Wavering Cadence

Wavering Cadence

Crowded air, in a meticulously perfect calculation of pounds per square inch, enlivens the manufactured core. The external majestic console harbors the gas before its mighty deliverance of regulated pressure, rate, control. The pneumatic force feeds, awakens as it presses through the array of hoses that enter the plastic, aluminum, and Dacron polyester machine . . . the tubes penetrating a human left chest.

***

We sit on top of Glen Pass with two other hikers I named the mountain goat and shepherd. The nimble goat had hauled past us earlier that morning, first to claim the summit. The old shepherd had made it last, struggling as he greeted our last sets of footprints. I sit next to my father on our granite throne, alien to Earth's conventional blueprint. The cool breeze splinters my face.

“So what do you guys do for food?” my dad asks. My eyes linger on the unraveling threads of the logo on his black fleece jacket serving as his shield against high air. To think he wears the same outfit out to dinner. The peak of a mountain, the ornamented lounge of the Grand China Buffet. I smile at his logic.

“Well, we got something from some guys we ran into. Stuff’s called Lardo,” the shepherd explains. “It’s a kind of delicacy in Germany, I guess, but it’s great for out here. Highest calorie food there is.”

My dad’s laughter shakes the air. I see his mind glitter at the thought.

“We’ve been 3000 calories in the hole for the past couple days, though. We’re just trying to cover too many miles.” the shepherd adds.

I look over at my father. His eyes search the rock. Our thoughts waltz along the same lines. “Well we’re going to head out today, right dad?” We had covered almost half of our miles already, and the daylight was still hovering in the east. We could make it to Onion Valley by five o'clock, our car and a warm pizza dinner awaiting. He pauses. His tame eyes continue prodding the rock.

“Yeah, we’ve got food. Yeah, let’s get rid of it. Makes the bear can lighter for me anyway. Go get the can out of my pack.” I morph out of my crouch and lumber over to my dad’s pack. It lays on the rock, a giant next to mine. My hands grasp the top of it, and I try to lift it up. It comes off the ground for just a second and sinks back into its place. That’s heavy. Isn’t his shoulder? I struggle with the consideration. I recall his bike riding trips, his nights of arm wrestling with Kelly. The shoulder operation had disabled him, frustrated his desires. He could no longer lift my heavy suitcases and stow them away in airplane overhead compartments. He would chastise me if I gave his left arm a playful shove. Tilling the earth in our humble garden became an endeavor, and operating on his patients at the hospital, a biweekly routine, became an unexpected uncertainty as the means to support our family. I unbuckle the straps, loosen the drawstring, and search within. Finally, I cradle the bear can. The pink nail polish letters “R.A.” still label the can as my father’s. I remember the day I spent in the garage labeling the cans for my dad’s boy scout troop, something I’m sure no son of his would have ever done. I walk back over to where he rests.

“Don’t use the sharp end of the knife,” my dad corrects me as I try to unlock the lid. “You’ll ruin the blade.” I flip the knife over and insert it into the groove, twisting it in line with the imprinted dashes. I dismantle the lid, and rummage through the can's contents, finally retrieving Saturday's dinner.

“Beef stew.” I announce as I toss the package to the mountain goat. The red bandanna tied around his disheveled ringlets the only form of fabric concealing his upper half. The perfect armor for a mountain goat, I silently observe. “I kept asking the guy at REI about chicken and rice, but he would not stop talking about the beef stew. It’s supposed to be the best.”

“Oh. Mountain House. I’ve heard these are good.” the mountain goat remarks.

“They are.” I enthusiastically confirm. His eyes scan the small print on the label.

“Oh no. These would be great,” he explains, “but, we’re kind of out of fuel.” My excitement retreats and quickly fades. Then I hear only his voice.

“I’ve got fuel.”

***

Two segmented polyurethane diaphragms fill the void of expelled, degenerate ventricles. The spheres' housings host the twenty-seven millimeter inflow valve and the twenty-five millimeter outflow valve. Seventy milliliters of blood fully fills the lobe and is magnificently ejected per beat.

***

The orchestra of insects invades my space. I stand at the water’s edge. The fresh scent of morning greets our new day. He’s kneeling on the marshy grass, leaning over the lake. His strong fingers fumble with the water pump. He always called the task one of the necessary evils. I thought I would stand by to support the one-man job, until he would undoubtedly usher my turn. I reminisce my 14 year-old days with that same pump, filling our reservoirs with Guitar Lake's water. Soiled water fills the tube, and is ejected, a pristine purity, into our plastic water jugs. Purity at its best and created anywhere. Purity that we need this morning. He clenches the handle and launches an upward stroke on the pump. He pushes downward only to be interrupted by the spray of a chaotic spasm of water from the pump’s middle. He scrunches his eyebrows. It must be a mistake. He repeats. The upward stroke, the downward failure. His eyes tighten on the machine, and he disassembles it. Not the filter. Not the fittings. The o-ring. He takes out the broken circle. His lips roll inward, his teeth clenching on their inner side. I hear his voice in my head, “Be prepared. Be prepared.” The boy scout motto. The emblem engraved on his personal crest. When had I ever not seen him prepared? He was always ready, for anything, everywhere. Would we leave early? It was only our first day out, but we couldn't do without it. The weeks of planning, the hours he spent on his computer tracing terrain to map out the perfect trail. The time I had spent organizing our food supply, buying gear and studying the chapters of text in advance for the test I would barely arrive home in time to take. And then suddenly, the rigid slogan became a long sought after goal, one that my father strived diligently to achieve. The value existed in his aim and purpose. Whether straight from the bearings of Earth or from the synthetic filters of our failed pump, water is water.

***

On December 2, 1982 , Dr. William DeVries from the University of Utah implanted the Jarvik-7 total artificial heart into Dr. Barney Clark, a retired 61-year old dentist. The implantation of this engineered marvel promised the lifetime of freedom from an worn heart.

***

His labored exhales fill the silence. He firmly grasps onto his trekking poles. There is a tranquility in his pause. The mountains around us fixate on his moment. The sunlight dilates, broadcasting the aging of the day. He stands still. Nature sings. He trudges another few steps forward, and then pauses again at the side of a small creek. Another stop? I wonder. Newborn flowers adorn as fringes around the stream; their lives flourish in the plenty. Bending over, my father removes his hat and douses it in the cool water. He replaces it back on his head. A pleasant sigh escapes, forgiving the heat. His labored breath sounds persevere. I want to hush them away. Summers ago, when we climbed Mount Whitney he didn't have to do this. There were no breaks, no delays. He was the one shoving me along as I shuffled along the trail chowing down Cinnamon-Sugar Poptarts as quickly as he’d let me have them. He turns around and bares a plaqued smile, breath again escaping through his lips. Seconds pass. His breathing gradually slows. He puts one trekking pole in front of the other, initiating another start around the bend of another switchback. His feet follow, slowly.

***

On December 2, 1982, Dr. Barney Clark died. The Jarvik-7 had pumped his blood for 112 days.

***

I weave the laces. The clownish footwear laughs back at me. I thought I was every shoe size back then, and now I was geared with the seven and a half size hiking boots for my six size feet. If they took me to Whitney, they can take me to Rae Lakes I kept telling myself. I start toward the trail head. “Shall we take a picture in front of the sign?” I ask him.

“Sure.” His voice is the warmth of escaping colors. I smile next to the wooden marker. The shutter clicks. An image is trapped in the cogs of the machine. He looks up and I notice a gentle wave of hesitation. His eyes, framed with creases, radiate emotion. I wait. “You know . . . it's hard to get a bad picture of you.” A laugh escapes from my throat.

“Oh please, dad.” I turn to the path, a different smile on my face, as I begin to lead the way.

***

I once stood a reverent onlooker of the engineer’s design. The intricate methodical workings testified of the perfection of machine, spellbinding my every sense, as I held the experiment in my humble hand. Thump-thump. The human heart beats 2.5 billion times in a lifetime. The Jarvik-7 total artificial heart pumped 9.6 million times. Thump-thump. Are there answers in numbered beats? My father, once so glorified as a flawless man, has climbed higher. His real heart has already beat 1.7 billion times. Thump-thump. I now find hope in a human heart, a worn heart. A heart that faces trials. Thump. A heart that makes mistakes. A heart—thump—that grows weary. Thump-thump. From investing years in the abstract, I now conceive the precious essence in frailty, a wavering cadence.