Chapter 3: Iron Maiden

“When do you get this metal crap out of you?” Kathy asked, tapping a steel pin sticking out of his right arm.

“It’s only been two weeks, Kat,” he replied, flexing his left arm and scratching his nose. They had just removed the hard cast and replaced it with a padded wrap to remind him it was still healing. “Probably another week or two. Hopefully, they’ll be out by Valentine’s Day.”

She traced her fingers up the halo apparatus attached to his head. “Got plans? Dancing?” She looked away indifferently, but her mind eagerly awaited his answer.

He snorted, “Depends on your idea of dancing. Do you know the flopping halibut?”

I’d flop around with you, she said to herself. “Sounds kinky,” she smirked. “Is it a couples dance?”

He hiccupped and laughed, “Where’s Al?”

She shrugged, “He said he’d come by later. His mom is nagging him about his grades.” Finally, she sauntered over to the chair next to his bed and plopped into it, resting her arms on the bed rail and her chin on her arms. “So, what do you want to do?” Make out?

“I dunno,” he sighed. “Sometimes I’m so bored just laying here. There’s only so much to think about, you know?”

“I suppose. I’m not in your shoes,” she winced at her unintended gaff, but he didn’t notice. “Thoughts are as random and innumerable as stars, you know?”

“It’s like I get mentally derailed whenever I try to think about stuff, you know?” He shrugged. “It’s like a riddle that just escapes me.”

“Sounds like you need more information,” she replied quickly. “Are you trying to solve a puzzle—like the Fibonacci spiral?”

He sniffed disdainfully, “Each number in the sequence equals the last two ... done.”

“Maybe you could distract yourself with a book,” she suggested.

He chewed his lip and nodded, “That’s exactly what I need!” He looked at her sideways, “Can you get me a few at the library?”

She nodded lazily with her head in her arms. “Sure. What do you want?”

He thought about it. “Anything on corporate finance and investing. Stocks, bonds, mutual funds, options, futures, anything you can find.”

She sat up and shook her hair off of her face. “Yeah, I can do that for you. It’ll cost you, though.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “My wallet is over—”

“Your money ain’t no good round here, pale face,” she teased.

“What do you want?”

“I’ll let you know—” she replied smugly before resting her head back on her arms, watching him coyly.

“Well, that killed three minutes,” he said with a grin. “What else you got?”

She giggled, “Want me to rub your feet?”

He coughed and winced as he laughed. “Damn! That was cold!”

“Nah,” she grinned. “Hey, when they cut off the other one, will they let you keep it?” There was a mischievous gleam in her eye.

He regarded her incredulously, “Why would I want to keep my old dead foot?”

“So, you can stick it in a jar and put it on the mantel beside your old dead brain!” She tapped his bedrail and swung at an invisible cymbal. “Badum tish!” she mimed. “Now, that was cold!”

Despite the soreness, he couldn’t help but laugh as he tried to keep from shaking his body. “Oh ... God! That ... hurts!”

“Good, laughter is the best medicine,” she quipped.

“Not with a chest tube,” he gasped.

The day before Valentine’s Day, the surgical team met with him and his mother to discuss the prognosis of his ischemic limb. After numerous sensory tests for tactile, heat, and cold, they marked his lower leg above his ankle for amputation. He compared the line with his other missing limb when he drew back his gown.

“This might be the craziest question ever,” he hesitated. “But is it okay or even feasible for you to chop it off to match my other leg?”

His mother gasped, but the doctors listened with interest as he explained how it would probably be easier for him to adjust to prostheses if he didn’t have to stumble around on mismatched legs.

“That’s a very astute observation,” the chief of surgery commented. You’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

“Yessir,” he replied humbly, “and I realize it’s probably contrary to the institution to remove tissue that is still ... alive.” He lifted his left hand and rested it on the external brace, holding the pins in his left thigh. “I’m just wondering, is all.”

The old balding doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully and nodded. “We have to discuss this, and I want to reach out to a colleague at Walter Reed.” He gestured, and the group of white coats left the room, leaving him alone with his incredulous mom.

They took him to the OR early the following day to remove the external fixators from his legs and right arm. He woke up around noon, taking inventory of himself. Without the metal pins and frames, he felt less encumbered. His head remained secured in the halo traction, but he could reach down and pull back the sheets covering his legs. Both ended four inches below his knees, though the left was wrapped in thick white gauze. The chest tube had been removed a week ago, and he hoped the Foley would soon follow, allowing him to pee for himself. Reassured, he rested his head, eased back onto the pillow, and closed his eyes.

Hours later, the anesthetic wore off, and he needed large doses of morphine for pain. They let him sleep for the first couple of days until he could bear the discomfort with minimal narcotics. Alan and Kathy visited him two days after Valentine’s. They found him stuffing his face with chocolates from a heart-shaped box. He looked up and regarded them with a bright expression.

“Hey guys,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “Did you bring me these?” He held out the near-empty container. He had returned several pieces after taking a bite. “Have some.”

Kat poked through the wreckage, shaking her head. “I did, but—damn, dude! I didn’t think they’d let you eat the whole box at once.”

“They never told me I couldn’t,” he replied, licking his fingers. He surrendered the candy and allowed them to pick some un-chewed pieces.

“You seem pretty upbeat for someone who just lost a foot,” Alan said, biting into a chocolate.

“Man, having those rods out of my legs, hip, and arm is awesome!” he replied. He held up his right arm with its soft cast and turned his hand. “See? I’m right-handed again. Now I can rewrite my notes from last week.” He referred to the dozen books that Kat had brought him. As he began reading about investing basics, he asked her for notebooks and pens. His offhand was slow, but he took his time to ensure he could read everything. A stack of books on his table was filled with torn paper bookmarks. He was eager to buy stocks, but Scott advised him that a settlement was still weeks to months away.

When his mom caught him reading and taking notes, she grumbled that his time would be better spent catching up on schoolwork.

“Have them bring it by,” he replied casually, “and I can get it done, too.”

She knew better than to challenge him on it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Kathy sang as she chewed.

“No kiss?” Peter joked.

She curled her lip at him. “And risk putting my eye out on the Iron Maiden?” she retorted. Inwardly, she felt her breath catch at the thought.

“Are you two going steady now?” Alan sniffed disdainfully. “Like Donny and Marie?”

Kat could’ve kissed him for vocalizing her secret longing.

Peter frowned at him. “Do I look like Donny Osmond?”

“Captain and Tennille?”

Kathy poked him, “Do I look like Toni?”

The Asian nerd scrutinized her, with her long black hair, “Mmm ... maybe more like Cher.”

“That makes me Sonny,” Peter quipped.

“I like it!” she beamed, touching his untrimmed hair inside the halo traction ring. “You’ve got the hair for it; you just need the handlebar stash.”

“Mom says I need a haircut and wants them to remove the hardware long enough for a trim.” He scratched his scalp over his right ear.

“Sure, risk total paralysis for a haircut,” she snorted.

“That’s pretty much what the nurses told her.”

Alan was wearing a backpack and slipped his arm out of the strap. “I wish you had access to a computer,” he said, pulling out a thick binder. In the middle was a small stack of 5 ¼” floppy disks held together with a rubber band. “I got Slots and Bingo here but need your help.” He set the disks on the table and the notebook beside them. When he opened it, the pages were full of handwritten programming code. They were creating several games, but Peter believed they could develop a simple slot machine and build on it. They hoped to release beta versions on the bulletin board networks and—if well received, sell them.

He took the notebook and began reviewing the notes written in different hands. He recognized the harsh, blocky text from Alan’s grip and the thinner, elegant script from Kat’s left-handed writing. Many of his notes were included, but it had been weeks since he contributed. He was still the better C programmer, and they relied on him to fix the bugs.

“Why did you cross out all these attributes?” he asked, thinking in the programming language.

“Because it fucks everything up when you hit jackpots,” Alan replied.

“There’s nothing random about it,” Kat added. “They are almost sequential, and the payouts are staggered in orderly increments.”

They stayed silent for several minutes as he frowned over the notes. “I think there’s something wrong with the iostream inputs,” he murmured. “But I can’t do anything with this.” He put the notes down and rubbed his eyes. “I need to get in front of it to see how each ‘cout’ displays.”

Kathy nodded, her lips pressed together. “Every time you win the ‘Jackpot’ or ‘Big Money!’ the fonts are all wrong, and my color commands aren’t working.”

“That’s because they aren’t ordered properly in the main function. Write it into the standard namespace declaration.” He sighed in frustration. “I need a fricking computer!” he grumbled.

“I could bring mine,” his friend replied hesitantly.

“Al, that beast weighs a ton,” he replied. “You’d kill yourself lugging it down the hall, much less across town.”

“It’s okay,” Kathy replied, trying to ease his angst. “We can figure it out. It just takes us longer. The Bingo graphics are awesome. The tumbler and chute are working, and the balls appear and roll down the chute like we wanted.” She flipped to another section of the notebook. “The problem is when it switches displays between the tumbler and the player’s cards.”

Peter sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Leave the notes with me tonight, and I’ll look them over when my brain isn’t foggy from these drugs.”

His two friends sat quietly beside his bed and watched him for several minutes. A TV Guide sat next to the television on a corner shelf. Alan grabbed it and began thumbing through it. “Wanna watch some boob tube?” he asked. “Doogie Howser, Quantum Leap, Baywatch—” he winced and glanced at the tall Senior across from him. She rolled her eyes at his embarrassment.

“Quantum Leap,” Peter replied, suddenly interested. His friend got up and turned on the TV and the channel box.

It took two weeks of begging and an adolescent meltdown before the neuro/spinal specialist listened to Peter and considered removing the external cranial fixator. He was surprised when the doctors rounded and advised him of their plan.

“You’re going on a road trip tomorrow, Mr. Shipley,” the Chief of Surgery stated. There was anticipation in the room.

Peter sensed the anticipation in the room and heard The Beatles’ iconic song, Day Tripper, in his head.

’Got a good reason ... for taking the easy way out.’

“Um, okay,” he replied, setting aside his latest PC Gamer magazine. “Where am I going?” He looked at the grinning senior resident, Dr. Merchant. “Shouldn’t my mom be here for this?”

The 26-year-old ‘Doogie Howser’ nodded, “She’s on her way,” he replied. “I spoke to her about an hour ago.”

“We can return once she arrives if you like,” Dr. Hearst (Chief of Surgery) added.

“Oh, no,” Peter cut in, interested. “I’m all about day-tripping. Please, go on.”

Only ‘Doogie’ caught the reference and grinned again. “You’re always talking about wanting to go to UW.”

He stared back at the group blankly. “Um.”

Dr. Merchant stepped closer and knocked on the halo frame that kept his head pinned. “Dr. Osterman wants better imaging of your cervical spine before considering removing the Iron Maiden.” It was a term of endearment from Peter, Kathy, and Alan.

Peter began to piece together their conversation. “A CAT scan?”

The Chief of Surgery nodded. “We’re still installing ours, but the Montlake Campus has one of the best on this coast,” he said. “And one of the only MRIs.”

“MRI,” Peter replied, testing the term. “Magnetic something, right?”

Just then, his door opened, and his mother entered the room, entered, looking slightly disheveled. He saw an unfamiliar man in the hallway before she closed the door.

“I’m sorry for the delay, doctors,” she greeted nervously beside Peter’s bed. She touched his face and shoulder reassuringly.