Elevator Accident Part 3

Sunday was extremely hard on everyone, especially Greg’s parents. They had agonized over bringing their other children to see Greg but Penny wasn’t sure they could take the sight of his bruised and bloated body (from the fluid build-up). She wanted them to think of him as he had been, not as he was then. Besides, she said, they can come when he gets better. But Tom was not to be dissuaded. He called his younger brother and told him to put the children on a Monday morning flight.

Penny roamed the halls, pacing, pacing, pacing some more. Her hands were red from being twisted in knots. At one point I joined her, handing her a cup of coffee she didn’t need.

“Would you like to take a short stroll outside? Maybe get some air? The sun’s out in full force and it’s an unseasonal 65º.”

“No, thanks. I don’t want to go too far. I just needed to get out of that damned little room and away from those gloom and doom priests who take such pleasure in telling us how bad he is. And how much he needs our prayers. It’s such bullshit.”

The fierceness of her tone took me aback but I tried not to show it. “If they’re bothering you I can tell the nurse to keep them away.”“

She shook her head. “No, that’s all right. Tom enjoys talking to them. I’m overreacting but their damn officially sorrowful and pompous attitudes get on my nerves.” She clenched her fist so tightly it trembled. With a quick smile she took my hand in hers. “Before I forget, I want to thank you and all the people from Beacon Paper, for staying with us. Neither Tom nor I ever thought strangers could be so kind and supportive.”

I squeezed her hand. “It’s the very least we could do, Penny. We’re here because we all have lived away from home and have sat in Emergency Rooms waiting for one of our kids to be stitched up after an accident. We would never let you and Tom go through this alone. All of us really care about your son.”

We had stopped our pacing at a large window at the end of the hall. The drapes were fully drawn. We pretended to survey the scene four stories below as if it held something of vital interest.

“He’s a great kid, Penny. Every single person at Beacon has taken to him. He’s only been with us eight weeks but we all feel like it’s one of our own kids in there. And that’s really why we’re all here. Because we love him. He’s one of ours.” Sentimental, yes. But every word was heartfelt and true.

Wordlessly, we hugged each other, tears streaming openly down our cheeks. My throat was so tight I couldn’t swallow. All I could do was hold her and pat her back.

We stayed at the hospital until the late afternoon, leaving only when more Kennedy relatives arrived from Detroit. With the Byrnes they would be able to provide that ever so vital support only relatives and close friends can. It was support that the Kennedys needed desperately.

Monday at work was extremely grim. It was like a morgue. Everyone was very quiet and subdued. The news from the hospital was all negative. Greg was still unstable, with little kidney function. After several hours of doing nothing but pace around aimlessly, I returned to the hospital. Just being there was an offering I felt compelled to make. But there was no relief from the depressing reality. Greg was doing worse than had been anticipated. The neurosurgeons were worried about the increasing pressure on his brain. In addition, something in Greg’s body was producing toxins that the damaged kidneys were unable to remove. He was no longer alert nor did he recognize anyone, including his parents. Bad signs all around.

By noon the decision to operate on his brain to relieve the pressure was made. Tom and Penny had to sign more authorizations and were told in mind numbing detail how this or that procedure could kill Greg if this or that went wrong but if those procedures were not done their son would die anyway from all the grievous trauma his body had sustained in the accident. So, what choice did they have? Tom forced the pen into his stiff and unwilling fingers and signed the papers.

The crowded waiting room and hallway seemed to hold no hope, only pain and fear mixed with a grief so palatable it saturated our very existence. For God’s sake, how and why had this happened? We all wondered and whispered about it surreptitiously but no one had the courage to address it out loud. About the only thing we could do, other than pace around aimlessly, was to pray. And we all did plenty of that. Whether we believed or not.

At that terrible moment, with the Kennedy relatives and friends and all of us from Beacon standing a grim watch outside the Intensive Care Unit, Greg’s younger brother and sisters arrived from Detroit. It was a scene that floods my mind even now with such overwhelming poignancy and sadness that I have to force myself to stay at the computer. Those poor kids were so frightened they could barely walk or stand. They clung to their parents in absolute fear, crying and trembling in the corridor surrounded by adults who were unable to keep the bitter-salt tears from their eyes. They sought reassurances that could not be given by their devastated parents. Gregie’s going to get well, won’t he, Mommy? Their eyes cried. He’s going to get better, isn’t he? Tell us everything will be all right, Dad. It broke our hearts to watch the Kennedys suffer.

Tom F., Jorgee, and I had to leave. We could not take the release of all that raw emotion without breaking down. Even though we had not mentioned it amongst ourselves, we all felt responsible. Greg worked for us and had been injured at work. And that made us feel inexpressibly guilty even though we believed he had done something stupid that caused his injuries. But that didn’t matter. He was our responsibility. We told Duke B. that we would return around 4:00, when Greg was scheduled to be out of surgery and fled down the elevator to the comfort of the uncaring outside world.

I returned to the ICU at 3:30, just in time to see Greg being wheeled in from the elevator to his room. My God, his appearance devastated me. His body was grotesquely bloated as a result of swollen tissues from the accident and the fluid build-up caused by his malfunctioning kidney. The front right part of his head had been shaven and painted with bright orange-yellow-green antiseptic where the surgeon had drilled through his skull into his brain. Tubes where running everywhere, especially into his mouth and nose. Heart and blood pressure monitors beeped and flashed across miniature CRT displays. He was totally unrecognizable. The only way I knew it was Greg was the stricken expression on Tom Kennedy’s face as the heavily laden gurney rolled down the corridor. He and I were the only ones who had noticed the small harried procession. The rest of the group was still in the waiting room or had clustered at the opposite end of the hallway.

Shocked by Greg’s appearance, without thinking I whispered to his father, “Jesus, Tom. He looks terrible. Thank God Penny and the kids didn’t see him.”

He nodded, swallowing hard, and released the breath he had been holding since seeing Greg and sighed. “He needs a miracle. That’s the only thing we have left. A miracle.”

A half hour later Dr. Karpinski met with the Kennedys and gave them the latest word. The good news was Greg had sustained no brain damage. No stroke. No sign that blood clots from the chest cavity had traveled to the brain. No raised pressure on the brain. No necrotic tissue on his back. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief. But the bad news was enough to bring the Statue of Liberty to her knees. One kidney was dead and had to be removed. The other was functioning very erratically. The principal artery to the liver had been partially blocked by a large blood clot causing at least some damage. And his heart was not beating regularly. Although the next ten to twelve hours were critical he held out little room for optimism. Prepare yourselves for the worst, the good doctor said, as he pressed a weary hand across his face. Poor devil looked flat-out exhausted. I wondered how much sleep he had gotten over the past few days.

So, with no other options, we waited, too emotionally and physically exhausted to hope or to pray. The Kennedys sagged against each other or sat listlessly in the waiting room. Terrified that the next appearance of the doctor or the head ICU nurse meant that Greg had died. By 6:30 to everyone’s amazement the official word was that Greg’s condition had improved somewhat. Our spirits lifted considerably. That’s when all of us from Beacon Paper decided we were in the way and should go home, leaving the Kennedys and their friends to their vigil. It had to be awkward for them having us underfoot but they were extremely gracious in not mentioning it.

That night I lay abed for the customary eight hours without sleeping more than an hour or two. All I could do was to think about Greg. Having lunch at Italian restaurants on the Hill. Driving him through the exclusive neighborhoods in Ladue. Talking about abortion, civil disobedience, Reagan, Catholicism, his girlfriend in Miami. Showing him how to read a GATF color bar. Telling him about gas ghosting and how to get rid of the problem. Laughing together at the silly, vulgar, sexist jokes we loved.

When morning finally came even the sharp needles of the shower were not sufficient to jolt me from the trance that gripped me. But the telephone ringing at 7:05 did it. I knew that this was it. The call I expected but never wanted.

“Have you heard anything?” It was Tom F.

“Not a thing. Why? Have you?”

“Yeah. When I called the ICU a few minutes ago and asked about Greg’s condition the nurse told me all enquiries were being referred to the family.”

The breath shot out of my lungs. “Shit, shit, shit. That’s it, Tom. He’s dead.”

“I’m not sure. Maybe . . .” It was obvious that he wouldn’t let himself face it.

“Hang up. I’ll call Barb and Duke at their hotel. They’ll know.” Efficiency was my immediate reaction. Be organized and you won’t have to think.

“It’s awful early. Maybe you should . . .”

“It’s not that early. I’ll call you back as soon as I talk to them.”

“Okay. Bye.” Tom wanted someone else to do it. I didn’t care if it had to be me. I was desperate to know. One way or the other.

When I called the hotel the first two times their line was busy. Not a good sign. The third time Barbara B. answered.

“Barb, this is Bob Ernst from Beacon Paper. We called the hospital this morning and they wouldn’t tell us anything about Greg. Has anything . . .”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Bob, but he died early this morning.” Her voice was so sad, so exhausted.

“Oh my God. I’m so terribly sorry.” Tears ran down my face splashing almost perfect circles on San’s phone message pad on the night stand. I watched them hit as though they belonged to a stranger. My throat closed so tightly that it was difficult to breathe and almost impossible to talk.

“The ICU called Tom and Penny around 12:30 last night and told them it was the end. His heart was failing from all the toxins in his system. We rushed to the hospital. He was on some sort of heart-lung machine. I think he knew we were there but I’m not sure. He died just before 2:00 this morning with all his family and friends at his bedside.” Her pause indicated she expected me to say something but I couldn’t force my voice to work. “His kidney never came around and the liver turned out to more severely damaged than they thought. It was failing rapidly, poisoning his entire system. He actually died from cardiac arrest but it was caused by all the toxins in his body.”

“Barb,” I choked out, “Please tell Tom and Penny how terrible we feel. We all loved him.” It was impossible for me to say another word.

I can’t remember hanging up. San put her arms around me and let me cry my eyes out, like a helpless baby. It was many minutes before I was able to pull myself together and call Tom F. and then Bob J. They were as deeply affected by the horrible news as I was. Tom F. even more so. The guilt that was weighing heavily on his shoulders was so tangible I could almost touch it. I wanted to say so much to him but was unable to.

San wanted me to stay home but no way could I. Or would under any circumstance. That day was the graphics arts exhibition Greg and I worked so hard to get ready. I had to be there all day and half the night. This might sound callous but that exhibition was my salvation. My excuse not to think, not the remember, not to feel. It would keep me away from the office, from all those terrible memories. It would force me to stay busy, talking, meeting people, laughing at their dull jokes, mercifully occupying my mind with the inanities of life. My stupid, meaningless life.

The day passed quickly in a blur of frenetic activity. After the exhibition was over I went out with Tom F., Bob J., and about five or six clients and drank myself past the awareness of pain. Lucky for me, Tom F., who never drinks anything stronger than Coke, drove me home around 1:30. On the way home we didn’t say one word about Greg but just before getting out of his car I grabbed his hand and held it tightly for a minute. Neither of us said a word but he knew how I felt.

Once in the bedroom, all the grief I had striven so hard to control all day long caught up with me and exploded. The gut-wrenching tears came as I was standing in our walk-in closet hanging up my suit. Suddenly all the strength drained out of my body and I collapsed on the floor, on top of five or six pair of shoes, crying and sobbing uncontrollably, my hands covering my face. San must have heard me because she was kneeling beside me, trying to comfort me. I’m sure she thought the alcohol was behind the tears. It wasn’t.

After several minutes I calmed down enough to hear what she was saying.

“But it wasn’t your fault. You’re not responsible. You didn’t have anything to do with his death. It was just a terrible accident.”

“Yes I did,” I sobbed loudly, in a sudden panic that for the first time in my life I was unable to control the storm of emotions that held me in its grip. “I WAS responsible! Greg worked for me. I was training him. And I never warned him to stay away from that goddamned elevator. Why? Why didn’t I tell him? I never took it because I was afraid to. It even made me uncomfortable to ride in it with one of the paper handlers. But I never warned him. Why? Why? If I had he might be alive today.” I sobbed so hard my stomach and chest hurt. The hot tears of guilt cut groves in my cheeks.

“That’s ridiculous. Greg died because he made a stupid mistake. He took a terrible risk and what happened is a result. You yourself told me that. You said the elevator has been in use for almost seventy years and no one was ever injured on it until now. He’d be alive today if he didn’t jump on top of the cage.” She shook me hard to force me to listen. I knew from the look on her face that she was frightened by my outburst.

“Yes, but that doesn’t make me feel better. I still didn’t warn him no matter how it happened. Maybe I’m not directly responsible for his death but I should have told him to stay away from it. If I had, maybe . . .”

“It might not have made any difference. He still might have done whatever he did. You don’t know.”

“You’re right,” I said, trying to calm down. “I’ll never know. Never. And that’s what’s tearing me apart.”

And that’s what continues to rack me. That guilt and the awful conviction that the wrong person died. Greg was so full of life, so exuberant, so confident in his abilities. And me? Just the opposite. All I could think of was that he should be alive and I should be dead. Because that’s how I felt then. Dead. Empty. Drained of feeling. Waiting to be covered over by the damp earth.

Now, little more than two weeks after Greg’s death, clients still call asking to speak with him. The receptionist directs the call to me and I have to say, “Sorry, but he’s no longer with us.” The phrase’s awful meaning sticks in my throat. This morning, an extremely nice graphic designer I work with quite a lot and had introduced to Greg, who had accompanied me on one of my sales calls, asked if he still enjoyed learning about the graphic arts industry. When I told her Greg had died two weeks ago as a result of an accident in our freight elevator she became extremely upset and started crying. I couldn’t stop the tears from flooding my eyes or my throat from closing up. We both had to hang up because we were unable to talk.

Why has Greg’s death so devastated me? Why can I not set aside the grief and continue with my life? He was only at Beacon for eight weeks. It’s not as if he was a life-long friend. We just worked together, went out to lunch a couple times a week. That’s it. San and I never even had him out to our house for dinner. So, why am I consumed by sorrow and a deadening sense of loss and emptiness? Is it my own death I fear? Or the terrible suddenness and finality with which all his youth, enthusiasm, and hope for the future were snuffed out like a candle in the darkness? Or the now so apparent emptiness of lives here for such a brief moment and gone forever. A flash of magic powder, whispered incantations, a sleight of fate’s clutching hand and you are whisked away in the grip of the Ultimate Predator, DEATH, with no protest allowed, no gainsaying the ferocious reality. Life-Death. No recourse. To live is to die. Period.

Gregory, Gregory. I grieve for you as I have no other. Not even my father. [Author’s Note: This material was written prior to my mother’s and brother’s deaths.]

As a final note, Tom and Cathy F., Jorgee, and I travelled to Detroit for the wake and funeral. That trip is a blur of tears. I remember little of what happened, only that I drank myself to sleep both nights and cried like a baby at the funeral Mass and the cemetery.

Weeks later, the City’s Building Department and Beacon’s insurance carrier independently investigated the accident and interviewed all of us. Tom F. told me to tell them everything I knew and suspected, to hold nothing back. Both investigations determined that Greg had in great part caused the accident and his own death. Beacon Paper was not liable though the City ordered the old elevator to be shut down permanently.

That’s how it ended. A young man flush with promise dead. His family broken. An elevator shuttered.

Our lives, such as they were, went on.