HALF FULL
"I was a private investigator back then (ten years ago)," Mr. Full explained from his hospital bed.
I could easily see him in a dark trenchcoat and hat. The short hair, mustache, square jaw.
He was only a few years older than me though. He was telling me how he became a paraplegic ten years ago. He seemed pleased when I had asked for details.
"And I did this really stupid thing once. I was in this bad neighborhood and I delivered a subpoena to this guy at his house. And then I … God it was stupid … I turned my back to him and walked away. That's when he shot me in the back (lumbar spinal cord was severed immediately). Then he starts kicking my face in (maxillofacial and orbit reconstruction) and he tries ripping my arm off, twisting and stepping on it (fractured collarbone, shoulder plate, brachial plexus injuries). Then he puts his gun to the back of my head …"
I swear I was getting a little creeped out at the bad shit this relatively gentle soul was put through.
"… And then one of his neighbors saw him. He must've ran away after realizing there were witnesses. I'm really pretty lucky."
Then he laughed at the near ridiculousness of that statement, but it was certainly true as well. Sure, his legs were paralyzed withered twigs, he couldn't urinate normally, and he required a colostomy bag, but at least he could tell his story. He could still use the half of his body that was left.
But that wasn't all he had.
He had a laptop with him. I have to admit I get a little nervous when I see one on the off-chance some patient might enter my name into a search engine. But on the other hand, the only people I know who would do that, are the kind of cyber chics and geeks who read online journals anyway. My colleagues certainly don't put my name into search engines, otherwise they wouldn't keep asking if I still had a website.
His laptop was his escape, I knew. His winged boots, bionic legs, Rocketeer jet pack, and hundred horse chariot, all at his fingertips.
He was going to create a support warehouse of sorts, started on the internet, for disabled people. The plan was to provide help for disabled persons like himself. Pitfalls to avoid (other than getting shot in the back I presume). Support. Resources. But most importantly, to have used medical equipment donated to his organization in order for it to be lent out to other disabled people when they couldn't afford their own.
I was pretty amazed, and humbled. Just that morning I was swearing over the fact that The Empire had moved the "allowable doctor parking quadrant" to yet another place I've never seen before in a galaxy far far away.
MONDAY
I was off last weekend, and when I came back he was completely changed. Lethargic, refusing meds / vitals / dressing changes, "very rude" according to the chart notes, "NONCOMPLIANT."
"Complaining that his computer is broken."
Just as a sorcerer might keep his soul in a magic gem or ring, his must have been in that laptop. He wasn't half the man I had left on Friday.
"I can't afford $1200 to fix it," Mr. Full barely gurgled with lackluster eyes, as if he were too apathetic to even swallow or blink. His dreams of making a tiny difference or just having some purpose in life were gone. His glass was half empty again.
After making sure he didn't actually have a new pneumonia or stroke, I told him we'll get an estimate on his computer and start from there. He lit up instantly. That single gesture worked better than Prozac, Vicodin, Super Secret Antibiotic 0233JZK023-H39, and George Clooney combined!
Tech support said it might just be the batteries (even when it's plugged in?) and it would be free under warranty but to bring it into RadioShack anyways.
The next day I took it to RadioShack for him.
TUESDAY
Amy, who was very supportive, suggested I mention the laptop's owner was a paraplegic in the hospital (the truth), so it might get fixed quicker (yeah, right).
I asked her if I should also mention that the owner of this computer pees through a tube, shits in a bag, and is colonized with resistant bacteria that probably didn't exist ten years ago (also, the truth). (But then again, I'm probably colonized as well.)
With Amy at my side (and making sure I wasn't going to PAY for it this time), we approached the white haired RadioShack Guy. He looked as if his idea of "global electronic communication" was talking to his ham radio buddies saying "Breaker breaker, Tango Charlie to Smokey Bear Niner Niner." My first impression was indeed correct, as evidenced while he was filling out the paperwork.
RADIO SHACK GUY : "Does this thing have a … hard ... drive."
ME (trying not to make a Stink Eye face) : "... Um, yeah it does."
RADIO SHACK GUY : "What's this?"
ME (definitely making the Stink Eye face) : "Power cord, maybe?"
RADIO SHACK GUY : "Then what's this box part that detaches from the power cord, huh?"
ME : "The detachable part of the power cord, maybe? (He didn't like that answer.) ... I don't know. Does 'power source' fit?"
(I found out later it was the AC Adapter. Shouldn't a RadioShack Guy know that? My next best two answers would have been:
1) … (The) LIGER balls in a black box,' or
2) DumbAssSaysWhat.)
RADIO SHACK GUY : "I need name, address, phone number."So I called Mr. Full in his hospital bed, while RadioShack Guy tilted his head impatiently.
ME : "Hi, Wade (I used his first name since I was at RadioShack). This is Scott. They need your address and phone number for the computer repair form. Can you give it to me?"
MR. FULL (very groggy) : "Uh … sure …." (some rustling in the background.)
(A long 60 seconds pass by.)
ME : "Hello, Wade, are you still there?"
MR. FULL : "Uh … yeah …. "
ME : "Just checking. I thought we were disconnected. You know your phone number and address right?"
MR. FULL : "Uh … yeah, I do …."
(Another 30 seconds. RadioShack guy was about to burst an aneurysm.)
ME : "Hello? Could you TELL ME your phone number and address??"
MR. FULL : "Oh. Sure …."
AMY (whispering) : "Is he drugged?"
ME : "Yeah, I just remembered he got 2 mg of morphine before I left. Haha!"
RADIO SHACK GUY : "Now, I need the date he bought the computer."
MR. FULL (on phone with me still) : "Um … I don't know, really."
ME (to RadioShack Guy) : "He doesn't know. Can we skip that part?"
RADIO SHACK GUY (with more snippy attitude) : "*Sigh* This form has to be filled out completely for any repairs to be made under warranty, otherwise no go."
MR. FULL (on phone): "Uhh… (he was totally snowed) … I don't … remember…."
ME (lying) : "It was November? Okay then, thanks Wade. Bye. … (to RadioShack guy) … He said November, last year."
And that was that.
I never did say I was Mr. Full's doctor. That just seems too weird. I did say he was in the hospital but RadioShack Guy didn't seem to care (although Compaq technical support said they were very sorry to hear that).
Instead I said I was his friend. At this point, that didn't seem quite so weird.
TODAY
Today, Mr. Full had company. We laughed about his morphine-induced amnesia yesterday and he eagerly introduced me to his "friend and legal guardian," a minister -- a smiling young father of two little angels who ran around the room while we talked.
Mr. Full looked happier than ever, even though he knew his computer would be out for at least a week or more.
Maybe it wasn't his laptop batteries that needed recharging after all.
