Searching for Gladestone Hospital

I was fifteen years old in December, 1984 when I had the operation. I had some sort of a cyst on my brain after I had been beaned with a hardball during a little league game. A blood clot maybe. I am not really sure. It might sound terrible, but I was made to understand that the operation would be a fairly routine. It was. I was out of the hospital in under three weeks. Nowadays it probably would have been under a week.

The room I was in had three beds. The bed to my right, closest to the door, held maybe five different children the two weeks I was there. One of the children was only eight. Another was seventeen and was very embarrassed about being in the children's ward. And there were others, though I remember very little about them, except that we all shared the bandage on our heads.

The bed closest to the window held a kid named Barry. He was thirteen, but as big for his age as I was little, so he actually looked older than I did. He had been there for almost a month when I arrived and was still there when I left. I got to know him fairly well. He also had something wrong with his brain, but unlike my small cyst, his condition was more serious. Far more serious. I don't remember more than that.

His Father, a very large, very bald, and very serious-looking man came and visited Barry a great deal. His mother had been killed in some sort of an accident. It had happened when Barry was just a baby. If I remember correctly, she had been in the military and was killed when a helicopter went down. The visual memory I have about it was that the helicopter fell onto her, but it was more likely that she was merely being taken somewhere when the helicopter crashed.

Anyway, his Father was the type of man you would avoid if you saw him coming down the street. A big man. You would cross over to the other side if you thought he wouldn't notice. I was afraid of him at first, but his voice, while deep, was so gentle and tired, his manner so sad while trying to give his son some strength that I felt sorry for him as soon as I heard him speak the first time. He had other children, three I think, all younger than Barry, and raising them alone while still trying to do his work was a drain on him physically. Barry's condition, it was easy to tell, was taking its toll.

Barry spent most of the time I was there attached to machines and under sedation. When he was lucid, we talked mostly about sports, especially the Celtics and the Bruins. It was late winter in Boston. What else would two children discuss?

His Father sat by Barry's side talking to his often unmoving, unresponsive son. After a few days, he started talking to me.

Once he said, "You look a lot like my son used to." Barry was thin and pale. And, according to his father, he was dying. They were planning on operating on some part of Barry's brain in a few days, but they were waiting for the right condition and something else. I was thinking mostly about myself and was not that concerned with another child's problems. I felt like I had enough troubles of my own.

By the end of the three weeks, I had gotten to know Barry's father as well as I knew my own, which is not saying that much actually. And I felt so sorry for him that I wished I could somehow become this man's son. I knew that I would soon be active again and thought he would like a healthy son.

Barry's operation was a week after mine. Mine was a success and I spent the next day or so almost completely out of it. By the time I was able to sit up and talk, Barry was more lucid than I had seen him and was thrilled that I was going to be okay. He kept looking over at me and grinning. I remember at least two times I woke up to see him staring at me and smiling. At the time I found it a little creepy, actually, but by the last day, I was heartened by his good will. He was simply happy to see that I was well. I remember feeling a little guilty, actually.

I was released the day Barry went in for his operation. My last view of Barry was of him lying on his bed, sedated into a complete stupor. He looked like he had already died and I felt a shiver go through me when I thought of it. I shook my head, trying to clear the thoughts away. Bad luck to think it.

Barry's Father was there and was, I could tell, thinking the same thing as I. He, too, shook his head fiercely. Barry's father looked down at his son and spoke quietly. It took me a little while to realize he was talking to me.

"...was very happy to see that you recovered so quickly. He knows that his illness is more severe than yours, but your courage and recovery has given him hope. Hope that I could not give. I want to thank you for being such a good roommate during the last few weeks. The child in that bed before you was gloomy. Took a lot out of Barry. Out of both of us."

I didn't know what to say. I am not sure I said anything. Then he looked at me and I could see that the tears had burned red streaks down his face. "I hate to ask this of you. I know you have a lot of running around to make up for. But will you stop in and say hello? It doesn't have to be tomorrow. It will mean a lot to Barry if you do."

I fought back the lump in my throat. Fifteen-year old boys do not cry. I nodded.

He smiled at me and turned back to his son.

Soon, the doctor came in to check on Barry. Then the nurses shaved his head again and made some marks. Then he was moved into a wheeled bed and rolled out of the room, his Father in tow. His Father never looked back at me.

Barry did not return that day and I was released the first thing in the morning.

School started the following day. I had to take it easy and was not allowed to play any sports that season, but I could be constantly found in the gym with my past and once-again-to-be volleyball teammates. I had been elected equipment manager which made me feel like the invalid part of the team. But at least I was part of the team.

I completely forgot about Barry. And my promise.


--- June 2001 ---

My son would have been two this Spring. It's not as bad as it sounds; it was a miscarriage, not a death. But it is the closest I ever came to becoming a father. And probably the closest I ever will come. Loretta left me when the doctor said that she couldn't have children. Something wrong with her uterine wall. 'Too slippery' was our unfunny joke. There didn't seem any reason to stay together after that. We both wanted children more than we wanted each other, I guess. My Mother thinks it's all for the best that we lost the baby. She thinks that our marriage wasn't strong enough to raise a child.

I think a lot about those three weeks in the hospital. And the few days afterwards. I never feared that I would survive the operation. Nor do I even remember thinking about what would happen if the operation hadn't been a success. But I do remember the joy with which I awoke the first morning out of the hospital. It was a cruddy, cold and gloomy New England day. A day to stay inside. The first day of school after the Holiday vacation. No reason to be happy. Except I was filled with joy. So what if I was a little weak, a little head-achy, and not allowed to do many of the things I loved so much. I was free! All in one piece! You never think about how lucky you are until you've been through some bad luck. And you are never as healthy as when you are no longer ill.

I remember the sense of promise with which I re-entered school and, in many ways, life. It has been downhill ever since.

* * *

"Ameritech National Directory Assistance. What city please?"

"Framingham. Gladestone Medical Center."

"Is that Gee Ell Ay Dee?" she asks.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, there is no listing for that."

"Maybe it's not in Framingham," I add helplessly.

"I checked the whole area," she says. "Would you like to try a different hospital?"

"No thanks," I say and hang up the phone. Eighteen years too late, I think. Then I sigh.

My problem, I realize, is that I have never tried hard enough to get or keep the things that are important to me. I moved to Chicago for a job. Loretta followed, but was never really here. If I had stayed in the Boston area, we might have remained together. Even with the miscarriage.

* * *

I stand at the spot the hospital used to be. On Pleasant Street. It's a parking lot now for the furniture store next door, which used to be the public library. My Mother still lives in town, though she has moved several times since her divorce, so I have a place to stay. And a base for trying to find out what happened to the hospital and, ultimately, Barry. Barry whose last name I do not know.

A man walks past me as I stare at the mostly empty parking lot. The man, slightly thinning brown hair swept in the wind, is carrying a newspaper in one hand and a shopping bag that reads 'Filene's Basement' in the other hand. He's thin and pale. He looks to be about my age. I imagine that he could be Barry and start to ask him. "Are you -" I stop. He looks at me curiously, cautiously.

"Do you remember the hospital that used to be here?" I ask instead.

He instinctively shakes his head, then quickly says, "Actually, I do." He brings the newspaper hand to his head and scratches his eyebrow.

"Gladestone?" I offer.

"Yes!" he says like the question has bothered him for some time. "It was Gladestone." I wait for more, but he says nothing. Then he shrugs.

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, I say weakly, "Thanks." He nods twice, shrugs again, then continues walking down the street. 'If this were a story,' I think, 'that man would have been Barry.'

* * *

Gladestone Medical Center went under in the early 90's. It was then bought by some large HMO, then closed as old, inefficient and not worth renovating when another service provider bought the HMO that owned it. So what happened to the records? And if I did find out where they were, how would I locate someone who was in the bed next to me with just a first name to go on?

Sitting with a cup of decaf in my hand, watching my Mother do the crossword puzzle, I have no idea what I am going to do and wonder if I do manage to find Barry what I would do then. Or what difference it would really make?

After college I traveled around the world, as many of us did, trying to find myself. What I realized was that no matter where you went, the clouds looked the same. In every country, I was the same and the clouds were the same. Only the background had changed. So even if I did find Barry and did fulfill my promise of half a lifetime ago, what would that change? The clouds would still look the same.

Out of habit, I looked past my Mother and out the window. The sky was cloudless. I smiled.

"What?" my Mother asked sweetly. I think she was happy to see that my perpetual scowl had dissolved.

I shook my head, meaning 'nothing.' And stopped smiling. She frowned and went back to her puzzle, methodically filling in the squares without seemingly bothering to look at the clues. She is good at crossword puzzles.

I resolved that I would find Barry. What else was I going to do? I nodded once, again catching my Mother's eye.

* * *

I typed in 'Gladestone' and hit return. I stared at the computer. By adding 'hospital' to the search criteria, I narrowed the returns to only a few hundred. I added 'doctor' and there were thirty two listings, nine of which were doctor's names. None of which was the right name, which I believed I would recognize if I saw it.

"Mom?" I yelled. "Who operated on my head?"

"Doctor Gladestone," she said back quietly. She was sitting on the couch right behind me.

I turned and looked at her. "That was the hospital."

"Then I don't remember," she said.

My stepfather, who was in the kitchen area, said, "Nathan." Both my mother I and were startled. He was right. Before either of us could say anything, he added, "Jacob, Jacob Nathan."

While my mother quizzed him on how he knew (The same doctor had operated on his old roommate, a coincidence he discovered cleaning up the pile of medical files my father had just stuffed into a drawer.) I was pecking "Nathan, Jacob, Gladestone" into the search engine.

One return. Oddly, 'Rebeccah Nathan.' I clicked on her name, more out of habit than out of hope, and found that I had located the daughter of the doctor who had operated on me. And on Barry. I e-mailed her a long letter, explaining what I wanted to know and why I wanted to know it. I read the letter over five times, rewriting sections every time, and adding a paragraph about how wonderful her father's bedside manner was. Then I clicked 'Send.'

I sat by the computer for almost a half hour. I knew that there might be no response for, probably, a few days, if ever, but I thought about that e-mail letter and how it sped its electronic way to the daughter of the man who once held my brain and now, I thought, my future in his hands.

* * *

Less than a week later, I have Barry Henry Bryant's current address and phone number. He lives just over the Illinois border in Indiana, less than an hour from my apartment in Chicago. And I knew, even before I found that he has a current address that determining he was alive would not be enough. I have to meet him. I have to make good on my promise, a half a lifetime later, that I would visit him after the operation.

I am back in Chicago now. And it is now. I mean, I am writing this at this very moment. Catching up, as it were, on this diary of sorts. I am literally sitting by my computer, staring at the phone to the right of the computer (a fax-phone actually) as I type this. I know that I have made many important calls in my life, but I also know -- or think I know -- that none have affected my life as much as this one will. I sigh. Twice. Mustering the courage to dial the numbers and, like jumping into the swimming pool, I quickly pick up the phone and dial. It's ringing. Two rings. Three-

* * *

I can't stop smiling as I write this. I feel as though a weight has been lifted off my chest. And though it is dark and cold out, I can see the sun beaming in the sky and feel its life-affirming warmth beating down upon me. All because of a laugh. A true, from-the-heart, rolling belly laugh. Deep, resonant, and strong. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Barry was there. In fact, he answered the phone.

"Hello," he said, his mind obviously on other matters.

"Hi." I said. "Is this Barry Bryant?"

"Yes," he said warily. For a moment I couldn't speak. I was overcome with relief. He had lived! "Hello?" he asked, even more guardedly.

I explained who I was, but I could tell he did not recognize the name. I was not surprised. "I was the boy next to you in Gladstone Hospital," I said, "eighteen years ago."

"Oh my God!" he said. "Really?"

"Yes. So how is your head? How are you doing?"

"Oh my God!" he repeated.

I heard someone in the background, a man, deep-voiced ask, "Who is it, son?"

I also heard a child's voice, a girl, complain "It's my turn!"

And another, a boy, "No, it's my turn."

Barry explained to the deep-voiced man, his father, "The boy who was there when I had the operation."

A third child in the background, the oldest sounding, another boy, said, "Becky's turn. You just went."

And a woman's voice, "Let your sister have a turn, Mark."

And then I heard the laugh. The most wonderful sound I have ever heard in my life. A huge laugh. An I-have-no-worries-in-the-world type of laugh, that started in the father's throat and rolled down through his chest and into his stomach, filling the room, the phone line, and my entire soul with its resonance.

The room behind Barry, except for the laughter, became quiet. The children had stopped bickering to see what had made Grandpa laugh so. The mother, Barry's wife I assume, said softly, after a few seconds, "Who is it, dear?"

Then the father spoke. The pardon I had hoped for, called for, waited for. For half of a lifetime. "It's about time," he all but yelled. Loud enough so I could hear.

My heart filled. My eyes dripped tears and my mind clouded over in the warmth from the evaporating guilt.

The rest of the phone call was a dreamlike blur. Barry recounted the last eighteen years quickly. When he asked how I was, I said, "Fine." And I was. Am. For the first time since the day I was released from the hospital. I know that cannot be true, but it certainly feels like it now.

He asked me where I lived and I told him Chicago. "Hey!" he said, "That's just an hour from here." I was invited over for the following night.

"Will your dad be there?" I asked.

"He lives with us," said Barry. I accepted.

At some point I got directions and wrote them down, though I cannot remember doing so. They are sitting on the table right next to the computer. All I can remember and still hear and will probably hear for years to come, maybe even the rest of my life, is the father's laughter.

The End


Author's note: When researching this story, I asked Dr. Todd Schiffer, a friend of mine, if Barry's scenario were at all likely. He responded: "'a child with congenital heart disease, like tetrology of fallot, would need multiple operations throughout life. The first operation would be at birth then there could be up to 3 more by age 14." So I decided that my fictional Barry would have tetrology of fallot.