It
is important to note that this material was originally written in the fall of 1984.
In
1984, Beacon Paper Company hired a young man named Gregory Kennedy as a
management trainee. For reasons no one bothered to explain properly, it fell to
me to organize and supervise his training program. I suppose the simple answer
was no one else wanted to be bothered and they knew I’d take the assignment
seriously. Suddenly, my responsibilities in running Spec Sales and Promotions
had to include seeing that Greg learned all aspects of the paper business.
It
was more than a little unusual for Beacon to hire someone fresh out of college
with no graphic arts training or sales experience. So I nosed around and found
out that Greg’s father was a close personal friend of the executive
vice-president of the conglomerate that owned Beacon Paper. When Greg graduated
from Michigan State University
Initially,
I let on that I was less than pleased with the assignment, even though it was a
testament to my having learned at least a significant part of the paper
business in a little over two years. Training Greg would require me to take
time away from my accounts, something I discussed in detail with Tom F., my
boss and Beacon’s President. But in truth I didn’t mind, partly because it fed
my ego to be teaching again and partly because I had grown disenchanted with
the lack of intellectual challenge in selling paper and was looking for a
little diversion. The fact that Tom F. had chosen me for the job was a nice
feather in my cap. It also didn’t hurt that Greg and I hit it off immediately.
He was bright, enthusiastic, eager to learn, and had a sense of humor in sync
with my own.
The
first thing I did was to establish a training schedule for Greg’s first six
months. Although my assigned job was to expose him to every facet of the
business, my secret goal was to ensure that he fell in love with paper. Okay,
that may sound ridiculous but it wasn’t. Yes, I had become increasingly bored
with my job, which was to persuade large end-users and advertising and graphic
design firms to specify our paper. But I had come to love paper and the many
ways it could be used to tell a story or advance a point of view. Paper is such
a fascinating medium. For all practical purposes it appears two-dimensional.
But in reality it has four dimensions: length, height, depth, and an almost
indefinable dimension that combines appearance, feel, texture, and substance
that make paper so incredibly sensual.
The
training program I developed, which was properly blessed by the powers that be,
required us to meet at least three mornings each week, from 7:00 to 9:00, in
formal classroom type lectures that were to cover the intricacies of paper. In
addition, Greg was assigned to work periods varying from one week to several
months in each of our different departments. After the first few hesitant days,
I threw myself into the task with real excitement. Greg was so anxious to learn
he stimulated the teacher reflex in me to the extent I began neglecting my
sales responsibilities, which didn’t bother me much initially but would
eventually have adversely impacted my commissions had it continued.
Greg
was an eager and willing student, impressing even Beacon’s jaded salesmen with
his ability to grasp concepts quickly and also with his sharp wit and cool
demeanor. At twenty-two, he was full of a youthful self-confidence that was genuine
but presented not the slightest hint of arrogance or inflated self-importance.
Some
description is required. Greg was tall, a shade over 6 feet 2 inches, had black
curly hair, and weighed around 170. His hair and saturnine features made him
look more Italian than the Irish of both his parents. He wore his attractive
good looks casually, without that insufferable arrogance exuded too often by
tall, “beautiful” people born to money. It was a good sign that all the young
women in the office liked him. On the way to the john one day I overheard bits
and pieces of a conversation between two of the female workers in our mill
department about his cute buns. In short, Greg was a very nice, likeable young
man with exceptional ability and maturity for his age.
Greg
progressed quickly in the next several weeks, working diligently in our morning
sessions and in the various departments to which he was assigned. As we spent
more and more time together, especially over lunch, we began discussing topics
other than printing. It quickly became obvious that he was very proud of his
family. He spoke frequently of his mother, who had, about two years previously,
re-entered graduate school, studying for a doctorate in psychology. But he
seldom said much about his father. Initially, biased no doubt by the miserable
relationship I had had with my father, I assumed the two weren’t close. It
wasn’t long before I discovered the reverse was the case. Despite talking
little about his father, it soon became obvious that he cared for him deeply
and wanted his dad to think highly of him. As a paper broker with a national
clientele, Greg’s dad was very well known and extremely successful in a
cutthroat business. Without ever voicing his concerns, it became evident that
Greg wanted to prove that he could carve his own niche in life and become every
bit as successful as dear old dad. That’s why he had refused an offer from his
father’s firm and also why he left Detroit for a
job in St. Louis
Not
having had a good relationship with my father, I caught myself almost envying
Greg for his. Hearing him talk about his family and their vacations and all the
good times they enjoyed made me sad for the absence of those high-quality
experiences in my own life.
When
we ate lunch together we never talked about the paper business but focused on
far more vital topics, like religion, politics, and philosophy. To my
astonishment, I discovered that Greg had never heard of many of the world’s
great philosophers, including Immanuel Kant, Ludwig Wittgenstein or Martin
Heidegger and only barely recognized the names Sorën Kierkegaard or Sartre and
knew precious little about their contributions to the world of intellection.
With some prodding he admitted to have taken only an introductory philosophy
course, one that was strictly concerned with such contemporary topics as
abortion, substance abuse, and sexual “ethics,” as he put it.
As
a former university professor I was disappointed with his lack of preparation
for the most important task life puts before everyone: thinking. Ever the
teacher, despite having been removed for some seven years from my last
full-time university position, I determined to give Greg at least a small
inkling of the sweep of philosophy and show him how absolutely necessary it had
been to the development of Western history and civilization. Since lunch breaks
are not particularly conducive to discussing how Socrates-Plato-Aristotle and
countless others have changed their worlds and ours, I determined to excite his
innate sense of curiosity by lending him books from my home library by William
Barrett, Jules Henry, Ashley Montagu, and Philip Slater, among others. Once he
discovered the world of ideas I knew he would pursue it on his own.
About
two months into Greg’s training we became all extremely busy preparing Beacon
Paper’s display booth and promotional materials for the largest graphic arts
exhibition in the St. Louis Detroit
For
some unexplained reason that Friday before the big event was even more crazy
than usual. All day long we were kept running around like fools. By 4:30 I had
had it. Everything had been counted, packed, unpacked, re-counted, and
re-packed. We were both exhausted. I told Greg to sit down, relax, and start
dreaming about the hot date he had been talking about for the last two days and
forget the paper bullshit until the big show. I breathed a sigh of relief and
headed for home, a warm shower, a cold beer or two and early bed, leaving Greg
to finish up the last few remaining things.
About
8:30 that night the phone rang. It was Bob J., Beacon’s VP of Operations. His
voice was grim as he told me that Greg had been in an accident at work. Around
4:55 one of our larger clients called with an urgent request for several boxes
of printed materials we had been holding for them. Bob told Greg to bring them
from the warehouse. The electric freight elevator was in use so Greg, in a big
hurry to get the brochures and be on his way home to clean up for his hot date,
took the old hydraulic elevator that only the warehousemen were supposed to
use. Somewhere between the second and the sixth floors Greg had become trapped
between the wall and the elevator and had been badly bruised.
“Bruised?”
I asked, a cold dark pit opening in my stomach. “What the hell does that mean?
Just how bad it is?”
“It’s
not really that bad,” Jorgee insisted. “The paramedics took him to St. Louis University Hospital
“Jesus
Christ!” I exclaimed. “Collapsed lung, internal bleeding. What do you mean,
it’s not too bad? How the hell did it happen?” Despite Jorgee’s reassurances, I
felt sick with apprehension.
“Hell,
I don’t know. He was alone in the elevator.”
“Who
found him?”
“One
of the shipping clerks saw the hydraulic elevator come down with no one on it.
So he called up the shaft to see who was using it. He heard Greg moaning for
help. He ran upstairs and found him lying on the second floor in front of the
elevator door.”
“Was
he bleeding badly?”
“No.
That’s the crazy part. He wasn’t bleeding externally at all. His shirt was torn
in the back and the skin on his back was scraped but there was almost no blood.
When I got there Greg tried to get up and walk but he couldn’t. That’s when I
called 911. The police arrived first but took one look and said it was only a
minor accident, not enough to justify a report. The EMS
people took his vital signs and got him into the ambulance right away because
he was going into shock. His pulse was weak and rapid and his blood pressure
was really low, like 70 over 40.”
“That’s
not a good sign. Where’d you say they took him?”
“To
the University Trauma Center
“That’s
Greg all right.” I chuckled with an ease I didn’t feel. “Always organized. Did
you ask him how it happened?”
“Yeah,
but all he said was that he was sorry he had messed up and would tell me about
it later. When he felt better.”
“That’s
it?”
“Yeah.
He told Bill, the warehouseman who found him that he was riding between the
elevator and the wall and got stuck.”
“What?
Stuck where? How could he get stuck between the elevator and the wall? How’s
that possible? There’s no room. Besides, which wall did he mean? The front or
the back?” Nothing Bob J. said was making sense.
“Shit,
I don’t know. I really don’t.” He sounded as puzzled as I was. “I called his
parents and they’re flying from Detroit
“Did
you call Tom yet?” Beacon’s President and his wife were vacationing in Florida
“No.
He can’t do anything but get upset and worry all night. If it’s necessary I’ll
get in touch with him in the morning.”
I
sighed, feeling helpless, worried, and shocked that such a serious accident
could happen to one of our friends and co-workers. “You need me to come down there?”
“No.
Carol and Kim from the accounting department are here. They’ll stay and see if
the surgeon decides to open him up. I can only be here for an hour. My oldest
is running a high fever so I have to get a prescription on my way home. My wife
Mary Lou can’t pick it up because her car is on the fritz so I have to head out
before the drug store closes.”
“Okay.
Tell Carol or Kim to call me if anything happens, will you? I mean anything.”
“Sure.
But take it easy. Don’t tie yourself in knots. Greg is in good hands. He’s
awake and talking to anyone who’ll listen. He’ll be fine. It was just a nasty
scrape. He’ll probably be back at work by Monday at the latest.”
I
felt reassured by the confidence in his voice. After all, he was on the scene
talking to the doctor and I wasn’t. After I hung up San wanted to know all the
details. But there wasn’t much to tell her. Even though I saw that old freight
elevator every day I was completely incapable of visualizing how Greg could
have been riding between it and the wall. No matter how I thought about it I
could not imagine how the accident had occurred. It was a puzzle.
By
the time we climbed into bed, both San and I assumed everything was under
control. Since we hadn’t heard from anyone at the Hospital we took refuge in
the comforting attitude that no news is good news. But it took me over an hour
to fall asleep. And when I did it wasn’t a sound sleep. I tossed and turned on
the edge of consciousness until the ringing of the downstairs phone jolted me
wide-awake. We ordinarily disconnected our bedroom phone to ward off prank,
post-midnight calls to one of our teenaged children. In the dark and more than
half-asleep San couldn’t find the switch on the side of the phone that would
turn it on. As she fumbled the kitchen phone continued ringing. The red numbers
of the clock on the night stand winked 2:12.
“Quick,”
I said, frantic with worry. “It might be the Hospital.”
She
finally found the button and handed me the phone.
“Hello.”
“Bob?”
“Yeah,
Kim. What’s going on?” I replied, instantly recognizing the pain in her voice.
“It’s
really bad news.” She choked back a sob, trying to steady her voice. “They just
took Greg from the operating room to Intensive Care. The surgeon came out and
explained everything to us because Carol and I are the only ones here. He told
us it doesn’t look like Greg’s going to make it.”
“What!
Oh my God!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Not going to make it? A
couple hours ago Jorgee told me he was doing fine. What the hell happened?”
“They
knew he was bleeding internally so at 10:00 the surgeon made a small incision
in the stomach wall to see if they could spot the trouble. Right before they
took Greg in the doctor told us it was a routine procedure. But once he was
open they found all his internal organs were crushed.”
“Jesus
Christ. Crushed? What the hell?” Waves of nausea crashed over me.
Kim
continued in a rush before I could say anything more. I realized she had to
keep talking or she would break down. “They removed his spleen, part of his
stomach, most of his colon, part of his liver, half of his pancreas. One of the
arteries leading to the right kidney was torn apart. That’s where most of the
bleeding was coming from. They repaired the artery but the doctor is afraid the
kidney is shot. They can’t be sure at this time but wanted to give him every
chance.”
“Oh
my God. Oh my God.” I was unable to say anything else. My entire body had
turned cold as a marble slab but I couldn’t even shiver.
“His
blood pressure is fluctuating very erratically and they’re worried about some
problem called ARDS in the collapsed lungs. It’s got something to do with a
mucous membrane forming in his lungs but I’m not sure what that means. I just
know it’s really serious. The doctor also said that because of the extensive
bleeding he’s worried about Greg using up all the clotting factor in his blood.
But I don’t know what they’re doing about it. My head is numb and I can’t seem
to think straight. I, I just feel so overwhelmed.”
“Hang
in there, Kim. You’re doing great. Give me a few minutes to throw my clothes on
and I’ll be there in . . .”
“No.
You don’t need to come down. Greg’s still unconscious. Just sitting around here
wouldn’t do you or him any good. Try to get some sleep and come in the
morning.”
“Okay.
Do you think he’ll make it through the night?”
“Oh
God, I don’t know.” Her sigh was a cross between a cry and a moan. “Have to
tell you his surgeon is very pessimistic. But he said Greg has a slim chance if
his blood pressure stabilizes. Right now it just doesn’t look good.”
“Did
you call Jorgee?”
“Yeah,
right before I called you.”
“What
about Greg’s parents?”
“Dr.
Karpinski phoned them before he talked to me and Carol.”
“Who’s
Karpinski?”
“The
surgeon who operated on Greg.”
“Oh.”
Feeling empty, useless and deep down depressed I had little more to say but found
myself searching for some way to reassure the two of us. “You’ve got to keep
your hopes up. He’ll pull through. Greg’s a strong kid.”
“Maybe,”
she sniffed, not buying my bullshit optimism.
“How
are you feeling?” I asked, belatedly remembering she was one of the gals at
work I had overheard commenting about Greg’s attractive body.
“Not
good. All Carol and I can do is cry and hold on to each other.”
“Are
you guys going home now?”
“No.
We’ll stay. Greg’s parents are supposed to arrive at the airport a little after
8:00. Bob J. and his wife are picking them up. They’ll get here around 9:00. As
soon as they arrive we’ll leave. Carol and I don’t want them to think we left
him all alone through the night.”
“Listen,”
I said, feeling weariness that couldn’t be explained by the lateness of the
hour. “I want you to call me if his condition changes. No matter what. I want
to be there if . . .”
She
interrupted immediately, like she didn’t want me to finish the thought. “Okay.
One of us will call you right away.”
The
rest of the night was a tossing, turning, pacing nightmare. Hope, despair,
fear, uncertainty, and resurgent hope fought across the battlefield of my mind.
I struggled to understand what had happened and failed. I dozed, woke, fell
back into a fitful half-sleep only to jump up in unknowing fright at 5:00 AM
when I gave up in frustration and went downstairs. The book I attempted to read
lay open on my lap. Concentrating on the words proved too much and effort. The
pages refused to stay in focus. So, I stared at the brick fireplace but found
no comfort there.
Of
all things, a month previously I had volunteered to give a seminar on how to
conduct community research to the Junior League. A friend had asked me so many
times I had felt guilty for refusing her so finally had agreed. The lecture was
scheduled for 8:30. I was grateful for something to think about other that Greg
lying helplessly in the Hospital and tried to organize my ideas on how to
discover the nature of urban social problems so some of them might to
acceptable to upper middle class do-gooders. That effort only worker for a
short time.
One
of the Junior Leaguers picked me up at 8:00 and drove me to their stylish
headquarters in Frontenac, an upscale suburb. For an hour and thirty minutes I
was able to banish all the mind-numbing thoughts about Greg’s injury and worse
and concentrate on helping over-anxious upper crust American women, smartly
dressed in their elegant woolen casuals and asking such polite, inane questions,
sort out how they could make a difference in resolving the enormous racial and
economic problems of St. Louis. Not when their bank president husbands were
making millions on red-lining slum properties owned by poor blacks. Can you
spell fat fucking chance?
San
picked me up after I made good my escape and we rushed into the City, not
talking, not thinking. This precarious medical emergency was so like what had
happened to Karin we could barely articulate our fears. Our grey spirits were
matched perfectly by the leaden skies and intermittent rain. We had heard no
more news from the Hospital but our unfettered imaginations conjured up the
worst.
The
University Medical Center
The
Medical Center was a huge facility, almost but not quite reassuring in
high-tech steel, smoked glass, concrete and a tasteful veneer of used brick
that had most likely been recovered from neighborhood houses knocked down to
make room for its brand of progress. See what happens when those in power get
to define the situation? Those who triumph write history, not the vanquished.
Inside
the Medical Center St.
Joseph Hospital
We
boldly strode past the nurse on guard duty sitting at a desk under a large red
sign prominently declaring: RELATIVES
ONLY. Our logic was that if we acted as if we belonged no one was likely to
challenge our right to be there. So we charged ahead with outward confidence,
hoping to spot someone we knew before our charade was unmasked and we were
routed for the intruders we were. Just then San saw Bob J, and his wife sitting
in a small waiting room with two people I assumed to be Greg’s parents. Oh,
sweet Jesus, I groaned inwardly. Jorgee looked as pale as death. San must have
noticed it at the same time, squeezing my hand in a sudden vice-grip. We walked
in, prepared for the worst. I kissed Mary Lou, put my arms around Jorgee’s
large shoulders and gave him a hug. His lips were pursed tightly, as if keeping
the bad news from becoming real by being silent.
He
turned and introduced us to Greg’s parents, Penny and Tom Kennedy. They were as
white as chalk and looked as brittle from the tension. As the women sat
awkwardly, together, the three men walked to the coffee machine in the hall,
feigning a desire to drink the hot but tasteless fluid.
“How
is he?” I forced myself to look Tom in the eye, steeling myself for his
response.
“Hanging
in there.” Kennedy’s words choked in his throat as if they were the cause of
all the emotion. “We’re praying a lot.” Tears welled up in eyes already red
from unaccustomed weeping.
Without
conscious volition my arms circled the burley shoulders of this stranger I felt
I knew, hugging him in a clumsy attempt to give comfort. My heart bled for his
suffering.
“The
surgeon didn’t give us much hope,” he continued, wiping his eyes with a ravaged
tissue. “He told us a little while ago that if Greg can stabilize for the next
day or so he’s got a chance. A very slim chance. But if he stabilizes he might be
able to pull through.”
Good
God in Heaven. Might pull through? What an insubstantial thread to cling to
amidst total strangers in an unfamiliar environment. How terrible for them.
Their oldest child struck down and they didn’t even have the comfort of their
own doctor to provide some small measure of reassurance. They were helpless to
affect the outcome in ways we had never been with Karin. At least we had a
network of friends to support us.
Now
we all were spectators together watching, waiting. Only Greg and Dr. Karpinski,
the anonymous surgeon were the actors.
“Does
he know you’re here?” As soon as the words were out I wanted to bite my tongue
for asking such an insensitive question.
“Yeah.
He smiled at us when Penny and I went in to see him. He squeezed Penny’s hand
and said, ‘Hi, Mom.’ I could read his lips through the oxygen mask.” He covered
his eyes with his hand and breathed several short shallow gasps, sucking in the
air sharply as if he were in pain. He sagged against the wall. Bob J. and I
quickly put our arms around him for support, afraid he was about to collapse.
But he was stronger than we thought.
It
is difficult to remember distinctly the events of that bleak day. We walked the
halls a great deal, sat in the dreadfully uncomfortable chairs in the waiting
room until our backs screamed for mercy, stood around helplessly murmuring the
same words of hope and assurance we had earlier, and talked about the World
Series, pro football, the coming national elections. Or any topic that didn’t
stick in our throats. Those first hours of vigil passed like days. Every turn
when you reached the end of whatever hall you were walking down brought a view
of yet another clock. The damned things were everywhere. You couldn’t avoid
seeing them. And being reminded that barely five minutes had elapsed since the
last time you checked.
Periodically,
a doctor, nurse, or priest entered our solemn little universe of whispered pain
and visited with the Kennedys. We would then slip quietly away to give them
what little privacy that could be afforded in the constrained circumstances. On
one of those occasions, a young priest came to talk to the Kennedys. Before he
had time to say more than a few words, Penny stood up and left the room, a look
of pained irritation on her face. Only then did I remember Greg told me his
mother was very critical of the Catholic Church and was resolutely
anti-clerical while his father remained faithful to his religious roots.
Inwardly, I mused on their reversal of the roles San and I played with respect
to religion.
By
mid-afternoon the men, dredging deep into the bottom of the conversational
barrel, got down to discussing the paper business. Tom Kennedy fascinated us
with a wealth of anecdotal gems about the follies of selling train cars, truck
loads, and cargo containers of domestic and imported paper to the largest
printers in Chicago , Detroit
The
small waiting room was so crowded and warm it was difficult for me to
concentrate on his words so I took in the man. He impressed me as a very
direct, open fellow, honest in expressing deep emotions even though surrounded
by strangers who, in his mind, may by some terrible negligence be responsible
for Greg’s accident. That monstrous thought was banished immediately though
nonetheless it would return to haunt my days and nights.
In
spite of my involvement in the painful situation, in that Greg worked directly
for me and I was responsible for his actions at work, I was caught up in and
intrigued by the depth of Tom’s involvement in the complex world of paper and
printing. Tom and his firm represented an enormous market, millions and
millions of pounds of paper purchased annually by some of the largest printers
in the world. Paper that was printed for most of the national periodicals, like
Time, Newsweek, Sports Illustrated, etc., and for such huge end users as
General Motors, K-Mart, Ford, General Electric, etc. It was obvious that he
knew and loved his business with a passion I could never understand or even
begin to appreciate. Yet, I was utterly fascinated by his in-depth knowledge of
every major paper market and seemingly every sizeable piece of business ranging
from the Mid-West to the East Coast. Just listening to him was an education.
With
the passing hours our little coterie split first into one group and then
another. Sometime in the mid-afternoon, Penny and I were together in the
waiting room. Everyone else was pacing the halls, standing around the drinking
fountain or having yet another coffee downstairs in the cafeteria. I was
sitting across the room with San and took that opportunity to look at her
closely. Despite the lines of tension and anxiety on her face, she was an
attractive woman. I guessed her age at about forty-five or six. She was slimmer
than many twenty-year-olds and much more elegant. Which is one thing having a
lot of money can do for you. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. A
ragged, formerly dainty handkerchief was clutched so tightly her knuckles were
bloodless white. She stared vacantly ahead with unfocused eyes completely
unaware of her surroundings. It was almost as if she were in shock as well.
As
we sat there all San and I could think about was that terrible time in Ann Arbor
I
walked over to Penny and sat next to her, putting my arm around her shoulders.
She felt so thin and frail that I was afraid my hug would crush her like an
eggshell. But, like an eggshell, she would prove to have considerable strength.
“He’ll
make it, Penny,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel. “He’s got everything
working for him.”
“God,
I don’t know. I’m so frightened. We don’t know any doctors here we could bring
in for a second opinion. What if he’s not getting the right treatment? We
wouldn’t even know.” She sobbed into the rumpled cloth. “We just don’t know
what to do. It’s such an awful feeling of helplessness.”
My
heart was torn for her. It was bad enough that her son lay critically injured
just a few feet away but compounding the whole tragedy was the total absence of
comforting relatives and friends, or even a familiar environment where they
knew the reputation of the hospital and medical staff.
“One
of my good friends is an OB-GYN. He has privileges at the Hospital even though
most of his practice is in West
County
“Yes.
We need to know everything about the doctor and the Hospital. If there’s
anything we can do to help Greg we’ll do it. Even if that means flying in another
specialist.”
Before
I could say another word we heard a commotion in the hall. Penny leaned forward
to see what was happening. Suddenly she cried out loud, jumped up from the
chair and ran into the arms of a woman who had just arrived. It was obvious
that the women were close friends or relatives. In a few minutes, after
everyone had stopped crying and hugging each other, Tom and Penny introduced us
to their closest friends, Duke and Barbara B. They had just flown in from Detroit
Several
minutes later I caught Jorgee’s eye. We agreed it was time to leave so the
Kennedys and their friends could talk freely, without our unintentionally
prying eyes on them. As the four of us exited through the lobby, J. suggested
we go downtown to check the elevator and see if we could find any evidence of
what had happened last night. Mary Lou and San decided to go home in our car
and Jorgee and I left in his. Neither of the women wanted to have anything to
do with the elevator and I couldn’t blame them. To tell the truth, I didn’t
either.
