“Heart Sight”

Chapter Two

The first thing I said when I saw Dobey was, “Sorry, Captain, those reports are just going to have to wait until morning.” He gave me a pained look, and I was sorry I’d said it. He’s been more of a friend to us than our superior for years now, and I owed him more than a stupid remark. But he understood. He always does.

“So, how is he?” The captain looked beat.

I shrugged and ran the heels of my hands over my eyes. It was almost eleven and I was wrung out. I was too tired to even be glad for the company. I’m sure Huggy would show up later, after he closed The Pits for the night. If he knew how bad things were, he’d be here in an instant. As it was, I didn’t even know how bad things were or weren’t at this point.

Dobey and I sat there in the burn unit hallway for a couple of hours, mostly in silence. He asked me a few questions about what had happened, though I know he already knew, but I filled him in. There really wasn’t all that much to tell. We tried to talk a bit about the arson/homicide investigation, but neither of us seemed to be able to concentrate on it much.

Around midnight, a burn specialist by the name of Dr. Engles, a neurosurgeon whose name I didn’t catch the first time around, and Dr. Chartrand, an ears, nose and throat man, sat down to talk to us. I’ve got to tell you, having a doctor finally come and fill you in will give you a knot in your stomach the size of Minneapolis, but three doctors at once…

Typically, they’ll drop the bomb on you first, then try and backpedal into offering you some hope. I don’t know if these guys were merciful or what, but they began with the “good news” for once, rather than the “bad”.

Dr. Engles began. “Detective Hutchinson, Captain Dobey, we’re very fortunate Detective Starsky wasn’t any closer to the flash point than he was; his injuries could have been much more substantial than they are. Barring any unforeseen complications, and with the proper treatment and rest, he’s going to be fine. We’re fairly confident his injuries are temporary.”

I’m glad Dobey was there with me, because he began asking all the questions I couldn’t come up with. I just kept hearing “barring any unforeseen complications, he’s going to be fine…injuries are temporary” over and over in my head like a broken record.

An ER surgeon had given the initial diagnosis right after we brought Starsky in, and had calmly explained the heat of the blast and the gases that ignited were what burned Starsky’s face, hands, throat, and quite possibly his eyes and lungs. They would know more once he regained consciousness.

Three specialists were immediately called in. While Engles, Tyson (that was the neurosurgeon’s name), and Chartrand were examining Starsky, he had regained consciousness, though not coherency. Still, during that time they were able to determine that he couldn’t see.

Starsky blind?

I had to force myself not to go running to his room right then and there. A wave of nausea rolled over me. Starsky had woken up in the ER, confused, unable to see, a tube down his throat…and I wasn’t there for him. I should have demanded to stay with him. I should have…

Dobey’s hand on my shoulder brought me back to the conversation. He must have known I’d checked out for a minute.

Engles went on to explain how the heat from the blast gave my partner second-degree burns over the exposed areas of his flesh, namely his hands, throat and face. These were extremely painful, but not life-threatening, and no permanent damage was done to his skin tissue or nerves. Some special kind of burn salve whose name I would never be able to remember, let alone pronounce, was applied to the affected areas and left uncovered to heal. Since the nerve endings on the fingertips were quite sensitive, they had applied the salve there, but had wrapped them for comfort and protection.

The intense heat from the blast did sear the delicate tissue in Starsky’s nasal cavity and throat, causing significant swelling, which had begun to close off a considerable portion of his airway. Fortunately, although damaging, the burn was minimal enough to have not closed off his airway completely, and was not severe enough to scorch his lungs. If it had…

The doctors confirmed that the EMTs acted appropriately in inserting the tracheal tube, as there was no way for them to make a complete diagnosis on the field, and they had no way of knowing the extent of the damage to his throat and lungs. As it was, the doctors felt confident enough that the tracheal tube had been removed. Starsky was breathing on his own, the assisting oxygen only acting as a precautionary measure and to ease the burden on his damaged throat and lungs. They were also fairly sure the injuries would only require antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and monitoring. They would also be starting Starsky on antibiotic therapy to ensure that no fluids or infections developed in his lungs. He would have a sore throat for quite some time, between the swelling and the bruising caused by forcing the tracheal tube in, and it was very likely he wouldn’t be able to talk for several days at least. After all the stakeouts I wished Starsky would stop his incessant talking...the thought him not being able to communicate verbally would have amused me under other circumstances, but in light of everything he’d just gone through, it was immediately pushed aside.

Since Starsky had only regained consciousness briefly in the ER, they weren’t sure of the degree of damage to his hearing. I knew my own ears had been ringing a bit after the blast, but with Starsky having been closer, I’m sure his were a good deal worse. The specialist explained briefly how the ear works, with three small bones that vibrate, and if any one of them were to go out of alignment, the hearing could be affected. His examination of my partner indicated this was probably the case, but that the eardrum was unharmed. As healing progressed, all should return to normal, most likely within a day or two.

While their expressions remained politely optimistic, I could see the minute tension and strain growing around their eyes and mouths as they continued, and finally focused on Starsky’s loss of sight. While the corneas and delicate membrane that encompasses the eyes both had mild burns, a CAT scan determined the blistering heat had not caused Starsky’s blindness, but rather the force of the explosion. Surprisingly, his concussion was mild. But when Starsky was knocked down, he hit his head against the concrete hard enough--as Dr. Chartrand explained in layman’s terms--to “rattle” his skull. A Craniofacial Trauma developed, causing swelling and damage to the blood vessels supplying the optic nerve. As a result, small blood clots had formed, preventing his sight.

My face must have paled significantly, because the doctor reached out and compassionately gripped my arm. He went on to explain that with successful treatment of steroids, which they had already begun intravenously, the clots should eventually dissolve within a matter of weeks. The only complication that might arise would be if, as the blood dissipates, fluid should happen to fill the sacs left by the clots.

Then his blindness would be irreversible.

I had to have them explain the damage to his eyes twice. My head was just too full to really comprehend everything they had told me. Thank God the captain was there. He assured me, more than once, that he understood what the doctors said, and that barring any unforeseen complications, everything looked like it was going to be okay.

Other than that, we’d have to “wait and see”. Wait and see. They’d just told me that my partner was blind, with no real guarantee of his vision returning, as well as burns that closed his throat, and they want me to wait and see. How many years of med school does it take for someone to diagnose “wait and see”? I wasn’t feeling too generous right then, I guess.

The doctors concluded by explaining that recuperation would simply take time, patience and lots of rest. Knowing my highly energized partner, I anticipated the next few weeks were going to be sheer hell for both of us. A bored and restrained Starsky is an unhappy Starsky, and could be the biggest pain in the butt the world has ever seen. He was going to drive me up the wall and down again with his endless griping, whether he could verbalize it or not.

And I was going to relish every minute of it.

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The first night in the hospital is always the hardest, I think. My back hurt enough that I eventually asked the desk nurse for something, and she gave me a couple of pain relievers the size of horse pills. A pillow swiped from a passing cart was stuffed behind my lower back, as I tried to get comfortable on the torturous visitor’s chair.

It shook me a bit, seeing Starsky wrapped up like he was. Gauze encompassed both hands, making them look like bear paws. More gauze held large pads in place over each eye. A conical oxygen mask was strapped over his mouth and nose and I wondered if it hurt, being pressed against the tender flesh of his face. An IV of steroids, antibiotics and saline dripped steadily into his right arm, replenishing the fluids lost by the burns, plus enough morphine to knock him out. Funny, they give him morphine to take away the pain enough so he can sleep, then they come in every couple of hours to make sure he’s responsive after the concussion. I’m grateful I didn’t go into medicine after all; some of their logic is beyond my comprehension.

I couldn’t help staring at him, glancing every so often at the rise and fall of his chest. I guess I was still spooked that he was going to stop breathing. The white dressings stood out against his inflamed skin. Later, I’d kid him about looking suspiciously like his car. Right now, it just wasn’t funny.

I stretched out my back and tried to find a comfortable position on the chair by placing my feet on the edge of the bed. I was asleep in minutes.

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Starsky was sitting upright in the hospital bed and his paw-like hands had managed to claw off the oxygen mask. His breathing was raspy and he was almost thrashing in the bed. I’m not sure which woke me. At first, I thought I was back at the accident site and he was again trying desperately to breathe. Right now he was getting enough air on his own, but his disorientation and fear were making him panic. How could he help it? He wakes up not knowing where he is, maybe can’t remember what happened, can’t see, can’t speak and probably can’t hear…I would have been scared out of my wits.

I grabbed his wrists as he reached up to try to remove the pads over his eyes, and he began to fight me. I could tell he was weak and pretty much out of it, thanks to the morphine.

“Easy, buddy, easy. I’m here, it’s me.” Starsky continued to fight me even after I spoke to him in increasing volumes, so I knew he couldn’t hear. I did the only thing I could think of to calm him, let him know that I was there: I slid onto the side of the bed, facing him, and gathered him in an embrace. He was trembling, and his heart was beating so fast it reminded me of a captured bird’s.

He tried to push me away, but his hands were ineffective. I held him tighter and rubbed his back, talking to him constantly. I felt his body stiffen, as recognition finally broke through the fear and confusion. The fumbling hands reached up to either side of my head, as if trying to confirm who it was by touching my face, but again, the gauze prevented contact.

“It’s okay, Starsk, trust me, it’ll be okay.” It’s always been a matter of trust with us, you know? I felt him shudder and exhale, then lean into the embrace, nestling his head on my collarbone, the morphine probably numbing his burned skin enough to allow the contact. I kept talking to him, knowing while he couldn’t hear me, he could feel the resonance of my voice. We sat like that for a few moments, my heart beating a natural counterpoint to his frantic rhythm, until he gradually calmed into matching mine. Soon his breathing lost some of its raspiness as well. After a while, I ran out of things to say. We were so used to the comfortable silence of simply knowing the other was there, words weren’t always necessary. But tonight he needed more, because when I stopped my monologue he stiffened, needing to “feel” the sound when all his other senses had been stripped away.

I began to sing.

The music naturally moved me to gently rock him, my hand absently rubbing his back, comforting us both. It had been a long time since I had seen my partner so vulnerable, but these were extraordinary circumstances that left no room for pride, no room for shame. We were down to the basics of him and me.

When he finally felt boneless against me, I knew he had fallen asleep. I laid him carefully back on the bed and replaced the oxygen mask, then repositioned the chair so my hand lay on the undamaged part of his arm. That way when he woke again, he would know I was there with him. Just as I was about to shut my eyes, the nurse glided in, checked his IV and oxygen, and gave me an encouraging smile without saying a word.

I was asleep again before she left the room.

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Chapter Three