The fifth vial

CHAPTER 10

The first thing Joe Anson became aware of was the steady swoosh of the respirator, gently forcing air into his disease-ravaged lungs. The second was the white noise thrum of the jet engine. They were airborne and on their way east, more than four thousand miles from Cameroon, to a surgical team awaiting him in Amritsar, India. His yearlong, worsening struggle to breathe was very nearly over.

Anson knew the endotracheal tube was in place down his throat, but it didn't bother him much. It had to be medication, he reasoned — some sort of narcotic with a little sedative and just a pinch or two of memory eraser thrown in. Psychopharmacology was becoming more and more like the military's smart bombs — able to pinpoint targets in the brain with ever-increasing accuracy. Whatever the nature of the drugs, the combination he was being given was working. He was experiencing none of the choking, strangulating sensation so many intubated patients complained about.

What he was experiencing at that moment were overriding feelings of relief, wrapped around a profound sadness — relief that the ordeal of his pulmonary fibrosis was almost over, and sadness that it required the death of a man for him to reach this point.

It was then that he realized that Elizabeth St. Pierre was sitting quietly beside the stretcher, her hand wrapped around his. He turned his head slightly to see her, and nodded that he was aware of the situation. Her expression was more peaceful than he had ever seen it, almost beatific.

"Hello, Joseph," she said softly in French. Then she continued in English, the language in which he was more comfortable. "I have tapered the sedation down just for a little while so you could wake up and know everything is all right. In fact, everything is going perfectly. We're more than halfway there. Well before we arrive, everything will be in place. The pulmonary transplant surgeons who are being brought in to perform this operation are the best in the world. Do you understand?"

Anson nodded and then made the motion of writing. "Oh, yes, of course," St. Pierre said. "How foolish of me. I have some paper right here."

She handed him a clipboard and a pen.

Have you learned any more about the man who is soon to save my life? Anson wrote.

"No more than we already know. The man is — was — thirty-nine. A week or so ago, he suffered the rupture of an aneurysm in his brain. Bleeding was massive, and there wasn't anything that could be done to save him. He has been pronounced brain-dead by the physicians at the Central Hospital in Amritsar, and has been maintained on life support pending the donation of his heart, lungs, eyes, liver, kidneys, pancreas, and bone. Many will live because of this gallant man, including you.

" Does he have a family?

"I know he has a wife. It is she who has given permission, indeed, who has requested that these transplants go ahead.

"Children?

"I don't know. I will find out."

Good. I wish to do something-or the family.

"All in due time, Joseph. If they will accept our gratitude in any tangible way, I will be certain they are well compensated."

I will wish to meet my savior's widow.

"If that is possible, I shall make it happen. Now please, my friend, you must rest."

Wait.

"Yes?"

Has Sarah been notified?

"Not yet."

Contact her before I go into the operating room. Tell her I love her.

"I will do my best to locate them and tell her."

I am afraid of dying before my work is done.

"That is nonsense. You were facing death. In fact, as you remember, your breathing stopped altogether. But now you will live and be healthy. We have a perfect match, Joseph — a twelve-point match. That is one in a million. No, no, given your unusual protein pattern and blood type, one in ten million. You will not die."

I will not die, he wrote.

"Now rest, Joseph. Rest and dream of a life where the air is sweet and fragrant and rich with oxygen as only jungle air can be, and you can get as much of it into your body as you want."

Elizabeth took away the clipboard and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. Then Anson saw her take up his intravenous line and inject something into the rubber port. In just seconds, he felt a wave of warmth and serenity sweep over him.

Anson opened his eyes and saw the gleaming giant saucer lights of the operating room shining overhead. The scent of disinfectant was in the air. The temperature in the room was rather cool, and involuntarily, he shuddered.

"Dr. Anson," a reassuring male voice, Indian, speaking fluent, accented English, said, "I am Dr. Sanjay Khanduri. You are doing very well, and so are we. Your new lung is here and we are ready to put it in place. We will transplant only one lung. The other will go to a person also in desperate need. In a very short time, the volume of your new lung will expand in such a way that you will be able to function as if you had two. I assure you, Dr. Anson, that I am very, very good at performing this procedure. In fact, if I were going to have this operation done, I would be sad because it wouldn't be me doing it." Khanduri's laugh was high-pitched and merry. "Okay, then, Dr. Anson," he went on, "just close your eyes and in your mind count with me backward from ten. When you awake you will be a new man. Ready? Ten…nine…"