Terminally Ill

by Melissa Yi

  He pronounced my name pretty well, with the “ts” sound. So I mentally awarded Peter the preacher some extra bonus points, but I shook my head, too. “Duty calls. But thanks for the invite.”

  “Maybe next weekend. I’m here every Sunday at 3 p.m. and Tuesday at 2 p.m.

  Even if you only come for a minute, we’d welcome your presence!”

  I smiled instead of refusing outright. Next weekend, I’d be in Ottawa.

  “À bientôt!” Peter waved and bore down on a woman in a wheelchair. “Mildred! You look especially ravishing today.”

  The wheelchair woman, Mildred, continued to look straight ahead, blankly, but he took her hand and spoke softly to her anyway before greeting her daughter, a tiny woman who stood extra-tall while speaking to Peter the preacher.

  I glanced around the nursing station and realized that the entire collective mood had lifted, just because one man smiled, sprinkled compliments liberally, and marked the place with roses.

  No one had told me what religion he belonged to. Probably some sort of Christian denomination, since St. Joe’s was a Catholic hospital. It didn’t matter to me, but it would to Ryan, so I asked Sandra, who was now charting the vital signs in her patient’s chart, “Is he Christian?”

  “He’s Anglican, but his services are non-denominational,” she said, looking up from the binder. “Are you thinking of going?”

  “Ah, no.” It wouldn’t make my top 10,000 list of things to do.

  “I sometimes pop in, if I’m on my break. Peter doesn’t mind. In fact, he encourages us. He usually has cookies at his service.”

  I laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind if I’m starving. I’ve got to have lunch first.” Amazing how much free food matters when you’re on call.

  I bolted down to the residents’ room. While I scarfed down my cold fried rice, I remembered visiting a depressing old folks home in London, Ontario. and I realized something. If I were stuck in a hospital or other institution, I’d rather go to a church service than rot in my room all day. I’d like people shaking my hand and looking at me like I mattered, even if their hands shook and they bumped into the walls with their walkers. I’d like to sing. I’d definitely choose Peter the preacher, with his smiles and his roses, over staring out the window and smelling my neighbour’s stool (although you’re supposed to lose your sense of smell as you get older, which might be adaptive if you’re stuck in an institution like this).

  Stan punched the door code and burst into the residents’ lounge with a cafeteria tray, instantly making the small room smell like fish and boiled rice. I held my breath while he settled down in front of the TV and turned to ask me, “You met that guy who’s making it rain in the ER?”

  “It’s not funny,” I said. “He probably will get better service for his mom. That’s not fair to all the people who don’t have cash to hand out to the rest of us.”

  “I say he’s just being honest.” Stan put his hands behind his head and stretched his elbows out before propping his feet on the coffee table. “All of us want good service for our moms. He’s just making sure of it.”

  “I didn’t take his money.”

  “Yeah, but some people did. And even if you didn’t take it, did you look at her chart?”

  “A little,” I admitted.

  “You wanted to make sure everything was being done for her, right? Well, so did I. And I found that she didn’t have a physio or occupational health consult. So I put that in.”

  “Did you take the money?” I had to ask.

  He pretended to zip his lips.

  “Stan!” I was shocked.

  “Hey, I’m not saying either way. A gentleman never kisses and tells, or takes money and blabs about it. That way, everyone’s happy.”

  I cut right to the chase. “I think it’s against our license.”

  “Really? You think the Collège has a policy on that? Let’s see.” He pulled out his iPad and clicked on a few buttons. “Hmm, I’m not seeing it. Home free.” He proceeded to laugh at my face. “No, I didn’t take it. But lots of people did.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, the cleaning staff.”

  “Cleaning staff!”

  “Sure. They’re important. You want to make sure that your mother’s the one who gets a pillow and clean sheets? You know how to make it happen. Um, who else. One or two of the nurses. The X-ray tech, I’m pretty sure, because we were up to a three hour wait, but his mother zipped in and out.”

  “But what’s the point if she gets her X-rays faster if she just ends up sitting in emerg for a few days?”

  “Not much,” Stan admitted. “That’s why she needs a bed. In the meantime, she could use a private nurse. That’s what I told him. Someone to make sure she can get up in the middle of the night without falling, can help her to the bathroom…”

  “Is he hiring her one?”

  “He’s looking into it. The hospital doesn’t look kindly on hiring outside nurses, but if he wants to hire a sitter and it just happens to be a fully qualified nurse, that’s his business.”

  I pressed my hand into my mouth. I don’t know why I was taken aback by Stan counselling a patient how to build his own, personal two-tier health care system in the middle of the St. Joe’s emergency department, but I was.

  Stan snorted. “If that was your mom, Hope, you’d do everything you could for her, right? Bring her meals from home, her own blanket and pillow…”

  “Sure.” People did that all the time. Sometimes, they even brought pictures to decorate the stretchers, because they were stuck in emerg for so long.

  “This is just the next step up.”

  “Bribing your way to a bed upstairs?”

  “Hey, don’t knock it until you’re the one trying to get your loved one admitted.” Stan stuck a great big wad of fish in his mouth and chewed. At least he kept his mouth closed while he was chewing, although he managed to grin at my expression while he was doing it.

  I knew what he was saying. And now that he’d opened my eyes to the possibility, if I had to pull strings, pay money, whatever it took, wouldn’t I make goddamn fucking sure everything got done for my mother, my father, or most of all, my little brother, Kevin?

  You bet I would.

  So where did that leave me? Or any of the other patients?

  Nowhere, really. Or, stuck in the emergency room at 245 percent capacity.

  I shook my head. I didn’t know what to do, so I quickly checked my e-mail. Ryan had sent a picture of his grandmother sleeping in her hospital room, although they’d had to settle for a semi-private instead of a private. I sent a quick message of sympathy. After a pause, I e-mailed Tucker to tell him I had a date with Elvis. Then I waved at Stan and headed back to the emerg for more consults and my remaining 17 hours of call.

  Chapter 10

  Monday afternoon, dazed and headache-y after sleeping post-call, I woke up in my bedroom to another barrage of text messages from Tucker.

  I ignored them and called Ryan. He was at work, but he’d left a message saying that his grandmother would have hip surgery around this time, so I wanted to wish her well. No way I could drive down to hold her hand, or Ryan’s—I’d be a hazard on the highway post-call, and I had to round at 8:00 a.m. the next morning. But I could offer my words, however inadequate.

  I just hoped Ryan didn’t get stuck on the irony of a doctor who couldn’t come see his sick grandmother. It was something I didn’t have to explain to Tucker.

  Only Tucker was more annoying than toddler twins on a sugar high, even just through texting.

  I’m coming with you!

  Are you up yet?

  Don’t you dare leave for Elvis without me.

  I deleted them all without replying. He’d be stuck in his family medicine clinic until about 5:00 p.m. I could head out to the University College without him.

  My home phone rang. I picked it up, assuming it was Ryan. Instead, Tucker’s voice poured out the receiver. “You are not going alone.”

  “
I think I’m pretty safe in the middle of one of Montreal’s main hospitals.”

  “Yeah, but you’d be even safer with backup. Plus, Elvis is my hero!”

  I paused. “You know, I bet so many people have said that over the past sixty years, but you’re one of the minority talking about the escape artist instead of Elvis Presley.”

  He ignored me. “I’m finishing up my clinic right now. I’ll bike to your place.”

  I checked my watch: 4:23 p.m. Time flies when you’re sleeping. “I don’t want to be mean, but Archer didn’t invite you, and I don’t want to call and ask permission. I’m just planning to go, say, ‘Sorry, can’t help you. Best of luck, Mr. Elvis’ and go home.”

  “Right. Because you’re retired.”

  “Right.” I yawned. If only I could retire from everything on the cusp of 27 years old, life would be pretty sweet.

  “Have you ever been to the University College?”

  “Well, no.”

  “I can help direct you. I could just wait outside the room. I have a great sense of direction. I’ll be your Scooby. Okay, Buffy?”

  Needless to say, he liked Buffy the Vampire Slayer and other obsolete TV shows. I yawned again. “I could just leave before you get here.”

  “But you won’t. See you in fifteen.”

  I pulled on a pair of brown corduroys and a teal turtleneck, figuring I wanted to look reasonably put-together, but not like I thought it was a job interview. I inserted contact lenses onto my tired eyes, slammed down a piece of toast with peanut butter and a glass of water, and brushed my teeth before the buzzer sounded and Tucker bounded up the hall, looking ridiculously fresh.

  He regarded me with sympathy. “Tough night on call?”

  I felt like hitting him. Instead, I locked my apartment door and sailed past him, toward the elevator. I tossed over my shoulder, “If you don’t behave, I’m leaving you and your bike behind.”

  “You’d better not, because I’m going to take you to the hospital by bike. Is yours in storage downstairs?”

  That stopped me in the middle of jamming my finger on the elevator button. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. It’s downhill most of the way there. You can even ride the métro back, if you want, but not during rush hour.”

  I stared at him. “You’re serious.”

  “I sure am. Is your bike stored in your apartment, or do you have a locker in the basement?”

  “In my apartment.” Originally, I was stoked to have storage in the basement, something I never got at the hovel known as my former apartment, but I don’t have time to navigate sideways in a concrete bunker during my morning rush in order to grab my two-wheeler. “What if I insisted on driving, or taking the métro without you?”

  He grinned. “You’d be at least $5.50 poorer, and so would I. It costs a ton to park around the hospitals. So what’s it gonna be?”

  “You’re a pushy guy.” He shrugged, which made me up the ante. “You’re annoying. No, you’re, like, the Annoying Orange of residents.”

  “That just means that millions of YouTubers love me.” He paused. “Hang on, if I’m an orange, that’s a citrus fruit, not a tuber. I’d have to be the Annoying Potato for real YouTubers…”

  By the time he’d finished yammering on (uh oh, now he’d gotten me punning), I’d fetched my bike and gloves, donned my helmet, and started wheeling my transpo down to the elevators. We rode down in silence until the ground floor light binged and the door opened. I wheeled my bike out and said, “You really thought you’d be going with me today to see Elvis?”

  “Baby, I wouldn’t let you go without me.” He exited the elevator and posed, swiveling his hips like Elvis had, and I belatedly realized that he was wearing tight-fitting black slacks not unlike Elvis’s black jeans, as well as a plain black jean jacket. At least he’d done his usual hair-spiking instead of trying out a pompadour.

  I groaned. “Please tell me you’re not wearing the Elvis Lives T-shirt under that. Or the ‘Jailhouse Rocks’ striped shirt. You don’t want to be a total fanboy and creep him out.”

  Tucker snorted and clicked his bike helmet strap under his chin. “Are you trying to give me fashion tips? Because it’s not working.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Like a fox.” He whistled a tune I didn’t recognize, and he said, “You never heard of that show?”

  I left him to his pop culture obsession. He might beat me at Trivial Pursuit and drinking games, but he obviously hadn’t figured out that tight-fitting pants aren’t the best choice to bike in. Sure, the hems are less likely to get caught in the chain, but the pants seam can dig uncomfortably into delicate anatomy, especially on Montreal’s bumpy roads.

  Tucker unlocked his bike and said, “Present for you.” He handed me a black lump. On closer inspection, it was a small bike light that clamped on to the handlebar. “Actually, it’s more like a loan. It’s from my sister’s bike, but she asked me to fix it, and I thought you might need one tonight.”

  “Thanks.” Someone stole my last bike light after, silly me, I bolted it on to the handle and assumed it would be safe in the basement of Mimosa Manor. The loaner light shone dimly, but I figured it was more to alert cars than illuminate the way. The sun goes down before 6 p.m. in this part of the world as fall bleeds into winter. And once Daylight Savings Time ends this weekend, sun will set before 5 p.m.

  I followed Tucker on to Côte-des-Neiges. The wind whipped into my face, we had to stop at multiple stop lights, and the bumpy road jarred my hands and my bum, but once we got coasting down the mountain, I felt myself grinning. No more métro, boulot, dodo. Just bicyclette et l’air frais.

  All too soon, Tucker signaled that we’d be turning. The University College Hospital was built into the side of Mount Royal. The hospital appeared as row upon row of red brick and windows, not unlike St. Joe’s, except the UCH seemed about 20 times bigger and 400 times busier. I guess it had to be, since it was the one major anglophone trauma hospital, and St. Joe’s was…not. We locked up our bikes, and I was just as glad that Tucker could navigate me through the corridors to the correct wing and room, number 9020.

  Just before we reached Elvis’s open doorway, I took a deep breath and raised my hand to stop Tucker from entering with me.

  “Sure you don’t want backup inside?” Tucker asked softly.

  I shook my head. “I’ll ask them if they want to see you first.” Then I knocked lightly on the door frame and poked my head into the room.

  Elvis was sitting on the side of the bed, eating beef and potatoes off a white ceramic plate on a beige dinner tray. He held his knife and fork in his hands like he was comfortable with them, so he hadn’t lost fine motor control or his recognition of familiar objects. Or his ability to swallow.

  As soon as I stepped into the room, his green pop eyes shot toward me. He tried to stand up, bumping his knees into the adjustable table he’d been using to rest his dinner tray on. His coffee spilled on to the tray.

  Archer grabbed his wrist, steadying him, and sopped up the coffee with a paper napkin. He managed to sound casual as he said, “Glad you made it, Dr. Sze.”

  I felt weird just standing in the doorway, so I advanced slowly into the room. I kind of wished I was wearing my lab coat and stethoscope. Or maybe I should have brought flowers or a card, like a normal person. “Hi. Um, thanks for inviting me. You look good,” I told Elvis.

  He shook off Archer’s hand and shoved the wheeled side table away toward the wall. Then he sprang to his feet and walked toward me with silent, nimble steps.

  I stood my ground, forcing myself not to look back at Tucker.

  Elvis inspected my face closely, from my forehead and eyes to my chin, before dipping down to check out the rest of my body—not in a gross way, but in a quick and necessary survey before returning to my face.

  His hair was still black and very glossy, but instead of making it into a pompadour, they’d combed it back. His black eyebrows matched his hair, which meant that ei
ther the colour was natural or they took the time to colour both. He was standing close enough for me to view the pores in his shaven cheeks and smell the hospital soap on his skin.

  Elvis still hadn’t said a word.

  I felt the hairs rising on my forearms. I licked my lips.

  Could Elvis even talk? I belatedly realized that even at his show, he’d never spoken. Archer and the music had filled in the gaps. “Hi,” I said, trying not to squeak.

  Elvis nodded and said, “Huh,” and shot me a significant look before his head dipped in a firm, approving nod.

  Still not exactly words. I glanced at Archer, who strolled toward us with his hand outstretched. I shook his hand, giving it a light squeeze.

  Archer said, “Thanks for coming. Elvis was looking forward to meeting you, Dr. Sze.”

  “You’re welcome. Please, call me Hope.” My eyes darted left, to watch Elvis, who now stood between Archer and the table he’d pushed against the wall.

  Elvis pointed both his thumbs and index fingers while curling his other towards his palms, like his hands were guns and he was pretending to shoot me. Guys do that to each other, but not usually to me. Then he said, very clearly, “It’s you.”

  I recoiled. I remember my dad reading a book called How to Win Friends and Influence People. Off-stage and post-accident, Elvis was more like, How to Freak People Out and Make Them Run Away.

  “This is the doctor who helped rescue you, Elvis,” said Archer, enunciating each word like Elvis was a little kid. Not a good sign.

  I cleared my throat. “Uh, the other doctor who helped me is in the hallway. His name is John Tucker. Did you want to meet him, too?”

  Elvis studied me carefully for a good ten seconds, long enough for Archer to say heartily, “Of course! He should get the hero’s welcome. John—”

  “Call me Tucker, everyone does,” said Tucker, zipping into the room so fast, he’d obviously been eavesdropping and waiting for the perfect moment. “I’m a resident doctor like Hope, but not half as famous as her—or you,” said Tucker, holding out his hand to his idol.

  Elvis glanced at him and nodded. “Thanks.”