Wabeno Goes Hunting

       Wabeno - Part 1, Chapter 1

Peter Dietrich wore an uncharacteristic smile. Four generations of his family gathered around the table, sharing warm conversation and reminiscing. The men wore expensive tailored suits, and the women donned designer dresses with diamond jewelry. They came from nearby and far away, taking time from golf and garden parties to celebrate their patriarch’s eightieth birthday.

Outside, the sun sank below the horizon. Ten yards from the dining room window, wearing black jeans and a brown hooded sweatshirt, Wabeno stood in the shadow cast by a tall oak. He reached into a leather pouch hanging around his neck and pulled out a hollow bone tube, just over three inches long, crafted from the femur of a great horned owl. From his right pocket, he retrieved an amber pill bottle, unscrewed the cap, and carefully removed a porcupine quill, one of several he had soaked in a mandrake decoction.

Wabeno brushed his hair aside. In the dining room, Peter Dietrich rose to propose a toast, and the others followed suit. Carefully avoiding the barbed tip, Wabeno fitted the quill into the hollow bone and raised the makeshift blowgun to his lips. Aiming at a middle-aged man sitting on Dietrich’s right, he took a deep breath and blew forcefully. The quill shot out from the hollow bone and vanished. Despite a dark urge to witness his revenge, he retreated to the forest bordering the estate. There, in the darkness, a line of poetic verse from Robert Frost flashed through his mind:

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.”

Peter tapped his fork on his wineglass, waiting for his grandchildren to quiet down. “It is a rare opportunity,” he began, “for a man to reach my age and look upon four generations of his family.” Applause rippled around the table. Peter nodded and continued, “I am blessed not only in material fortunes but through the joy that comes from raising one’s children and watching them raise their own families. I look to the future, present among us in my grandchildren and our newest little one, my great-granddaughter Miranda, who celebrates her first birthday next month. I often think about the trials faced by our patriarch, my great-grandfather Hans. As a boy, he immigrated to this country, built a thriving business, and secured a prosperous future for the Dietrichs in America. We enjoy the fruits of his labor and owe our prosperity to his wisdom. My grandfather and father took his small company and built an empire. When it was time to sell the company after my father passed away, I followed their example. Through wise investments, I am proud to say I secured our future.” Lifting his glass, he concluded, “I offer this toast to those who follow in my legacy, to my son Andrew and daughter Ellen, and to –”

Andrew screamed in agony. Clutching his stomach, he lurched forward and let out a terrible howl before collapsing to the floor. For a moment, no one moved, though Peter lowered his glass. Another anguished shout followed, and Andrew’s wife, Denise, rushed to his side. He lay curled up in the fetal position, tears streaming down his reddened face.

“What the hell’s the matter with him?” Peter demanded.

“I don’t know,” Denise yelled.

“It hurts…it’s…” His words caught in his throat as his stomach twisted in violent convulsions. As the others watched in horror, Andrew vomited blood and dinner. The harder his body shook, the more blood he expelled. In his agony, he kicked the table and hit his head on the floor.

“Call an ambulance. For God’s sake, call!” Peter shouted, shocked by the amount of blood and bile pooling around his son.

Panic-stricken, Ellen dialed 911 and spoke rapidly, “We need an ambulance. My brother collapsed. He’s throwing up blood, a lot of blood.” Her husband, Ben Olson, stood behind her and squeezed her shoulder. Andrew stopped screaming as his head hit the floor with a dull thud. “A moment ago,” Ellen answered the dispatcher. She faced Andrew and said, “No, I think he passed out.”

“Something’s wrong with his guts,” Peter said. Denise glared at her father-in-law, who shouted, “Give him room. Move the table.” The staff carefully lifted the heavy oak table and moved it against the china cabinet across the dining room. Denise repositioned herself behind Andrew, turning him onto his side to prevent him from choking. Though unconscious, he winced in pain.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ellen said. “His name is Andrew Dietrich. He’s…hold on.” She turned to Peter and asked, “How old is Andrew?”

“Well, he was born in –”

“He’s fifty-three,” Denise interrupted.

Ellen repeated the answer to the dispatcher. Across the room, the younger children, who first laughed when their grandfather collapsed, now sobbed. Ellen yelled, “Quiet! I can’t hear. Yes, the address…10 Dietrich Lane, Edina.” She covered the phone and turned to Peter, saying, “They’re on their way. I’ll meet them outside.”

“Good girl,” Peter said. “Take your jacket. It’s chilly.” Ellen recoiled at her father’s paternalism but obeyed. Ben followed her outside.

Denise struggled to keep Andrew comfortable until the paramedics arrived. She ran her fingers through his hair and prayed, Heavenly Father, spare Andrew. Last autumn, they celebrated their thirty-third anniversary. They raised their children, providing for them through the family endowment established by Peter for Andrew and Ellen after their mother died. Andrew never worked a day but devoted himself to helping young people, volunteering at church and several youth organizations. He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve to die.

Minutes later, the first responders arrived— a female paramedic with a bag over her shoulder and a male EMT carrying a plastic case. “Sir,” the paramedic shook Andrew’s shoulder, trying to get a response. “Sir, can you hear me?” Turning to her partner, she said, “He’s unresponsive. Airway’s clear. Shallow respirations. Weak pulse.”

“Oh my God,” Denise whimpered.

“Shouldn’t you take him to the hospital?” Peter asked.

The inevitable question: ‘Stay-and-Play’ or ‘Load-and-Go.’ Ignoring Peter, the paramedic placed her palm on Andrew’s abdomen and applied gentle pressure with her index and middle fingers. Andrew winced. “Unconscious but responsive to abdominal pain.” Turning to Denise, the woman said, “Ma’am, please stand back.” Denise continued stroking Andrew’s hair, a blank expression on her face. The EMT grabbed her shoulder and said, “Ma’am?”

“Yes, yes, sorry.”

The paramedic didn’t respond but placed an oximeter on Andrew’s right index finger while the EMT wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his bicep. “Did he eat anything unusual?” he asked Denise. “Anything that might provoke an allergic reaction?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Peter interrupted, “You think this is an allergic reaction?”

“We need to gather as much information as possible. Can you tell me anything about his medical history? Does he take any medications? Has he had any recent hospitalizations or doctor visits? Infections?”

Denise cast worried glances at her husband. “Andrew is as healthy as a horse,” she said. “He takes a daily vitamin, but that’s it. He runs three miles a day.”

“He hasn’t had any infections?”

“No.”

“No doctor visits, even for routine checkups?”

“He had his annual prostate exam about a month ago, but the doctor said everything looked fine.”

“Any stomach issues?”

Denise shook her head and replied, “No.”

The paramedic said, “Pulse 130, temp 98.8, respiratory rate 24.”

The EMT nodded and said, “Blood pressure’s 88 over 48. He’s in shock.”

The paramedic announced, “We’re transporting to Lakeland.”

As the EMT hurried to get the stretcher, Peter asked, “Shouldn’t you place him on oxygen?”

“Yes, sir,” the paramedic replied. Despite a college education, hundreds of training hours, and several years on the job, family members always assumed they knew better. “We’re starting him on oxygen and fluids,” she said, making the necessary preparations as she spoke.

The IV was running when the EMT wheeled the stretcher over, unlocked the legs, and lowered it to the floor. They placed an oxygen mask over his face and wheeled him toward the door.

“Oh my God…Andrew,” Denise sobbed, covering her mouth with her trembling hand.

“He’ll be alright,” Peter said in a paternal ‘buck-up, soldier’ tone.

Within minutes, the first responders loaded Andrew into the ambulance and connected him to a cardiac monitor.

Denise asked, “Can I ride with him?”

“We can take one up front,” the EMT said.

“Denise, you go,” Peter said. “We’ll take my car.”

The driver keyed the radio. “Hennepin County, 8991 is en route to Lakeland Memorial, medic on board, ALS priority 1. Can I have the available med patch?”

“Copy, med patch is on Med 2.”

“8991 to Lakeland Memorial ER.”

“Lakeland Memorial, go ahead.”

“8991 is en route to your facility, priority one, with a fifty-three-year-old male patient from his father’s house presenting with severe abdominal pain and a possible appendix rupture. The patient is unresponsive at this time. We are treating for shock and displaying sinus tach on the monitor. I have an IV established and labs drawn. Our ETA to your facility is approximately 5 minutes. Do you have any questions or orders?”

“Copy 8991. We’ll notify the on-call surgeon. Lakeland clear.”

“Hennepin County 8991 is clear med two.”

With lights flashing and sirens blaring, the ambulance rushed Andrew into the night.