by Alli Curran
“Hey Luciano,” I say after finding him in his office.
At first the man doesn’t answer me. Frenetically digging through drawers like a weasel on steroids, he’s apparently too busy for conversation.
“Lose something?” I ask.
Barely glancing up at me, he says, “Huh? Oh…Emma. Hi. Yeah, I—I seem to have misplaced a phone number.”
Instantly forgetting my presence, Luciano continues searching for his lost number.
“Luciano,” I say in a more demanding tone, “I need to ask you something.”
“Oh. You’re still here. How come?”
“I just said that I need to ask you a question.”
“A question? What is it?” he asks, rapidly throwing pieces of scrap paper into a garbage can.
“Can I come back to the ID lab? Grace is about to start dissecting the mice over in oncology, and I really don’t want to be around for that.”
“I’m sorry. Could you say that again?”
“I’m coming back to the ID lab, okay?”
“You’re coming back. Okay.”
While I’d anticipated a negative reaction from Luciano, or possibly some inappropriate flirtation, this distracted response is confusing. Even more mysteriously, a few minutes after I’ve announced my return, Luciano rushes away from his office without explanation, disappearing for the rest of the day. Nor does he show up the following morning. Since I’ve nothing else to do, Peter and Soelia keep me busy during working hours with some mindless pipetting that even a klutz like me can handle. By the third morning of Luciano’s absence, we all start to get worried, but Peter finally receives an e-mail from him, predicting his imminent return.
That evening Grace and I are hanging out in our living room, munching on abara. Because Paula has also been missing for the last few days, we’re completely out of feijoada.
“Did you find anything new with the mice?” I ask.
“No, and I’d really like to stop looking,” says Grace. “I dissected three more of them today, and they’re all clean.”
I grimace.
“How many more of them does Alvin expect you to kill?”
“All of them.”
“Poor Mini-me,” I say. “You should refuse to continue.”
“Emma, get over yourself,” says Grace. “They’re just mice.”
I purse my lips, but Grace ignores me.
“The only reason I’m tired of looking,” she says, “is that I’m obviously not going to find anything.”
Before I can protest the unjust treatment of laboratory mice, someone knocks on the door.
“Who do you think it is?” I ask.
“Maybe Paula,” says Grace, leaping up from the couch.
Indeed, Paula is at the door, but in a semiconscious state. Her right arm hangs limply over Luciano’s shoulder, and he appears to be supporting all of her weight. Leaning against the door frame, Luciano’s face is flushed and shining with perspiration.
“Help me get her inside,” he grunts.
Grace holds the door ajar while I grab Paula’s left arm. Together, Luciano and I drag Paula’s body across the living room floor, eventually draping her over the couch.
“I couldn’t bring her home,” says Luciano.
Flopping onto the floor, Luciano drops his head into his hands. The back of his neck is dripping with sweat.
For a moment I study Paula, whose cheeks are dangerously pale. As I’m watching, she grimaces, squeezing her eyelids together and grabbing her lower abdomen. When she moans, as though in pain, I can’t help shuddering in response.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” says Luciano.
“Luciano, you can’t just barge in here, under these circumstances, and not tell us what’s wrong,” says Grace.
“That’s right, Grace,” I say. “I completely agree.”
I’m elated that my timid roommate is finally putting her foot down about something.
“How can we help if we don’t know what happened?” she says.
“Paula might not want me to discuss it,” says Luciano.
“Well then, I think we’d better take her to the hospital,” I say. “She doesn’t look too good.”
I start heading toward the phone, wondering whether Brazil has a 911 system.
“No,” shouts Luciano, jumping up.
He rushes ahead of me, slamming his hand over the receiver.
“No hospital.”
“Then you’d better tell us what’s going on, before I call for help,” I say.
With Luciano blocking the phone, I’m not sure that I could call for help, but my threat seems to work anyway.
“Okay, okay,” he says.
Luciano starts pacing back and forth, like an agitated, caged animal.
“During Carnaval, Paula realized her period was late. We did a pregnancy test, and it came back positive.”
Grace nods for him to continue.
“She wanted to get married, but I told her I wasn’t ready. I know she’s not ready, either. We argued about it for a few days. Then I found someone who could end it. At first she didn’t want to do the…procedure, but eventually she agreed to it. I’m sure it was the right thing to do, for both of us.”
Grace gently guides Luciano to a chair in the kitchen. Thank goodness she’s such a nice person. Internally seething, I’m barely able to restrain myself from kicking that idiot where it counts.
“The place was horrible…dirty,” Luciano says. “But since I brought sterilizer from the lab, I knew the instruments were okay. Even though they gave her something for pain, she still screamed the whole time. Whether it hurt, or she was just upset, I’m not sure. When it was over, she kept acting hysterically, so I drove home to get Ativan. My sister keeps some at our house.”
“What about your parents, or Paula’s?” Grace asks. “Why didn’t you ask them for help?”
“We couldn’t do that,” says Luciano, shaking his head. “Our parents are all very conservative, and I don’t think they’d forgive us for this. Hell, her father might even report us.”
“Report you?” I say.
“Yeah. Abortion is illegal in Brazil.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” I say frostily. “So if it’s illegal here, why didn’t you fly her to the States, where they could’ve done it properly?”
“No way,” he says. “That would’ve been much too expensive. Plus there’s the time factor. We needed to end it, as quickly as possible.”
“Now that you’ve ended it, what are you doing here?” asks Grace.
“That’s an excellent question, Grace,” I say
I plant myself squarely in front Luciano. For several seconds I tap my foot, waiting for his reply.
“I need you two to keep an eye on Paula,” says Luciano.
“What?” I say.
“She can’t go home, and I can’t stay here,” says Luciano. “I have to get out, to clear my head, before I go crazy.”
“You’re leaving her…here?” I shout at him, my voice rising with every word. “You’re dropping her, because you need to clear your head?”
“You two are nearly done with medical school. You can handle it,” he says.
“But we’ve barely had any clinical training yet,” says Grace.
“Look, Paula’s completely fine,” says Luciano. “She just needs someone to watch her for a little while. Emma, you can stay home from the lab tomorrow. And Grace, I’ll tell Alvin that you’re sick and need a day off. I know it seems like I’m asking a lot, but I absolutely need to get back to work tomorrow, or I could lose my job. If you run into trouble, just walk over to the lab and find me.”
Suddenly my mind flashes to that night in the hospital when I nearly died from the flu and hyponatremia. Specifically, I recall the moment when I woke up in the hospital, weak, afraid, and completely alone.
“Okay,” I say warily. “We’ll do it.”
“Good,” says Luciano. On his w
ay out the door, he adds, “Please keep this quiet, for Paula’s sake.”
“We will,” says my roommate.
Grace and I have no intention of getting Paula into any trouble, but Luciano is a different story. I’d love to start by wringing his neck, followed by implementing some slow, excruciating method of torture on a number of body parts that are unique to individuals with the Y chromosome. As it turns out, I’ve no time to stew in angry indignation. About 10 minutes after Luciano’s departure, Paula leans over and vomits across the tiles in our living room.
“Good thing we don’t have a carpet,” I say.
Grace nods in solemn agreement.
“Maybe someone planned it that way,” she says.
“Smart someone.”
I’m rapidly developing a whole new level of respect for the apartment’s interior designer.
We then take turns holding Paula’s hair out of the way while she progressively empties her stomach. After the fifth episode of vomiting, which is looking ominously green, I worry that she might not stop. Feeling a bit lightheaded and queasy myself, I lower myself down onto the floor tiles next to the couch, trying to avoid any wet spots.
“Are you okay?” asks Grace. “You look almost as pale as Paula.”
“I’ll be alright…I think.”
On the edge of a full-blown panic attack, I take a deep breath, trying to figure out what to do next.
“I wish there was something we could give Paula, to help stop the vomiting,” says Grace.
“Grace, that’s it!” I say. “Thank goodness you reminded me!”
“Reminded you of what?”
Without answering, I push myself off the floor, lunge into the bedroom and start rifling through the various bottles and foil-wrapped pill packets stored inside the cardboard box in my suitcase. Anything that doesn’t look useful—essentially everything thus far—gets thrown onto the bedroom floor. At the very bottom of the box, I find what I’m looking for.
“I’ve got it! Grace….”
“What is it?” she asks, running into the bedroom.
“Compazine.”
“Let me see,” she says.
Grace grabs the foil package from my hand.
“Uh, oh,” she says.
“What’s wrong?”
“You have to administer this stuff rectally,” she says.
“Oh. But maybe that’s a good thing. I mean, Paula probably wouldn’t hold it down orally.”
“Okay,” Grace says bravely. “I’ll do it.”
After finding some gloves, we pull off Paula’s sweat pants.
“Oh, shit,” says Grace. “She’s bleeding.”
“Wow. That’s a first,” I say.
“What is?”
“I’ve never heard you swear before.”
“I only start cursing when I’m really upset. And right now, I’m not a happy camper.”
“Oh, come on, Grace,” I say. “It could be worse.”
“How could this situation be any worse? Our closest friend in Brazil just had an illegal abortion, and now she’s sick and bleeding all over our couch.”
“Let’s not forget about the rectal Compazine.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” says Grace.
“At least the couch is black,” I say.
“What?”
“Can you imagine how bad this situation would be if we had a white couch?”
“Very funny, Emma.”
“I’m trying to think positively. Do we have any dark-colored towels?”
“Actually, we do,” says Grace, running off toward the bathroom.
After covering the pool of blood under Paula’s backside with a black towel, Grace inserts the medicine, hopefully into the correct orifice.
“Is there anything in your box that can slow down the bleeding?” she asks.
“Unfortunately not. I’m guessing that’ll stop by itself.”
About 20 minutes later the vomiting ceases, and I’m able to start spooning Rehydralyte into Paula’s mouth. When she begins moaning and clutching her pelvis, I’m afraid to give her ibuprofen, since I’ve learned about its blood-thinning properties. Because I haven’t brought any narcotics, our only other choice for pain control is acetaminophen, which she fortunately holds down. Soon after taking the medicine, Paula relaxes enough to fall sleep, and Grace covers her with a clean bed sheet. Then the two of us pass out in the bedroom, completely spent.
Next thing I know, midmorning sunlight is pouring in through the window, and Grace is yelling at the top of her lungs.
“Emma! Hey, Emma, get in here. There’s something wrong with Paula.”
I jump out of bed and race into the living room, where Paula still lies on the couch. Now wide awake, the woman is covered in sweat, shaking from head to toe with violent rigors. Although her fingertips are bluish in color, I realize she’s burning up with fever when I lay the back of my hand against her forehead.
“What should we do?” Grace asks. “Should we call an ambulance?”
“Do they even have ambulances here?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” says Grace. “Do you think we should run to the lab and get Luciano?”
“No way. I don’t trust him, and I don’t want him anywhere near Paula. Luciano is definitely plan B. Let’s try plan A first.”
“Plan A had better be good,” she says. “What’s plan A?”
“Plan A is…well…just trust me.”
But there’s no reason she should. This is the first time I’ve treated a septic patient by myself. Sepsis. Hmm. At least I think that’s what the problem is.
At my direction, we give Paula another big dose of acetaminophen to bring down the fever. Then we sort through the antibiotics in my drug box, dividing them into two groups, based on whether they’re primarily used to treat “gram negative” or “gram positive” bacterial infections.
“Okay. Bactrim is definitely gram negative,” I say.
“What about the Cipro?” Grace asks.
“I’m not sure, but I took it for my last urinary tract infection.”
“Gram negative in practice, then,” says Grace.
“Sounds good,” I say.
“Penicillin and clindamycin are both gram positive.”
“And the Z-pack?” I ask.
“Gram positive also,” says Grace. “How about the Augmentin?”
“I think it treats both. Will you look it up in your Sanford Guide?”
“Okay.”
Consulting her pocket-sized Sanford Guide, Grace confirms that all our categories are correct, more or less.
“Which type of infection do you think Paula has?” Grace asks.
“I’ve got absolutely no idea.”
Grace raises her eyebrows.
“Really, Emma, no idea? You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. I’m not kidding.”
“So which antibiotic were you planning on giving her?”
“I figured we’d use one from each category—one gram positive, and one gram negative. That way we’ll cover both possibilities.”
“Okay, I guess,” says Grace, sounding extremely doubtful.
After treating Paula with penicillin and Bactrim, we wait.
One hour goes by. Then two. Grace and I sit on the floor in the living room, watching Paula, intermittently spooning Rehydralyte into her mouth. Now and then I toss a roach into a Tupperware just for fun, and Grace doesn’t even react. Eventually Paula’s fever and rigors start to subside. The midday sun rises higher in the sky. Ever so slowly, color begins returning to Paula’s cheeks. Another dose of penicillin. By late afternoon Paula is sitting up on the couch, drinking Rehydralyte directly from the bottle. When she gives me a weak smile, I nearly collapse with relief.
“Obrigada,” says Paula.
“De nada,” Grace and I shout together.
The two of us hug one another, and I start crying.
Soon I pull myself together, and Paula launches into the tale of her recent experiences. W
ith Grace translating, Paula explains that she was indeed pregnant. Although she would’ve been happy to keep the baby and marry Luciano, he rejected that idea.
Paula clutches her chest, saying something angrily, as tears begin flowing down her cheeks.
“What did she say?” I ask.
“I’m not totally sure,” says Grace, “but it sounded like, ‘Luciano turned my heart to ice, and then he shattered it with a sledge hammer.’”
"Can you say something to calm her down?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“Anything you can think of that’s soothing.”
I hand Paula a tissue, which she uses to dab her eyes.
“I just want her to stop crying,” I say. “At this point, it’s probably not a good idea for her to lose more fluid.”
Fortunately the tears quickly subside, and Paula continues her story. Apparently Luciano brought her to a back-alley abortion clinic, which turned out to be an awful place. Some of the girls in the waiting room looked young enough to be children. Periodically, she heard them screaming in the procedure room. When it was her turn, Paula almost backed out, but Luciano urged her to continue. Since the doctor’s instruments had just been used on the previous patient, Paula was relieved that Luciano had brought the sterilizing solution. After she laid down on the table, the doctor injected a pain killer into her cervix, but the anesthesia wasn’t enough to fully deaden the pain. When Paula saw her own blood on the instruments, her anxiety escalated, and she started to panic. Eventually Luciano gave her some medicine to calm her down. Next thing she knew, she was throwing up in our apartment.
“How are you feeling now?” I ask, and Grace translates.
Paula says something softly.
“She says she feels tired, but much better. She wants to know if she can stay the night,” says Grace.
“Of course,” I reply. “She can stay as long as she wants to, right?”
“Right,” says Grace.
Almost immediately, Paula falls asleep again on the couch, and Grace and I continue talking quietly in the kitchen.
“Thank God she’s okay,” says Grace.
“I know. Can you imagine what might’ve happened to her? Luciano put us in a really bad position….This is all so surreal.”