LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
The small room is crowded; two doctors, three nurses, my mother and father, my brother Jay, my sister Michelle - and me. I'm laying in a bed, flat on my back, connected to a large breathing machine. Tubes of varying sizes run in into my nose and mouth, taped down in a way that makes me feel weak, queasy. I'm wearing a pair of University of Maryland practice shorts, no shirt. Seven white disks the size of silver dollars are stuck to my chest, with small, L-shaped plastic connectors attached to the center of each. Clear tubes run from them to a small heart monitor beside the bed. A series of similar disks are connected to my temples and across my forehead. An IV pole stands beside the portable heart monitor, and a cluster of bags hang from the arms on the pole. Clear tubes feed the solutions into my right arm, the needles held in place by wide strips of white tape. One of the nurses runs a needle into a vein in my left arm. The other two are talking between themselves. I lay there, motionless.
What's...what's happening...what is this?
The doctors are trying to save your life, Leonard.
No...this isn't right...can't be right...
You've ingested so much cocaine that your heart has stopped. The doctors are trying to bring you back.
The chaos continues to unfold without sound, and with only Alyssa's voice in my head as narration. She explains that five drugs are being used in an attempt to revive me: Sodium epinephrine, which she describes as adrenaline; sodium bicarbonate, to normalize the acidity in my bloodstream; lidocaine, to control hyperactivity and any irregular heartbeat; calcium to stimulate the heart muscle; and bretyline, a secondary drug to control irregularity of the heart. She explains this as if she were a doctor herself, detached from the chaos unfolding in the room. Jay is hysterical, crying uncontrollably. Michelle is balled up in a corner, back against the wall, face buried in her hands. My father orders them both out the room, and one of the nurses steps in to help. My father's eyes are bloodshot. Wet. His hands are trembling. He's trying to stay strong but he's barely holding it together. I've never seen him like this before. He stands over the bed, holds my hand, kisses it, presses it against his cheek.
My mother puts her hand on my shoulder. She is composed, completely matter-of-fact and under control, dealing with the situation as it unfolds. She closes her eyes and begins to pray. She's asking God to spare her son, to bring him back, to give him another chance. I can hear every word of her prayer as I sit here, frozen on this bench, staring at this giant movie screen in the sky. How can any of this be possible?
"Her prayer is traveling to you through a conduit," Alyssa says to me, this time out loud. "Traveling through me. I've been allowed to to share this with you."
The doctors talk briefly, looking over printouts and staring at the machines, and then turn to my parents. There are decisions to be made. Alyssa explains that they are discussing options, that there isn't any sign of brain activity, that there isn't any sign of an organized heartbeat. They want permission to move forward with an emergency procedure. They want to implant a pacemaker. My parents give their consent. I'm wheeled down the hall and into an operating room. They waste no time with the procedure but it fails. Just like the chemicals.
They move me back to the room. The doctors deliver the news. My mother asks if her son is breathing on his own, and the answer is no. Then it is done, she says. I hear her say this, just like I heard her prayer. There is resignation in her voice, as if God had already spoken to her about all of this. As if she had expected it to happen. Prophecy fulfilled. Tears run from her eyes and down her cheeks. She holds my hand. Squeezes. I love you, Leonard. I'm allowed to hear this, too. It's not Frosty at this point. Not Lenny. Not this time. She calls me Leonard. She's saying goodbye.
"I know this is hard to watch," Alyssa says. "But it's very important that you see what happened to you. That's why you're here."
There is another pulse of light, and I'm looking at the area outside of the emergency room entrance. Friends, teammates and family members are gathered around in small clusters, hugging, crying, coping with the shock. Keith Gatlin walks over to the wall and pounds brick with his fists. He paces and returns seconds later, pounding the wall all over again. Jeff Baxter and Tony Massenburg stand a few feet away, sobbing, trying to console each other. The doors to the ER open, and my body is wheeled out and loaded into the coroner's van, a black, unmarked Ford Econoline. Another hospital will conduct the autopsy. Jay sees the gurney with my lean outline underneath the sheet and he breaks down in a way that I've never seen before. It scares me badly. It hurts even more. I watch all of this with tears in my eyes, until Alyssa determines that it's too dangerous to continue with this connection. She releases her grip and the night sky returns, all stars and fireflies and crickets. A few seconds later the feeling in my body returns and I'm no longer paralyzed, no longer numb. I can move again. Except I'm weak, completely wiped out, unable to stand. A wave of guilt and remorse rolls over me, bringing with it an indescribable pain. What have I done? How could this happen? I close my eyes and cover my face and cry until I'm empty inside.
