Shots Across The Bow

"Is this Mr. Stephen Johnson?" The voice is clinically detached, with a touch of professional sympathy.

"Yes, it is. Can I help you?"

"Mr. Johnson, my name is Dr. Fallon. We have your daughter Grace here at the Medical Center Emergency Room."

Your heart races as time slows to a crawl. A car accident? No, she was in school. A shooting? Illness? She'd had a slight cold and fever for the last week. In fact, you'd tried to keep her home last Tuesday, but she insisted on going, saying she had a major test that she couldn't afford to miss. She went to school, and later that morning, the nurse had called to get your permission to give her some aspirin. She come home a little pale, and went directly to bed. Wednesday, she stayed home, but the next day she said she felt better, even though she still seemed very pale and weak, and went back to school.

"My god! What's wrong?"

"Mr. Johnson, I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss this over the phone, but we need you to get down here right away. Gracie is in very serious condition."

Fear instantly transmutes to anger. "She's in serious condition, but you can't tell me what's going on? What the hell kinda place are you running? What's wrong with my daughter?"

"Sir, we can explain when you get here." The doctor's voice was less detached, now filled with urgency.

"Hurry," he said, and hung up.

You leave your office and head out to the car, mind whirling with worries and fears. Gracie has been on your mind a lot recently. She'd changed so much over the last couple of years. Her mother had died 4 years ago, and there had been some rough patches then, but you had survived, and even grown closer together. She used to pal around with you, tell you everything, even about which boys she liked, and which ones liked her. You did your best to be mother and father, and for those things where you couldn't fill in, Gracie's grandmother took over. Your family was healing.

But that all changed last year.

Everybody tells you that she's just a normal teenager, but she's been so moody lately. And the way she dressed! Dear god in heaven!

Her grades had fallen off a bit; she wasn't in danger of failing, but the long string of B's with an occasional A had become C's with an occasional D. She stopped seeing most of her old friends, and started hanging out with a new crowd. She started staying out later, staying home less, spending the night at her new girlfriends house, and if she was home, she'd lock herself in her room for hours at a time, and listen to that godawful racket she called music. When you'd tried to talk with her, she'd just yelled at you, telling you to leave her alone.

"Dad, I'm 17! I'm not a little kid anymore! I can handle my own life. God! Why can't you just leave me alone!"

You even went to her school last week, to talk to Mrs. Peters, the counselor. Maybe Gracie talked to her. Maybe she was missing her mother. Maybe there was something more you could do.

But the counselor wasn't much help.

"Mr. Johnson, teenagers these days have many more issues to deal with than you and I did. Grace is working things out on her own. What she needs from you right now is your support and some space. Give her some time, and a little privacy. She'll come around."

You pull up to the Emergency Room, park the car, and rush in. You ask the nurse at the desk where to find your daughter. She types Gracie's name into her terminal and tells you to have a seat; the doctor will be with you shortly. You ask her what's wrong with your little girl, and she tells you you'll have to wait for the doctor.

Fear overpowers the anger at being kept in the dark, and you sink into the hard plastic seat in the waiting room. Your mind races like an engine in neutral with a stuck throttle, running in circles as you wait to find out what's going on. Eventually, a male voice calls out your name, and you stand up. You look at the doctor's face, and you know the news isn't good. Doctors with good news don't have to wear the professional mask.

"Mr. Johnson, I'm Dr. Fallon. Grace is suffering from complications from RU-486. The fetus was only partially ejected, and the remaining tissue caused a massive infection, and serious bleeding. We've got the bleeding stopped now, but the blood loss has left her weak, and the infection is spreading rapidly. We're doing everything we can, but she's in very bad shape. I have to be honest with you; it's going to be very dicey."

There's a roaring in your ears as you try and take in everything you were just told.

Your mind is numb with shock. Your little girl is fighting for her life after having an abortion? How could this happen without your knowledge? Hell, the school had to get your permission to give her an aspirin! How could she get an abortion without you knowing about it?

"I don't understand. This pill, isn't it safe?"

"Yes sir, it is, but there are sometimes complications."

"My daughter may be dying, and you call it a complication!" The anger is back, and now it is a full blown rage. "Where is my daughter? I want to see her right now!"

"Mr. Johnson, you'll have to calm down. Seeing Grace like this won't do you or her any good."

Your rage collapses, giving way to fear again, as you realize that the doctor is right. There will be a time to loose the rage again, but this isn't it. Seeing you control your temper, the doctor leads you into an exam room, and you see Gracie on the table. There are tubes and wires, and an IV, and she's got a breathing tube up her nose. She's panting for breath, and a nurse is sponging her forehead. You walk over to the bed, and sit down beside her, taking her hand.

It burns like a fire.

"Oh, Gracie," you say softly. "I'm here for you."

She turns her head and opens her eyes. "Daddy?" Her voice is barely more than a whisper. "I'm so sorry, Daddy! I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want to disappoint you." Tears roll down the side of her face, and your heart breaks.

"Gracie, you can't disappoint me, little girl. I'm your dad. I'll always be there for you."

"I was so scared, Daddy. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to tell you."

"Shhhh. baby girl. It's OK. You don't have to say anymore. I'm here now, and I'll take care of everything."

She's not listening. She's unburdening herself, telling you everything, and as the tears flow, you listen.

"I didn't know what to do. We'd only fooled around a couple of times, then he dumped me. He said I wasn't any good at it, and he was going to find somebody who was. Then a week or two later, I missed my period. I wanted to tell you, but I was so afraid that I couldn't. I tried so hard to tell you, but I didn't know how to break through, so I went to Mrs. Peters. She took me to a clinic, and they told me I could take this pill, and it would make it go away. It seemed like the only way out, so I scheduled an appointment. Mrs. Peters fixed my schedule, and I went to the clinic and took the pill. They told me I would feel bad for a couple of days, but it kept getting worse, so I went back to Mrs. Peters this morning, and she brought me here. I'm so sorry Daddy! I know I've let you down!"

"No, baby, you haven't let me down. Now you just relax, and work on getting better. I'll be right here."

She's exhausted from telling her story, and her eyes close as she slips into an uneasy sleep. You lean over and kiss her forehead. Dr Fallon comes in and tells you they're moving her to ICU, and you'll have to go back to the waiting room. Helplessness wells up over you as you realize that despite all your efforts, you are now powerless in the fight to save your daughter's life. You sit in the waiting room for hours, until it's visiting hours again, and you can go see Gracie.

Somewhere in the long vacant hours, you call in to work, letting them know you'll be out for a while. You call your mother, to take care of Barbara. At some point, people come to sit with you, to keep you company. Somebody brings you food, and you eat a bite or two. There are other families in the waiting room, other people who have loved ones fighting for their lives, but you are all alone. Every fiber of your being is directed at willing Gracie to get better. The nurses tell you to go home, get some sleep.

"You won't do Gracie any good if you're in a bed right next to her," they say.

Like you could sleep.

Gracie's nasal tube is replaced by a mask. Another IV is started. She's placed on a catheter. Then a heart monitor. As you watch your daughter disappear in medical machinery, you know she's losing the battle against the infection. She's being ripped from you one tiny piece at a time.

And you can do nothing but watch, and hold her hand for an hour and a half twice a day.

She dies.

You're there with her, at the end. You hope for some last word, some last chance to tell her you love her, to beg her forgiveness for failing her, for not keeping her safe, but that moment never comes. And in the end it doesn't really matter, because you'll never forgive yourself anyway.

At Gracie's funeral, most of her old friends and teachers show up, including Mrs. Peters.

"I was just doing my job, doing what I thought was best for her..." Her voice trails off as you simply look at her. It wasn't her job; it was your job. She looks for something in your eyes, something she doesn't find, as she lets out a quiet moan and walks away.

Gracie's body is consigned to the earth, and one by one, the mourners all walk away. Eventually, you walk away as well. You have to move on. You have to be strong.