The Tank Cleaner

It was bright in the corridors of the hospital, but the lonely waiting room was dim. The overhead lights were off to deter loitering. Light from the only window diffused as wafts of snow closed in the perimeters inch by inch. Dim and quiet, all thanks to the snowfall. It carried on falling as Frank Sr. sat, waiting, in this room designed for the purpose, by the fish tank installed to distract worried loved ones. He had found, during his hours of waiting, that the seat to the left of the fish tank provided optimal sightlines to the security door that was behind reception whilst also providing him cover from passersby in the hall. His face, it seemed, lead the charge of his guilt and grief over his son’s accident. It was better, when he had his moments, that he be able to conceal himself.

There were no visitors allowed. The hospital was in another of several strict lockdowns as the virus continued to burden and overwhelm the health care system. Ventilators were being used to keep people alive in the south wing of the ICU.

This hospital had five. Five life-saving machines. Five you-better-hope-to-hell-you-took-the-vaccine-or-you’re-not-getting-one machines. The vaccine stipulation was Frank's own wish.

Unburdened by the oaths of the doctors and nurses, Frank would happily pick and choose who got a chance. A little boy requiring a ventilator during surgery to repair a hole in his lung would be number one. He could rank everyone on the ward in their worthiness to continue to eke out an existence in this cruel, hard world. He was angry at the unvaccinated, so they were least likely to get one if he had the choice. And if it came down to someone selfish like that getting to breathe vs. anyone like his Jr. - then there was no choice to be made.

He knew Jr. was too good to be true. The relationship he was able to nurture with his son was special. All built after not knowing of his existence for the first few months of his life, until after his mother, already sick and dying of cancer, called Frank. Jr. was an infant when they met and despite the unexpectant father’s lack of experience, Jr. became the only thing in life he could muster a meaningful care for. When you have no faith things will go your way, you walk around half-expecting the other shoe to drop and stomp out what you love. And here we have it, Frank thought, as he watched the snow drift down and into place through the waiting rooms only small window.

They had been playing monsters, or dragons more specifically, with the laundry - it was a thing they always did. First Frank would pile the warm laundry, fresh out of the dryer, on the bed, burring Jr. in the warm, fresh linens. Then as Frank would fold, Jr would bring the sheets to life. Sometimes monsters, often ghosts, at the time of his accident - a dragon.

Jr. jumped on the bed. What kid doesn't sometimes? He jumped, doing his best dragon cry and flapping the sheet like he had wings. And Frank, laughing, had been one second too late to warn him or catch him as he went off the side. Normally, something to walk off, or maybe apply some ice, this time, the sheet he was playing in was caught on the bedpost snapping Jr’s head back violently with a sickening sound which will own space in Frank’s head for the rest of his potentially miserable life.

The doctors told Frank the injury was full of bad angles - the way his neck was bent the moment he hit the floor caused the fracture in his cervical spine and clavicle to pierce the top of his tiny lung. Any physical disabilities, or paralysis, couldn't be determined until after the lung was repaired.

The problem was there were no available ventilators, essential equipment needed to breathe for the boy while they repaired or removed the superior lobe of the right lung.

After waiting what seem an eternity in his own troubled paralysis, a doctor had come to fill Frank in. He sees a flash of kindness through the doctors' eyes, about all he could see of the man behind all the PPE, as he offers up the reminder that there are three lobes to the lung on the right side. “We are keeping him asleep, for now,” he says, with a slight lisp.

“Can I see him?” Frank asks.

“No. I’m sorry. And you’re not allowed to be in the waiting room either, we are on lockdown. But since you’re his dad and I don’t think you’re going anywhere, anyways…” he paused and shuffled in all his protective equipment to gesture out the window at the accumulating snow. ”If anyone asks you’re here to clean the tanks. We’re not in dire straits, yet” he added, and clapped Franks rigid shoulder with his gloved hand.

The action momentarily snaps Frank from his shocked state. He felt cold static where the doctor touched him. He thanked the man earnestly as he watched him walk away, realizing, too late, he hadn’t caught his name. Pulling out his phone to scroll the hospital directory, Frank soon realized he wouldn’t be able to pick the man out of a lineup. Behind his bonnet, his visor, his two layers of masks and gloves, Frank has no idea what the doctor actually looks like.

So, he found the best seat, by the tank, which he now feels a little responsible for. He watched, noting the fish all appeared healthy, not that he knew too much about fish. The large snails seemed to be doing a good job cleaning the glass walls of the tank. As he looked into the tank with its gallons of clear bright water, his heart broke at once, and the tears flooded him with memories of Jr. in his minds eye. In that eye, the kid was doubled over, laughing, after finding out that because of the shape of their bodies, snails' poop on their own heads. Unreserved hilarity and youthful glee personified.

Frank leaned his head back against the wall behind his chair, enclosed, suddenly, and out of sight. Tears fell in giant drops down the side of his face, met with the elastic of his mask, redirected towards his ear, and darkened his shirt where they dropped from his earlobes.

Frank fell into a meditative state - he must have, because hours passed with him sitting this way, alone, in the growing gloom, tucked in by the fish tank.

“There’s one that could be made available,” says a voice from beyond the other side of the tank. “I’m no vigilante and no angel of mercy, either mind you...But I am done with this bullshit. We all are. Room 307, bed 4. We haven't pulled life support because we can’t get his daughter on a call. He’s a sure goner when we do. Not getting the vaccine didn’t work out well for him, I am afraid. My colleagues and I are done taking care of him and have a patient we would much rather focus on. PPE is in supply closet three, it’s been left unlocked accidentally. Room 307. Bed 4.” With that, the voice, with its familiar, delicate lisp, is gone and the security doors are triggered to open automatically.

What!?! Franks mind reels. Don’t think twice. It’s for Jr.

He’s up, on his feet, and moving even as the security doors lock back in place. Can’t be that way. Frank pivots and takes the corridor to the other side of the empty nurse station. Room 307, bed 4,’ he silently repeats to himself.

Luck is with him as he spots a supply closet. Supply closet three is two more alcoves into the hallway. Inside the unlocked door, Frank finds shelves with stacks of neatly arranged PPE. There is a pictogram on the wall which instructs in the proper procedure for dressing.

Through rushing emotions, Frank follows the guide. When he’s done, he is very well covered, even his shoes have been covered in booties. He knows the hallways will have cameras. He puffs the surgical bonnet out of the top of the visor so he can cover his face a bit and have something to duck under. He hopes that his faith in the doctor with the lisp is not misplaced but he suspects there will be no alarms raised.

Acting on that faith, Frank leaves the supply closet and retraces his steps towards the fish tank. Move with confidence, Frankie. Act like you belong, he thinks, trying to harness the blinding, red surges of adrenaline and accompanying rapid pulse.

He moves with authority by the dark and empty waiting area with the fish tank and just as he begins to wonder how he will make it past the security doors without a fob, he sees the fast blinking red and green lights on the card reader. Assuming this means it’s not working; Frank tries the door which responds by swinging inward a bit before the action is taken over by full automation.

The nurse's station on this side of the doors is enclosed in glass. No one sits behind the desk at this moment, but there is more energy here as if this station is only momentarily unoccupied. Franks doesn’t know this side of ICU and he lacks initial orientation. Using the pedestal foot pump to put sanitizer on his hands, he pauses and casually looks at the signs on the wall.

Fortune returns when he sees rooms 102-108 are down this side of where the nurses’ station stands. Head lowered; Frank moves further into the ICU. The thought that he could sneak in to see Jr. crosses his mind. It’s too risky. He knows it. Head lowered; he walks without looking at room numbers.

Frank counts the doors instead, arriving at room 307, Frank turns the knob and nonchalantly strides in. The room is large with two curtained-off bed areas on each side. The bed numbers are printed in the large curtains which separate the beds. One and two are on the left and three and four are on the right. Frank waits a couple of seconds after the door closes behind him to bend and look below the curtains. No feet touch the ground. He’s alone with the ICU patients here. He steps toward to bed four.

The man whose life he is about to end looks like he is being kept alive against his will. He was certainly being kept alive against Frank’s will, and the staff if you believed what the doctor had to say. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking considering Frank knows he will feel the weight of what he is about to do long after the deed is done. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to say goodbye to your daughter. I suspect she wouldn’t want to see you like this anyway,” Frank whispers to the man.

Frank listens to a few rattled, machine-given breaths, before deciding between flipping switches or pulling plugs. He suspects, somehow, that the latter is likely what is expected of him and it has the feel of what we’ve come to know from T.V. and movies.

Pulling every plug he can find attached to the man’s medical equipment, he stays long enough to see the patient shows no life signs or ragged attempt to breathe again on his own. Head lowered again; Frank moves confidently back into the corridor down the hall past the nurses’ station. This is where he hears several urgent-sounding indicators, bleeping awkwardly to summon attention, followed by the quickly-paced footfall from within the station just as he passes, keeping his back to it.

He makes it out of the ICU, retraces his steps, passed the fish tank again, heading towards the supply closet. He ducks into the restroom instead, shedding all the PPE and stuffing it in the receptacle, covering it with paper towel. He takes his old, less fresh, mask out from his back pocket and secures it in place. After washing his hands he finds himself again, out by the tank. He sits, tips his head back to the wall, tucks himself in again, and waits for what will come next.

“Sir?” he hears, sometime later. Frank stands, hopefully, and approaches the doctor who speaks to him. “I’m Dr. Suria. I have some good news - a ventilator has become available, that's what we were waiting for, and my surgical suite is being made ready now. Once we have his lung concerns dealt with, we will be able to properly assess the severity of the neck fracture.” Dr. Suria says, without a lisp, her voice is warm and soft.

“Thank you. Thank God!” Franks exclaims. “Have the shifts changed? I wanted to thank the last doctor who came out to talk to me. I didn’t catch his name though…”

“No changes since early morning. And it’s the Dame Show today” she says with amusement in her voice. “that’s what we call it when the shifts align so it’s all women on the ward,” she says, looking at him from behind her visor.

“Oh, a nurse then? He had a kind of little lisp…”

The doctor seemed to have the wind knocked out of her for a moment. “What, what did you say?” she asks.

“He had a little lisp…I’m sorry if that’s not right to say -”

“That’s not it,” she says, shaken. “It sounds like you are talking about Dr. Rosso. He’s a former colleague of ours, he caught the virus and died early on during the pandemic, unfortunately. So it’s not possible, I’m afraid. Must have been because of the masks…maybe, it sounded muffled,” Dr. Surai, said, coming back into composure.

“Oh. Yeah, you’re probably right,” Frank managed. “Thank you. Please let me know if anything changes. Jr. is my whole life.”

“I will,” the doctor says, presumably smiling under her mask as the lines around her eyes turn upward. She begins to leave and then another thought turns her around again “by the way - you’re not supposed to be here so if any-”

“I’m here to clean the fish tank,” Frank cuts in, nodding. “The other doctor told me that too.”

“Rosso gave us the idea,” she says, “kids shouldn’t be alone in the ICU.”

Frank watches as the doctor returns to the ward. A flood of appreciation washes over him. He is not quite sure what has happened, but he knows, somehow, he has the late Dr. Rosso to thank.