The Invisible Life of Ivan Isaenko by Scott Stambach Read Free Book Online

were there, all connected and wired in the way that God intended, and yet he was lifeless (in those days Dennis hadn’t yet developed his habit of rocking). The medical team of the time, which included three nurse practitioners and a doctor with a degree from an unaccredited medical school in Lithuania, decided that no other conclusions could be drawn.
    As the days went by, Dennis’s mom became more and more desperate, which registered primarily in her face, which was crumpling like a Coke can, and her hair, which was turning gray in real time. She insisted on a regimen of experimental procedures that could put the soul back into her son. The roomful of medical specialists took one long, hard look into her desperate eyes and very disingenuously told her of some new cutting-edge research at the frontier of medicine, knowing full well that there were no promising methods for putting the soul back into a child.
    At this point in the story, a little background is necessary. According to hospital folklore, Dennis’s mom had been born to be a mom. She expected nothing more and nothing less from life. But despite her destiny as a maternal provider, the poor woman lost eight fetuses before finally giving birth to the lifeless bag of bones she named Dennis. Moreover, the eight fetuses that came before Dennis were conceived by the same man. Unfortunately, that man lost his patience after the eighth attempt and apparently left the woman—and Belarus—altogether. Her last and final attempt was allegedly with a drunk soldier in a dark alley during an inebriated walk home from a pub on Leninskaya Street. Apparently, drunken sperm tend to be more viable. So, in this context, you can imagine the disappointment when the child she finally birthed after all eight attempts entered the world with a heartbeat and nothing else. Hence the dramatic display of emotion when Dennis’s mom challenged the doctors to fix her baby.
    In an unusual show of pity, the doctors performed about six months of experimental treatments to reconnect Dennis’s soul. They did so with earnest faces, knowing full well that the boy would never change. And when all diagnostic theories were tested and the doctors could do nothing else to convince her that there was any chance that some life might jump back into the child, they offered Dennis a permanent spot at the hospital and let it be known that they could care for the child, could monitor, stimulate, and examine him in a way that would be impossible for her alone. Dennis’s mom responded by packing up her child and walking out of the hospital.
    Two days later, she was back, an unbearable, terrible, tearful mess, charging through hallways, frantically looking for anyone in a white coat but settling for a nurse, to whom she handed the baby before locking herself in a bathroom. Then came the thud that could only be one thing. By the time the three on-staff nurses and a security guard were able to break down the door, it was difficult to tell if more blood was streaming from her wrists or from the laceration on her head that happened when it slammed into the tiled floor.
    The doctors were able to stop the bleeding both from her wrists and from her head. They were not, however, able to fix the fact that she was now just as lifeless as her son. Dennis’s mom was brought into the Red Room, where they connected her to machines that have kept her alive ever since. I sometimes wonder if Dennis’s mom lost her soul then too. One day, I found Nurse Natalya folding some linens and asked her if she thought Dennis’s mom would ever wake up.
    â€œNever,” she said. “Her brain is mostly dead.”
    â€œThen why don’t they just unplug her?” I asked.
    â€œIvan, this hospital is funded by the church. She’ll be here as long as we are.” And with that, she shook her head at an invisible deity and returned to folding linens.
    I, for one, have a special appreciation