Intensive Caring

by Bobby Hutchinson

  Lydia shook her head. “The only thing she ever said was that you’d be a healer. She didn’t like to predict when it came to her own family.” Lydia swallowed the last of the éclair. “Now, who’s this man you’re in love with, dear?”

  “What?” Portia was taken aback.

  “You are in love, aren’t you? I thought so when I first saw you. It makes some women lose weight, and if things aren’t going well, it can certainly make you cranky. And you are cranky and thin. So who is he?”

  “He—his name’s Nelson Gregory.” The words came haltingly at first, but once she’d begun, she couldn’t seem to stop. She told Lydia about the Huntington’s, about Nelson’s refusal to trust her intuition about the disease, his refusal to make any plans until the test came back.

  “Well, that doesn’t surprise me, Portia,” Lydia remarked. “Why should he trust you when you don’t trust yourself?”

  Indignation made her bristle. “That’s a rotten thing to say.” Why had she ever confided in Lydia? She should have known better. Her mother had never been supportive.

  “But it’s true, isn’t it? You told me you’ve stopped trying to see. And we both know that unless you use your ability, you lose it. Which is fine if that’s really what you want. But I’ve always felt we have it for a reason, even if we don’t know what that reason is. And I think letting a bunch of doctors or whoever they are bully you into submission isn’t healthy.”

  Juliet came wandering out of the bedroom just then, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Portia was grateful for the interruption. She didn’t need any more of her mother’s advice. She felt more irritable than ever, and anxious. She wanted to get the issues with Juliet settled so that she could go home and be by herself.

  “I had this dream,” Juliet announced. “It was the best dream. Stuart and I were getting married. I had this pretty dress and a lace thing on my head, and I wanted the dream to go on and on. I hated waking up. Portia, my shoulder still hurts and I’m really, really thirsty. Can I have some juice?”

  Lydia ordered it. For the next half hour, Portia did her best to help her sister verbalize her sadness about Stuart and her joy over the baby. Lydia made an effort to listen; Portia had to credit her with that. It gave her an idea. She stood up and retrieved her coat from the closet.

  “Are we going already?” Juliet got to her feet.

  “Not you, Jules. I’m going. You’re staying here with Mom. The two of you have stuff to talk about, private stuff.”

  Portia saw the alarm on her mother’s face, the uncertainty on Juliet’s, and she had a pang of guilt at abandoning them, but she subdued it. If mother and daughter were ever going to reach a point where they were comfortable with each other, it had to happen without Portia running interference.

  “I have to work tomorrow, so Mom will see that you get back to Harmony House tonight, Jules.”

  “How?” Juliet’s chin was wobbling.

  “In a taxi.” Portia went over and hugged her sister. Juliet clung to her, and as she held her, Portia felt a stab of alarm. Juliet, too, had lost weight in the past few weeks. She felt fragile. But there was something else, as well, something that Portia had been too self-absorbed, too distracted, too bad-tempered, to notice till now.

  Portia stepped back and really looked at her sister, willing herself to see the colors she’d been doing her best to ignore, and what she saw sent raw fear coursing through her veins.

  “Juliet, when do you see Dr. Jacobsen again?”

  “You know, the nurse wrote it down on that little card, not next week, the week after. You remember. Dr. Jacobsen’s going away because her daughter’s getting married. She’s gonna wear a white dress and I wish I could get married like in my dream, Portia. Don’t go and leave me here, okay?”

  Portia wasn’t listening. “We need to get you to the hospital, Jules. Right now.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LYDIA LOOKED SHOCKED, and Juliet began whining.

  “But just my shoulder hurts, Portia. I can have an aspirin. Remember you said—”

  Portia was bundling Juliet into her coat. Juliet resisted.

  “I don’t wanna go to the hospital. They give you needles there. I don’t like needles. I don’t want to. I don’t like it there. Why do I have to?”

  “What’s going on, Portia? What do you see?” Lydia spoke quietly, but her face reflected her concern.

  “This pregnancy is ectopic. The fallopian tube is in danger of bursting. We need to go to St. Joe’s right now.”

  The urgency in her voice was enough to convince Lydia. She threw her coat on and called down to make certain Portia’s car would be waiting.

  Juliet wailed and resisted. It took both Lydia and Portia to put her in the car, and within moments they were on their way.

  Portia tried to calm Juliet, but her sister was beyond reason. She howled the entire short distance, and when Portia wheeled into St. Joe’s emergency entrance, Juliet was hysterical. Portia needed the help of two orderlies to get Juliet out of the car and into a wheelchair.

  Once inside, Portia ordered a sedative. Examining room three was empty, and Portia wheeled her sister in.

  As soon as the drug took effect, Juliet quieted and listened. Lydia, too, paid attention as Portia explained what was wrong and what had to be done.

  She used a diagram of an egg and a sperm, and a chart of a woman’s body. “This is the uterus, where a baby grows. But sometimes the fertilized egg doesn’t go to the right place. That’s what’s happened with you, Jules.” She pointed to the fallopian tubes. “Your pregnancy is implanted here, and it’s very dangerous.” She drew a deep breath, because she knew Juliet was going to be devastated when she finally understood. “We have to stop it from growing more, Jules. If we leave it there, you could die. You could bleed into the abdominal cavity…here.”

  “So you can just move it, right? You can move my baby to the right place. Can’t you, Portia?”

  The trust her sister had in her was heartbreaking.

  “No, Juliet.” Why did things have to be so difficult? “There’s no way anyone can do that.” She said what had to be said. “There’s not going to be a baby, honey.” Not this time. Maybe not ever, if the fallopian tube had to be removed and there was any sort of problem with the other one.

  Portia tried to curb her sense of urgency, not wanting to frighten Lydia or Juliet more than necessary. “If possible, we’ll only remove the embryo. But if the likelihood of rupture is high, we may have to take the tube out. First we’re going to do an ultrasound. It’s a test where a radiologist looks at a screen and sees what’s inside your tummy, Jules. It won’t hurt, I promise. I’ll come along and hold your hand the whole while.”

  Juliet began to cry, the openmouthed wails that Portia was used to but that had always embarrassed Lydia. Now, however, she wrapped her arms around Juliet and held her, crooning comfort.

  Juliet wouldn’t be comforted, however. “I want Stuart. I love Stuart. It’s his baby, too. Make him come here, Portia. I want him here with me. Please get him to come here, Mama.” She sniffled. “I’m scared.”

  Lydia glanced at Portia and then used a tissue on Juliet’s cheeks and nose. “I’ll try to find him, honey. Do you have a phone number for him?”

  Juliet dug a dog-eared paper from her purse.

  “This is his sister’s number. Her name is Bernice. But she’ll be mad if you tell her it’s about me. His mother told Bernice not to let me talk to Stuart. His mother doesn’t like me. She says I’m a slut.”

  “She does, does she?” Lydia’s eyes flashed fire. She pursed her lips and snatched the paper. “You go with Portia now, and I’ll do my best to get Stuart here.”

  “You promise? You promise, Mama?”

  “I promise.” Lydia marched off in search of a telephone.

  For Portia, the next few hours were filled with decisions. The blood tests and ultrasound confirmed what she’d intuitively known.

  Juliet had an ectopic pregnancy, and just as Mor
gan had thought, the fetus was further developed than suspected. The fallopian tube was dangerously enlarged, on the verge of rupture. That negated the possibility of using the drug methotrexate, which destroyed a pregnancy by halting cell growth. Immediate surgery was necessary. Juliet’s life could be in danger.

  And once again, Portia could tell from the questions her co-workers asked and the sidelong glances they gave her that everyone was speculating on how she could possibly have known the danger Juliet was in. The admitting history showed no symptoms apart from the sore shoulder Juliet had complained of that morning. There had been no bleeding, no pain, no visible motive for rushing her into Emerg and ordering tests.

  As she’d always done, Portia simply said she’d had a hunch something was not right.

  Lydia was gone for some time. When she returned, Juliet was already prepped for surgery. She’d been given tranquilizing drugs, but still she tried to sit up when her mother appeared beside the stretcher.

  “Is Stuart coming to see me, Mama?” Her voice was thick, her eyelids heavy. “Is he coming? I need Stuart. I need him.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I couldn’t find him.” Lydia’s jaw was set, and she looked as if she’d been doing battle. “I tried my best, but really, those relatives of his are not helpful in the least. He’s not living with his sister anymore. He moved out two days ago. I finally pried out of Bernice the name of the car dealership where Stuart’s been working, likely illegally. But the man who answered said that Stuart only worked mornings. He didn’t have a phone number or an address for wherever Stuart is presently living.”

  “Stuart’s not coming? He’s not coming to see me?” Juliet’s voice was agonized, and she started to cry again.

  “I’ll keep trying to get hold of him,” Lydia assured her. “I’ll find a way to get him here, even if I have to go and bring him myself.”

  “Promise, Mama. Promise you’ll go and bring him.”

  “Mother can’t promise that, Jules. All we can promise is we’ll do our very best.” Portia stroked her sister’s hair and eased her back down on the stretcher.

  “Time to go, young lady.” An orderly came to wheel Juliet into the OR. When she was gone, Portia turned to her mother.

  “One of us will have to go to Seattle and track him down. That’s all there is to it. Did his sister say why he’d moved out?”

  Lydia shook her head. “No. And she was very defensive. She wouldn’t give me any information, except that he was working at that car dealership…washing cars. The man I spoke to there was very friendly. He said Stuart was a hard worker and reliable. He also said he didn’t know Stuart’s new address, but he’s living with someone named Edgar. The manager would know, but he, too, had left for the day.” She handed Portia a scrap of paper with numbers and names scribbled across it. “I’d be quite willing to fly down and try to locate Stuart, but I called the airport and there aren’t any seats available until tomorrow afternoon. How I’ll ever convince him to come back with me, I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

  Since Lydia had never connected with Juliet, it was unlikely that she’d develop any sort of immediate rapport with Stuart, even if she did manage to locate him. Seattle was a big city. And Stuart wasn’t going to trust a stranger.

  There was only one solution. Portia’s heart sank, and now her mission statement seemed like a mockery. “I’ll drive down and see if I can find him,” she sighed. “But I don’t want to leave until Juliet’s out of surgery.”

  Portia had no objectivity whatsoever when it was her sister undergoing surgery. Her usual composure had totally deserted her by the time the surgeon, Dr. James Burke, came in to say that the operation was over.

  “I’m afraid the fallopian tube was irreparably damaged and had to be removed,” Burke reported. “Unfortunately, the other tube is not fully developed, which means that it won’t be possible for Juliet to become pregnant again, at least not in the normal fashion.”

  Tears welled up in Portia’s eyes, and for a moment she couldn’t respond. Juliet’s baby would have posed an enormous problem, requiring all manner of support. But the loss of the baby—and the realization, as well, that she’d never have another—would bring Juliet terrible sadness.

  Finding Stuart was even more urgent now. Juliet would need all the support and love available when she learned the news.

  Burke left, and Lydia reached out and took Portia’s hand. It was an unprecedented gesture on her mother’s part; Lydia had never been demonstrative. “It’s going to be tough to explain this to her, isn’t it?”

  Portia nodded. “Yeah. She’ll be waking up soon, and she’ll want Stuart. I’ll just have to go to Seattle and see what I can do.”

  “How long’s the drive from Vancouver?”

  “Three hours, depending on the traffic at the border.” Another hour or two to locate Stuart. Three hours back. She’d be lucky to get in on time for work tomorrow morning. She’d have to ask if someone could take her shift.

  The prospect of the long drive and sleepless night was daunting, but Portia could see no alternative.

  They went up to Recovery. Juliet was doing well, the nurse reported, but she was still far too groggy from the anesthesia to hold a conversation. She opened her eyes when Portia spoke to her but fell instantly asleep again.

  She’d be moved to the surgical floor within the hour, and by then Portia hoped she’d be more responsive.

  “Let’s have something to eat, and then I’ll leave,” she suggested to Lydia. She felt exhausted, and she hoped that at least part of that was hunger.

  They’d just sat down with their trays in the cafeteria when Gordon Caldwell came in. When he was finished making his selections, Portia waved him over to their table. “Care to join us?”

  She introduced him to Lydia and explained to her mother that Gordon was the caregiver for one of her favorite patients.

  “What a coincidence to find you here. I just called your home number,” Gordon said. “Cedric wanted to see you this evening. He wanted me to get hold of you and ask if you’d stop by.”

  “I took the day off. I planned to see him tomorrow morning first thing.”

  Portia was in the habit of popping into the Palliative Care Unit to visit Cedric three or four times each day. He’d had a difficult few days settling in, but once he realized that Portia and his street friends would come and visit and that the hospital staff were there to make him comfortable and not lecture him about his packing crate, he’d relaxed. Sadly, his condition continued to deteriorate rapidly.

  “He’s getting morphine every couple of hours,” Gordon said.

  Portia understood that Gordon was telling her Cedric’s pain had increased dramatically—the progression from Tylenol 3 to morphine had been recent, and the increase in the dosage was significant.

  “It’s getting harder for him to talk. There was a big change just this afternoon. I’m spending as much time as I can with him,” Gordon said.

  Again, Gordon and Portia exchanged meaningful glances. They both realized Cedric didn’t have much longer to live. If he’d been asking for her, Portia knew she had to go to him immediately. She gulped her sandwich, excused herself and left her mother and Gordon discussing the fishing in Bermuda.

  Cedric’s room was large and bright, with windows that looked out on a small grassy courtyard. The rough wooden packing crate Gordon had collapsed and reconstructed inside the room took up most of the space, leaving just enough for Cedric to maneuver his wheelchair in and out of the bathroom.

  “Knock, knock.” Portia waited outside the crate until Cedric responded.

  “Doc.” His voice was noticeably weaker than it had been just the day before, but the smile he gave Portia was wide and welcoming. His words were little more than a gasp, the drawl almost unintelligible, and there was no poetry to greet her, as there usually was.

  Portia bent her head as she came through the low doorway.

  Inside the crate, the old mattress he’d slept on had been repla
ced by a narrow, high-tech hospital bed, but it was covered with Cedric’s worn green sleeping bag. In the corners of the crate, stacked cardboard cartons held his beloved books. His few items of clothing as well as his combination tape player and radio were on a folding table. Gordon had asked if he wanted a television, but Cedric had refused.

  Portia was used to perching on the bed during her visits. She did so, hiding the shock she felt at the dramatic change in Cedric’s appearance in the few hours since she’d last seen him. He seemed to have shrunk. Only the light in his luminous eyes was the same. She took his hand in hers, stroking skin stretched tight over birdlike bones.

  “How’s it going, my friend?”

  “Can’t—talk,” he whispered.

  “That’s okay. I’ll talk for both of us. Do you need more painkiller?”

  He made a tiny negative movement with his head and tried to smile.

  To amuse him, Portia had fallen into the habit of telling him anecdotes about her life, turning it into the soap opera Joanne had once teased her about. She’d told Cedric about her psychic ability and the problems it had caused. At first, she’d avoided talking about Nelson, believing that Cedric would be hurt if she confessed her love for another man.

  But he’d known without her saying a word. He’d asked her point-blank if she and Nelson were going to get married. She’d said no and changed the subject.

  She told him now about Juliet, relieving him of the effort it took to speak. She was explaining what an ectopic pregnancy was when Nelson’s voice sounded outside the packing crate.

  “Anybody home? Can I come in?”

  Portia froze. She hadn’t seen Nelson since the night she’d asked him to leave her house, and she didn’t want to see him now. She knew he was in the habit of visiting Cedric regularly—Gordon had told her he stopped by most evenings—and she’d always managed to avoid meeting him here.

  She couldn’t just get up and leave; she’d hardly spent five minutes with Cedric. Her heart began racing, and she could feel nervous perspiration trickle between her breasts.