The Abduction, by and of Ron Tornambe

Although I had an inkling as to what had happened to me, I was so dazed and confused, it was difficult to discern whether I was dreaming or not. As I lay in the hospital bed, a fellow resembling my brother came into focus. Although comforted by his smiling eyes, I was not at all convinced he was real. He alleged I had been in a coma for eight days while a ventilator did my breathing for me. I desperately wanted to accept what my senses perceived, but to sense is not to know. A beneficent ray of light strove to penetrate the fog of apprehension clouding my mind when cousin Angelo appeared to appear in the room.

Ineffable, like trying to define heaven or the Antichrist, words fall far short of describing the nothingness and pure anguish a medically induced coma engenders. The best I can do is offer other inexpressible analogies, like being banished to the dark side of the moon, or swallowed up by a black hole. Unlike a near death experience, it is devoid of any spiritual awakening. It seems a place where even God is barred. There is only darkness. Nevermore.

From all accounts, cousin Angelo observing my oblivion was tearfully distressed at my condition. The choking tube jammed into my lungs, hands bound by leather restraints was evidently too much for him to bare. I am almost glad I was unconscious. Ironically, if not for his caring actions, insisting on taking me to the emergency room three times, I wouldn't be here to relate this curious tale.

The only moments of semi-consciousness occurred when the doctor brought me around to see if my condition had improved sufficiently to remove the ventilator. Each time, I implored him to let me die. He informed me that “we don’t do that here.”

Thinking back on his response invokes memories of my father’s deathbed plea for a lethal injection, after his bedside manner-less doctor deprived him of any hope of recovery, saying, “there is nothing more we can do for you.” This dispassionate declaration came just days after the selfsame physician injected him with the hope of inclusion into a promising clinical trial.
Dad, who loved being a country doctor, even though we lived in Queens, selflessly applied his art to all those in need. He once recounted the story of a man who appeared several times in his waiting room but never made it past the nurses station. “What in heaven’s name possesses him? I doubt he comes to admire Dali’s melting clocks,” referring to a replica of “The Persistence of Memory” which prominently hung in the waiting room.

He requested the nurse to notify him if the man reappeared. When the occasion arrived. Dad politely excused himself from the patient he was attending and headed for the waiting room. The man rose, bowed, and with downcast eyes said, “Buongiorno, dottore (Good morning doctor).” In his characteristically soft-spoken voice, he asked the man (in Italian), why he waited so patiently but chose not to be examined. ”Because I have no money.” What do you do for a living? “I raise chickens.” Dad’s face-saving reply was “I like chicken. Bring me a chicken.” Tilting his head ever so slightly and pointing his eyes toward the office entryway, he beckoned the man to follow, and of course he did.

Pop's response to the tactless physicians lethal injection refusal was, "we used to do it all the time at ???" where he attended the needs of countless patients for over forty years. But that was before the malpractice squeeze took root.

His retort to the callous rejection for a merciful end reflected his compassion for those who suffered in agony; where only spiritual comfort and the promise of painless death could be offered their loved ones. Although not a word of complaint did he utter, dad had pulmonary fibrosis, whose Anaconda like effect results in slow, sure suffocation; sufferin’ succotash.

On one of the many occasions I accompanied him to the hospital, from a distance I noticed him conversing with clearly distraught relatives. His eyes were pointing towards the heavens; palms upturned said only “it doesn't look good.” Their faces reflected calm acceptance of what they knew in their hearts would soon transpire. Dad later explained that you don’t need to beat people over the head to inform them of bad news.”

One evening we were returning from a barrio in Brooklyn, where our dental needs were administered to by an old friend of Dad’s. Dr. K. was a kindly man who spoke in a loud voice and wore a Cheshire Puss like grin. Dad explained he chose to locate his office in this seedy neighborhood for the spiritual rewards of helping the needy. “All that you give is given to yourself,” he recounting him saying.

Before taking drill to tooth, with his characteristic smile he’d offer the sweet juice, nitrous oxide, holding the mask up around his right ear with eyes agape, as if advertising Pepsi Cola. I couldn't help but wonder whether his strange smile and apparent deafness were affectations of his compassionate nature and need to talk over the noisy drill, or perhaps too often finding respite by inhaling the toothsome tonic.

On the way home, dad would pretend his car possessed a mind of its own, helpless to do anything but turn into the Carvel parking lot, where we would be treated to the most delicious soft ice cream. My favorite was vanilla coated with liquid hot chocolate, which congealed instantly after being dexterously swirled from the dip.
But this night was different. An accident repossessed our vehicle. Dad pulled over to assess the situation. He struggled to hide his immediate impulse to rush to the man lying unconscious on the street side of the curb. With pinched, troubled brow he declared  “I dare not intervene,” referring to his colleagues admonitions of lawsuit peril.

This incident marked a troubling turning point in American medicine. The altruistic rewards of doctor's high ethical standards were now overshadowed by the fear of lawsuits. We remained at the scene until emergency help arrived.

One of my favorite memories is lying cross-legged, late at night with elbows to the ground, hands supporting my head on their bedroom floor, with Johnny Carson musing on the muted TV. Whispered conversations and stories about everything under the sun were discussed, with feelings and viewpoints respectfully shared. These delightful moments aroused a profound sense of peace, safety and contentment.

The phone would ring. Dad answered in a voice devoid of any hint of tiredness or disturbance. It was always the hospital calling. As if the Hippocratic Oath embodied the postman’s creed; rain, sleet or snow; he’d dutifully rise out of bed, and exchange his blue striped pajamas for suit and tie. Hypnotically, he donned his hat, sort of a modern version of the feathered cap worn by Errol Flynn in Robin Hood. His technique of parking the hat on his head was also reminiscent of Flynn’s debonair style; pulling the front forward and sloping it slightly downward and to the right, his left hand on the back brim deftly adjusting it to secure the perfect angle. The final  touch was the slight right to left swiping of the upper brim, leaving no chance he

would be mistaken for Red Skelton’s Clem Kadiddlehopper. He then went off to attend his patient’s pressing needs. I am sure the words, “there is nothing more we can do for you,” ever entered his mind. Please excuse my digressions. The first few days and nights of semi-consciousness were insufferable; helplessness and agony spawned despair. The desire to strike out at whoever came close at hand was overwhelming. But when one can hardly lift a finger, verbal abuse is the only option. At the risk of biting the hand that fed me, I feverishly lashed out at those attending my care, wagering the nurses were trained to be as thick-skinned as Gators. But my assaults must have been so effective, they were unable to conceal their scorn.

My dreams were terrifying. I was on a yacht, with all the accouterments of the rich and famous. It was a 24-7 party, rubbing elbows and clinking Martini glasses with the beautiful people. But then, the recurring nightmare of a massivve storm battering the ship barged in, eventually pulling it through the depths below; the petrifying expectation of a watery grave was implacable.

On the first night transferred out of critical care and back into ICU, I anxiously awaited a sedative the nurse was to bring. Hospitals are terrible places for healing rest. Someone is always popping in to drain your blood into little bottles, take your temperature or some other darn thing; the interruptions are endless. The nurse was so overloaded it wasn't until one in the morning before she finally got around to delivering the tablet I hoped would offer a measure of relief from my distorted, presumed reality.

Just as I began to fall asleep, or perhaps I had already dozed off, I found myself being spirited away. When re-awoke, a huddle of nondescript nurses surrounded me. They contended I’d been brought to an off-site hospital location for my own safety. When I asked why there were no signs of official affiliation, they kept pinning hospital logos onto the wall wherever my dazed gaze rested. Although these theatrics were almost laughable, my indignation and anxiety grew.

Picturing the nurses, some nine or ten of them standing before a long wooden dining table, brought to mind the Mad Hatter’s tea party. But contrary to the Hatter’s rude exclamation of “NO ROOM!”, after Alice so politely requested permission to sit at the completely empty table, where he sat at its head; it was more like musical chairs, but madness was hardly absent.

I asked why I had been brought to this place? Although I received no direct answer, they derisively implied my request for a sleeping pill contributed to their call to action. They contended their decision to take drastic measures was imperative to my well being. This confusing response only fueled my angst. I couldn’t but wonder why, if genuinely concerned about my health, they’d taken me from the safety of the ICU to this place of dubious credentials.

I reckon my questions unnerved them a bit. Before you can say, eight, nine, ten, that’s it, I found myself lying face down on the kitchen floor; hands enmeshed with boxing like restraints. They were white with small black geometric shapes; sort of like oven mitts with string ties. After rolling me over, like a frog about to be dissected, my gloved hands were stuffed in my pockets.

As they continued with their tea party, I desperately tried to recover some muscular strength by performing isometric exercises, deluding myself into believing I was making giant strides in regaining ambulance. I did succeed in righting myself and freeing my pocketed mitts. Sadly, my frenzied gesticulations were only met with humiliating hilarity.

Let me explain. Being immobile for long periods of time renders all muscles mush; even those required for peristalsis; swallowing, that is. You are effectively paralyzed. There is no possibility of movement; not even to turn onto your side to sleep. Feeding is performed intravenously until you are strong enough to be fed through a tube stuffed down your nose and into your stomach, which is connected to a plastic bag filled with a gravy like substance, hung from the IV stand. As with the ventilator, I kept pulling the tube out until, once again I was tethered to the bed; kinda like a supine crucifixion.

All that aside, let’s return to the hospital adjunct and the caregivers, purportedly dedicated to my resurrection. But why did my guardian angels evoke such consternation? Although I realized, I had been abducted. I couldn't for the life of me work out what their motivations and intentions were. Was it ransom, identity theft, or were they just maniacal, bloodthirsty masochists? None of these paranoid conjectures satisfied my curiosity. What was I missing? Given my paralytic condition, I had no chance of escaping, so I tried reasoning with the motley crew. I implored them to return me to the ICU and warned the penalties for kidnapping were severe. I mentioned I had a friend who is a retired police sergeant and suggested they call him. What was I thinking? They just blankly stared at me, as if I were the lunatic. Their reticence rekindled my fears. After a long pregnant pause, like triplets, their silent treatment was replaced by assurances no harm would come to me. Yeah right!

After my bid to reason with them failed, I took some padded-glove, slow-motion swings at whichever nurse was in striking distance. This tactic had about as much effect as a two-year old’s attempts to blow out birthday candles. Where’s a two-year old when you really need one? The gloves didn't touch a hair on their chinny chin chins. They just smiled bemusedly.

When the tea party concluded, I was dragged, heels scraping the carpet, into the living room and plopped onto a couch, which was barricaded by heavy objects. The final enclosure was an ICU computer desk, pushed in to seal my makeshift prison. They replaced my hospital issued nightshirt with an unremarkable one I presumed was employed to hide any traceable marks discovered by the forensic specialists investigating my murder.

With a glazed stare, the leader of the pack pointed her finger inches from my heart and ordered me to get some sleep. After she left the room. I could hear faint voices and the door closing, but I thought it unlikely the Angels would have left me unguarded. I had become familiar with the ICU computer. One could look-up all the procedures and tests performed at the hospital. But more importantly, there was also a mechanism to alert on-duty nurses of your pressing needs. I couldn't help but wonder why it was here, but would have to ponder that riddle another time. If only I could log-in, but alas my hands were quite literally tied. My cell phone was not taken from me, but the restraints prevented access to it. My only hope was to free my hands. I didn't trust their assurances and feared for my life, pathetic as it was at the moment. I tried to gnaw through the strings of the padded gloves and spent hours attempting to remove one of them, but it was fruitless and exhausting. I thought how ironic it would be if my struggles, after all I had endured proved fatal. It was even more distressing to imagine I had survived, only to be murdered. After a brief pause, I renewed my escape efforts. At last I was able to remove the cell from my pocket. If only I could dial 911, they could triangulate and find my location; and I’d  be saved. But these nurses were pros. They left nothing to chance. I’m certain the gloves were specially designed for nefarious purposes. They made it impossible to press any key, no less dial 911. My labors yielded nothing but extreme parchment. I somehow summoned the strength to push one of the barricading objects aside, and sidled over to the fridge; summoning all the dexterity and strength I could muster to defy gravity. Although I expected it to be empty, there was a bottle of water, which I guzzled like a college student slugs beer on spring break. With my new-found fortitude and freedom, I pondered escape possibilities. I resumed my efforts to hack into the hospital computer. The restraints did not prevent me from turning the machine on and bringing up the main menu. But at that very moment, I heard the front door open and in walked the head honsho. She looked nervously at the lit computer screen. Clearly distressed, eyes bulging, she calmed herself and in a well trained, bedside-manner voice politely asked why I was still awake.

To my surprise, instead of the retribution I expected, we began chatting. She started opening up; repeating her promise of safe passage. She swore I would be returned to the ICU in the morning and seemed so earnest, it calmed my fears a bit.

She declared she was from Memphis, not to be confused somehow with being from Tennessee. She added her cohorts were all traveling nurses, dedicated to the still ambiguous cause; and impossible to track down. I got the eerie feeling these pros could find me anywhere, anytime, and if released I dare not reveal details of my abduction to anyone. I swore a silent oath of compliance to these unspoken demands.

Awoken early in the morning, around 6 am, I was indeed returned to the ICU, but have no memory of being transported or even leaving the house. To my surprise, upon opening my eyes I saw the Memphian sitting on the bed opposite mine, conversing with the attending nurse, periodically turning her head and squinting at me. My hands were still encased with gloved restraints, but pocket-free.

After the lead abductress had departed I inquired as to why my hands were still tethered. The nurse replied it was because I had acted threateningly towards ICU nurses, apparently referring to the air punches. “How can a person, who is not ambulate, threaten anyone?". I demanded the restraints be removed immediately. After disclosing some details of my abduction, she looked at me incredulously, saying, “You must wait for the on-duty physician’s approval before the gloves can be removed.”

Grasping for threads of proof, I pointed to my nightshirt and asked if it were standard issue. She finally got it. From where in the world could I have gotten this garment? I could see her mind’s light bulb finally lit. She conceded to remove the shackles and took a scissor to the gloves. When she realized how impenetrable they were, a look of surprised sympathy shone in her eyes. What if this poor devil’s tale of abduction was true? She began whispering the names of the ICU crew working the night of my abduction to herself, apparently rethinking my allegations.

Both of us relieved, some small talk ensued. She was about to embark on a vacation to Costa Rica, and perhaps have some dental work done there. Coincidently, I was somewhat of an expert on the subject of dentistry in Costa Rica, having just returned from the oxymoronic dental vacation, I offered cogent do’s and don’ts advice. Seeking retribution for their trespasses, despite my fears of retaliation, I wanted to relate my abduction to those of authority. My requests to speak with hospital security went unrequited. I thought of contacting the local authorities to help round-up this band of nefarious nurses before others fell victim to their schemes. I could provide salient details of their modus-operandi, and we could organize a sting operation, offering myself as bait. Arresting the perpetrators of those praying on the indefensible would surely resonate with, and motivate the forces that be.

I dreamt, (asleep or awake, I can’t really say for sure) my police sergeant friend would come to the rescue; fly out to Florida from San Francisco and lead the investigation. I pictured his rental car pulling into headquarters and was certain his pleasant demeanor and copious proportions would surely convince the marshals to act expediently and with honorable dedication. He would, of course, be wearing a Sherlock Holmes's deer stalking hat and be peering through a giant magnifying glass.

In the days following my abduction, I was carted about for a plethora of tests. As if practicing to be a cadaver, I was lifted onto stretchers, or Hospital Transport Vehicles as euphemistically referred to, with the assistance of at least two brawny hospital workers, or Hospital Transporters as they are so entitled.

I soon came into contact with Joe, the hospital’s physical therapist who was the one who encouraged me to do the isometrics exercises I so fervently believed would come to my rescue. I excitedly recounted my abduction and proudly declared the strength-inducing floor exercises I practiced. I dared him to test my new-found machismo and clutched his hand with the intention of pushing him over. But this too had about the same effect as my air punches. Although physically unmoved, his downcast eyes revealed his pity for my delusional state.

I was incessantly wheeled around the hospital for one test or another; c-scans, dopplers, swallowing evaluations, to name just a few; none of which shed any light on the cause of the respiratory distress that nearly reintroduced me to our maker. Passing the swallowing tests were of utmost importance to me, for they determined whether the feeding tube would be removed, or not. Sadly, I kept failing. On some of my horizontal journeys, I encountered some women who remarked on my encouraging recovery, as if they knew me intimately. This was baffling, for I had no memory of them at all - or so I thought.

After relating my abduction to friends and family, their reaction was consistent. Humor him! One of my brother’s, who is a  physician informed me I was experiencing ICU psychosis, which is quite common among those with life-threatening afflictions, kidnapping being the theme of many. But how could an experience as memorable as the smell of percolating coffee be anything but real?

Although I do finally accept this diagnosis, I am convinced there is a fine line separating dreams from reality. This metaphysical experience begs the question as to whether what we all perceive, and are utterly convinced is real, is indeed but a fantasy. Like Alice’s sleepful reverie,

perhaps our perceived existence can be likened to chasing a white rabbit wearing a waistcoat down a mysterious dark hole in the hopes of revealing the secrets of its, and our real identity? I now realize this phantasmal state, indistinguishable from “reality,” was an allegory of my experience while comatose. The nefarious nurses were those who cared for my bodily needs during the eight excruciatingly long days of my “abduction” from a normal life to one of extreme, torturous confinement. The padded gloves symbolized the physical restraints imposed to prevent me from yanking out the ventilator as soon as the attending nurse’s turned her back. The barricaded couch a metaphor to the railed hospital bed providing about as much living room as a coffin. My desperate attempts to escape from the bloodthirsty nurses can only describe my struggle to survive my debilitating illness.

But aren't the daily blood lettings, feeding tubes, shackles reminiscent of the arcane, draconian healing remedies of yesteryear we all thought were obsolete?

After my release from the hospital, although reliant on a walker and oxygen tanks, I was extremely grateful to be able to bathroom on my own. Oh, the little things we take for granted. My cousin Phyllis kept reminding me that recovery demanded the acceptance of the three most important Chinese virtues; patience, patience, and patience. She was right.

I embarked on a strenuous physical therapy regimen, ate a lot of spinach and apple pie a la mode; eventually rediscovering my misplaced muscles. As to be expected after this crippling experience, I was diagnosed with PTSD and advised to seek the help of a therapist.  Although just talking to someone did help, I still couldn't get the recording of “The Worms Crawl In.” from playing incessantly in my head.

The occasional panic attack and replays of the dreaded song continued for awhile but eventually abated. My recovery has been slow but sure. It is my hope relating this surreal tale offers others befallen with similare experiences the assurance there is light at the end of the rabbit hole.

So do not fear, but welcome dreams that defy sensory reality. As Plato's Ion suggests, any knowledge not gained through divine inspiration is worthless. 

So why should we place our faith in the tacitly accepted belief God created the world we see when doing so only spawns a universe of contradiction. The notion we are created in His likeness begs the question as to why we find ourselves trapped in fragile bodies, where death may strike at any moment, perhaps today. How could a world filled with pestilence, genocide and hatred, be sired by a beneficent eternal spirit to which we ascribe attributes in complete opposition to those our presumed reality dictates. Isn't it more plausible the dreams of life and death are figments of our boundless imaginations?

In keeping with the import of the parable of the Prodigal Son, I am convinced someday we will all awaken to our true, dimensionless, divine reality; duality replaced by the simplicity of unary thought: “in the beginning there was the word, and the word was God.”

The recognition we are all God’s only son is as close to us as the air we breathe. The force is, and always will be with us. Dream on.