"Oh, my God, say that it
As the men left the office,
carrying Scott, the second paramedic said, "I wish that I could, Mr. Spears."
Scott was rushed to the hospital. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the nearest hospital. It wasn't a high-category hospital. It was a hospital that people of all of the social classes could enter, but it was more than good enough for Scott as long as he was properly attended to. He no longer saw this as a small problem. He was afraid that the problem would get bigger and bigger day by day, and it was about to. He entered a doctor's office immediately. They didn't rush him to the operating room because it didn't seem like it was necessary, but it was. He seemed to be ok, but he was on the edge of total physical destruction. If he had a massive heart attack, he'd have a stroke, too, and he would be bedridden for the rest of his life.
His older sons were grown, but he had Baby Michael to think about. He couldn't leave that little angel without a father. There was something that was killing him, and he had to do something to stop it, stay alive, and at the same time, save the life of his son Noah.
"Everything seems to be ok," said Dr. Croce, "but it's not. Scott, I'm afraid that you have a heart condition, and that condition was precisely the one that your son inherited."
"Do you mean that my son's heart is not aching due to his disease?"
"It is aching due to his disease, that I can't deny," he said, "but the heart disease that he inherited from you was the one that made this other disease take a toll on his heart. If he hadn't inherited cardiac arrhythmia from you, his heart wouldn't have grown as much as it did. In fact, despite his condition, it would've never grown. It would've stayed the normal size."
"Oh, my God," said Scott with his head down, "it's my fault," and started to cry.
Dr. Croce got on his knees in front of him, placed his hand on Scott's left shoulder and replied, looking him in the eyes, "No, it's not your fault, Scott." Scott looked up at him. "You never asked for this
disease. You were born with it." "I was?"
"Yes. You didn't get this condition because of something that you did or didn't do. No matter what you would've done, things would never have changed for the better."
"What can I do?"
"You can take care of you and take care of your son."
"How do I take care of us?" he said, crying.
"You can start by taking you and Noah to a nutritionist so that he or she can give you the appropriate diet for you. Ever since I heard that there was a problem with you and your son, and got ready to receive you, I did some checking on your case. According to Noah's cardiologist, Dr. Guerra, he's been exercising way too much. He shouldn't stop exercising, that's harmful for him. No exercise is just as harmful as too much exercise.
Noah has to talk to Dr. Guerra and ask him just how much exercise he should get, and when."
"I'll do that," said Scott
crying.
"Now I know it hurts,"
said Dr. Croce, still with his hand on Scott's shoulder, "but you have to try not to cry. Crying doesn't do good to everybody, Scott. It does good to most people to calm down and just let it out, but it doesn't do good to people with high blood pressure and heart disease. You have to keep that in mind."
"Do you have any idea of why I was born like this?"
"No, I don't. I have to ask your parents if there was someone in their family that had heart disease, high blood pressure, and high cholesterol. Those factors, when stress comes with them, they can kill you. They will kill you if you don't start working less."
"Working less?" said Scott, amazed. "How can I possibly work less? Who's going to be the head of Spears International?"
"You are," said Dr. Croce. "I'm not asking you to leave the enterprise, I am advising you to work less hours. Work half of whatever the number of hours that you have."
"I work twenty hours a
day."
"Well, work eight hours a
day, like everybody else. If you think that's still too much for you, work six hours a day. Anything less than that is not enough."
"You can say that again." "Natasha's the vice-
president. Why doesn't she pick up where you think that you've left off day after day?"
Scott looked at Dr. Croce,
stunned.
"She wants to start
working there. She has no other job now. She got fired from her other job."
"She got fired?" "She didn't tell you
because she didn't want to add any more stress, but her boss fired her the day before yesterday," said Dr. Croce.
"That bastard...!"
"Please, remember to keep calm. She didn't need that job anyway. As your wife that she is, she is the vice-president of Spears International, and that's a job that she'll never get fired from, right?" he went back to his desk and sat down.
"That's right," said Scott.
Noah entered the office all of a sudden. Scott knew that now that he'd entered the hospital, he wouldn't leave, for a long, long time. He'd spend his life from hospital to hospital indefinitely and he would not breathe fresh air for God knew how long. It was like jail, except instead of getting beaten up, insulted, picked on and harassed day after day, hour after hour, and minute and minute, he'd get attention, specialized care, great food, and good-looking nurses, pampering him, just to get a little more money than his insurance would pay. Some of the nurses would even fall in love with him, too. Would they get any, though? Only Noah could decide that.
"I heard that my dad," said Noah, caressing Scott's hair, as he stood right behind him, "had had a heart attack. I was concerned. I thought that he was in the frightening O. R."
"No," said Dr. Croce, "he didn't have a heart attack, but he was awfully close to having one. Noah, I'm glad that you arrived. I don't know if you're aware, but your insurance has agreed to pay medical care for you wherever you go."
"Wherever I go? What do you mean?"
"Son," said Scott, "you're going to have to get medical care outside the U. S. I'm glad that the insurance that you were given as a disabled child, that you're entitled to for the rest of your life, that it's a worldwide chain."
"I'm glad, too. I didn't know that people with heart problems were considered handicapped."
"You and I have to talk." "Yes, Dad, we're going to
talk later."
"People with any kind of health problem, no matter how small, they're not considered handicapped, they're considered special. That's why as soon as we knew that you had heart problems, we had to get you insurance, because you're entitled to it. If you were healthy, you'd have to pay for your medical care."
"Wow, I'm amazed." "You, your Dad, and I, we
have to talk."
"I'm all ears."
"Sit down, Noah."
Noah got a chair from the corner, right by Dr. Croce's skeleton. He didn't see the unreal skeleton, and he screamed when his hand landed on his head. "Oh, my God, what are you doing here? I thought that you belonged six feet under!" Scott and Dr. Croce laughed like crazy.
"Noah, only real cadavers belong six feet under. This skeleton, he is not real." He and Scott were still laughing.
Noah looked at the skeleton very dirty. "I'd put you six feet under any day," he said, grinding his teeth and they laughed again. Then he let out a big grunt as he placed the chair right beside Scott's chair and sat down.
"What we're going to talk about is serious," said Dr. Croce, but he couldn't stop laughing.
"Yes," replied Noah with his brightest, most mischievous, and most playful smile on his face, "very serious."
"No, really, really," he said, but it was just too late to stop laughing. The little episode between Noah and the skeleton, it really took a toll on him. He was very emotional. He suffered from borderline personality, too, and every emotion took over him big time. When he was angry, however, he would just leave the place that he was in, go to the nearest mini- market or grocery store to buy a candy bar or a sweet drink to sweeten his life, take a ride, and go back home, and after the candy, drink or potato chips, he'd return to the happy man that he was before he became angry, and of all of the features that he had, that one was the one that his wife loved the
most---that without the help of anger control courses, psychologists, psychiatrists or counselors, he knew how to control his anger. However, anger was the only emotion that he thought that he had to control. He was wrong because excessive pleasure, sadness or laughter, that could hurt his heart. He needed medication to enjoy his emotions to the maximum without having too much of them, like normal people did. He just didn't notice, but since Noah was so close to becoming a psychologist, he noticed it immediately.
I definitely have to get my degree, he thought. Otherwise, when I tell people that they've got mental illnesses and that they have to do something about it, they'll laugh at me because since I never became a psychologist, I'll have absolutely no credibility. Then, he said, "Dr. Croce, may I use your phone for a minute?"
"Yes," he said, smiling. He was so euphoric that patients and their visitors, they could do anything in his office, and he didn't care. Noah picked up the phone and pressed the "call" button. That was enough to call Dr. Croce's secretary, Carla. Carla worked two jobs, but she would quit one of them when she and Dean would get married, and she would live off of the job that she had left and whatever job Dean would have at the time. Dean had a big surprise for her. He'd just started a home business, and he was already making big bucks... $40,000 a month. Since he'd only been working for two days, he hadn't gotten his first paycheck. What Dean didn't know was that Carla would marry him the minute she found out, not for the money, but for her and her children's security.
"Hello, Dr. Croce," she
said.
"I'm calling for Dr," said
Noah, and as soon as he heard Carla's voice, he said, "Hi, Carla!"
Smiling, Carla said, "Hey, baby, what are you doing at my boss's office?" grinding her teeth.
"I'm about to enter medical jail." Carla turned serious and said, "What?"
"I'll explain later. Your boss needs something to calm him down."
"He's upset?" "No. He can't stop
laughing."
"Oh. I know just what he
needs."
"Thank you," said Noah
and hung up. "Well, Dr. Croce, please try to calm down. Carla's coming with the one fix that will get you back to normal."
Minutes later, Carla entered the office with a gigantic cinnamon roll, the biggest roll that was ever sold in the State of Florida, and a cup of coffee with cinnamon flavored cream. He loved any treat that was made of cinnamon, even more than he liked chocolate. The only candy that he hardly liked was fruit-flavored candy. He was very selective with such candy. She placed the plate on the desk, right in front of him, and then she placed the cup of coffee that she was carrying by holding it on to her chest with her arm, she placed that right beside the plate and said, "There you are."
He picked up the cinnamon roll, ripped a piece off, took the first bite, put it down, took his first sip of coffee, put it down, cleaned his hands with napkins and said, "Thank you, Carla."
"You're welcome, doctor. If you need anything else, call me," she said and turned around and looked at Noah and Scott. "Would you like something to eat and drink, too?"
"I'd love to," said Scott, "but I just learned that I can't eat foods like those very often. If there was a healthy snack that few adults eat and drink, I'd appreciate it if you got it for me."
"Sure, Scott," said Noah. "You're going to be admitted so you're going to get all of the snacks that you want, when you want them, and how you want them," padding his back repeatedly, and smiling sweetly. "Just because you'll be out of home it doesn't mean that you'll stop living the good life. You know you live it wherever you go, golden boy," and laughed.
"Is that true?" said Scott looking Dr. Croce in the eyes as Dr. Croce enjoyed his delicious snack. His cholesterol was low, so he could enjoy these foods as much as he wanted to for the next three years. "Am I going to be admitted?"
"Yes," said Noah and Scott looked back at him. "We're both going to be admitted."
"That's right, golden boys," said Dr. Croce, smiling bright. "You're both going to be admitted."
"Will I need an operation?"
"Noah will, but you
won't."
"So I'm going to be here
for testing, is that right?"
"That's right, and you're also going to need medication. I am going to talk to Dr. Arias, your primary doctor, for him to authorize a regular medication, a special diet for people with heart problems, an aspirin regimen, and constant therapy."
Chapter 39
Scott and Noah were admitted immediately. It was one o'clock in the afternoon, lunch time. As soon as Scott arrived at his room and got on his bed, the nurse entered with fantastic food on her tray. She'd just been ordered to get him pasta, any kind of pasta, with plenty of fruits and vegetables, juice, milk, and a strawberry- banana smoothie for dessert. As soon as the nurse placed the tray in front of him, he started to eat.
Suddenly, Ian, his main competitor walked through the door. He'd just learned that beauty care wasn't exactly his forte, and he'd just decided to become a record producer. Scott could never compete with him in that field because he knew nothing about music except his favorite songs and artists---or so he thought. Scott was a poet and a songwriter, and it turned out that Noah inherited that precious talent from him. However, Ian had nothing to worry about because being a record producer wasn't even in Scott's wildest dreams. Scott looked up to change the channel in the TV with the remote in his hand and saw Ian and gasped.
"What are you doing here? I thought that it made you happy to know that I was in trouble and that you came here to make sure that your dream of seeing me dead had finally come true."
"Scott," said Ian as he walked closer to him, "our sons are best friends. Being someone's rival doesn't always imply being that person's worst enemy."
"Why did you send me all of those telegrams, then? They were very dirty."
Ian gasped and said, "Dirty telegrams? I'm sorry, Scott, but I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You have never sent me a telegram."
"No."
"I have copies of them in my office. I saved these 500 telegrams to sue you for harassment and put you in jail for death threats."
"I have a way to prove that I am not the author of such telegrams."
"What proof?"
"Have you ever seen my handwriting, Scott?"
Estranged and surprised with Ian's question, and rolling his eyes, Scott said, "No."
"How do you know that it was I that sent them?"
"I know because they were sent in your name."
"Someone in my enterprise has been sending you telegrams in my name to make you angry at me and incite you to do something horrible against me."
"Well, I guess that means that there's a traitor in your office and you have to get rid of him or her---for good."
Ian crossed his arms across his chest, looked Scott attentively in the eyes until his green eyes shone like big stars and said with a rough tone of voice, "And just how do I do that?"
Scott simply smiled. "Would you please step out for a few minutes? I have to make a phone call."
Ian said, "Sure," and turned around, walked to the door, opened it, walked out, and closed the door behind him and went to the nurse station to flirt with them. He and his wife of twenty-six years had just gotten a divorce after he found out that despite being completely faithful to her, she'd been cheating on him with a younger man for ten years. It wasn't known how Ian and Scott were always against each other, and always fighting because Ian and Scott were exactly the same--- except when an irresistible and desirable woman seduced Scott.
However, when Ian had a wife at home, not even the most beautiful woman in the world could incite him to cheat. When he didn't have a wife at home, he was a playboy.
He'd just started a very liberal sex life with women that wanted everything but commitment.
Meanwhile, Scott dialed Didier's number. He knew what Scott wanted to tell him when he was in a place where they couldn't talk, by how many times Scott would let the phone ring. He'd only talk when he didn't intend to ask him to kill someone for him. If he let the phone ring three times and then hung up, it meant that he wanted Didier to kill someone, and that they'd have to communicate by letters or by emails in order for him to know who he had to kill, when, where and why. This time, Scott did just that, he let the phone ring three times and hung up. Didier just looked at the phone as he ate his lunch at the kitchen counter, with a smile on his face. He instantly went to his room, got his notepad from the bottom drawer of his nightstand, folded it twice, horizontally, and went to his bureau and got the box of envelopes. Then, he opened it, grabbed a large red envelope. The red envelopes were intended to send the message to Scott to write down his new assignment. Then, he opened the envelope and placed the folded sheet of paper inside, placed the flap underneath the bottom part of the envelope, wrote the address of the hospital and Scott's name above it. The envelope had no sender's address. Finally, he walked out of his room, walked the hallway to the living room, opened the front door, walked out, closed it, walked all of the way to his mailbox, placed the blank letter inside, and just in time, the mailman picked it up as Didier walked back to the front door, opened it, walked in, closed it, and went back to the kitchen to finish eating his lunch.
Three hours later, the red envelope got to Scott. The nurse walked in and gave it to him, thinking that it was a letter from one of his fans, and that was why the envelope was red, because it was a love letter, and she didn't want his wife to know that she had sent it. However, in reality, it was everything but that. Scott opened the envelope, pulled out the sheet of paper, placed his tray on the left side of his bed, and then pressed the button to call a nurse for assistance. He didn't have a pen, but then again, he didn't take any of his pens with him when he rode to the hospital because he didn't think that he was going to need them--- until Ian showed up at his room and they clarified the telegram conundrum. The nurse went into his room immediately. "What does my favorite patient want?" she said, sweetly. "Did he not like his food?" she said as she walked closer to him.
Scott smiled and said, "I loved my food. It's just that I need a pen."
"A pen," she said, "hmmm..."
"Is there a place where patients can buy forms of entertainment besides the TV? Since I'm in the office all day, I think that writing is entertainment."
The nurse smiled and said, "Yes, there is a place where patients can buy forms of entertainment. It just depends on what those forms are." "Do they sell pens?" "Oh, yes, we have a wide
variety of pens and paper right here at the end of this floor."
"That's great!" said Scott,
smiling.
"Just tell me what kind of
pen you want, and what ink color. Oh, and I see that the sheet of paper that you have in your hand is the only sheet of paper that you have."
"Yes, that's right."
"I can buy you a pack of 500 sheets of printer paper or three packs of notebook paper. The printer paper is worth two dollars and fifty cents because it's basic, you know, nothing fancy, and the notebook paper is thirty cents per pack."
paper." want?"