His Name was Ben

by Paulette Mahurin

  “I did it!” she crowed to her dog. “I can’t believe I’m going to see him!”

  One minute Ben’s mind was set in a fixed direction, to concentrate on his treatment and only that. The next instant a switch gets flipped in his brain and it’s a green light to meet a woman. In hindsight, he was surprised that he veered from his path and wondered where the detour would take him. Although curious about the success she was having, he knew he could read up on studies, consult with others directly involved—still nothing sparked him in that direction. Reflecting back on what she said about being an NP and perhaps being able to offer help, I don’t want to talk about my health. His muscles tightened at the thought of opening up, not just to a woman who happened to be a nurse, but to anyone. Why he shifted gears when she mentioned that, he didn’t understand. Maybe it’s an excuse to see her? There is something about her, echoed in his head. But what? Knowing better than to be drawn in by an attractive woman, and he did notice how pretty she was, he realized that he needed human contact other than the medical team taking care of him or a support group that hadn’t resonated. It was normal to want to break out of the unnatural environment he’d been involved in with white coats, medicinal odors, professional consulting, and connect with something ordinary, familiar to him. Why her? Replaying the sensual innuendo she tried to cover up in her voice, he laughed that he was slow on the uptake. Why wouldn’t a cancer patient want the same things a healthy person does? He liked entertaining that notion. I hope I’m not making a mistake, but what do I have to lose?

  Chapter Seven

  Sara settled into a moderately exuberated comfort, looking forward to her date with Ben. It didn’t hurt that they had Zimmerman in common, which gave them something to talk about. I can’t believe the changes I’ve had since he put me on the study. She looked out the bay window in her kitchen, through the sycamore tree, up to the sky where a few cumulus clouds slowly moved by, and wondered how Ben’s treatment was going.

  Rethinking what she could talk about with Ben, How much should I share with him? I don’t want to tell him I’ve had my breasts removed. But how do we avoid the obvious unspoken truth of our situations? Needing something to hold on to, bringing up Zimmerman seemed the best idea. She thought back to the first few visits when he’d started supervising her chemotherapy and helped calm her frighteningly uncontrollable thinking. She recalled the day his meditative powers diminished when he told her, “You’re at the limit of the radiation you can receive.” The creases under his eyes accentuated as he spoke. “The scan stil shows hot areas. We can try another round of chemo.”

  “No! I don’t want to go through more vomiting, diarrhea, fatigue.” Then, like breathing through molasses, she coughed out, “With such a poor prognosis.”

  Continuing to reflect back, she thought of the visit with Zimmerman when he recounted the harsh facts about what she could bargain on. The life expectancy is twenty-five months. He was right about the numbers. Nine months after the diagnosis, surgery, and treatments, she felt enlarged nodes in the center of her rib cage. This can’t be. When she felt pain in her pelvic area, a bone scan confirmed the metastases. Angst increasing, she upped her intake of anti-anxiety and sleeping pills until she existed in a fog of slurred speech and poor quality of life.

  Nope, not going to bring this up with Ben. It’s too much of a downer. If anything, I’m going to keep it light. I don’t want to turn him off. But what if he asks? Remembering the days of dread, Thank God that’s behind me now and my body is responding favorably. I’ll just focus on what’s happening now and how well it’s going. Concentrate on what will help give Ben confidence.

  Shifting her attention back to her date with Ben, her focus went to what she’d wear. Everything I own is baggy on me. She went to the Eddie Bauer outlet store in Camarillo and picked a pair of jeans and a jean shirt; size four fit perfectly and didn’t make her look too thin.

  Tutti’s was Sara’s favorite restaurant in Ventura, just past the Buenaventura Mission in the heart of the gentrified downtown area. She loved the restaurant’s courtyard with stone features and original brick. It’s so quaint and romantic. Her appetite was improving and she was looking forward to ordering her favorite pizza. That and Ben consumed her thoughts while she got ready.

  Driving down Highway 33, singing along with Michael Buble’s “Feeling Good,” she glanced in the rearview mirror to check how she looked, when she noticed her lipstick was smeared onto her teeth. Trying to rub it off, she missed seeing a dog on the curb about to run into the street. “Oh no!” Swerving to avoid it, she ran into a pole, bending the front of her car and releasing the air bag. The searing pain in her chest was instant. “Noooooo!”

  Sara, hearing the sirens and a man cautioning about smoke coming out of the hood of her car, panicked. Her attempts to break loose were futile. Resistance from the inflated nylon pouch spewing a powdery odor was too great for her to prevail against. “Help! I can’t move!”

  The crowd backed away as paramedics rushed to the car. “Easy, easy there, you’ll be okay,” said the tall male rescue worker.

  Burning rib pain pressed in on her. Chemicals stung her eyes. “I can’t breathe!” she gasped.

  They worked fast and gingerly to get her out onto a stretcher as the fire truck arrived.

  “Ouch!” Trying to get air into her constricted chest while the other paramedic, a female, listened with a stethoscope, Sara moaned, “Oh please, not a punctured lung.”

  “Shh,” the woman smiled at her, “let me finish.” The cold instrument moved over Sara’s flesh as the ambulance headed toward the hospital. “Your lungs sound clear.”

  Ben paced the courtyard of Tutti’s paying attention to newcomers with what he remembered of Sara’s description. Where is she?

  When asked by the maître d’ if he’d like to be seated, he replied, “No, I’ll wait till my date gets here.” After forty-five minutes the man approached him again to see if he might like a glass of water. “No, thank you,” his gut churned. “It doesn’t look like I’ll be staying.” This is some kind of sick joke! Aggravated he fell for it, against his first instinct to stay the course with his treatment and not get involved with anyone, he fumed, I must’ve been nuts to think she was for real and could offer help! What the hell’s wrong with me, getting sidetracked with this bullshit! I should have known better.

  Stuck in traffic on the ride back to his hotel infuriated him even more as memories surfaced from his last relationship. I thought I learned from that. His ex-girlfriend’s face came to view, a gorgeous model flashing a smile that enraged him. It was the look she gave him when he found out she’d cheated on him. How could you laugh it off? Big joke! He thought of his sullen parents and their whole miserable failed marriage. Why should I ever expect something more than I’ve grown up with?

  The emergency room was chaotic with patients on gurneys in the hall, wheelchairs loaded with people, machines buzzing and ringing with patients in various stages of danger. When code blue screeched over the intercom, Sara knew she was in for a very long and agonizing wait.

  Attempts by the radiology technician to remove Sara’s top were met with a deafening “Ow!”

  “We’re going to have to cut your blouse off.” Uneasy about her chest being exposed, she latched onto her top. “Can’t you do it with…Oh damn,” she remembered Ben.

  “I’m sorry about that but I have to get at your arm and chest.”

  She eyed the technician. “I wasn’t reacting to you. I just thought of something else.” Ben—my car—my new outfit destroyed. “Can you please do me a favor,” she winced. “I was supposed to meet someone. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “I’m sorry, we’re swamped. We need to get you taken care of.”

  “Please, he’s a cancer patient. I don’t want to stress him.” I don’t want him to think I stood him up. “Could you make a phone call for me?”

  “Have one of the nurses do it when we’re finished.”

  Sara knew from
the way everyone was running around, that wasn’t going to happen.

  “We need to get that top off.” He grabbed hold to make the cut.

  Sara buckled with every movement of the scissors as each piece of newfound hope was stripped from her. After close to five hours and with no one available to phone Ben, she was brought into a cubicle to be seen by the physician. He walked in holding her X-ray. Gasping, she tried to move air into her strangled chest. “What’s the damage?”

  “Just a couple cracked ribs.”

  Just? That’s so painful and means no driving for weeks. Morose ideas drowned out what he was saying, until she heard, “Luckily these are simple fractures—the bones are aligned.”

  It’s osteoporosis from the goddamned chemotherapy, and the impact from the air bag alone was enough to do the harm. Oh hell!

  “And,” he continued, “there’s no lung damage.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I’ll have an orthopedic technician come in to tape your ribs and give you aftercare instructions. You can follow up with your own provider. Any questions?”

  The rest she already knew—no driving and so on until the swelling and pain were resolved. She didn’t want a prescription for medications, Advil would do. Too overwhelmed to think of anything else, “No, thank you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Ellen arrived at Sara’s home shortly after Sara to find her a disheveled mess, lying in bed with Tazzie by her side. “Oh Sara, I’m so sorry. You didn’t need to phone a cab. I would have come to get you.”

  Sara knew that when Ellen heard about her accident, she’d be there for her. They had survived a lot together. Early on, Sara saw the toll it took on Ellen; the dark circles under her eyes told of sleepless nights and worry that her best friend was dying. Ellen’s pert frame had held up well through the last two-year ordeal. Their history together, and all Sara had done for Ellen guaranteed loyalty. It wasn’t that long ago, just eight years, while Ellen was in an abusive relationship that Sara helped her through a life-changing crisis. Ellen’s ex-husband kicked her in the abdomen when she was five months pregnant. Sara found her in the ER hemorrhaging from a ripped uterus necessitating a hysterectomy; the fetus never had a chance. Sara refused to leave her side until Ellen was through the inconsolable grief and court case. This selfless act of loving friendship cemented their bond.

  Lackluster, bloodshot eyes cried defeat. “It happened,” Sara squirmed in discomfort, “so fast.”

  Ellen readjusted a pillow to help Sara get more comfortable. “You’re going to be okay.”

  Sinking into the mattress like quicksand, her aching body dead weight, Sara tried to shift position. “Oh, wait a minute, there’s something under me.” A few minutes of straightening out the sheet to remove wrinkles that felt like knives shooting through her, and she stopped moving.

  Touching the reddish discoloration over Sara’s arm, “You really got banged up.” Ellen sat on the edge of the bed. “What’d they give you for pain?”

  “I didn’t want any heavy meds,” she mumbled.

  Seeing how uncomfortable Sara was, “Why not?”

  “I’ve got Advil.”

  “I know how you struggled with the drugs while on chemo but this is different. You’ll let me know if…”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  Sara remained quiet, tears raining down onto her bandaged ribs.

  Ellen, at a loss for words, reached a hand to Sara’s. “I can’t believe this after all you’ve been through.”

  “Ellen…”

  “I’m here.”

  “Could you phone Ben?”

  “Me?” whispered Ellen. “You should do it.”

  Imploringly looking at Ellen, “I’m uncomfortable…”

  “Sara, you can do it and I think it’s better if it comes from you. Just pick up the phone.” Ellen made a move to get up. “I need to unpack and fix us something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry. El, please.” Even with a divorce and a few bad memories behind her, she had been strong before the surgery. Daunted by the rib pain, her determination had waned. I’m deluded to think Ben could ever be interested in me. Fuzzy glimpses of cobweb images came to mind of a screaming baby until Taz’s snoring shifted Sara’s attention back to her bedroom. “That’s weird.”

  Ellen gave her a look. “What?”

  “My mind’s playing tricks. It’s probably a spillover from the emergency room.”

  “Okay then, you going to phone Ben?”

  “I’d really rather you did it.”

  “I know how distressed you are, but I don’t want the accident to be a setback. I think talking to Ben would be a good thing, if nothing else a nice distraction to help you heal, but you need to do it.”

  “Please, El.”

  “Tell me why you don’t want make the call? He’s another cancer patient, surely he’ll understand.” Seeing the vessels on Sara’s neck pulsing ferociously, “Talk to me.”

  “He’s going to think I stood him up. I know he’s going to be pissed off at me and I don’t want to deal with that right now.” Another vague image of a crying baby, red-faced from screaming, moved through Sara’s head and disappeared.

  “Once you explain what happened, you don’t think he’ll be okay with that?”

  “I’m afraid,” Sara stuttered.

  “Of what?” Ellen’s tone softened.

  Sara could hardly choke out the word, “rejection.” Not feeling accepted was hard for her to experience or speak about. Her ego had built walls of protection, defense mechanisms, to avoid facing the crap she spewed to others about who she was. Were she to confront her self-story, all the nonsense would dissolve into a burning abyss. She deeply feared that if this happened there would be nothing left of her, the identity she had constructed for herself as a nurse and an attractive woman. Without these stories about who she believed she was, all that would remain would be the emotional trauma she’d been hiding from her entire life, and everything she had become would be lost. Without a job, without a partner, without sex, there was nobody there, just pain. She didn’t want to face what had started to surface in nightmares. What are they about? Something happened that makes me feel sick inside. Nighttime dreams were forgotten and Sara hadn’t made the connection between them and the fleeting traces of an unhappy baby that flashed before her in daylight. Crying, a few words emerged. “Not having friends growing up.” She cleared her throat to loosen the vise that held it tight. “Being labeled as ‘that crazy boy’s sister.’ I don’t want to be labeled. I’m afraid Ben’s going to judge and label me.”

  “Wait a minute, you’re not making sense,” Ellen interrupted. “Nothing has happened to tell you Ben or anyone else has labeled you anything.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing,” said Ellen. “Seriously, you’re reacting to the accident and God knows what else. The last thing you need to do is pile a bunch of depressing inaccurate thinking on top of that. You just need to give yourself some time, let things calm down.”

  “That’s probably true, but I want Ben to know why I didn’t show.”

  “Want me to stay here while you do it?”

  “Ellen…” Sara pulled up her top to wipe her face. Ellen handed her some Kleenex.

  “What, you don’t like my snot showing,” Sara joked.

  “Come on, Sara.”

  “You know I joke to escape. I don’t want a man to look at my body and not find me desirable.” Another flash of murky image rose before her, a fat hand on the baby’s leg. Sara’s thighs contracted as the vision dissolved.

  Shaking her head in a gesture that said Stop running, Ellen looked at Sara inviting her to unfold and communicate what needed to be said without hiding from it any more. “Go on.”

  Sara blew her nose, glanced at Tazzie, back at Ellen, and spoke pensively. “I think I’ve always been afraid of abandonment, which is why I was promiscuous when I was a teen. When I had sex, I felt loved. I
got what I didn’t get at home.” She motioned down to her chest. “Who’s going to want this?”

  “Maybe this stuff with Ben is to trigger these emotions in you. Help you come to terms with some things that you need to deal with.” Seeing how wiped out Sara looked, “You know if you really want me to phone him, I will. I don’t want you to keep stressing out over…”

  “Thank you.” Sara eyed her phone. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Sara, I just want to do what’s best for you. Sometimes that’s not easy to figure out.”

  “What’s best for me?” Sara looked at Tazzie’s whining and paws twitching in sleep. “Hmm,” her attitude lightened, “you’re right, El, I should do it.”

  She grabbed hold of her phone and dialed, but when it went straight to message, she regretted making the move. My number’s going to show! Oh no! Now what? While his recording sounded and the beep came on, she froze. All that came out was, “Ben, it’s Sara. I’m so sorry that I missed meeting…” The machine cut her off with, “If you are satisfied with your message, press one.” Flustered, she panicked and pressed it. “Oh shit!” Throwing the telephone down on the bed, “He’s going to think I’m the biggest asshole in the…”

  “Call him back,” Ellen pleaded.

  “No!”

  Ellen gently moved the cell phone next to Sara’s hand.

  Seething, Ben arrived back at his hotel mid-afternoon. After leaving a message for Michael, he waited and paced.

  “Ben, that’s not a smart move. You need to concentrate on your treatment and not get involved with women down there.”

  “I wasn’t getting involved, Mike. I thought it would be something useful. She’s been doing well on a study she’s on. I wanted to hear about it.” Defensively, he continued, “My appointment at Zimmerman’s was near there anyway.”

  “You’re at UCLA. There’s a whole team networking there and through Zimmerman’s office. Don’t tell me it’s not personal.”