E-Male
Meaningful Relationships

By: Jeff Stimpson

The respect evaporated from their questions. "What exactly is it that you and your wife are objecting to?" the doctor asked. "That you would risk possibly putting him back on the vent, back in intensive care? Possibly something fatal?" Their pressure came in waves, no two the same: the simple shock of two departments recommending surgery without a test; then financial thumbscrews ("Sooner or later your insurance company is going to start giving you a hard time because nothing is being done for Alex..."; then emotional pressure, capped like FDR’s Pearl Harbor speech with the gut-punch word at the end.

I was still willing to talk it out. "I have no objection to any procedure that Alex needs," I told the doctor. "But I have to see that it’s necessary. That’s common sense." I usually talk like this just before I wind up in the diner, trying to figure out what went wrong.

While they acted as if our motives were incomprehensible, Jill decided she could start eating all the ice cream she wanted. "And don’t forget the crying," Jill says, "at least on our side."

Jill and I have been seeing other doctors. There, I’ve said it. We’re seeking second opinions recklessly. The head pulmo at our hospital learned this. Late this week he came in all smiles and brow, tenderness and threat.

"I hear you’ve spoken to other doctors," he said. "We want to make you happy. Tell us what to do and we’ll do it."

Of course, most relationships end in ultimatum. This one might, too, next week when the doctors present their final recommendations about Alex and surgery. Accept them, or not? We don’t know how we’ll play that hand. I know you’re thinking, "You’re the ones who should be giving them ultimatums!" I can see you across from me in the diner, gentle and understanding over the coffee, the crumbs of your BLT and my untouched burger.

I know you’re right. I also know knowing what is best is a tricky thing, that from the relief of every ending, as if from damp soil, sprouts the burden of another beginning. I guess for now we’ll try to work it out.

Jeff Stimpson, 37, is a journalist in New York and the father of Alex, who was born on June 14, 1998, weighing 1 pound 5 ounces. Jeff's Web site contains several other essays about Alex. The address is at:   http://members.tripod.com/jeffslife/HOME.HTM