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 term, 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
headachy, 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 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.