Anything For Terresa

By Leslie Olson

The only life that John Nellono values is that of his granddaughter, Terresa. While people often say that they'd kill for their family, John has done it before and threatens to do it again.

Handsome, charming, workaholic Jack Stone is a pioneer in Miami during the birth of organ transplantation. He has dedicated his career to saving lives, but that commitment and his morality are tested when he must choose between doing the unthinkable or the fate of his new love. Either way, his own life hangs in the balance.

Les Olson has spent 55 years in organ donation and has surgically recovered over 6,000 organ donors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887635088

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

About the Author

cover.jpg

Anything For Terresa

Leslie Olson

Copyright © 2023 Leslie Olson

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 979-8-88763-507-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88763-508-8 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To the real heroes of organ transplantation, the organ recovery coordinators who make the system operate; and the donor families, who have shown the greatest compassion for others after suffering immeasurable loss. An additional debt of gratitude to my family and Christy Jenkins for their continued support.

Chapter 1

Year 1986

John Nellono stood at the window and stared out into the gray Philadelphia morning. Snow had fallen overnight, only a slight dusting, but the looming storm clouds threatened much more before the day was out.

His granddaughter, excited by the unexpected frosting, had begged him to go outside and play before it got too deep. John surrendered to her pleas, as she knew he would.

He'd do anything for Terresa, and she knew it.

She flitted about near the edge of the pool, tossing handfuls of snow onto the steaming surface to watch it vanish. Terresa giggled, the barest of smiles brightening her already rosy cheeks further. They stood out in contrast to her dark, deep-set eyes that gleamed, haunting, even from the window. She stifled a yawn, then another overtook her. Terresa didn't even bother to cover her mouth, and John sighed. She'd been so tired of late, yawning so commonplace that she'd quit bothering with her manners.

John couldn't blame her, but it stung him deep inside to see her so worn-out, so lethargic so often. As she shambled about, playing in what seemed like slow motion, John watched her every movement like a hawk watching its prey.

Every time she stumbled, he had to fight the urge to run out and pull her into his arms. Every time she sat down to rest, he'd press his palm against the cold glass and will her his energy.

It wasn't fair that he, an old man past the prime of his life, had more energy than a four-year-old child. He might not be the spry, young man he used to be, life having worn on him hard, but it sickened him to realize Terresa suffered so.

Much as he hated doctors, their greedy hearts wanting nothing more but a steady stream of money. They'd shake their heads and shrug their shoulders, claiming ignorance and dragging out the process. He'd grudgingly consented for his daughter-in-law, Maria, Terresa's mother, to take her to the doctor to get checked out.

As always, the results had been inconclusive.

John snarled as he imagined the doctor's smug face, telling Maria they'd need to run more tests, expensive tests, before they'd know anything. He knew the news wouldn't be good.

His hand slid from the glass with a squeak and unconsciously formed a fist, knuckles turning white.

It was always the same thing. The doctors did nothing.

They'd watched his son, John Jr., die, same as they'd watched John's father, standing around and doing nothing, discussing what new torments they could devise to keep him lingering on, yet still, the bills came, never wavering. Each new effort had a price attached.

Untreatable cancer, they said, over and over and over.

It was untreatable until John told them he would build a new hospital wing if they operated, did something besides hover over his father's bed and stare glassy-eyed as if they were contemplating their golf game and how quickly they could get back to it.

Once the check cleared, it took them no time at all to start cutting, but by then, it was too late. John's father died on the operating table. John did not even get to say goodbye.

Doctors, he thought, his upper lip peeling back into a sneer as he remembered—remembered everything.

It would not be so bad if they did not hide behind the screen of altruism and compassion. They stand over their patients and families like some kind of God, demanding obeisance, reverence. They wanted to be worshiped, these doctors, men of flesh, turned deities.

And now, Terresa's life is in the hands of these same doctors?

He looked out at her, watching as she tossed handfuls of snow in the air and let it fall down over her. She giggled loud enough for him to hear her, and his heart warmed at seeing her smile.

Then the yawns returned, and she slumped into a crouch, deflating like a slow-leaking balloon. He hated seeing her this way, hated not knowing what was wrong, but he'd know soon.

His stomach churned at the thought of what he might learn. His head whirled with morbid possibilities, and he couldn't help but think of his son and father, what they'd gone through. He'd been helpless.

But not this time. This time, he would do everything within his power to ensure she got the best treatment available, better even. He would leave nothing to fate, nothing to the whims of callous surgeons or greedy hospital administrations. No, if he had to throttle the world into submission to make sure Terresa was treated and healed, that's exactly what he would do.

And like the scum littering the swamps in pieces, God help anyone who stood in his way. He growled as he remembered the moment the police contacted him, telling him his son had been in an accident.

John's head lolled back, and he rubbed at the back of his neck as he thought of his son and what happened.

The police are no better than the doctors.

Just like with Terresa, he was left with no real answers. They'd said it was an accident, but John knew differently. His son had been murdered. He knew it in his heart, and it made him nauseous to realize he'd never know who his son's killers were.

He resented how the police handled the whole affair. As if John Jr. was just another stupid kid out for a joyride. The tree he ran into was cut in two, but there was that white paint on the side of his red car.

The police feigned interest until the next day when neither the suspected white car, nor the driver, had been located. John knew that Junior was used to having a few drinks before driving, just as he knew Junior's car had been in mint condition before the crash. If it hadn't been, John's attendants would have told him. They wouldn't dare risk the blame of letting John think they'd damaged the kid's vehicle.

Fortunately, the private detectives John had hired had some success when they checked out the scene of the accident. According to them, after talking to an elderly couple who apparently saw it, his son had a run in with a group of bikers. According to the reports, his son drove down the street when the group of Hell's Angels started circling his car, harassing him as he drove off, screaming and shouting at him as they disappeared around the bend.

The couple hadn't seen any contact, nothing to explain the white paint on his son's car, but there was no way they weren't involved.

It was those goddamn bikers, John knew. Someday, someday, more of those worthless worms would pay and pay heavily.

Though he could never prove who it had been, John was not someone to sit idle. In his overwhelming fury in the aftermath of his son's death, John had ten suspect bikers dismembered and fed to the Florida alligators, their bodies dumped from the sky. The Lear jet that transported the bodies to Florida was so bloody he had the plane ditched somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean to hide any evidence of what had happened.

But still, his heart ached at the fact that he didn't not know the real identity of John Jr.'s killer or killers.

He would learn one day, then they would all pay.

It was hardly the first time there'd been blood on John's hands, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Like the doctor who'd failed John's father. His life was a stain on John's hands, the ledger balanced in a fitting moment of vengeance. Yes, he might have lost his father, but the cut-happy surgeon also lost his. He died in misery, in pain, suffering as John's father had, and now the doctor had to live with the loss, just as John did.

Chapter 2

Rain blistered the front windshield as the ambulance screamed across the busy intersection. The red-and-white emergency vehicle had total command of the road. Emergency lights dashed across buildings, and the blare from the siren demanded absolute obedience from local drivers and pedestrians.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the city as puddles of water formed small lakes in low areas of the street. Pedestrians holding umbrellas looked up to see what commotion interrupted their dismal night out. The ambulance bounced when it traversed an intersection. Water splashed as the tires emptied a street lake, providing a bath to cars parked along the curb.

Inside the ambulance, a team of surgeons and technicians dressed in operating scrubs braced against being bounced around the crowded compartment. Their civilian clothes were rolled into tight balls and laid on their laps. Jack Stone kept looking at his watch as he braced a blue-and-white plastic beer cooler between his legs. On the side of the cooler, only the letters HU on top, HE in the middle, and TRANS on the bottom are visible under Jack's leg.

Nervously, the weather putting him on edge, he strained to look out the front window. The wipers quickly streaked across, erasing the rain's onslaught.

The ambulance attendant in the passenger's front seat talked into the handset. He turned around, looked at the group, and screamed above the siren for the passengers to hear. We'll be at the helicopter in three minutes! He held up three fingers and waved them at his passengers. They are ready for you!

*****

On the football field of Sunset High School stood the waiting helicopter. The Coast Guard helicopter quivered against the driving downpour, its propeller whirling as its crew stared out the door, waiting for their mission. In the distance, the flashing red lights caught the attention of one of the crew. He pointed out the ambulance to the others, then grabbed the handset. They are in sight, Captain.

Roger was the reply.

In the pilot's seat, the captain put his microphone down and turned to the copilot.

Prepare for liftoff.

As the ambulance drove up to the helicopter and backed up, the ambulance's back door opened, and the four scrub-suited professionals leapt out. They bent down and started running to the waiting helicopter. The last member, carrying the cooler, turned to the ambulance attendants, waved goodbye, and thanked them as he climbed into the helicopter. The door slammed shut, and the copter blades cut deep into the weather. The familiar sound of wop, wop, wop could be heard as the machine lifted off the field.

*****

Jack Stone, the transplant coordinator, wiped the rain from his face as he turned to the crew chief to confirm the status of the Lear jet. Jack was five foot eleven, thin, and in his early thirties. His blond hair was parted on the left side. He turned to the chief and asked, Have you told the jet to warm up?

Yes, said the chief. We'll be at the airport in twelve minutes. The jet will be ready. How did it go?

Fine, it was a good case. We don't expect any problems as long as there are no problems.

The members of the team settled back into the web seating for the short trip to the airport.

Do you think the weather will delay our takeoff? Jack asked the chief.

I don't know. The tower knows this is a Lifeguard flight.

Jack has often used Lifeguard when time is critical, and only Air Force One has higher priority.

In the distance, the airfield came into sight. On this trip, the helicopter jump was short, but necessary. Minutes count. The rain did not let up as the copter neared the jet. The jet was a Lear, painted white, with a red cross on its tail. The number N22NP was painted on its side. It was an air ambulance. The jet was specifically chartered for this flight where a few minutes meant the difference between life and death.

The plane sat on the end of the runway, its wing lights on and the door ajar, waiting for its payload. The engine on the opposite side blasted hot air and rain to the rear of the craft. Seeing the whirling blades hovering over the field, the copilot lowered the door. As the copter sat down, the crew chief slid open the side door, jumped out, and immediately helped the team out, each carrying their clothes. Jack was carrying the cooler.

The chief yelled, Good luck! to each member as they hurried toward the open door.

They bent down to avoid the blades slashing the air above their heads. Jack was barely in the jet door when the copilot closed it, and the plane started to taxi to runway 27 only a hundred feet away. As the plane eased forward, the mate engine was started, and the people inside got situated for the one-hour-and-forty-seven-minute flight, give or take headwinds.

Seated at the controls, the pilot announced to the control tower, Lifeguard flight twenty-two, November Papa is ready for takeoff.

Immediately, the return response came. Lifeguard twenty-two, November Papa is cleared for takeoff.

The pilot grabbed the controls and slowly pushed the throttles forward. The plane quickly jolted down the runway. Rain pelted the windshield as the nose lifted off the ground. Within seconds, the plane made a steep incline, turning south, going home.

Inside, Dr. John Minner turned. Jack, are we on schedule?

So far, Jack replied. The patient was in the OR when I called. Everything should click.

They were barely off the ground when everyone dove into the sandwiches and fruit that was catered by the aircraft. This was the only food they had seen since noon, and it was now close to midnight. The plane reached altitude and leveled off before the engines settled to a hum. Jack watched as Dr. Minner sat back into his seat, then reached for the light above his head. After directing the light to his lap, he grabbed his briefcase.

He had left it in the plane before going to the hospital. He opened it and started looking over medical publications, as he had many times before. The rest of the team adjusted their position for the trip and tried to use this time to catch up on some sleep. Everyone knew it would be a very long night, and they'd been working on two cases since 6:00 that morning.

It did not seem too long before the lights of the eastern coast of Florida illuminated the sky. The cloud covering was still there, but the rain had stopped, at least for the present. Jack was always struck by the division of the lighted coastline and the blackness of the Atlantic Ocean. The hustle and bustle of coastal living and what appeared to be the stillness and lifelessness of the ocean was most evident at night.

Traveling at over 450 mph made these trips more pleasant and exciting. Down below, Jack could see the traffic on I-95, the interstate highway that parallels the coast. The traffic was still busy as cars and trucks passed underneath, unaware of the significance of the plane and flight above them.

As the plane banked to line up with the runway to start its descent, Jack wondered whether everything was set for the next phase of this trip. Picking up the in-plane phone, he pressed the red transmission button and asked the pilot, Is Trauma One on the field?

Yes, all is ready! came the reply from the pilot.

The pilot was too busy to give further information since the phone went dead after his message. Dr. Minner opened his briefcase, threw the journal inside before closing and locking it. Everyone moved around in their seats, gathering their possessions, and preparing for the next dash. Jack's feet could feel the landing gear drop and lock into place as the plane made its last slight bank before setting down.

The pilot eased the plane onto the runway but did not slow, so the craft could coast to the waiting helicopter sitting at the end of the field. As the team approached, the pilot shut down the engine on the same side as the door to allow safe exiting from the plane. Looking out the window, Jack could see Trauma One, the county's yellow medical emergency helicopter seated on the grass next to the taxiway. The copter was running with its side door open. Jack could not help but think about all the coordination required in order to pull off an operation as smooth as this one to be successful.

The plane slowed when the copilot left his seat to open the door. In perfect order, as if everyone knew his turn, the plane emptied. Everyone ran hunched over, carrying their belongings to Trauma One. Jack first handed the cooler to Dr. Hanson before boarding.

Dr. Jeff Hanson was a surgical resident who'd gone with the team this afternoon. He had been rotating through the service for the last two months and has been on several flights. As the door closed, the blades started to grab more air, and the craft lifted off the ground. Knowing the trip would only be a few minutes to the hospital heliport, Jack immediately leaned over the pilot's shoulder.

Call security and have the elevators waiting. We need to roll right through.

The pilot nodded, then spoke into his handset. Jack turned, sat down, and looked out the window at the city below.

He could see the hospital in the distance. The red landing lights surrounding the heliport were on as they approached the roof. The brisk north wind lifted the yellow wind tunnel. A security guard dressed in police blue was just below the landing on the stairs waiting. As the copter set down, the door flung open, and they exited rapidly, again bending down to avoid the deadly spinning blades. The security guard kept waving to them to go his way. This was strange since there was only one exit from the pad. Jack guessed it was his way of being part of the team. A part that would be critical if the team ever got stuck in an elevator or delayed in a hallway. Down the twelve heliport stairs, the team ran. The stairs were quicker than the litter lift from the roof.

Helpfully, the guard held the elevator doors open. When they entered, the guard turned his elevator control key, and the doors closed without hesitation. The elevator was large, big enough to hold a litter, emergency equipment, and several people. The walls were painted gray, but the paint was chipped and scratched from constant use. It was also fast, going from the eighteenth floor to the ground floor in seconds.

That's because the elevator had only one purpose, to bring critically injured people from the heliport to the trauma room that was part of the emergency room. The elevator did not have the capability to stop on any other floors.

Still, it wasn't a perfect system. They had to exit on the first floor to grab another elevator on the other side of the building to reach the operating room located on the fourth floor. In order to make this work seamlessly, another guard waited for the team at the other elevator. They went directly to the fourth floor and proceeded to the surgeon's lounge.

Like all surgical locker rooms, after a long day, there were dirty scrub pants and shirts hanging half in and half out of laundry hampers. Others littered the floor around it. Disposable caps, masks, and shoe covers also missed the trash container and were lying around the floor.

Additional soiled scrubs were in corners and on wooden changing benches.

In the locker room, they changed into clean surgical scrubs and put their clothes in lockers. The old scrubs could no longer be worn in the operating room because they had been worn outside, in contact with dirt and other contaminated objects. Next to Jack was the all-important cooler. The letters on the side declared its importance: Human Heart for Transplant.

The letters were printed on its side in red across a white background. Once changed, Jack grabbed the cooler and started for operating room number 3.

Behind the front control desk stood the operating room supervisor, Ms. Nancy Williams, a large-boned, heavyset black woman who took no excuses for delays or incompetence. She singlehandedly ran this major medical center's thirty-four operating rooms for the last twenty years. It'd been said that she had, on more than one occasion, gone one-on-one with a surgeon and had never lost. The respect she gained because of her pride in her work; her strength of mind, character, and body; and her no-nonsense personality required even the chief of surgery to say Please and Thank you anytime he wanted to speak.

Dr. Minner made straight for her and smiled. He always liked seeing her. It meant the procedure would be that much easier with her overseeing everything.

Good morning, Ms. Williams, he said, giving her a deferential nod.

Ms. Williams looked up at Dr. Minner, placed her hand on her hips, and shouted, Get your ass in there. They've been waiting for you.

Dr. Minner laughed and hurried his pace as he and his resident turned down the hallway and practically jogged to the operating theater.

A big smile came across her face as she turned and said, Jack, I'll make sure there is a fresh pot of hot coffee for you. Now, get on in there.

Jack had always gotten along with Ms. Williams. He never questioned her authority when it came to the command of the operating floor, but he also knew she had a sharp sense of humor, stemming from years working with egotistical surgeons.

Thank you, he answered, still smiling. I'll get some as soon as I get this to the OR.

He pointed to the cooler, feeling a bit weird for doing so, considering she knew exactly why he was there. But he couldn't help himself. Ms. Williams brought out the kid in him, and he felt the need to prove himself.

He lifted the cooler to the control desk counter surrounding Ms. Williams. He opened the cooler, and Jack removed a small clear plastic container filled with red fluid. In the closed container, several yellowish, fatty pieces of tissue swirled before floating to the top.

Here are the donor lymph nodes for tissue typing. The technician is on the way over to pick it up. Can I leave it on the counter?

Yes, sweetie, came the response. I'll watch it for you.

Turning, Jack started out for operating room number 3.

Number 3 was the largest operating theater on the floor. It had to be in order to provide the additional room for necessary equipment and staff to perform the complex procedure of a cardiac transplant operation. Jack walked behind Dr. Minner as he performed his customary five-minute surgical scrub along with his residents before entering the suite.

Jack walked into the suite. On his right was the familiar heart-lung machine, pumping away as its rollers rotated, forcing dark red blood through tubing up to blood chambers and oxygenators, only to be returned to the patient through another tubing.

The pump technician sat, watching the bubble trap and machine perform as he opened and closed a tubing clamp, making a clicking sound. He would also twirl the clamp around his middle finger like a Western six-shooter. The patient was covered with green disposable surgical drapes, with only his head showing to the anesthesiologist. Above the anesthesia machine was the monitor displaying the patient's EKG readings and blood pressure.

With each beat of his heart, there was a loud beep that could be heard throughout the room. The patient's chest was open to the surgeons at the table. A large stainless-steel chest retractor held the split sternum apart, and black silk ties held the pericardium up and open, secured to the patient's skin. Inside the chest pumped a very large heart. The beat of the heart was not very strong. As if it did not have the strength to pump the amount of blood the body required.

Dr. Minner came in with his wet arms held up and away from his body. One of the two scrub nurses handed him a green cloth towel to dry his hands before dressing him in a sterile surgical gown. Both residents entered and dried their hands in preparation for gowning. The circulating nurses tied the inside of the back of the gown, while the scrub nurse opened the surgical gloves for the surgeon.

The surgeon thrusted his hands into the waiting gloves. After gloving, the scrub nurse held one of the outside ties of the grown as each surgeon spins to cover his back with the sterile flap and completed the tie in the front. Once Dr. Minner finished his gowning, he walked up to the table and started to check the condition of the diseased heart and surrounding vessels he must sew the new heart to.

Dr. Smit, Dr. Minner's associate, completed the dissection, and the patient was ready to be placed on full heart-lung bypass.

Large tubes are already connected to the patient's major heart vessels in the chest. The tubing hung over the sterile drapes and returned to the heart-lung machine. Dr. Minner spoke to the scrub nurse as he adjusted the rubber glove on his left hand.

Clamps.

The nurse placed the first of several clamps in the surgeon's hand with a slap. Dr. Minner looked up and announced, I'm going to clamp off the heart. We'll go to full bypass, and I want no more unnecessary chatter until we're finished.

Looking down into the chest cavity, he placed the clamp into the chest and clamped a large vessel leading to the diseased heart.

Hearing Dr. Minner's clamp click close, the pump tech immediately turned up the stroke rate of his blood pump and said, I'm on full bypass with good return.

The sound of the revolving pumps and return suction could be heard. As the last of several clamps were placed on vessels, Dr. Minner asked for the Metzenbaum scissors. He cut the diseased heart out of the pink chest. The EKG monitor went silent, and the EKG tracings became flat. A most distressing situation in most cases but common in heart transplantation. The old heart was removed and placed in a basin of saline. The heart still quivered as Dr. Minner returned to the empty cavity to suck up the blood that emptied from the transected vessels. He prepared the remaining vessel ends for the new organ.

There's no turning back now! He looked toward Jack. I'm ready for the heart.

Jack picked up the cooler, placed it on a stainless-steel table, and opened the top. Inside the cooler, packed in ice, was a clear plastic jar inside two clear, sterile plastic bags. Jack took the bagged jar out of the cooler with one hand and placed the cooler on the floor. The jar now squarely on the table, Jack opened the first plastic bag, starting from the top and folding the edges outwardly, so the inside bag was not touched. After putting on some surgical gloves, Jack took a scalpel to cut the last bag open at the top. Dr. Minner, with his hands folded, waited for the organ. He also knew that the removal of the heart must be done correctly the first time or it could be contaminated. The resulting infection could possibly kill the patient. By his manner, Jack could tell Dr. Minner was restless. After opening the last bag, Jack took off the gloves and put on another pair. He then opened the screw-top cover off the jar, exposing the new heart bathed in ice-cold solution.

Dr. Minner picked the heart up out of the jar with one hand and turned to another basin filled with cold saline. Placing the heart in the saline, he and one of his residents inspected the heart to be sure there are no surprises with the heart or its vessels. With a Metzenbaum scissors, he trimmed off some of the extra tissue surrounding the organ. Picking up the limp, cold heart in both hands, Dr. Minner walked over to the recipient and placed the heart in the chest before sewing the vessels together.

Jack walked to the back wall where the circulating nurse counted bloody sponges to keep track of the patient's blood loss.

I'll be in the surgeon's lounge. Let me know when they are ready to open the clamps.

Okay. Wish I could go with you, she said.

In the lounge, Jack sat down with a cup of freshly brewed coffee. It was pleasant after a long day. Jack only wished someone else was there. The lounge was empty except for some chairs, a small table in the corner, two older davenports, and a TV. The television played some old cowboy rerun. Jack thought it was The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, starring Clint Eastwood. Getting up, Jack moved over to the coffeepot and drew a refill.

The door opened and a tall, dark, and tired-looking resident dressed in wrinkled green surgical scrubs entered and headed for the comfort of the couch. His body dropped in a dead heap, and with a sigh, he relaxed, only to have his beeper interrupt a short-planned slumber. He opened his tired eyes and looked around for the phone. Grabbing the phone that sat on a small wooden table worn with time,