[Gina Mazzio RN 01.0 - 03.0] Bone Set

by JJ Lamb

  “It's horrible, but you've got to face it, Gina: he's septic ... Bactec shows he's flooded with E. coli; damn endotoxins are destroying him right in front of our eyes.” Her voice lowered. “There's not much time.”

  Gina hurried down the corridor, as she came to the nurses' station, she stopped when she saw Kessler, surrounded by the other staff oncologists, a couple of hematologists, and a critical care specialist. Alan Vasquez stood on the periphery, his face ashen and strained. It had to be about Carl Chapman.

  As the doctors milled around Kessler, everyone trying to see one chart, the nurses struggled to move in and out of the station.

  The medication room entrance was so blocked, one nurse had to elbow her way through, calling out angrily, “Hey, move it! I've got patients who need their meds.”

  A pathway slowly opened for her. “I don't know why they ever called this a nurses’ station in the first place,” she grumbled.

  This time there were no light-hearted responses.

  “Face it, Mark, there's not much you can do,” said the critical care specialist. “He's already moribund. And I don't think we'd gain anything by—”

  “Don't say it, Joan. I know, God damn it! I know!” Kessler said, covering his eyes. “I just can't understand how he soured so quickly.” He turned to one of the other oncologists and beat a fist into an open palm. “Chapman should have come through this. He had a curable cancer, and we had his marrow for backup.” He looked at the ceiling. “How did everything get so fucked up?”

  “I could tube him, if you want,” Joan Edwards said softly, backing away from her previous stance. “We could also start some blood expanders—”

  Kessler looked at the her, shook his head, and turned away. “No, he not only put it in writing, he made me promise that if there was no hope ... to let him go. Without his marrow, he's finished. We all know that.”

  “I thought we agreed not to discuss Chapman's missing marrow, Dr. Kessler,” Vasquez interrupted in a shaky voice.

  He flew at Vasquez, clutched his jacket. “If you say one more fucking word to me, I'm going to deck you, you son-of-a-bitch!”

  One of the hematologists grabbed Kessler's arm, gently pulled him back. “Cool it, Mark,” he whispered in his ear. “He's just an asshole.”

  * * *

  Gina turned away, not wanting to hear more. She'd taken a special liking to Chapman; his dying was affecting her much too deeply. She stopped at the entrance to his room, took a deep breath, and entered.

  Chapman's eyes were open but he didn't immediately respond to her presence. She watched the rapid rise and fall of his bony chest—he was having great difficulty breathing and his skin had a cyanotic cast. She swallowed hard, then reluctantly looked at the bedside monitor—his blood pressure had dropped dramatically, his heart was now accelerating wildly.

  Chapman's faded blue eyes sparked for an instant as he recognized her. He gasped,” You'll have ... to take ... that trip to Mexico ... for me ... Florence Night...in...gale.”

  Gina reached for his hand, was chilled by its coolness. “Eh! Who ever said Mexico was so great?” She bent over and kissed his forehead; tears ran down her cheeks. “All my friends say it's not what it's cracked up to be.”

  “Thought I'd have ... more time ... didn't think it would happen so fast.”

  “None of us did, Carl.”

  “Started last night ... didn't it?” he wheezed.

  “I don't know ... it's difficult to say.”

  “He didn't tell me ... but I knew ... something had to be ... wrong.”

  “Dr. Kessler?”

  “No ... the nurse ... thought I was asleep ... injected something ... in my IV...” He couldn't continue.

  Gina held his hand, stroked his forehead.

  What’s he talking about? Who injected what?

  She mentally reviewed his overnight medication orders. “I don't think there was anything ordered for last night,” she said. “Maybe it was this morning?”

  “No...dark...darkness everywhere.” His eyes opened wider. “Dark ... Gina, it's getting so dark.”

  Before she could respond, they were interrupted by the arrival of his parents.

  “Is he—” the mother asked, tears streaming down her cheeks. When Gina shook her head, Mrs. Chapman came over and gave her a quick hug. Chapman's father started to take her hand, then changed his mind and bent over to kiss her forehead.

  “I'm so sorry,” Gina said softly.

  They moved to the head of the bed, the parents on one side, Gina on the other. The corners of Chapman's mouth turned up slightly to form a faint smile; his eyes lost their focus.

  * * *

  Chapman looked from Gina to his mother and father. They were all so sad. There was so much he wanted to say to them, but he was too tired.

  He stopped fighting to hold his eyes open.

  Don’t want to die ... should have told them about the money ... no ... better this way ... mom and dad ... not enough money ... too old to start over.

  There was something else, something important. But he felt himself dropping away. He grabbed the side of the bed and held on. Then he remembered.

  “Gina ... the others ... should have told you ... must help them.”

  “Help who?” Her voice came from so far away.

  He forced his eyes open and tried to speak again, but his mouth was frozen. He couldn't even feel his lips with his tongue.

  Someone had to stop him. Got to do it. Can’t go yet.

  Slowly, he raised an arm and pointed at his IV, then his hand dropped heavily back onto the bed.

  Tears welled in his eyes.

  Too late...too late...too late.

  He was caught in a great rush that tore him away from them. Icy pain bored into his head as he fought to repel a crushing pressure. Suddenly, he was released. He floated up where he could look down on his parents, holding each other, crying.

  Don’t be sad, Dad...Mom...I’m here.

  He saw Gina bend over him, gently close his eyes. She moved slowly around to his parents, wrapped her arms around their shoulders.

  Don’t be sad, Gina.

  He tried to return, to stand in the room with them. Each time he was held back, becoming more and more disconnected.

  He curled into a ball, caught in a cocoon of sadness.

  Extending a hand downward, he tried to hold on. But now they were gone, shadowy forms melding into a vast darkness.

  Chapter 8

  Gina sprawled on the living room floor next to the coffee table, rested her cards on the table, waiting for Harry to discard. They were into their fourth game of 500 Rummy. She pulled at her tattered jeans, twisting and untwisting loose threads until little knots of cotton interlaced with the shredded material over her knees.

  The table had been cleared of everything except a large bottle of chardonnay, a basket of crackers, and a ball of provolone. She impatiently reached for a knife and cut them each a large chunk of cheese, then tore off the surrounding wax.

  “Harry, this isn't chess. Just throw out a card ... any card.”

  “Oh, no you don't, Mazzio. I'm through playing just any old way.” He rubbed his bare chest. “You've already won everything except my jeans and Jockey shorts ... you've only lost your blouse. So I'm not going to give you just any card.”

  An hour later, when they were down to only panties and shorts, Harry cried out, “Aha! Gin!”

  He spread his cards on the table and checked her hand. “Looks like you literally lost your panties on that one.”

  “I should have known it. You always win in the end.” She lay back and slipped out of her panties and threw them at him.

  “Somewhat of an exaggeration, my dear. But I do have years of experience at this game.” He rubbed her panties against his cheek. “Nice.” He sipped from his wine glass, looked wickedly at her. Her hair was disheveled from pulling absentmindedly at her curls and her eyes were red-rimmed.

  “And what game is that?”

 
“Get-Naked-Rummy, of course ... been playing it since nursing school.”

  “Part of the official curriculum, no doubt. I can see the course description now: Nursing 101. 'Getting Down and Dirty.' Bet there was a run on enrollment.”

  “Mazzio, sometimes you're too cynical.” He scooted around the table next to her and took his underwear off with a flourish. “How about, 'The Dynamics of Being Human?'“

  “Harry, you're a flake, and you didn't need to take off anything else. The game's over.”

  Ignoring her, he said,” Nakedness is part of it. People aren't really equal with their clothes on.”

  “Did you say this is something you did with your classmates?”

  “There was a group of us, three guys and ten gals. We were in the same college dorm, all nursing students.” He reached for the wedge of cheese Gina offered and took a large bite. “It started out as fun and games, then turned into something very serious.”

  “Thirteen naked serious people?”

  “Yes, thirteen naked serious people,” he said, gently pinching her cheek. “It became a problem-solving forum. It's strangely soothing being surrounded by naked people holding your hands, hugging you.”

  “I'll bet!”

  “It certainly wasn't what you're thinking, Mazzio. It was very asexual.”

  “And you were all student nurses?”

  He nodded. “In our final year. Not exactly a time of wine and roses. When things got too difficult ... well, anyone in the group could call a sit-in. And we had a lot of them.”

  “But why naked?” she asked, filling her glass with more wine.

  Clothes encourage pretensions. They cover up how we really feel, mask who we really are.”

  “What did you talk about, personal problems?”

  “Rarely. The group was more into gut-wrenching issues, things we still talk about today: death and dying, AIDS, euthanasia—”

  “—cancer, losing patients, losing hope.” She burst into tears, squeezed her eyes shut, wrapped her arms around his waist, and burrowed her head into his chest.

  “Yeah,” he said, gently gliding his fingers lightly over the fine hairs of her arms. “It's all part of the same thing.”

  “God, does it ever get easier?” She lifted her head to look into his eyes.

  He smiled, his sapphire eyes looking very ancient. “Only if you don't give a rat's ass, love.”

  They held each other for a long time, rocking gently back and forth.

  She broke the mood by reaching for the wine, emptying the bottle into her glass.

  “This stuff's getting to me,” she said after taking a sip. She stared speculatively up from the floor at her sculpture of Michelangelo's David. “Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw the real thing?”

  “I don't remember.”

  “Caught you, Harry Lucke. And you say you hang on my every word.”

  “Oh, I do. Particularly when you call me things like sensational, sexy, sensitive. Things that point to just some of my admirable qualities.”

  She sat up, reached for the sculpture and brought it to the floor.

  “'Yet shall not vauntful Death enjoy the prize,'” she said.

  “Interesting. Your very own?”

  “I should be so lucky. Michelangelo wrote it; one of his sonnets.” She ran her fingers over the David. “Isn't he beautiful?”

  Harry nodded, then ran his fingertips across her cheek. “No, he's interesting; you're beautiful.”

  “When I saw him at the Accademia in Florence, he took my breath away.”

  “Something you continually do to me.”

  “I don't know why I identified with him. I mean, he's obviously quite male.”

  “Something you're obviously not,” he said, nuzzling her neck.

  “No, but I knew standing before that sixteen-foot sculpture just what David must have felt. Strong, noble ... sure of what had to be done ... yet, exposed and vulnerable.” She put the sculpture down, turned to him. “I don't feel strong or noble anymore, Harry. Only vulnerable.”

  He held her eyes as he finished his cheese, reached for her wine glass and stole a sip. “Welcome to the grown-up world, beautiful,” he finally said.

  She gave him a perplexed look.

  “How old were you when you first saw your sling-toting friend?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Yeah, well ... behold the arrogance of youth,” Harry said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What is death to some healthy, snot-nosed kid? They don't feel vulnerable or afraid.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You think David was noble for putting his life on the line?”

  “Maybe. I'm not sure.”

  “You watched Carl die. You knew there was nothing noble about it. So what's the difference whether it's from cancer, a bullet, or a slingshot?”

  “And you call me a cynic?”

  He bent over and gave her a long, lingering kiss. “I'm not a cynic. I'm a realist. We give the best we can to every patient, but they still die. And their deaths make us feel vulnerable. That feeling is never going to go away, Gina. Not if you have a healthy respect for death.”

  She lay silent for a long time, her fingers caressing the sculpture. Finally, she set it aside and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him to her while she covered his face with loud smacking kisses. “Someday I think I might have to admit I love you.”

  “Someday, my beautiful Italian princess, you'll not only admit it, you'll scream it from the rooftops.”

  * * *

  Gina awakened with a jolt, her thoughts filled with Carl Chapman. She glanced at the clock, then at Harry, who had decided to spend the night. It had been only three hours since they'd curled up for sleep. She lay there tossing and turning until she finally gave up and crawled out of bed. She stood at the bedroom window, bathed in moonlight, looking out at the bright night sky.

  It reminded her of when she was a little girl and her father would waken her on hot summer nights. They would sneak up to the roof of their apartment house and he would tell her about the magic of the different constellations spread throughout the endless universe.

  Tonight, Orion's belt blinked back at her and she smiled at her remembrances before she turned away.

  Padding through the dark apartment into the kitchen, she stood before the open door of the refrigerator, the escaping cold making her shiver. She reached in and retrieved a container of milk.

  Light from the range clock barely penetrated the darkness as she felt her way into the living room. She collapsed on the sofa, milk container in hand. Almost immediately, she heard Harry's footsteps scuffing down the hallway.

  “What's the matter, doll?” he asked, plopping down next to her. “Can't sleep?”

  “It keeps niggling at me.”

  “What?”

  “It's just not right, you know? It keeps running through my head, plaguing me.”

  “What?”

  “Carl, how he knew his marrow was missing.” She tipped up the carton and took a gulp of milk. When she finished, Harry reached over and wiped away a trickle from her chin. “I just can't accept it,” she said, ignoring him. “I don't even understand it.”

  “Gina! You've got to let this go, once and for all.”

  “I can't.”

  “You've got to, for your own peace of mind.”

  “All right, I will. I promise. But only if you can explain how a huge hospital with all its grants and complicated research, checks and double checks, can lose a patient's bone marrow.”

  “You've just explained how. It's a complicated system. Things go wrong.”

  “No, Harry. There's something else going on here. I feel it.” She set the milk carton down on the coffee table and washed her face with her hands. “I can still see the look in Carl's eyes when he told me that his marrow was missing. He knew. But how? When I asked him, he wouldn't say.”

  “Wouldn't or couldn't? And is it any different than so
meone saying, 'If anything had to go wrong, it would naturally happen to me?'“

  “That's a cop out, Harry. Carl wasn't like that. He'd gone through a lot of pain and suffering, but he was still an optimist—at least until the day his marrow disappeared. That was the day he gave up.”

  “I think you're reading too much into it.”

  “That isn't all ... today, just before he died, he tried to tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “It had to do with his IV ... he even pointed to it just before he died.”

  Harry pulled her to him. “Gina, it's all over. There's nothing you can do about it now.”

  “I'm not so sure about that.”

  Chapter 9

  Gary Bernstein was more than an hour late as he strode past his newly hired secretary, barely nodding hello. She trailed behind him into his office, watched as he took off his corduroy jacket, threw it haphazardly across a chair, then unrolled a large sheaf of naval architectural drawings. As she waited for him to acknowledge her, she looked out the wall of windows that provided a spectacular view of the bay and the Port of San Francisco.

  When he finally finished weighing down the curled papers with large Lucite blocks, she said. “There's a Tracy Bernstein who's been calling every five minutes. A relative of yours?” She looked at him expectantly, but when she received no reply, she continued, frowning.

  “Look, Mr. Bernstein. I don't want to hound you ... but I just started this job two days ago. I'm going to need some kind of input from you for a while.”

  He looked at her with gray stormy eyes underlined with dark circles.

  “I'm sorry, Dotti,” he finally said with a weak smile. “I don't mean to be distant.” He collapsed into his desk chair, leaned back, and ran a trembling hand through his unkempt hair. “I'm just so behind.” He pointed to the blueprint of a ship propulsion system atop the pile of drawings. “That little baby should have been ready a week ago.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “There will be. But for now, I'd appreciate it if you would just bring some coffee.”

  “How do you like it?” she asked.

  “Cream and plenty of sugar.” Before she could leave, he said,” By the way, Tracy Bernstein's my ex-wife.”