by Patti Berg
Marge chuckled. She took off her coat, and Gloria shrugged into hers. “I’ll never tell. And if the two of you know what’s good for you”—she grinned—“you’ll keep my diet secrets to yourselves. It’s one thing for my neighbors to know; it’s quite another for the nosy doctors, dieticians, and nurses in this place hounding me to change my eating habits.”
“Not to worry. Your secret’s safe with me—as long as you keep us supplied with chocolate.” Gloria picked up her cocoa, ready to dash out of the hospital. “I’ve already filled in Elena on our patients, so I’m heading home. See you tomorrow.”
It wasn’t more than a few minutes later before Elena and Marge were in Mrs. Bryce’s room, reviewing her chart, checking her vitals, monitors, and IV tubes, and then giving her a quick sponge bath, before moving down to Mr. Lawrence’s now-empty room.
They stripped the bed, wiped it and the equipment down with disinfectant, and then started to make up the bed.
“How are you feeling today?” Marge asked softly, looking across the bed at Elena. “I couldn’t help but notice last Friday that you were moving slower than normal and your face was a little pale. I thought at first you might have pulled a muscle or something while doing CPR. But I ran into Candace at the store yesterday, and she asked me if you’d said anything about having the flu or”—Marge shrugged her shoulders—“something. She was afraid you were sick or that something might be bothering you, but she knew you’d say you were fine if she asked.”
Had she really looked that bad last Friday? What about Saturday at the game, when she’d huddled on the bleachers wrapped in her big heavy sweater, even though she was already wearing a sweatshirt? She took a quick peek at herself in the mirror affixed to the wall over the sink. Her dark brown hair was getting too many strands of gray and maybe her cheeks looked a bit hollow since she’d lost six pounds, but she thought she looked pretty good, all things considered. Still, she asked, “Do I look sick?”
“You look fine…now, but I haven’t seen you pop any Hershey’s Kisses; and—pardon me for saying this—you’ve been running to the bathroom a lot lately.”
“Oh, goodness, Marge, there’s absolutely nothing for anyone to worry about. I might have pulled a muscle or two while giving Mr. Lawrence CPR, and, well”—Elena rolled her eyes—“haven’t you ever experienced a touch of overactive bladder syndrome?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I’m fine, Marge.” Elena stuffed a pillow into one of the crisply pressed white pillowcases. “By the way, I know you couldn’t make it to the Cops and Docs game on Saturday, but the brownies you made were a big hit.”
Marge frowned, clearly knowing full well that Elena was trying to change the subject. She finally smiled. If anything made Marge happy, it was the discussion of food. “I added extra semisweet chocolate chips to some and mint chips to others.”
Marge waxed poetic about her brownies and a few other recipes she’d been testing, trying to find just the right new desserts to treat her family and friends with during the holidays, and then looked concerned when Elena had to make a mad dash to the restroom, before they went back to Mrs. Bryce’s room to check her lungs.
The rest of the morning went by quickly. Elena admitted a stroke patient. When Mr. Lawrence was brought back to his room after spending three hours in surgery and an hour in recovery, he became her one and only patient. She didn’t leave him alone for a moment; and if she had to step out, Marge came in to relieve her. Mr. Lawrence’s health was far too fragile, as they’d already found out.
“Would you like something to drink, Mrs. Lawrence?” Elena asked the woman sitting with her back against the wall, her worried gaze never once leaving her husband. “We could bring you some coffee or a soda, even a milk shake if you’d like.”
“No, no, that’s fine. I drank two bottles of pop while Eugene was in surgery.”
That might be part of the reason the fortysomething woman looked so jittery. “You have eaten today, haven’t you?”
“Oh yes. When we learned that Eugene was diabetic, I took special care to change what we ate. For the most part, I’ve been good about it. I even carry protein snacks with me in case I have to miss a meal. Eugene, though”—she shook her head—“he found the diet too restrictive, and I’m afraid he’s made a habit of cheating when he’s at work, not to mention indulging too much each evening.” She chuckled slightly. “He usually stays up long after I’ve gone to bed, and I know he keeps stashes of candy and other things around the house to eat when I’m asleep. He thinks I don’t know, but I do.”
Mrs. Lawrence crossed the room and held her husband’s hand. “If only he’d let me call the doctor when his big toe started hurting, we might not be here now.” She sighed. “He’s just so stubborn. He was sure it was nothing, but I should have insisted.”
“He’s not the first person to refuse to see the doctor, and he’s definitely not the first diabetic to mess up on the diet.” Elena replaced a bag of insulin. “When he’s ready to go home, we’ll have a dietician come in and talk to both of you. Who knows, you might be able to create a diet that’s a little easier for him to follow.”
“Our daughter Millie is on her way here from Orlando, and she tells me she’s bringing a couple of diabetic cookbooks that some of her friends told her about.” She smiled proudly. “She’s a glassblower and works in one of the shops at Walt Disney World. Our son Pete is coming too.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a college football scout. He lives in Houston, but he’s always on the go, checking out high school players all around the country.”
“Have they seen their dad recently?”
“On his birthday a month ago.” Mrs. Lawrence bit her lip. “Eugene played football in college and…and he’s always been active. Seeing him like this, without a leg and so much thinner than he was last month, is going to be hard on them.”
Elena put a hand on Mrs. Lawrence’s shoulder. “You know, we have some wonderful social workers here at Hope Haven, not to mention our chaplain. Why don’t I have someone come up and talk to you? They can also set up a time to visit with you along with your son and daughter.”
“I don’t think we’ll need that.”
“I know how easy it is to think you can handle everything on your own, to not ask for help. But a health crisis is different from anything else. There are so many issues to deal with when a loved one is sick. Taking care of things at home, managing finances, insurance. Even sitting next to a hospital bed for long hours, day after day, can be tough. Our counselors and chaplain won’t do anything more than you ask of them, but they’re here for you. They can explain things that you might not have understood when the doctor—or even nurses like me—tell you what’s going on. And sometimes it’s nice just to have someone close by to hold your hand.”
“Well,” she said, hesitating a moment as she looked at her husband. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone when Millie and Pete get here.”
“Pastor Tom should be around in a little while. I’ll make sure the two of you have a chance to chat.”
“Thank you.”
Elena squeezed Mrs. Lawrence’s shoulder before working her way around Mr. Lawrence’s bed, checking the surgical dressing on his leg, listening to his heart and lungs. Mrs. Lawrence sat back down and was quiet for quite a long time, before she leaned her head back against the wall, closed her eyes, and began to breathe heavily. Exhaustion had finally caught up with her, and Elena worked as quietly as possible so the woman’s sleep wasn’t interrupted.
Across town, the bells at Holy Trinity struck the hour. Elena looked at her watch. It was 2:00 pm already. James and Fern were probably sitting in Dr. Chopra’s office, waiting to hear the results of Fern’s tests. Elena thought once again how great Fern had looked on Saturday. How she’d talked about their sons and how she hoped that someday she could play basketball with them on the court in their backyard.
Elena wanted the same thing for her friend.
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And she too wanted a long and happy life, with loved ones gathered around her.
Mrs. Lawrence’s words came back to her. “If only he’d let me call the doctor…we might not be here now. He’s just so stubborn. He was sure it was nothing…”
Elena had been thinking the same thing for days now. But what if…
Taking a moment to catch a breath, Elena stood at the window and looked out over Hope Haven’s parklike grounds, at the wind whisking dark pink and scarlet rose petals through the air, right along with amber leaves. The seasons could change so rapidly; so could lives.
Elena closed her eyes for just a moment and offered up a prayer for Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, for Fern and James…for herself. It was one of St. Augustine’s prayers that she’d long ago memorized and kept tucked in her heart.
Watch, O Lord,
with those who wake,
or watch or weep tonight,
and give Your angels charge
over those who sleep.
Tend Your sick ones,
O Lord Jesus Christ;
rest Your weary ones;
bless Your dying ones;
soothe Your suffering ones;
pity Your afflicted ones;
shield Your joyous ones;
and all for Your love’s sake.
Amen.
When Marge peeked into the room a few minutes later and asked Elena if she needed a break, Elena nodded. But instead of dashing to the restroom, she went to the nurses’ station desk, grabbed her cell phone out of her tote bag, and punched a name that was already programmed in. The phone at the other end rang and rang.
At long last a receptionist answered and then immediately put her on hold.
Elena listened to the recorded music. She drummed her fingers on the desk. Finally she took the small Bible from her tote bag and opened to Psalm 55, one of her favorites: Listen to my prayer, O God, do not ignore my plea; hear me and answer me. My thoughts trouble me and I am distraught—
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. May I help you?” the receptionist asked.
Elena took a deep breath. “Yes. This is Elena Rodriguez. I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Lydell…as soon as possible.”
Chapter Five
JAMES FELT THE APPREHENSION TREMBLING through Fern’s body as they sat in the doctor’s office, her cold hand clasped in his—always—waiting for Dr. Chopra to come into the room. What news did she have? Was it good? Bad?
Please, Lord, I beseech Thee. Let us hear something positive; words to give us hope.
Hours seemed to pass before Dr. Chopra, who’d first diagnosed Fern’s multiple sclerosis and had cared for her ever since, entered her office. James ran into her a lot at the hospital, and they always shared a quick hello. But here in her office, with her black hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail and her luminous brown eyes piercing through both Fern and James, he felt out of his element.
He was no longer the healer.
He had no control here, he was simply a man who was worried about his wife and desperately hoped and prayed to hear comforting words.
Dr. Chopra shook both James’s and Fern’s hands before sitting behind the desk that nearly dwarfed her. “I’m glad you were both able to come in on such short notice.”
“Not a problem,” James uttered, wishing the doctor would get to the point immediately. He’d been in a war and had often known fear, but waiting for her to shuffle through the files on her desk was worse than wondering when the next Scud missile would be launched and if it would be intercepted or hit its target.
At long last, she pulled a thick file from near the bottom of the pile. Fern’s MS treatment had been going on for years now, with a multitude of tests and appointments, all of the documentation from every test and every treatment contained in that massive folder, a file James wished could be closed, sealed, and stamped with red ink across the front: Cured. Of course, he knew that could never happen.
James drew in a deep breath and felt Fern squeeze his fingers. She knew him well, better than anyone on earth, and right now she seemed to know that he needed a shot of courage. He also needed an extra dose of patience, while waiting for Dr. Chopra to scan a few pages at the top of the file. She pinched the bridge of her nose, as if she’d had a grueling day. Or was she merely contemplating the best way to pass on dreadful news?
“Do you have the results of Fern’s last MRI and blood work?” James asked, his composure exhausted. “That is what you want to talk with us about, isn’t it?”
Dr. Chopra nodded. “You both know that there is no cure for MS. We’ve talked about that since Fern was first diagnosed. Although you’ve had a few short periods of remission,” she said, looking directly at Fern, “your relapses have been rough.”
“You’re telling me the remission I’ve been in the last few weeks is about to come to an end, aren’t you?” Fern asked, her fingernails suddenly digging into James’s palm. “I’ve felt so good and had more energy than I’ve had in years. And—I just want it to last.”
Dr. Chopra smiled. That had to be a positive sign.
“Actually…your recent tests are the most positive I’ve ever seen, not only for you, but for any of my MS patients.”
“Really?” Fern asked, and when James turned toward his wife, he could see that tears had instantly sprung up in the corners of her eyes.
“Really.” Dr. Chopra took off her glasses. “I wish I could say that you’re cured, that you’ll never again experience the fatigue, the blurred vision, the tingling, pain, or the numbness that have often hampered your ability to walk, not to mention talk. But cured isn’t a word I can use where MS is concerned. You are in remission, but it could come back. I’m stressing the word could—but that might not happen.”
“How can you know?” Fern asked breathlessly.
“There hasn’t been any further deterioration of the nerve fibers in your central nervous system, and there’s no additional buildup of scar tissue on the myelin sheath—that’s the fatty tissue that surrounds and protects the nerve fibers. It’s the scar tissue and deterioration that have caused your problems.” Dr. Chopra leaned back in her chair. “As I’ve mentioned before, the distortion and/or interruption of your nerve impulses keep them from traveling to and from your brain. It’s basically a short-circuit effect.”
“Does the fact that there isn’t any new deterioration mean the medication I’ve been taking has been successful?” Fern asked.
Dr. Chopra nodded. Her smile deepened. “It appears that way.”
James felt the urge to leap over the doctor’s desk and wrap her in a bear hug, but he let professionalism rein him in.
Fern sat completely still, as if she were trying to take in everything Dr. Chopra had said. She wasn’t one to overreact, yet he could tell she had a million questions to make sure she understood all the doctor was telling her. At last she asked, “Do I have to continue taking the medication?”
“You’ve shown tremendous progress, Fern, and I know you’d love to discontinue the meds and probably the other treatments as well. But let’s not abandon any of your treatments just yet. I’d like you to continue with the same meds at the same dosages for another three months. We’ll do more lab work then and see how things are progressing at that point.”
“Okay,” Fern said. “That’s easy enough.”
“I want you to continue seeing the physical therapist too, or at least continue doing the therapy at home.”
“Can I go back to work?”
“You might want to take it slowly at first.” Dr. Chopra pushed out of her chair and leaned against the corner of her desk, closer to Fern. “The fatigue and debility you’ve suffered have taken a toll on your body—physically and mentally. It would be wise not to overdo anything.”
That might be easy for the doctor to say, but James knew his wife far too well. She hated the crippling effects of the MS. At first she’d fought back; and when that didn’t do any good, she’d cried with anguish when she co
uldn’t move and had to use a walker and then a wheelchair. She’d been athletic once; and she’d longed for—prayed for—a return to the days when she could go outside and play with their boys, or to go for a hike in the woods with James.
Still, her faith had never faltered. Now, God had not only listened to her prayers, but He’d granted her wish. Remission wasn’t exactly the miracle of a cure that they’d hoped for, but James thanked the Lord just the same.
Of course, the doctor could suggest that Fern not overdo anything from now until doomsday, but Fern had a mind of her own. James smiled at his wife, pulling her up and into his arms the moment Dr. Chopra left the room. “Happy?” he asked softly.
“Thrilled.”
Fern’s brown eyes sparkled.
And at that moment James thought, Look out. Fern Bell is about to unleash herself on her home and the town of Deerford, and there might be no stopping her.
“Nelson! Gideon!” James called out to his sons, closing the garage door behind him after he and Fern walked into the house, their hands still locked tightly together. The good news about Fern’s health was like a new beginning for the two of them, not that they wanted to forget the first twenty-two years they’d been married, but during the leisurely lunch they’d shared after the appointment and during the drive home, they’d talked about things they could do as soon as Fern’s strength was fully back.
Weekend trips to Chicago for dinner and a show and a museum or two were high on the list. Maybe a trip to Greece, a place they had both dreamed of visiting long ago. They might be able to do it someday soon, if Fern had the stamina to climb the rugged hills to see the Parthenon and other ruins.
They also had to have the money, of course.
Maybe he was dreaming. They had two sons to put through college first, but he and Fern had pretty much stopped dreaming when they learned she had MS. It wouldn’t hurt to start making wish lists once again.
“Gideon! Nelson!” Fern called to the boys this time, and she and James simply looked at each other and laughed. Gone were the days when their sons would jump hurdles to get close to their folks for a hug or two. They were teenagers now, and they both had minds and lives of their own.