My “psych-eval”, medical-speak for psychiatric evaluation, was scheduled for Monday morning, so it was looking like I’d be out of the hospital by afternoon.
That is, assuming that the shrink didn’t decide that I was nuts and lock me up in a padded room.
After spending a weekend with Dave and Ernie, that idea didn’t seem all that far- fetched.
Most of the time I spent with Dr. Schroeder, (the shrink), was taken up with different tests. I suppose he was trying to figure out if my brains still worked after my accident. It wasn't until after I'd spent an hour or so bubbling in answers on computer paper that he got to asking me questions.
Dr. Schroeder didn’t have a couch like all the psychiatrists in the comics. I just sat on the other side of his cluttered desk while he read over some papers in a folder. My chart? Probably.
He looked like an okay guy. He was about half bald with a halo of grey frizzy hair and a grey beard that could have used a trim. A pair of gold-framed reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose.
I was feeling pretty nervous. I picked up a Rubik’s Cube from his desk and fiddled with it absently.
Dr. Schroeder looked up from the folder. “Your chart here says that when you were pulled out of the water you were in complete cardiac arrest and that CPR was administered at the scene.”
I shrugged.
“Do you remember anything that happened during that time?”
“During?” I didn’t like where this was going.
“Anything strange…unusual?”
“Like…?” I didn’t know how much to tell him, how much to trust him. To tell the truth, I wasn’t all that sure what really had happened. Did I imagine the whole thing? Grampa? The tunnel? What if I really was nuts?
I was stalling for time; trying to organize my thoughts.
Dr. Schroeder took off his glasses and looked hard at me, but I wasn’t really into eye contact right then.
He cleared his throat. “Occasionally, patients can suffer a cardiac arrest and recover. Their heart stops beating and then it’s restarted. Every now and then, though people who go through all that report unusual experiences. That is to say, during that time that they are technically dead they experience…well…strange things.”
“Such as…?”
“Why don’t you tell me.”
I took a deep breath. I guess I decided to trust him; up to a point anyway.
I told him about floating above the river, watching Dad doing CPR on me, even about flying down the tunnel and seeing Grampa Nick. When I got to the part about waking up in the hospital and meeting Dave and Ernie, I hit the brakes.
Something told me that would be too weird to mention.
Dr. Schroeder seemed to get excited. “Yes, yes, I’d wondered…I’ve read about such cases, of course, but…well…interesting…”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. I talk to myself sometimes. Marcus, it appears you have had what is called a Near Death Experience, N.D.E., if you will. Unusual, but not unheard of. There are several studies, reports, books…”
“But it’s normal? I mean…other people have them?”
Dr. Schroeder smiled. “Normal? Well, I can’t say that I know exactly what is or isn’t normal. Human beings are quite complicated you know. But yes, other people have had such experiences, though you are the first subject that I’ve actually had the opportunity to study. Here, just a moment.”
Dr. Schroeder got up from his desk and began rummaging through a pile of books in the corner of his office.
I wasn’t exactly thrilled about being “studied.” I started looking around the room, working out various escape plans, when Dr. Schroeder exclaimed, “A ha, here we go!”
He returned to his desk carrying a small paperback book. Smiling, he handed it over to me.
I read the title. Closer to the Light, Learning from the Near-Death Experiences of Children by Melvin Morse, M.D.
Dr. Schroeder leaned back in his chair. “A fascinating book, not too technical. You can keep it if you like. You may find it interesting.”
“Uh, thanks. Sure, I’ll look at it. Um, anything else? I mean, are we done?”
“Oh, yes! Look at the time! Yes, young man, I’m sure you’d like to be getting back home. This has been a trying weekend for you and all.”
He stood up from his desk. “Still, I would enjoy talking to you again, if you’d like. Here’s my card…” He began burrowing through the stuff on his desk. “There’s one around here somewhere…ah yes, here you go. Give me a call when you get settled, all right?”
I nodded my head.
Dr. Schroeder was a nice enough guy, but I was nervous just the same. Could I talk to him about ghosts? Did he have a book about that?
Not likely.
We shook hands and I left the office unsure of whether I’d decide to call him or not.
As things worked out, that decision was taken out of my hands.
Mom and Dad were in the waiting room.
Dad stood up and grinned. “So the noble voyager, tired and head shrunken, returns from Pluto’s waiting room to the arms of his joyous family. Set to jet yet?”
“Absolutely,” I responded.
Mom gave me a hug. “We’ll need to get back to the unit and sign some papers first before they release you.
As it worked out, Nurse Snider was the one who checked me out. She was nice about it and didn’t seem too worried about my sanity or anything.
She offered to see us out the door.
As we made our way to the exit we walked down a long hallway lined with framed black and white photos. They were pictures of kids, hospital patients. Some of them were posed with famous people, sports guys mostly.
But one of the pictures stopped me in my tracks. I stared at it open-mouthed.
Nurse Snider looked at me curiously. Then, following my gaze to the photo, she said, “Psychotic Poltergeists.”
That shook me. “Say what?”
“Are you a fan of rock music? That’s Psychotic Poltergeists, the rock band. They visited the pediatric unit a couple of years ago. I know they look rather appalling, but they’re actually nice young men.”
I stared at the photo again. Four weird looking guys, plastered with tattoos smiled at the camera, but it was the two kids standing in front of the band that caught my attention.
They were bald as eggs and looked all too familiar.
I asked Nurse Snider, “Who are those guys in front?”
She smiled wistfully for just a second then rolled her eyes. “Ah yes. David Castor and Ernie Pollocks, a couple of oncology patients we had awhile back.”
“Where are they now?”
Nurse Snider looked at me curiously. “Why do you ask?”
I stammered, “I…uh…just curious.”
“Well, David and Ernie were both quite ill. I’m afraid they both passed away.”
She looked at me kind of weird when she said it.
The hallway took us past the day room. A few kids sat inside watching MTV. I looked at the video on the screen.
The Beastie Boys were singing “You gotta fight – for your right – to paaarty!” and in the air, hovering above the rest of the kids, two bald, semi-transparent ghosts were maniacally moshing into each other.
Ernie saw me first and poked Dave in the arm. “Dude! You outta here? Radical!”
“Awesome!”
“Excellent!”
“Party on, dude!” They both gave me those metal-head salutes. You know, where you raise your fist with your index and pinky fingers sticking out, and began head-banging wildly to the Beastie Boys.
I laughed and returned the salute, “Party on!”
Mom looked back at me. “What’s that?”
I looked back at the day room one last time, then turned to Mom. “What’s what?”
“You said…Oh well, whatever, never mind.”