by Annie Jocoby
I finally arrived at the hospital and went to the front desk to find out what room Ryan was in now. I was still angry that nobody had informed me that he was moved to a regular room. I was his fucking wife. I needed to be in the loop on my husband’s progress, goddammit.
I didn’t really have time to figure out what, or whom, I was really angry with. Perhaps Nick for being such an ass and a man whore. Perhaps the doctors and the attendants for not keeping an eye on Ryan.
No, I was angry with Ryan. How could he do this to us? Why would he ever think about leaving me and his daughter behind? He made it through surgery, which was a godsend. Now he was trying to do himself in anyhow.
A part of me didn’t even want to see him. But a bigger part of me wanted to take his beautiful dark hair and put it on my chest and stroke it while he cried it out. Whatever it is that he had to cry out, I wanted him to do it with me by his side.
“I’m here to see my husband, Ryan Gallagher,” I told the front desk attendant. I felt a bit breathless, and very anxious.
“Mr. Gallagher,” the attendant said. “1002. That’s the psych ward. Do you have a patient code for him?”
He was transferred to the psych ward already? Now, why didn’t the lady on the phone tell me this? And give me a patient code while she was at it?
“No, I don’t have a flipping patient code for him. I didn’t even know that he was transferred to the psych ward.” I couldn’t hide my impatience, frustration and fury at this whole situation.
They best get their act together, because I was ready to cut a bitch.
“Could I please see your ID?”
With shaking hands, I fumbled around in my purse for my wallet. Crap, where is my wallet? I gradually realized that the wallet wasn’t in my purse, for whatever reason. Then I remembered that I ordered something online earlier, and got the wallet out to place my order, and failed to put it back. Which meant that I not only was going to have problems seeing my husband, but I also better had been careful to not get pulled over on the way home.
“Listen, uh, Vicki,” I began, reading her name tag. “My husband was shot and almost killed. He made it through surgery, and now he has tried to kill himself. And you wouldn’t believe the stuff that I’ve been through these past couple of years. It would boggle your fucking mind. Now I don’t have a patient code, because I had no friggin idea that I needed one. Last I heard, Ryan was in the ICU. The lady who called me told me after the fact that Ryan had been transferred to a regular room. She never said a flipping word about having to have a patient code. Now, I get here, and all I want is to see my husband, and you’re saying that I can’t see him because I don’t have a code that I never knew that I had to have.”
The lady actually looked sympathetic to my plight. I looked down, not meeting her eyes, because I was just too afraid that she was going to turn me away. In which case, I imagined myself getting in my car and driving it through the front door of this place. I could now see why people did things like that in real life. Dealing with incompetents would drive anybody crazy.
She finally took a deep breath. “I’m not supposed to let anybody through who doesn’t have a patient code.” I continued to look at her, because I saw that there was the word “but” soon to come.
I wasn’t disappointed. “But I’m going to make an exception. You really need either a patient code or ID when you come back, preferably both. So get the code from your husband when you see him.”
I sighed with relief, as she directed me to the door where I would be buzzed through to the elevators, which would lead to the psych ward.
I got to the room where my husband was, and I saw him lying in the bed, staring at the ceiling. Both of his wrists were bound in heavy gauze.
I rushed to him, and he just looked at me. I wasn’t at all sure if he was doped up, or simply in a different world at that time.
What I did know was that the person who was staring at me was not my husband.
“Ryan,” I said, tentatively. “I’m here.”
He blinked his eyes dully, then looked away.
The night nurse came in to check on him, and I got up to ask her what was going on. “Ryan. What’s wrong with him? Is he on painkillers? Some kind of heavy duty anti-psychotic meds? What’s going on?”
“Of course, he’s been on painkillers since his surgery. And it looks like he has now been prescribed Seroquel,” she said, examining her chart.
Seroquel. Might as well induce a coma and get it over with.
“Why Seroquel? My husband isn’t bipolar, nor is he schizophrenic. He’s apparently depressed. I’m not sure why he was prescribed something that is going to make him catatonic. And how high of a dose was he given?”
“You’ll have to talk to the doctor about that.”
“Get him in here right now. And I mean right now.”
In about five minutes, a Dr. Hahn appeared in his white coat, looking all official. I bit my tongue, not wanting to rip into him like I was tempted to. “Hello, Dr. Hahn. I said as pleasantly as I could. “I’m Iris Gallagher. Ryan’s wife.”
He reached out his hand to shake my mine. “Mrs. Gallagher, I understand that you have some questions about your husband.”
“Yes. My husband isn’t bipolar. He’s never been bipolar. He’s depressed because he went through major trauma and major surgery. Now you have him drugged up like he’s a circus elephant who’s recently charged his keeper. I’m not sure why this happened. I only know that I want it to stop.”
“Your husband had an acute manic episode.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that he smashed the television in his room, tore the shower curtain off the rod in his bathroom and broke a mirror. He used the mirror shards to cut his wrists.”
I drew a deep breath, concentrating on breathing through my nose and expelling through my mouth. You aren’t going to get upset. You aren’t going to go Dexter on this asshole. You are going to resist the urge to shove him out this window. “Dr. Hahn. My husband is dealing with severe trauma right now. He went through major surgery and a near-death experience, which made him take stock of his life. Trust me, his life hasn’t been pretty. He apparently hasn’t always been the nicest guy in the world. He’s dealt with things that you couldn’t imagine in your pristine little suburban world. Or maybe you can, but only if you’re a huge fucking pervert. He doesn’t have a chemical imbalance in his brain, and he never has, to my knowledge. He doesn’t need meds. He needs me, he needs time to heal, and he probably needs to talk to his therapist. He doesn’t need horse tranquilizers.”
Dr. Hahn simply continued to examine his chart, his eyes not meeting mine. I slammed my hand down on his chart, and forcefully brought his chin up so that his eyes were squarely aligned with mine. “No horse tranquilizers. That’s not helping him. I’m his wife, his next of kin, and I can’t imagine that he consented to being drugged like this. He’s got shit to deal with, but he needs to deal with it and feel it. Own it. Drugging him with fucking Seroquel is only delaying this process. I can’t believe that I have to tell you this, but here we are.”
Dr. Hahn simply stood there, smugly smiling at me. “I’m Mr. Gallagher’s attending physician, Mrs. Gallagher, so I think I know what he needs.”
“Listen to me, and I mean listen to me good. My husband’s father is extremely wealthy. Which means that he can hire a team of lawyers who will live for nothing more than to make your life a living fucking hell. This might be malpractice. It might not be malpractice. I suspect that it is malpractice, simply because I suspect that you gave him way too high of a dose, because Seroquel will make you somewhat out of it, but not catatonic. Malpractice or not, what’s certain is that they will drag your ass through litigation for years, because that’s what they do. They live for that shit. They won’t even care if they win, because they’ll be getting paid a king’s ransom for chasing you all over town from one deposition to another, win or lose. Now, either you take my husband off of this fucking Seroquel, or
you’ll be hearing from the best attorneys in the country in the morning. Your choice.”
That’s all I needed to say – the “m” word. As with every doctor, Dr. Hahn lived in fear of the dreaded malpractice suit. “Well, uh, Mrs. Gallagher, I guess we could wean him off these meds and see what happens. I’ll taper his medication down immediately.”
“No tapering. He just had his first dose this evening, apparently. There’s no reason to taper him off. He doesn’t need any more of these drugs, period.”
I faced him, engaging him in a staring contest. Turned out that having a bipolar sister came in handy for me, because I knew my shit when it came to anti-psychotic drugs.
“You’re right, Mrs. Gallagher. He doesn’t need to taper. Well, I have other patients to see so…”
I nodded my head. Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.
And, just like that, he was gone.
I sat down next to my incoherent husband, and took his hand. To my surprise, he was able to grip my hand, although his expression was still blank. “We have to get you out of here. These people are a bunch of assclowns.” Then I sighed. Get him out of here? How would I ever do that? He was in the psych ward after trying to kill himself, and he apparently just got out of the ICU. I didn’t know the first thing about how to get him out of there. I only knew that I wanted him out of that hospital.
I supposed if some money changed hands, then that might facilitate things. But probably not even then.
I needed to have some type of influence. It was kinda like a politician. Nobody dances unless there is some huge benefactor making them do so.
Then I got an idea. Benjamin Whitney was known for his charitable work around town. I wondered if his work included hospital charities. This hospital in particular.
I quickly grabbed my iPhone out of my purse, and Googled Benjamin Whitney, adding in the words “hospital charities.” To my delight, it turned out that hospitals were among his pet causes. He had donated $1.1 million dollars to this very hospital, and there was a wing that was named in his honor. He had donated money to many other hospitals around town, as well, as I found out through my Google search, but this was the only hospital that I was concerned about.
With shaking hands, I looked through my contact list to find Benjamin’s phone number. What time was it? My iPhone indicated that it was presently 4:50 AM. I couldn’t remember if Benjamin was still in his Rhode Island home, but I hoped that he was. That way, it would be close to 6 AM there, and not too early to call. Presumably.
It didn’t matter, I was going to call him anyhow. Then find some home health nurses who could live with us while Ryan recovers.
I had to have Ryan come home with me. I didn’t trust these people any further then I could throw them. They weren’t keeping me in the loop about anything, and they overmedicated my poor husband so that he was practically a drooling idiot.
I sat down on a chair and dialed Benjamin’s number. It was his personal cell number, so I hoped that one of his help didn’t answer it.
“Hello?” a rather robust-sounding voice inquired.
“Yes, Mr. Whitney?”
“Yes? Who is this?”
“Iris. Iris Gallagher. I have to talk to you. It’s a serious emergency.”
“Iris. Good to hear from you. What emergency are you calling about?”
I explained everything to him, while he interjected outraged phrases such as “how dare they?” and “what a bunch of incompetents,” and “my son has to get out of that place.”
“Yes, Mr. Whitney. So, you see, we have to get him out of here and bring him home. I don’t think that they’ll release him. This is where you come in. I need for you to use your influence to make it happen. Also, I was hoping that you could get some home health workers to come home with us while Ryan recovers.”
“I’ll make some phone calls,” he said.
Within a half hour, a nurse arrived in the room. “Mr. Gallagher has been released. He’s free to go home.”
I nodded my head. “Thanks. I just need a wheelchair to get him to his car. I don’t think he can leave on his own two feet right now,” I said, feeling outraged again at the over-prescribing doctor.
Oh, how I wanted to go Dexter on his ass.
If I ever saw his smug face again….
I got the wheelchair, wheeled him down to the lobby, then brought the Escalade around and loaded him into the front seat.
Then, with a flip of my middle finger out the window, I drove off.
While I was in the car, I dialed Benjamin again. When he answered, I said “hello, Benjamin. It’s Iris again. Thank you for making the phone calls to have Ryan released.”
“Of course. Is there anything more I can do for you?”
“The home health workers? Did you contact them?”
“They’ll be waiting for you when you get home.”
“Uh, Mr. Whitney, I appreciate that. But we don’t live in the same place anymore.”
“I know. You’re living at Nick O’Hara’s home.”
How did he know that? Benjamin certainly does have a way to keep tabs on all of us.
“Right. Well, thanks again.”
∞
I arrived at Nick’s mansion to find that there was a team of people who were getting out of cars and going into the house. Nick came out to greet us himself. I felt bad, because it was five in the morning, and I had no idea if Nick was ambushed with these people, or if Benjamin called him to give him a heads up. I also felt a little bit scared that Nick might think that this was all a horrible idea. I wasn’t looking forward to him yelling at me and berating me for pulling yet another rash action.
It was entirely possible that, after I had calmed down and contemplated everything, I, myself, would also find this entire scenario to be stupid and not in Ryan’s best interest. But I went with my gut, and I was feeling good about my decision to bring Ryan home.
I got out of the car. “Nick, I need help with Ryan. He’s not coherent right now.”
Nick’s face was indiscernible. I couldn’t tell if he was pissed or impressed.
Maybe he was a combination of both.
Nick opened the passenger door and stood Ryan up, putting his arm around him and Ryan’s arm around his shoulder. Ryan could barely walk, but Nick managed to get him into the house and into a lower-level bedroom that was being outfitted with a hospital bed by two men. The hospital bed was set up in record time, and Nick laid Ryan down on it.
Nick looked at me. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now. I don’t know yet if I want to kill you or kiss you. What I do know is that I need to figure out what is going on with these workers, and find out who does what.”
At that, Nick left and summoned the leader of the home health worker team. “George, get everybody together here in the foyer. I need to get a handle on who everybody is and what their function is. Also, I’d imagine that I’m gonna need at least two workers to move in here for the time being. They can stay in the guest cottage with Sheila out back behind the pool.”
As everybody started streaming into the massive foyer, I hung back and sat with Ryan. This was a gorgeous room, with brand-new cherry hardwood floors and a huge stained glass window that streamed primary colors. There were orchids everywhere in this room, which was my favorite flower and Ryan’s as well. The walls were a relaxing shade of faux finish yellow, and the room was attached to a massive bathroom with marble countertops and brass fixtures. There was an enormous plasma screen that was mounted on the wall, and there was soft music playing through some surround-sound speakers. All in all, this was a peaceful room, so much better for Ryan’s recovery then the sterile white hospital room with the tiny bathroom and old-school television that was mounted on the ceiling.
I climbed into bed with Ryan, as there was more than enough room for two, and put my head on his chest. He didn’t react, but I could hear his heart pounding, and it was soothing to me.
After a few minutes, I fell asleep.
Chapter Twelve
I woke up several hours later. There was a young nurse who was standing by the bed, taking Ryan’s vital signs. There were various machines that were brought into the room while I was unconscious, and I recognized that these were the same machines as those that were in the hospital.
I looked at Ryan’s face. It seemed that he was becoming more coherent, for he looked at me and his eyes showed recognition. He still looked dreamy, but not quite as catatonic as he was before.
“Ryan,” I said softly. “Are you there?”
He nodded imperceptibly. “The Pooh Bear. Did you get him?”
Crap. The Pooh Bear. I didn’t even see Pooh in Ryan’s room when I hustled him out of there. “Oh, no, honey, I didn’t get him. I didn’t see him when I got you out of the hospital. I’m so sorry.” I wondered if I could call somebody to get that bear and bring him home to be with Ryan. It obviously meant so much to him.
He said nothing more, turning his face away from mine. I could see tears forming in the corner of his eyes.
At that, I silently got out of the bed and went into the bathroom to make a phone call to the hospital. When the attendant answered the phone, I asked if there was a Pooh Bear in the lost and found. The attendant went to look, then came back and confirmed that there was a Pooh Bear there. Then I called Daniel and asked him to pick up Pooh and bring him to Nick’s house. He readily agreed.
“Good news, honey. Pooh is coming home to be with you.”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at me blankly. “Um, Iris, I’m pretty tired right now. I need my rest. I was wondering if you could give me some space for a little while.”
I nodded. It was peculiar that he didn’t even question how he got out of the hospital, or tell me how he managed to get out of his hospital bed in the first place to ransack his room. Last I knew he couldn’t walk. But yet he suddenly got up to go berserk in his room. I was starting to want answers from him, but I didn’t push.
“Honey,” I said, “do you want Max and Brut in here to keep you company? I could put their beds next to yours if you like.”
