Part II: Blind
Chapter 51
Birds chirped
lightheartedly, and a warm summer breeze wafted through the slightly open
window, rattling the mini-blinds and freshening the small, stuffy room. The sun shined through the slates of the
blinds, creating strips of light amidst the shadows across the tiled floor of
the dimmed enclosure. It was a perfect
June day in
His mother had
been there with him, but she had gone for lunch at his insistence, and he was
rather glad. Though she had only been
there a matter of hours, he was already sick of her hovering over him and
somehow knew that deep down, she was probably enjoying their brief separation
just as much as he was. This whole
scenario – the hospital, the medications, and naturally, the big c-word – made
her very uncomfortable, he could tell.
Although she tried to hide it, he could see it in her eyes whenever she
looked at him. Every time a nurse came
to check on him and adjust his IV, he noticed her gaze drift down to the
catheter implanted just below his collarbone, where an IV line ran into him and
dispensed his chemotherapy drugs, the drugs that had been making him violently
ill and constantly nauseated for the past two days. It scared her, he knew, though she would
never admit it. And he felt bad, but it
wasn’t like there was a thing he could do about it. The truth was, it scared him too. Not the catheter and the tubes and the stench
of medicine – no, he was used to all that by now. It was simply the cancer that terrified him
and the possibility that it would take away the rest of his life. He was only twenty-three, far too young to
die, and yet, he very well could. His
chances of beating the cancer were good; at least that’s what Dr. Kingsbury
told him. But still, he had cancer, and
cancer killed. That was the grim reality
of it. And that was what scared him.
The door to his
room clicked open, offering a welcomed intrusion into his bleak thoughts. He looked up, expecting to see his mother
back already, but instead, a nurse walked in.
Slightly relieved, he pasted on a pleasant smile that didn’t quite reach
his eyes and mumbled a “Hi” in greeting.
“Hello,” replied
the nurse, whom he hadn’t seen there before.
He glanced at her nametag – Karen. “I’m just here to check vitals.” She had a cute accent… Australian, maybe?
“Hey, where you
from?” Nick asked. “You from Down
Under? Crikey!” he added, doing his best
Crocodile Hunter impression.
A smile tugged on
the corners of her mouth as she tried to keep a straight face. “Uh, no, I’m English, actually,” she replied.
“English? Oh, like from
“Yes,
“Oh. Like the Bayt-uhls.” (AN: Beatles)
“Yes,” Karen
replied, her eyes twinkling, smiling at him in a way that made him feel rather
stupid. He shot her his half-smile,
hoping to make up for it. “So, how are
you feeling?” she asked, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm.
Pausing to survey
his symptoms, Nick was surprised to realize that he really didn’t feel too
nauseous at the moment. He didn’t
exactly feel good, for he was tired and weak and sort of clammy, but still, it
was an improvement over the way he had been feeling earlier. Maybe he was adjusting to this new chemo
after all.
“Okay, I guess,”
he answered, as Karen pumped the cuff until it was uncomfortably tight around
his arm.
“Your BP’s 120/70
– that’s very good,” commented the nurse as she unstrapped the cuff.
“Oh,” replied
Nick. “Uh, good.”
“Now let me just
check your temp…” She stuck a
thermometer in his ear, and seconds later, it beeped. Pulling it out, she held it up and frowned at
the reading on it.
“Don’t tell me
I’ve got a fever,” Nick groaned, watching her expression carefully.
Karen bit her
lip. “Let me take it again; this device
is a bit dodgy at times.” She put the
thermometer back into his ear, and again, the reading was met with a frown. “Well,” she sighed, “it looks as if you have
a fever, Mr. Carter. 100.2.”
“Oh,” said Nick,
“well that ain’t that bad. I’ve had
temps much higher than that before. One
time, a few years ago, I had the flu, and it was like 103-“
“I hate to tell you,
but it could be serious,” Karen interrupted him grimly. “Fever is a sign of infection, and the
chemotherapy lowers your white count, which makes it much more difficult for
your body to fight infection. I’ll fetch
a doctor.” She bustled out of the room,
and something about the way she was hurrying made an icy block of fear form in
the pit of Nick’s stomach. And suddenly,
he didn’t feel well at all. Maybe it the
effects of fever setting in, or maybe it was only psychosomatic, but all of a
sudden, he was not only nauseous, but dizzy and trembling, cold one minute, hot
the next. It felt no different than
having the flu, but the flu was nothing, and this, according to the nurse,
could be something.
Karen returned a
few minutes later with a Hispanic man in a white lab coat – the doctor, Nick
assumed. She was speaking rapidly to him
in her quaint British accent. “I took it
twice, Gustavo, and the reading was the same – 100.2 degrees Fahrenheit.”
“You are right;
it could be an infection,” replied the unfamiliar doctor in a heavy Spanish
accent.
Deliriously, Nick
smiled, finding it interesting to hear the two very different accents blending
together as the nurse and doctor conversed.
But immediately, the doctor’s attention was turned to him, and the serious
expression on his face wiped the hint of a smile from Nick’s.
“I am Dr. Lugo,
Mr. Carter,” the doctor said.
“Uh, hi… where’s
Dr. Kingsbury?”
“She’s not on
call at the moment. She should be here
later this evening. But do not worry, I
will care for you until she arrives,” assured Dr. Lugo, leaning over Nick’s bed
and pressing his fingertips into Nick’s neck, feeling all down his
jawline. His hands were cool and felt
nice on Nick’s warm skin. “Your glands
are swollen. You are developing an infection.”
“So what does
that mean?” Nick asked nervously.
“It means we are
going to move you into the Intensive Care so that we can observe you more
closely.” Nick’s heart thudded rapidly
in his chest; he didn’t like the sound of that.
“Karen, order a CBC and lytes and call transport.”
“Certainly, Dr.
Lugo.” Karen walked out, leaving Nick
alone with the doctor.
“Are you moving
me now?” he asked.
“In a little
while, when transport comes to take you to the ICU. I need to get going now, but I will come to
check on you later. Your nurse Karen
will be back to take some blood in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” Nick said
grudgingly, and Dr. Lugo left the room as well.
He lay there, nervous and frightened, until Karen returned.
“I just need a
blood sample,” she said, “and I can take it from your central line without
having to stick you.” Nick nodded, used
to this by now. He tugged the strings
tying his hospital gown in the back until they came undone and let her slide
the gown off his chest and shoulders so that his catheter was exposed. Karen expertly inserted a needle into the
port, and a few minutes later, she had a small vial of his blood. “I’m going to take this to the lab now,” she
told him. “Someone should be here to
take you to ICU in just a bit, Mr. Carter.”
“Thanks,” Nick
replied dully and watched her leave again.
Lying alone in his bed, feeling weak and feverish, he thought of his
mother and wondered if she would be back after lunch. Suddenly, he wanted her there with him. The prospect of being shipped off to the
Intensive Care ward by himself scared him.
ICU – that was for really sick people.
He didn’t like to think of himself as “really sick.” But the reality was slowly sinking in – he
was really sick. Not only did he have
cancer, but now an infection… an infection that, according to the doctor and
nurse, could be very serious. They both
seemed worried, which made him terrified.
Infection, intensive care… God, what if he died?
His whole body
felt like it was on fire, and then, suddenly, he was cold again. Shivering under his meager bedcovers, he was
suddenly painfully aware of his own mortality.
He had been ever since the diagnosis of
“Are you Nickolas
Carter?”
Nick looked up to
see a short black man in navy blue scrubs standing in his doorway.
“Yeah,” he said
weakly, and the man nodded and came further into the room, wheeling a gurney
with him.
“Can you slide on
over to this for me?” the man asked, positioning the gurney right next to
Nick’s bed. Nodding, Nick painfully
eased himself onto the gurney, realizing just how weak he had become. The man covered Nick in a thin sheet, tucking
it around his chest and put the sides up on the gurney, making Nick feel
somewhat like an infant in a crib. Then,
without a word, he wheeled Nick out of the safety of his room and off toward
the unknown world of Intensive Care.
***