“Come on Roof, you’ll be late and up on charges at this rate,” shouted William (Ding) Bell III from the open doorway. Ding was Roof’s best buddy; they had been mates since elementary school.
“Yeah, I know. Carry on without me, I won’t be a minute.”
“You haven’t got a minute mate.” He sniffed. “Gosh it stinks in here; I thought you were cleaning this place”
“What do you think I have been doing for the past hour? That smell was left by none other than Paul Miller, the one that claims his shit don’t stink. Well brother, the evidence proves him wrong.”
Paul Miller was the quarterback for the Ripon College Red Hawks, a “jock” who thought he was God’s gift. Granted, he was a good quarterback, and you could say he was good-looking, tall and blonde, but he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer and more importantly he was a prize asshole.
“He came out of that cubicle and told me to “eat that shit Roofy.” I’ve been eating it ever since he left. He left me a messy toilet too, the bastard.”
“Well spray the smell away, brother. Here use this.” Ding picked up the air freshener and threw it to his buddy, who had to drop the mop in order to catch it. “Meadowsweet Lavender ought to sort it.”
“I’ll spray and you get rid of the mop and bucket,” ordered Rufus. “God, I hate the smell of shit being masked by some other cheap shit. Yuk! It smells just the same as that stuff they spray in the dining hall to get rid of the stink of boiled cabbage.”
***
Angela Levenson had been a nurse for just three weeks, having just graduated as a Bachelor of Nursing from the Blessing Rieman College of Nursing in Quincy, Illinois. During her fourth year of the course, she had specialised in Paediatric Nursing and having graduated top of her class, she had first choice of the children’s hospitals in Illinois. Now at the La Rabida Children's Hospital, which is on the shores of Lake Michigan, Angela was preparing for their annual Halloween event. This year it was to be the Frankenstein's Festival of Fright, when the children had a fun filled afternoon with mask making, pumpkin painting, and many more Halloween activities. But the best part would be at the end of the festivities, the spooky fashion show when the children would dress in their scariest costumes. As Angela put out the plain plastic masks, together with the paint and brushes, she began to get as excited about the event as her three child helpers were. On another table Staff Nurse Hilda Burchard was setting out the spooky food and drinks. There was green slimy jelly, blood-coloured raspberry soda and biscuits cut in the shape of bats, spiders and scary masks, just to name a few of the things.
Angela had wanted to become a nurse from the age of five. She had played doctors and nurses with her brother until the age of 10 when he flatly refused to play anymore. Now, at the age of 24 Angela was a graduate nurse in one of the most prestigious hospitals in Illinois, and she loved every minute of it. With the spirit of youth, no job was too difficult and no job was too nasty either. Her mother had been a paediatric staff nurse at the Children’s Memorial Hospital in Chicago and her grandmother became a matron at the University of Chicago Hospital, so it could be said that nursing was in her blood.
At that moment, Thomas McCauley, Angela’s little ten-year-old helper, vomited up his lunch behind the food table. The tell-tale chocolate staining around his mouth showed why. Thomas, who had a brain tumour, had just finished his second treatment of radiotherapy and had been fed through a naso-gastric tube for the last month. But the temptation of real food had been too much.
“I’m sorry Angela, I didn’t mean to puke,” Tommy cried.
“It’s OK Tommy, I’ll clean it up.
As Hilda led Tommy to the water fountain Angela got to work on cleaning the floor. When she had finished, the hall smelled of disinfectant, which wouldn’t be very appetising. As she put the cleaning materials away, she found a can of lavender air freshener. Brilliant, she thought, that would mask any residual odour from the vomit and the disinfectant. Though she personally didn’t like the smell of lavender, this was an emergency as the children would be here at any moment. Despite her personal preference she sprayed the room liberally.
22. The Start of Things to Come
Thomas McCauley lay motionless in his hospital bed, feeling worse than he had ever felt in his life. With his immune system compromised by the radiotherapy he had been receiving for a brain tumour, Thomas had little defence against the virus that was multiplying rapidly within his frail body. His mother, Jean McCauley, had been told three days ago that he was suffering from a bad cold. However, she knew it was more serious than that. Jean had three other children and had an instinct for knowing the difference between a cold and the flu. Thomas had had a severe fever, a temperature of 39oC, chills and a cough on top of that. Although the symptoms had lasted for just 48 hours, he had been given Amantadine in case it had been influenza. Thomas had appeared to be getting better, but now he was looking decidedly poorly. His doctor, Phillip Newby, thought that he had pneumonia and had put him on a course of intravenous antibiotics.
Thomas rolled over and started to cough again, his body convulsing with each cough. It was then that Jean McCauley saw blood on the pillow, and called the nurse.
“This isn’t right, he can’t breathe. He’s just coughed up some blood and that’s not happened before.”
Staff Nurse Gina Reimann took one look at the boy and started him on oxygen straight away. Thomas’ lips and fingernails were blue, a tell-tale sign that his blood oxygen level was low. Putting the O2 Saturation Meter on Thomas’ finger confirmed this – 82%, which was not good. When Thomas coughed again, she knew that he was critically ill.
“The oxygen will help him Mrs McCauley, he’ll breathe a lot easier. I’ll call the doctor too.”
Before she left, she checked his temperature with an ear probe thermometer, 40oC, Thomas was getting worse.
Dr Phillip Newby responded to his pager immediately, and was beside Thomas’ bed within ten minutes. After listening to the boy’s laboured breathing and checking his temperature again, he realised that Thomas was not responding to the antibiotics. His condition had become critical.
“Mrs McCauley, your son is very ill. Because he’s not responding to the antibiotics, I believe he has a form of viral pneumonia. I am going to arrange for him to be transferred to Critical Care. Now don’t be too alarmed, they have the proper equipment there to look after Thomas. We may have to put him on a ventilator if he can’t breathe for himself.”
Despite his words of encouragement, Phillip saw that Thomas’ mother was about to cry and put his arm around her shoulder to comfort the woman. It took twenty-five minutes to transfer Thomas to Critical Care, and by that time he was unconscious. Five minutes later he was on a ventilator and hooked up to a myriad of monitors and alarms, receiving drugs to improve both his breathing and lower his temperature. But by 4 o’clock that afternoon the boy had slipped into a coma and by 6 o’clock he was dead.
Thomas McCauley’s death was not unusual, as the radiotherapy had lowered his immune system’s ability to fight disease. The post-mortem was routine, his lungs were full of fluid from the pneumonia and he had died when his lungs could no longer supply oxygen to his body. No samples were taken for viral analysis, the cause of death was obvious, he had died of pneumonia in both lungs as a result of contracting influenza. As a typical influenza season in the United States ran from October through to May, a lot more cases of the disease were to be expected.
***
Lynda Debernardin had never been as tired as she felt that Thursday afternoon. She had started her shift at 10 am but it felt as though she had started 12 hours before that. She had five elderly patients with the flu, all with temperatures of 39oC, all coughing their lungs up, all struggling for breath. The worst was Josephine Bruce. She was eighty-one and although Lynda had put her on oxygen, she was not getting any better. Lynda had witnessed what influenza could do to the residents of a nursing home in 1968. But all of the residents of the Alexander Nursin
g Home had been vaccinated a month ago, by now they should have been protected against the disease. If they had already contracted it, its effects should have been lessened. Josephine had been coughing non-stop since the early hours of the morning and was now exhausted. It broke Lynda’s heart to see the old lady in such distress. Each of the residents had their own room, so treating the old people for a contagious disease such as flu was much safer than if they had been on a hospital ward where they would have shared the same air. Influenza can be contracted so easily from airborne aerosols as one patient coughs or sneezes in the same room as someone else. Five patients with flu, God, it feels like fifty-five, thought Lynda Debernardin.
Gloria Steinberg also had her hands full with all of the healthy residents. With so many sick ones Gloria had to look after Lynda’s healthy ones. No matter how much lavender air freshener she squirted into the day room, it still smelled of urine.
“Come on now Mr Waddell, let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”
“Steinberg, I feel like shit, I think I’m getting a cold.”
Gloria felt the old man’s forehead.
“Yes Mr Waddell, you do seem a little hot. Let’s get you out of these clothes and into bed. You’ll feel better once you’ve rested.”
“I’m getting the same bug as those others, aren’t I? Come on, admit it”
“Well, we won’t know until I take your temperature, will we?”
When she had cleaned the old man and put him into bed in fresh pyjamas Gloria took his temperature 38oC – it looked as if she was in for a long afternoon.
“You do seem to have a bit of a temperature Mr Waddell, best you stay in bed this afternoon. I’ll get you some fresh water. Drink as much as you can, you need to keep hydrated if you have the ‘flu.”
Moving back to the day room Gloria thought she should take the temperatures of all the other residents as well, just to be on the safe side. Of the remaining twenty-two residents, eight had temperatures above normal. Not a good sign. Once she had cleaned Mr Waddell’s armchair, she would get the worst ones off to bed. Thankfully all the chairs in the day room had leather seats, so washing them was quick and easy. However, although the smell of urine had diminished a little, the smell of the disinfectant was almost as bad. A little squirt of lavender would surely do the trick so she sprayed the room liberally.
“Do we have to put up with that shit? It’s almost as bad as the piss and vomit.”
“I’m sorry Mr Hernandez, but we have to try to get rid of the smell. Perhaps I can find a different one, orange or lemon perhaps.”
“Anything’s got to be better than that bloody lavender, I’m sick of it.”
“Well, I’ll try Mr Hernandez, but we buy this stuff by the box so we may not have much choice.”
“Shit! Just our luck.”
Mr Hernandez was Gloria’s worst patient, always complaining, always swearing and always touching her up. If she wasn’t careful his hand would be up the back of her skirt in a flash. ‘How do you like that sweetie?’ was his stock saying, and even though the rest home manager had spoken to him on a number of occasions, he never stopped. While the other residents looked a little ‘green around the gills,’ Mr Juan Hernandez, unfortunately for Gloria, looked to be in perfect health. Just for good measure, and to piss the old bugger off, she gave the air another quick squirt of lavender.
“Bugger off with that stuff, Steinberg.”
“Oops, sorry Mr Hernandez.”
***
In Wisconsin, both Rufus Stevens and William Bell III were in bed, in the sickbay, on the third floor of Bartlett Hall at Ripon College. They and two other students had reported sick soon after reveille. Ding had been sick during the night and Roof had a headache that made him stagger with the pain. The other two were ‘jocks,’ members of the Ripon College Red Hawks, though sadly Paul Miller wasn’t one of them. Matron had put them all to bed, suspecting that they were all suffering from the ‘flu. Roof and Ding, who were both nerds, were in no fit state to gloat over the illness of their sworn enemies, the two nameless jocks.
Though Ding felt like shit, he had tried to read some of his military history prep that he had not finished the night before. But the room was poorly lit and so he had to give up when, what he thought was eye strain, gave him a headache.
“Roof, you awake? I feel like shit. And my throat’s so bloody sore I can hardly speak.”
“Well shut the fuck up then, nerdy,” called out one of the jocks. It was a comment to be expected from the brainless to the brainy.
“Come and make me, shithead.”
“I would if I could make it over to your bed. Shut up anyway, I’m sick of your yakking.”
“Roof, talk to me,” Ding whispered in the direction of his friend.
“What?”
“How do you feel?”
“That’s a dumb question Ding. I feel the same as you but worse. Does that answer your question?”
“OK, OK, I was only asking.”
Talking was not such a good thing to do, as Ding then found out. When the coughing started, he thought his head was going to explode. Every cough was accompanied by a pain that was like someone stabbing him between the eyes. He tried desperately to stop coughing to prevent any further pain, but couldn’t.
“Fuck! I’m bleeding,” he blurted between coughs as bloodstained sputum sprayed onto his pillow. As he continued to cough, more of the thick red and yellow pus stained his bedclothes.
Roof turned over to look at his friend. Ding was a strange colour, sort of purple – red-faced from the coughing yet tinged with blue as he struggled to breathe. Using reserves of energy, he thought he hadn’t got, Roof sat up and pressed the call button. Matron Fielding and a nurse, Amy Carter, quickly came into the room. Matron Fielding was sixty years old and as wrinkly as a dried prune. She was often seen running round the sports field in the early evening, a sort of fit prune. She also hated students skiving and would immediately report them to their respective House Master. The punishment and the shame of being labelled a ‘chicken shit skiver’ ensured that skiving rarely happened. However, when you were genuinely sick Matron was the best nurse, you could wish for, though her warmth and sympathy was the antithesis of her general demeanour. Nurse Carter was a gem, only a little older than the senior boys at the college, she was what most of them dreamed of. Tall, blonde, with beautiful blue eyes, a fantastic figure and big breasts, she made all the jocks drool with carnal thoughts.
Here lay the dilemma – everyone wanted to be ill and looked after by Nurse Carter, and yet they couldn’t risk getting caught skiving by Matron Fielding. Nurse Carter was happily married to Vince Carter, a nerdy history master at the college. Why, the lustful jocks wondered, would she marry such a twit?
With the curtains drawn around his friend’s bed, Roof could not see what they were doing to Ding. However, he could still hear what was happening – nothing. Ding had stopped coughing, and he could hear the two nurses speaking quietly, at first to their patient, then to themselves. Finally, all he could hear was someone breathing heavily whilst the bed springs squeaked. What on earth was happening wondered Rufus. The strange breathing and squeaking bed continued for the best part of thirty minutes, before Nurse Carter emerged from behind the curtains and sped off towards the sickbay door.
“What’s the matter with Ding, Matron?” croaked Rufus, barely able to stop himself from coughing. There was no reply, but before Roof could ask his question a second time he too started to cough uncontrollably. Matron Fielding was at his bedside immediately.
“Come on now Rufus, try and slow your breathing down. Little shallow breaths, come on now. By controlling your breathing your coughing will be more effective and you’ll be able to bring up the muck from your lungs.”
Just then Nurse Carter returned and was directed to retrieve an oxygen cylinder from the medical storage room. When Rufus was on the oxygen his coughing started to subside. Looking past the oxygen mask at Matron Fielding, a very frightened R
ufus Stevens searched her face for some reassurance that everything would be all right. Rufus was not usually very good at reading people’s mood from their body language, but now he sensed that something was very wrong. Although trying very hard to appear calm, Matron was not smiling and Nurse Carter looked as if she had been crying.
“Let’s try him on a nebuliser. Can you get one please Amy?”
“Straight away Matron.”
“You’re doing great Rufus. Try and breathe shallowly. Once we have this nebuliser set up, you should feel much better.”
She was right. He did start to feel better. Rufus lay staring at the ceiling, feeling exhausted. He didn’t even have the strength to enquire after his friend and feared another attack of breathlessness. The pain between his eyes had begun during the coughing fit, now it had become unbearable. As Rufus closed his eyes, trying to get some relief from the pain, he could feel his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears. Not only that, the searing pain in his head pounded in time with his pulse. Each beat heralded a stabbing pain so great it made him screw up his face and shut his eyes more tightly. It was unbearable. All he could hear was the pounding in his ears and all he could see was a red mist behind his closed eyelids.
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