departs. I stand there for a moment, in this room that is big enough to fit both my neighbor’s house and my own, with only this man as my company. I wonder why the doctor asked if I was the last one? One of what? Am I not the only one to get this surgery? If not, why are we all brought here like cattle? The State is going to pay for multiple heart surgeries for multiple people? These thoughts race through my mind as he continues to scribble notes on the clipboard. Then he finally looks up at me.

“John, good, come sit down.” he motions to the chair across from his own as he leans toward me. I see the orange chair has a crack that runs from the center to its outside edge. “Tell me a little bit about yourself.”

I tell him only the bare minimum: Where I am from, the school I attend, and that I am grateful for the surgery.

“Okay, John, hop up on the table,” he says, patting the paper covered examination table. Then he rubs the stethoscope in the palm of his callused hand, trying to warm it before placing it on my chest. “Good,” he says, standing back producing a tong depressor. “Say ah.”

“Ahhhh.” I choke as he presses the depressor too far into the back of my throat.

“Good, hop down. Let’s see how you do on the treadmill.” I run a brisk clip.

“Good, you seem very fit, a good candidate for the surgery.” Then he surprises me by changing the subject and asks me a more personal question. “What do you think of the Young Army?”

“It’s okay,” is all I say. I wonder how he knows I am in the Young Army. Had someone told him?

“Really? You don’t really like it, do you?” He looks surprised and perhaps he has reason to be. Most, if not all, young men I know think being in the Young Army is the best thing that ever happened to them, especially if you are a top candidate. It allows you not only special privileges while in school but access to things others can only dream of.

After high school, a number of us will be enrolled in some of the top State schools, while the elite will be placed in more special programs—at least that is what the State has explained. Some may even be fortunate enough to join the specialized teams like the Steel team, which is considered an honor, especially when you are given the opportunity to serve the State and even meet the government officials face-to-face. Citizens are no longer allowed to have access to State representatives due to security and the sensitivity of the work they continue to do for the betterment of humanity and the State. It is what we are taught.

I sense that I need to trust this man. It is an impression that starts inside me and goes down to my toes.

“No, I don’t, not really. I mean I’m good at it all, but it’s more of something that is expected,” I reply honestly, more honest than I have ever been to anyone, even my parents. “My father wanted me to join in order to learn things he could not teach me. I’m not sure how this knowledge will aid me or what will happen to me after high school. It’s automatically assumed that I’m going to the Army and really, I have no choice. The Army is my future whether I like it or not.”

“Like what kind of things did he want you to learn?” he asks, moving around to the back of me to listen to my lungs. “Take a deep breath.”

“Military strategies, tactics, discipline, things like that.” I say, taking in a deep breath as instructed. When I exhale, we are done.

“Well, there you go, John, you can put your shirt back on. I learned what I needed to know.” He then turns and walks out of the room.

I sit there, waiting and wondering what to do next. Nurse Garrison comes in a few moments later and instructs me to follow her. As we walk down the corridor, I notice the rooms that line this hall are full of other young men, all dressed in the same jumpsuit I am wearing. These must be the others they were referencing. I wonder again, are we all here for heart surgery? I find it very odd that so many of us would have the same condition at the same time, and more particularly the fact that there are only young men. Why is there a sudden explosion of heart defects?

We walk down a separate hallway from the others. “This will be your room until after the surgery.” I walk into the clean, blue room. The bed is made with white sheets, and a television set is across from the bed. Nurse Garrison leaves, shutting the door behind her. I turn on the television to see if there is anything on. A few minutes later, a little old woman comes in carrying a cream-colored tray full of food. It is not as good as my mother’s cooking, but it isn’t bad.

I want to call my mother and father and tell them I am okay, but there are no phones, no way to contact them. I noticed even the nurse’s stations are void of phones. I wander into the bathroom and see there is no mirror above the sink—no mirrors anywhere. How will I know what my hair looks like? What if I have a big chocolate pudding stain on my face? I will not even know, unless someone tells me. I decide to become a religious face-washer. I wash my face with the clean white washcloth and the cream-colored soap. After I finish I decide to go to bed early as there is really nothing to do, and I am tired, anyway.

I am really glad I went to bed early because first thing in the morning, Nurse Garrison wakes me up. “The doctor would like to see you. You will follow me.”

I think this is strange. Isn’t the doctor supposed to come to me? I’m the one with the bad heart. But since I have never been in a hospital before, I am unsure of how things work, so I don’t question. Nurse Garrison walks me down the same hallway toward the double doors that leads to the room where I first met Dr. Pruitt.

“Ah, good to see you, John.” Dr. Pruitt shakes my hand the moment I enter the room. This time, Nurse Garrison does not leave. “Early riser, I see. Good man. Let’s get started.” He has me sit up on the examination table and remove my white cotton hospital shirt. He listens to my heart with the stethoscope. “I’m going to take your blood pressure and if that is fine, I’m going to give you a shot.”

“What kind of shot?” I ask the doctor, who seems surprised by the question.

He thinks for a moment before answering me, “It’s a vitamin shot, something that we need to give you in order for you to be ready for your heart surgery. You’ll have a series of shots before and after your surgery, which will make you healthier and stronger.”

After the shot, the doctor has me run through a series of tests and exercises. Then I am taken back to my room.

A daily routine begins: wake up early, test and exercise with Dr. Pruitt, who in turn gives me my morning shot, and vitamin supplements at each meal. In the afternoon, Dr. Pruitt begins meeting me for lunch, asking me about my family, my life. He has many questions and so, over the course of a few days, the doctor and I become good friends. I also notice he is always making sure no one is around when we are conversing, most particularly, Nurse Garrison. I can’t blame him; she is not at all friendly and probably couldn’t care less. I only feel bad for her kids, if she has any.

But I wonder how much longer it will be until the surgery. And I wonder what it will feel like to be cut open. And most importantly, I wonder if I will live through it? I know more often than not, people die going through open-heart surgery. I have one other question I am afraid to ask. With all this strenuous exercise and tests, why was I told at home to avoid activities like this? I am afraid I’ll die even before I hit the table. I put on a strong face for the doctor, who I like, and for Nurse Garrison, who I do not trust. I secretly wish my father were here to reassure me, to counsel me, and to tell me it is going to be okay and for my mother to hold me like she had when I was a small boy

The day finally comes when I find out when and what is going to happen. I go in to see Dr. Pruitt but instead of exercises, he sits me down.

“All day today we will be preparing you for surgery tomorrow. There will be a series of shots, and you’ll have to take some medicine, as well. Let me explain what we are going to do tomorrow. First, we are going to put you asleep so you don’t feel anything. Then we are going to remove your old heart and put this in its place.” He hands me a glossy photograph of something that looks like half heart, half machine. “Then we close you up, and you’re good to go.”

“I’m getting a new heart?” I had thought they were just going to go in and repair the heart, not that I would receive a whole new one. I know I will have to take some sort of drug to suppress my body’s natural immune system in order to keep it from seeing the heart as something that does not belong in the body, seeing the heart as foreign, and rejecting it or ridding itself of the new heart. My risk of dying just went up tenfold. I will never have the drugs I need. There are just too many shortages. “What kind of drugs will I have to take after the surgery?” Even if I get the drugs, it will only be as long as I am useful to the State. As soon as my usefulness is done I won’t receive any more drugs, and on that day I will die.

“Don’t worry, there will be no need for drugs. The heart has little nanobots inside it. They will go in and change your immune system so it will not reject the new heart. I invented this heart myself.” He seems to want to talk about it more, but he doesn’t dare with Nurse Garrison standing right next to him. I don’t blame him. She is obviously on the take with the government. One wrong move and Dr. Pruitt might need a new heart of his own.

We finish more tests. I do some light weightlifting and run on the treadmill some more. I still wonder if all this is safe for me to do with my enlarged heart, but I assume the doctor will do nothing that will put me in danger. When we are done, Nurse Garrison escorts me back to my room, and for the rest of the day I am given different shots. I am no longer allowed to eat in order to prepare for the surgery, but the shots keep coming. My arm is sore, and I wonder if I can receive a shot in a different arm. But Nurse Garrison doesn’t care at all. Her job is to give me the shots, and she does. I am grateful when she tells me this is the last one for the day.