Intensive Caring

by Bobby Hutchinson

  The couple of days she’d agreed to had stretched to more than a week. Still, it wasn’t her doing. She hadn’t detained Cedric in hospital; his own body had. He was having a great deal of trouble breathing.

  She’d known as soon as the results from the PET scan on his brain had come in what was wrong with him; nevertheless, she’d run the entire battery of diagnostic procedures, praying there’d been a mistake, praying she was wrong. She’d had one of Vancouver’s leading neurologists examine Cedric and double-check her own test results. Coward that she was, so far Portia had avoided naming Cedric’s disease for him.

  Until now. She had to do it now; even though Cedric hadn’t asked, to delay any longer was cruel. On some level, she suspected he already knew, perhaps not the label, but certainly the severity.

  “‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,’” he greeted her in his slurred voice, and she could sense the effort it cost him to sound lighthearted. To look into his eyes and smile at him was hard. She could feel tears threatening, but she fought them. She wouldn’t cry in front of him; she’d already cried in private when the test results had come back.

  The card she’d had delivered with the roses was prominently displayed on the bedside table, and she lifted it and pretended to read it, buying a moment to collect herself.

  “‘To the troubadour of St. Joe’s. With love, from a secret admirer.’”

  “You’ve got competition for my affections, Doc.”

  Of course the flowers didn’t fool him. He knew she’d sent them, along with the fruit and the chocolates, the small radio now tuned to a classical station and the gilded hardbound copy of Rumi’s verse that lay open on the bed.

  “Can you sit for a while, Doc Bailey?” He motioned with his chin at the armchair beside the bed.

  She sat, feeling her sorrow settle like an anvil on her shoulders. One of the benefits of working in the ER was that only rarely did she have to tell people they had a terminal disease; she’d done it, of course, but she doubted physicians ever got used to it. “We have to talk, Cedric.”

  He nodded and swallowed hard. “It’s bad, isn’t it, Doc?”

  “Yes, it is.” She couldn’t pretend. She owed him the truth. “It’s called amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, Cedric. ALS.”

  He tipped his head to the side and gave her a level, knowing look. “Wasn’t there a ball player who had that?”

  She nodded. “Lou Gehrig. It’s commonly called Lou Gehrig’s disease, after him.”

  “A famous scientist has it, too.”

  Again she nodded. “Stephen Hawking.”

  “Are there magic pills for it?”

  His voice was faint and hoarse. She reached for his hand and threaded her fingers through his, as much to comfort herself as to comfort him. “No remedy that we know of as yet, Cedric. I’m so sorry, my dear friend.”

  “Me, too.” He drew in a deep, shaky breath, and she could see that already breathing took effort. The disease was rapidly progressive, and respiratory distress was one of its symptoms—the one that would eventually end his life. She’d asked the neurologist for a prognosis. He’d said two months was a generous guess, considering how swiftly the condition had already advanced, and the fact that Cedric had likely suffered symptoms for some time.

  “I knew it wasn’t good.”

  Cedric’s face twisted, and she wanted to look away from the terror in his eyes, but instead she made a conscious effort to share it.

  He swallowed repeatedly, and finally managed to whisper, “It’s not dying that I mind so much, Doc Portia. Living the way I do, the way I have, isn’t something I’d recommend if you’re looking for a fun time.”

  He managed a grimace that passed for a smile, and her chest ached with unshed tears. She waited for him to go on. All she could do for him at this moment was listen, and that felt so inadequate.

  “It’s having to be in the hospital.” His weak voice wavered. “I just can’t stay here, Doc. I have to get out of this place and die on my own terms. What’s gonna happen to me? What’s gonna give out next, besides my legs?”

  His movements were stiffening, and his worsening respiratory problems meant that the medulla oblongata, the lowermost portion of the vertebrate brain continuous with the spinal cord, which controls breathing, among other functions, was involved.

  As gently as she could, Portia explained the disease’s probable progression. He’d be in a wheelchair before long; he’d have more difficulty breathing and swallowing.

  Cedric listened. When she was done, he said, “I guess I better start looking for new digs. Place I’ve got isn’t exactly wheelchair accessible.”

  Portia knew he slept in a packing box under the Georgia Street Viaduct; one of the firemen had once described it after bringing Cedric in. He’d had pneumonia that time.

  “I’m checking out of here and spending as much time as I can living the way I choose.” He gave her a defiant look, as if he expected an argument.

  “Absolutely.” She paused a moment, then added, “The hospital has a home palliative care program, Cedric.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a program that allows people to be cared for as long as they want to be.”

  He looked skeptical. “Home care wouldn’t apply to me, though. I don’t exactly have a house.”

  “I don’t see why you’d have to have a house. Let me talk to the palliative care supervisor. Maybe we can work something out.” Although Portia knew of the program, she didn’t have all the details. She glanced at her watch. “I’ll phone her right away.” She got to her feet. “I have to get back to work, my friend, but I’ll stop by later this afternoon when my shift is over and tell you what I found out.”

  She was almost out the door when he said, “I don’t suppose you could help me speed up this, this…this dying thing, Doc.”

  Portia’s gut constricted. She turned and went back to him. “I’m so sorry, Cedric. You know I can’t do that.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I know. No harm in asking, huh?” Again he tried to grin, and Portia’s heart contracted with pity and affection.

  “I’ll do whatever else I can, though, to keep you comfortable. I promise you.”

  After leaving a message for the palliative care supervisor to contact her, Portia hurried back to the ER. The afternoon was busy, and she was grateful; of necessity, her work demanded that she put her feelings for Cedric to the back of her mind and concentrate on the immediate needs of her patients.

  Her shift was almost over and she was reading the X rays of a young woman who’d broken her foot falling off a ladder, when an aide announced, “There’s a man asking to see you, Doctor.” She pointed to a wheelchair parked near the entrance doors. “He’s waiting.”

  Nelson Gregory saw her looking his way and raised one hand in a salute. The other held a huge bouquet of yellow roses.

  Portia had to smile. The dashing race car driver was determined, if nothing else. She had no doubt that the roses were for her and that he was about to ask her to dinner, just as he’d said he would.

  She took her time with her patient, explaining to the woman exactly what bones were fractured and how long she’d be in a cast, but the whole time she was very aware of Gregory. When the woman was finally escorted to ambulatory care, Portia made her way over to him.

  “Hello, Portia.” He smiled up at her, his blue eyes warm and admiring. Instead of shaving off the dark growth of beard, he’d trimmed it close to his face, giving him a decidedly dangerous, piratical air. “Anybody tell you that green is your color?”

  She was wearing rumpled, stained hospital scrubs. Again she had to smile at his audacity.

  “Glad you appreciate high fashion. Hello, Nelson.”

  “You remembered my first name. I’m flattered and profoundly grateful.” Then he held out the roses. “These are a small token of my appreciation for everything.”

  She took the roses and smelled them. Their perfume filled her nostrils. They were heavy. There
must have been three dozen, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a jaunty white ribbon. They were so fresh they had droplets of dew on them. “Thank you.” What was it about flowers that lifted the spirits?

  “I see you’ve become ambulatory. Congratulations.”

  “I’m even being discharged tomorrow morning.” His grin was jubilant. “I hear the nurses are celebrating. They say I’ve been a pain in the butt. How about helping me celebrate over dinner tomorrow evening?”

  She’d all but decided to refuse, and she shook her head a little and opened her mouth to tell him no.

  “Don’t say no, please.” There was no trace of teasing in his tone. “What’s one dinner out of a lifetime, Doctor? I’ll take you somewhere spectacular. I’m a gentleman. I’ll do my best to be entertaining. Just give it a try, and if it doesn’t work out, I promise I’ll never bother you again.”

  “Scout’s honor?” She couldn’t resist gibing him a little.

  “I wasn’t a Boy Scout, but absolutely. Scout’s honor.”

  The day had been stressful, and it wasn’t over yet. Cedric weighed heavily on her mind and in her heart, and it had been a while since she’d had a date to look forward to. So Nelson Gregory was a playboy, so what? As he’d said, what was one dinner? He was attractive. Besides, he was in a wheelchair, with injuries that meant he couldn’t exactly come on to her in any major fashion.

  “Okay,” she relented. “One dinner.”

  His blue eyes blazed with jubilation. “What’s your address? Is six a good time to collect you?”

  “Six is fine, but just give me the address of the restaurant and I’ll meet you there.”

  Having him pick her up at her house felt way too intimate. She was going for friendly but impersonal.

  The knowing look he gave her told her that he probably understood her reasons.

  “I’ll make reservations and leave a message for you with the desk clerk here in Emergency. Will that work?”

  “Sure.” She saw the triage nurse heading her way. “Guess I’m gonna have to get back to work now. See you tomorrow, Nelson.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  And so was she, Portia realized as the rest of the day galloped past. It was all too easy to become immersed in her work and forget that she was also a woman who loved to dress up and be admired. Several times, she caught herself grinning like an idiot, wondering what Nelson’s reaction would be should she arrive at some upscale restaurant wearing the green scrubs he’d admired.

  INSTEAD, SHE WORE a beautifully tailored silk sheath with a matching jacket, in a color the salesclerk had called aubergine and Portia herself thought of as dusky purple.

  Whatever it was, it suited her. She’d even squeezed time away from the ER to have her hair trimmed, her legs waxed, her brows shaped, making fun of herself the whole time for going to such trouble for a man she’d probably never see more than once.

  As she entered the exclusive restaurant precisely at six the following evening, the startled admiration in the eyes of several male diners was mute confirmation that she looked her best.

  The maître d’ escorted her to a private dining alcove where Nelson was already waiting, his wheelchair on one side of the table, a chair for her on the other. His eyes, too, lit with admiration when he saw her.

  “’Evening, Portia.” He was elegant and shockingly handsome in a dark suit. Instead of a shirt, he had on a black turtleneck.

  When the maître d’ left, Nelson gazed at her for several long, silent moments, and when she was beginning to feel uncomfortable at such intense scrutiny, he said quietly, “You are so beautiful it takes my breath away.”

  “Flatterer. But thank you anyway.” Feeling a little nervous, she looked out the window.

  “I haven’t been here before.” The restaurant was new, but she’d heard of it—it was gaining a reputation as one of Vancouver’s newest and best. “The location is marvelous…right on the water like this. And that sky…wow, just look at that sky.”

  The sun was setting. The sky was on fire, the water flame-colored. A rosy glow poured down on the sailboats gliding under the Granville Street Bridge and into their night harbor.

  “It’s reassuring to know some things a guy arranges work out. I ordered the colors especially for you.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “That’s what I’m aiming for.” His grin was mischievous.

  A waiter appeared with a bottle nestled in a silver ice bucket.

  “I took the liberty of ordering champagne,” Nelson confessed as the waiter expertly popped the cork and caught the frothy overflow in a stemmed glass.

  When they were alone again, Portia sipped the delicious golden wine and felt herself beginning to relax.

  “Tough day at the office?” Nelson was watching her. He silently toasted her with his glass.

  “Busy, but productive. I may have found a patient I’m particularly fond of the help he needs.” She’d met with Vanessa Thorpe just before leaving for the day. Vanessa was the palliative care supervisor, a woman in her fifties who was sympathetic to Cedric’s situation.

  “I have one special person who I think will take on the challenges this case represents,” Vanessa had told Portia. “His name’s Gordon Caldwell. He’s one of my best nurses. I’ll have a talk with him right away and see what we can work out.”

  Nelson was attentive and interested. “What’s wrong with your patient?” He smiled. “He’s gotta be a lucky guy if he’s got you on his side.”

  “Actually, he’s not lucky at all.” Portia paused, but there was no reason not to tell Nelson. He didn’t know Cedric, and she wouldn’t mention his name.

  “He’s a street person. He lives under the Georgia Street Viaduct in a wooden packing crate. I’ve known him for years, and he’s finally got himself straightened out, off booze and drugs. But now he’s developed ALS.” She described the disease, and outlined a little more of Cedric’s circumstances, surprised when Nelson’s face lost color.

  “God, that’s awful. The poor guy. Can I do anything?”

  “I don’t think so, thank you.” Portia was amazed, both by Nelson’s compassion and by his immediate offer of help. It was obvious he was affected by Cedric’s plight, and she felt guilty.

  She shouldn’t mention her patients. Most of her dates in the past months had been with other medical personnel, who tended to view medical matters much more impartially than did civilians like Nelson.

  Smarten up, Bailey. Talk about something else besides medicine, can’t you?

  She swallowed a mouthful of champagne for inspiration, then propped her chin on her hands and leaned toward him. “There’s something very personal I have to ask you, Nelson.” She deliberately pitched her voice low and sultry.

  “What’s that?” She saw a sudden wariness in his eyes, and it intrigued her. So he came across as Mr. Confidence, but he had secrets he was nervous about revealing.

  It was her turn to let him stew. “I can’t for the life of me figure out how you got those suit pants to fit over your casts,” she said at last.

  He tipped his head back and laughed, a deep and hearty guffaw that made her smile in response…but she also sensed his relief.

  Interesting, So what are you hiding, Mr. Gregory?

  “It wasn’t easy,” he responded. “See, I planned. My tailor came to the hospital last week. I got him to make me a couple pairs of pants that would fit over my hip brace and match some of my jackets. He put invisible zippers down the seams so I wouldn’t have to wear sweatpants to take you out to dinner.”

  Portia let her jaw drop in amazement. “I don’t believe it. Show me.”

  “Sure, watch.” He bent over, took hold of a hidden zipper tab and unfastened the bottom of the pants a short distance. “Ta-da!” He gave her a seductive look. “Want me to go higher?”

  “Tempting…but no thanks.” Portia shook her head. “That’s quite far enough to make my heart go pitty-pat. That zipper’s brilliant. I’ll bet you cou
ld make a fortune from that invention.”

  “I’ll tell Bernardo you said so. It was his idea, not mine.”

  “Here’s to brilliant Bernardo.” She lifted her glass in a toast and drained what was left of her wine. Then she giggled. She hadn’t eaten for hours and the wine was going to her head. “You know, you’re the only guy I’ve met who actually has his own tailor. Well, no, I take that back. My mother’s third husband had his own tailor, and a butler, as well.” She frowned. “Or was that her fourth?”

  He raised an eyebrow and refilled Portia’s glass. “We’re even, then, my dear. You’re the only lady I’ve taken to dinner whose mother apparently married four separate times.”

  “Five. She did it again last February.”

  He gave a long, low whistle and shook his head. “She’s either very brave or very unlucky.”

  “Foolhardy, I’d call it.”

  The waiter arrived to take their order, a complex procedure that required numerous decisions about sauces and wines. When he was gone, Nelson said, “How about you, Portia? You ever been married?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Once. In my early twenties. She was my high school sweetheart, a really good person.”

  “So what happened?”

  He shrugged and swirled his wine, not meeting Portia’s eyes. “Elaine wanted a family. I wasn’t ready to be a father. She remarried after our divorce—a widower with two kids—and since then they’ve had three of their own. She lives in Pennsylvania. Her husband teaches school there. I talk to her occasionally. She’s happy and contented.”

  “And you? Are you happy and contented, Nelson?” It was an intimate question, too intimate for the little time they’d known each other. But Portia’s curiosity had overcome politeness. The champagne had lowered her defenses, and she couldn’t resist looking at his aura. Something in the colors surrounding him troubled her. It obviously troubled him, too, and she wondered if he’d tell her what it was.

  His slight hesitation was almost imperceptible. “I have the kind of life I want,” he finally said. “I’ve been extremely lucky at business. I now have the money and the time to pursue whatever hobbies attract me.”