We pulled up in front of a huge glass and steel skyscraper — it looked to be forty or fifty stories high and, together with two shorter, but otherwise identical neighboring towers and two more under construction, dwarfed everything else in the surrounding neighborhood.
“This is where you live?” I asked, stating the obvious.
“Seven years now,” Jeremy answered as the doorman opened the door to the Limo.
“Welcome home, Mr. President, the doorman said as he opened the door to the building for us.
“There was just this one tower when we bought it, but the developer had plans and approval for the other four and so we proceeded with them, once it became obvious that occupancy would not be a problem.”
Jeremy stepped up to what was labeled as the Penthouse elevator and submitted to a retina scan, and the doors opened. As we all stepped inside, Jeremy’s words finally reached my consciousness and I asked, “Wait a minute. Are you saying you own the whole building?”
“We own all five buildings, plus the shopping complex that’s going up on the adjacent property. Actually it was Josh and Alan who bought the development when the previous owner refused to offer us a deal. We were, after all, buying two penthouse apartments and renting what ended up being two entire floors of office space. We figured our presence in the building was worth a great deal in terms of attracting other tenants, as has indeed proven to be the case. This turned out to be an excellent investment for all of us. Not that we asked for it, but Josh and Alan gave Sam and me a fifty percent share in the corporation that owns the development.”
I almost couldn’t wrap my head around what Jeremy was saying. He’d always had money and grew up with affluence, but this was something from a whole other realm. It was the difference between being affluent or maybe rich and being super rich. I just couldn’t relate.
Soon, the elevator reached the top floor and it opened directly into a cavernous expanse of an apartment. The lights came on automatically as we exited the elevator to reveal an enormous great room with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on all of Manhattan. The ceiling had to be at least twenty feet high. The World Trade Center and City Hall were dead center and the other jewels of the Manhattan skyline spread out in both directions.
I was drawn like a magnet to the windows directly ahead of us and, as we approached, a door automatically opened to reveal an enormous terrace. “Is it OK to go outside?” I asked my ex-husband. The last thing I wanted to do was set off an alarm and bring the wrath of the Secret Service upon me.
Grabbing my wife’s hand, we went through the door and walked out onto the terrace. Once outside, I noticed that it wrapped around the entire building. Numerous containers were spread about with potted plants and even some trees. Hand in hand with Rebecca, we walked forward to the railing, looking out at the expanse of New York City before us. At this height we could barely hear the sound of traffic on FDR Drive and Houston Street, hundreds of feet below us.
There was a chill in the air and I put my arm around Becky, drawing her close to me. It was then that I looked over to see Jeremy and Sandy standing nearby but not intruding on our space. What I saw when I looked at my former husband was only happiness. I didn’t see an ounce of jealousy in his eyes. Jer seemed to be truly happy for what Becky and I had together.
A moment later, a Secret Service agent came up to Jeremy and said, “Mr. President, your son and his husband are here to welcome you home.”
Looking at me, Jeremy said, “Come, David. Come meet the wonderful man we raised and the man he loves.”
“Just remember that my name is Ron,” I reminded Jeremy, as I certainly wasn’t ready to let Josh know that I was still alive. “You can tell him that you met me through my books,” I added, just in case the subject came up.
It was with some trepidation that I re-entered Jer and Sam’s apartment. I’d followed Josh and Alan's career in music ever since I saw the video of young Josh singing at my funeral. Even then he had an amazing voice and it had only grown smoother and richer over the years. A well-known music critic once wrote that Josh was another Paul McCartney, with Frank Sinatra’s voice and Eric Clapton’s skills on the guitar — impressive words from someone not known to heap praise on anyone. Actually it turned out it was Alan who was the real McCartney, but he seemed to prefer to let Josh have the limelight.
Josh and Alan always sang to sold-out performances. A few years back, Rebecca and I had gone to see them in concert. We paid over a thousand each for tickets in the nosebleed section and it had been worth every penny. We could have spent half as much to see just about any other performer, and for front row, orchestra seats. Josh and Alan were unequaled and could command top dollar for a reason and, yet, they were very generous when it came to giving frequent, free performances and playing at charity events.
By the time I walked through the door, Jeremy was already enveloped in Josh’s arms. The love the two of them shared was evident. At 33, Josh was an extremely handsome, youthful-appearing man. Alan, if anything, was even more attractive. I recalled meeting him when he was a young boy and the resemblance to Zach Taylor was astounding. He still had long hair and boyish good looks that would probably never fade.
Josh and Alan both exchanged hugs with Jeremy and with Sandy, and then they came face-to-face with Rebecca and me. What happened next was completely unexpected. What I thought would happen was that we would be introduced to the two of them as Ron Jeffers, a noted author, and his wife.
Thanks to the effects of the disease and of course the effects of aging, I thought I looked nothing like the David Reynolds of old. I’d never even contemplated having my appearance surgically altered, and it was only as Josh took a long hard look at me that I wished I had. It was as our eyes made contact that I saw the flash of recognition, and he started to tremble as tears came to his eyes.
Still looking at me and never breaking eye contact, he cried, “I — I buried you. I sang at your funeral. I watched your casket being lowered into the ground and then I threw a shovel of dirt onto it.
“For eighteen — fucking — years, I believed you were dead. Was it all some kind of joke, Pop? Was it all a game? Were you and Dad laughing at my expense?”
“It wasn’t like that at all, Josh…” Sandy tried to explain, but Josh wasn’t having any of it. Like his pop, he was a stubborn man.
“You knew about this, Sis? You knew? You knew about it and you went along with it, keeping me in the dark?”
“The only reason I knew,” Sandy replied, “was because Pop needed my stem cells to survive. He had an incurable disease, Josh. A neurodegenerative disease that was robbing him of the ability to walk, to talk and to think…”
“And that’s supposed to make this whole ruse OK?” Josh interrupted. “You fucking believe all of this is OK?”
“Pop was dying, Josh,” Sandy added. “He would not have survived to run for a second term…”
“There really was an assassination attempt,” Jeremy chimed in. “Had it not been for a well-meaning Secret Service agent, Pop really would have died in that horrible RPG attack. By all rights he could have continued as president, but he recognized that the country would be better off losing him to a terrorist attack as a martyr than watching him die a slow death from a neurologic disease no one even heard of before.
“Pop gave everything up — the life he had — his husband and his children — all for the sake of the country.”
“But you could have told me,” Josh countered. “I could have had the last eighteen years with Pop but, no, that was taken from me. I wasn’t even given a choice. You all stole eighteen fucking years that I should have had with my pop.”
“But I was dying, Josh,” I interjected. “I wasn’t supposed to live more than another two years. There was no cure for my disease at the time. The last thing I wanted to do was to put you through the pain of losing me twice. And don’t forget — I lost you too.”
“But you didn’t even give me a fucking choice, did you?”
“You were only fifteen Josh, and Sandy was seventeen,” I reminded him. “Neither of you was ready to face something that big in your young lives. Losing a parent at such a young age is a tragic thing, but losing them, only to then have them back and watch them die a slow, painful death would have been unimaginable.”
“He’s right, Joshy…” Sandy tried to interject.
“But you could have contacted me when I was old enough to deal with it, and I’ve been dealing with all kinds of shit since I was fifteen, when I thought my pop died. I’ve been performing on stages all over the world since then. Like it or not, I was thrust into the adult world from the moment that RPG struck.
“And who is this floozy anyway,” he screamed as he looked at my wife.
“Joshua, I’d like you to meet Rebecca, my wife,” I replied.
Rather than say anything, Josh stormed out of the apartment, to where I didn’t know.
“He’ll come around,” Alan responded as the sound of Josh’s footsteps faded. “Josh is a good man, and fair. You just gave him the shock of his life — well, me too — but he’ll come around.”
I wished I could be so sure.
<> <> <>
Too wound up and too worried about Josh to even think about sleep, we spent the night talking about just about anything and everything. Of course we were all worried about Sammy too but it was after ten PM and, hence, there would be no more news until the morning. Talking helped keep our minds off both of our major worries.
I filled Alan in on what had been happening in my life over the past eighteen years, and he told story after story about his and Josh’s life on the road. I was astounded to learn that they had a far greater repertoire of unreleased songs than songs they’d released. They were their own harshest critics and wouldn’t release a song until and unless it was perfect from their perspective.
I was particularly impressed by an ambitious project they’d recently started, appropriately called, ‘Songs Time Forgot’. With the help of a small army of professionals, Josh and Alan had set out to identify the best songs of the past hundred years that never made the top forty. Organized by decade and starting with the 1950s, they planned to arrange, record and release up to twenty-five songs per decade. Their goal was to cover one decade every year for the next ten years.
“Any more than that and there wouldn’t be time left to write and record our own songs,” Alan explained. “We’ve had to be ruthless when it comes to picking and choosing only the best of the best and, even then, a lot of outstanding music will be left behind.” Acknowledging that their publication schedule might be too ambitious, he added with a laugh, “By the time we finish, it might be time to start work on the next hundred years.”
I couldn’t help but admire the respect and love Alan had for his husband when he spoke of him. “If we’re lucky, God sends us someone with an extraordinary voice once in a lifetime,” Alan said. “Sometimes I can hardly believe the incredible luck of him coming into my life. All that talent — and it’s me he chose to spend his life with.”
“But you’re talented too, Alan,” I countered. “It’s your song-writing abilities that have made the two of you so successful…”
“Our writing is a collaborative effort,” Alan interrupted.
“A collaboration in which you provide most of the imagination,” I countered, “even if it’s Josh who’s your inspiration.” That thought brought a smile to Alan’s face.
“What you and Josh have accomplished is no less significant than what The Beatles did a century ago,” I continued. “In my youth, popular music was all about synthesizers, flash and dazzle, with a heavy bass beat. Today it’s all about the melody. The songs you and Josh have written are meant to be sung and, thanks to you, so are most of the songs of today.”
Shaking his head, he replied, “I would have never made it on my own as a musician. It’s Josh the audiences come to see. I’m just thrilled I get to spend my time creating something beautiful with the man I’m in love with.” The love and admiration Alan felt for his husband was as clear as day.
“There are times I regret that we never had the opportunity to go to college,” Alan continued. “We were always way too busy writing, recording, performing our music, and just having fun, but we’ve always made the time to read. Joshy and I are as well read as anyone. We especially like your books, Pop. They’re fantastic.”
I felt myself blushing in response to Alan’s praise. I’d received much praise for my writing, but it was somehow different hearing it from my son-in-law.
“You can always go to college after you retire as musicians,” I pointed out.
“That is something that seems eons away,” Alan countered, “and if Joshy really is the next Frank Sinatra, we may never retire.”
“The two of you can’t live someone else’s life, Alan,” I challenged. “No matter what ‘they’ say, you aren’t Sinatra or McCartney, or anyone else for that matter. You are Josh and Alan and, someday, they’ll be comparing new stars to you. You have enough money to last several lifetimes…”
“Most of which has gone to the Reynolds Foundation,” Alan interrupted.
“But even then, you’re in no danger of starvation,” I countered, “nor are your children, nor your children’s children. You don’t need the money, which is exactly why you’ve given most of it away. The day you no longer enjoy what you do is the day you should retire.”
“That’s just it, Pop,” Alan agreed. “Josh and I absolutely love our music. For us it’s almost a religious experience. To create something of beauty — to conceptualize it — to make it real — to share it with so many people and bring them joy is like a calling. It’s who we are. Some performers get caught up in the glitz and the glamour of it all…”
“As do a lot of politicians,” I pointed out.
“Josh and I just plain love making music, and we love sharing it with other people who appreciate good music and the wonderful gift of the voice God gave my husband.”
By the time we finally went to bed, I couldn’t help but admire the fine young man my son had married, but I was terribly worried about Josh. He’d apparently left the building without the benefit of the Secret Service or his personal bodyguard. He didn’t take a car or a driver and apparently left on foot. The buses and subways run all night in New York, and taxis are ubiquitous, so he could have gone anywhere.
Alan assured me that there were clubs, restaurants and bars in the nearby East Village that would be filled with young patrons until the wee hours of the morning. Josh had very likely sought refuge in one of them. Still, he was a major celebrity and was as much at risk from his fans as Jeremy and I had ever been from the general population. At least this was New York, where celebrities often could be found out and about among the public.
<> <> <>
“Grandpa! Grandpa!” I heard the squeals of children in my half-conscious state. We’d gotten to bed only an hour or two earlier, just as the sky was beginning to lighten in the east. The sound of another squeal reminded me of where we were as Becky started to stir. “There’s no sleeping in when there are little kids in the house,” I commented.
Giving me nothing more than a grunt in return, I gave my wife a gentle squeeze on the shoulder as I started to get out of bed.
“What time is it?” she asked groggily as she started to sit up in bed.
“Somewhere around 6:30,” I replied.
“And we got to bed, when?” She asked.
“Four — maybe five o’clock by the time we got undressed.”
“Today’s going to be a fun day,” she stated sarcastically before she caught herself and added, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I almost forgot why we’re here.”
Rather than say anything, I just gave her another squeeze on the shoulder as I got out of bed and made my way to the en-suite bathroom. Whereas the bedroom had thick window coverings that, when closed, kept the room dark, the bathroom provided an unimpeded view of the city. It was sunrise and the reflection of the fiery red light of the rising sun off the buildings of downtown was simply magical. I’d never seen anything like it and couldn’t imagine what it must be like to arise every morning to this.
After emptying my bladder, I stepped into the shower and quickly washed away the smell from having been cooped up in a car all day yesterday. Becky took her shower while I brushed my teeth and shaved. Rather than getting dressed, however, I threw on my robe and made my way down the stairs from the loft to the main level of the apartment. Jeremy was similarly attired, sitting in one of the many plush chairs that occupied the great room and reading the New York Times on his tablet.
As I sat down across from him, a pajama-clad girl of perhaps seven or eight, streaked by us, chased by a boy of about nine or maybe ten, who was dressed only in boxers. Apparently, boys’ underwear fashion had come full circle. Both children had long hair — black and straight on the boy and wavy brown on the girl.
A moment later, a disheveled-appearing Alan staggered by, clad only in a skimpy pair of shorts. I couldn’t help but stare at his nicely muscled torso and his long, silky hair as it flowed across his shoulders. Even at 34, he looked incredibly hot.
“You’re definitely still a healthy gay boy under it all,” Jeremy chuckled, reminding me of where I was.
“I can’t believe you caught me staring at my own son-in-law,” I whispered under my breath.
“I would have been surprised if you didn’t stare,” Jer replied. “Let’s face it, Alan is one of the best-looking guys in America. Only a corpse wouldn’t find him attractive. He’s practically the very definition of sexy. Men, women, boys and girls of all ages chase after him but, fortunately for Josh, he only has eyes for his husband.”
“They love each other like we did,” I commented.
“I was reluctant at first to let them marry so young, but Josh kept pestering me that they were the same age as you and I were when we got married. Realistically, they’d effectively been a couple since the day they met in the Underground White House. They rarely spent time apart and, as they became more and more involved in their music, they practically lived together. It was Sammy, however, who pointed out the obvious — that they were soul mates. Making them wait to marry was no less stupid for them than it would have been for us.”
“Josh is right,” I began. “I may have been well-intentioned, but I had no right to make that kind of a decision unilaterally. I deprived him of eighteen years we could have known each other. At least I told you. Josh didn’t even have that much. It was a terrible mistake.”
“You meant well, David,” Jeremy replied.
“The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,” I responded. “I just hope Josh is OK.”
“Josh is fine,” Alan answered as he entered the area. “He went to a couple of bars last night after leaving here — he even sang at one of them and we’ll probably be seeing excerpts on YouTube later today,” he added with a laugh. “Then when the bars closed, he went for a run up and down East River Park. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but he needed to blow off steam and, with a seven-mile uninterrupted jogging and biking trail, that’s a good place to do it.”
“How do you know all that, Alan?” I asked.
“It’s thanks to a wonderful invention, Pop, called the mobile phone.”
“I thought we already tried that last night?” I responded.
“We did,” Alan replied, “but just because he turned it off last night didn’t mean he kept it off.”
“So where is he now?” I asked.
Looking at his wristwatch, Alan answered, “He should be passing under the 59th Street Bridge about now, which means he’ll be home in about an hour and a half.”
“Wait a minute,” I started to ask, “doesn’t the East River Bikeway stop at the U.N.?”
“It used to,” Jeremy explained, “up until about ten years ago, when they finally replaced the section of FDR Drive that runs under the U.N. and added a new seawall, extending the park in the process.”
Just then the children whizzed by, then the boy leapt into the air and landed on the floor, cross-legged, in front of his daddy while the girl landed right in my lap.
“David and Celeste,” Alan began, “I’d like you to meet your Cousin Ronny. Actually, he’s Uncle Dan’s cousin, third or fourth removed, whatever that means, but you can call him Cousin too.”
“But you called him ‘Pop’,” David pointed out.
“I guess I did,” Alan acknowledged. “I guess it’s because I kind of think of him like one of my dads.”
Looking right at me, David continued, “Cousin Cliff says you’re really President Reynolds — that he didn’t really die and that you’re him, which makes you our grandpa. I thought Cousin Cliff was making it all up. I didn’t think you even existed, but he’s right. You look a lot like our Daddy Josh.”
I was sure I visibly paled when young David said that. Sandy’s Cliff had confronted me about my identity two years ago, when he told me out of the blue he’d figured it out. Even though I kept denying it, he still asked me every time he saw me. Obviously my grandchildren were way too smart for me and I was going to have to take a different approach, and to make sure they knew not to share their thoughts with anyone else.
“Guys,” I began, “even if what your Cousin Cliff said were true, you know I couldn’t tell you about it. True or not, something like that could cause all sorts of trouble if it ever got out. Something like that would have to be kept secret and you can’t tell it to anyone — not even your best friends.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” David asked.
“Even if it were true, I couldn’t tell you,” I reiterated.
“I hear you loud and clear, Grandpa,” David responded.
“Can I call you ‘Grandpa’ too?” Celeste asked.
“I think you’d better stick to calling me ‘Cousin Ron’,” I replied. “You never know when someone might overhear you, maybe even a reporter, and then it would be all over the news. So especially when we’re in public, you need to stick to calling me Cousin Ron. Got it?”
I worried that Celeste was too young to understand, but then she said, “I got it, Cousin Ron,” as she snuggled up with me in my lap, “but to me you’ll always be ‘Grandpa’. It’s a secret and I can’t tell anybody. Not even my very best friend,” she added as she shook her head. God, how could I have ever denied myself contact with these wonderful kids?
Finally, Becky walked down the stairs from the loft. She was also wearing a bathrobe. “I can’t believe I fell back to sleep. I got out of the shower, sat down on the bed and the next thing I knew, I was waking up all over again in bed.”
“Kids, this is your Cousin Becky,” I said by way of introduction.
“Does that mean she’s our grandma?” Celeste asked.
“Only by marriage,” Rebecca answered and then turning to me, added, “It sounds like I missed quite a conversation.”
“Remember what I told you about what Cliff has been trying to get out of me for the past two years?” I began. “It seems the New York cousins have been comparing notes with their North Carolina cousins.”
“Which means that Cindy and Tommy probably know, too,” Becky responded.
“We’ll definitely have to have a talk with them when we get back home,” I concurred.
It was at that moment that Sandy finally got up and, noting that no one had even bothered to think about food, chastised us by uttering a single word, “Men!” Appropriately reprimanded, we ended up making a family project of preparing breakfast together. From what I gathered, preparing his own food was not something Jeremy had done in quite some time. He’d been spoiled by having Sammy around all those years! We ended up preparing a vegetarian feast with tofu omelets, bagels and lox and even knishes from down the street.
Just as we were finishing our breakfast, there was a ding and the elevator doors opened to reveal my Josh, clad only in shorts and sneakers, with his shirt hanging from his shorts and a jacket tied around his waist. Sweat glistened from his face and torso and man, did he ever look hot, just like his husband. Neither one looked to be a day over twenty, even though they were more than a decade older than that.
“You made good time, Honey,” Alan mentioned just before he kissed my son on the lips.
“I would have been here even sooner if I hadn’t had to sign so many damn autographs along the way. But it comes with the territory,” he added.
“That it does,” Alan agreed as he pulled Josh into a hug and gave him a longer, more passionate kiss. Pulling out of the kiss, he added, “Man, do you ever stink!”
“Guess I better take a shower before I join you for breakfast, huh?” Josh asked.
“Unless you want to eat your breakfast out on the terrace, I think that might be a good idea,” Alan replied with a smirk.
“There’s something I’ve got to do first,” Josh added. Then coming over to me and standing right in front of me, he said, “Pop, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. You just threw me for a loop there…”
Then realizing his kids were in the room, he added, “Perhaps we should discuss this in private.”
“It’s OK, Josh,” I replied. “It seems they already knew who I was, although I had to categorically deny it,” I added as I looked down at Celeste in my lap and winked at her. “Cliff, Sandy’s son, confronted me two years ago and even though I’ve consistently denied being anyone other than Cousin Ronny, it didn’t stop him from discussing his thoughts with his New York cousins. And as your own son pointed out, we do look a lot alike.”
Looking at me with a twinkle in his eye, Josh said, “They’re smart, Pop. Scary smart sometimes.”
“Just like their dads,” I added as I hugged and tickled my grandaughter.
“Just like their grandfathers,” Josh related with a genuine smile, and then added, “See what you’ve been missing, Pop?”
“You were right, Josh,” I replied. “I had no right to make the decision for you. I had no right to deny us the past eighteen years we might have had together. It was wrong of me.”
“It certainly was,” Josh agreed, “but I understand why you did it, and I forgive you. More than anything else, however, promise me you’ll never do anything like that again. Promise me you won’t make me feel the pain of losing you ever again until the day you die. Promise me that, Pop. Promise me that and I’ll promise to always be there and to always love you.”
Looking up at us and seeing the tears streaming from our eyes, Celeste had the good sense to get up from my lap and run over to where Alan now stood. Josh and I pulled each other into a tight embrace and held each other for what all were worth, knowing we would do everything we could to keep from hurting each other ever again.
<> <> <>
It had been an emotional, roller coaster of a day. Shortly after Josh and I made up with each other, Jeremy checked in with the hospital and found that Sammy was still feverish and lapsing in and out of consciousness. The tests they’d run wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon, so we were advised to wait until then. When Jer did call back, all he was told was that there were some ‘interesting’ developments and to come by at around six in the evening.
We decided to go out for dinner first at a favorite restaurant in nearby China Town before making the short trip to New York University Medical Center. Apparently Jeremy and his family were frequent customers of the restaurant and were always given a private room at a moment’s notice. No sooner had we made the reservation than we were on our way. I hadn’t packed any dress clothes and was surprised that we could eat out on a Saturday afternoon, dressed so casually, but the order of the day seemed to be shorts, T-shirts and sneakers.
Dinner far exceeded my expectations. The food was not just outstanding — it was superb. I’d had many Chinese meals while occupying the White House, including some in China itself, but nothing could hold a candle to this. And what was particularly great was that it was all seafood and vegetarian. Not a speck of pork, chicken or beef fried rice was in sight.
I was completely stuffed by the time we left the restaurant at 5:30 to make the short trip up First Avenue. I wasn’t sure why we left so much time to travel less than two miles, but I forgot that this was New York on a Saturday evening. We ended up in very heavy traffic and didn’t get to the hospital until it was nearly six o’clock!
When we arrived on the infectious diseases ward, where Sam was in reverse isolation in intensive care, Jeremy immediately asked to have Sammy’s doctor paged. I was surprised that the doctor came so quickly but, then, he was talking to a former U.S. President about the Secretary General of the United Nations.
The doctor, who introduced himself as Dr. Langston, told us he couldn’t talk to all of us at once and asked that we select only two or three people among us to serve as spokespersons for the group. Jeremy of course needed to be one of those, and Josh was the logical second, but I was flabbergasted when Jeremy insisted that I be the third person.
Dr. Langston took us to a small room with subdued lighting and a few soft chairs. I knew immediately that this what was commonly referred to as a grief room — a place for patients’ family members to be given bad news. I was already expecting the worst when Dr. Langston actually smiled.
“The human body is an amazing thing,” the doctor began. “It certainly looked like the experimental transplant had failed. Dr. Austin’s blood counts were near zero. His response to the cytokines we were pumping into his body was non-existent. We had every reason to believe we were at the end of the rope. But then something wonderful happened. He developed a fever.
“To a person with an intact immune system,” Dr. Langston went on to explain, “a fever usually means the body is fighting an active infection. The trouble was that Sammy didn’t have a functioning immune system. The fact that he was mounting a fever at all meant he had to at least have something that was working. So of course we did what doctors have always done — we ran some tests. I didn’t mention any of this before because I didn’t want to get your hopes up.
“What we found is that his white count is over two thousand cells. That’s low but it’s a respectable number, and it’s sufficient to fight most infections. His hemoglobin level is 7.4. That’s enough to keep him alive without transfusions, and we anticipate it will go even higher.
“The bottom line is that Sammy has a fever, not because he has a life-threatening infection, but because the bone marrow transplant succeeded and his immune system is recovering. The cytokines we’ve been pumping into him are working, pushing his immune system into high gear and speeding along the recovery, but at the expense of high fevers and making him feel sick. At the rate he’s improving, I expect we’ll be able to stop the cytokines in a week or two.”
“Are you saying Sammy might actually live?” Jeremy asked.
“He’s not out of the woods just yet,” Dr. Langston answered, “but from what I’ve seen so far, I think the chances are excellent that Sammy will make a full recovery.”
The author gratefully acknowledges the invaluable assistance of David of Hope in editing, Low Flyer in proofreading and Ed in beta reading my stories, as well as Gay Authors, Awesome Dude and Nifty for hosting them. © Altimexis 2012