In His Angel's Arms

by Lynne Marshall

  Mallory ventured toward the end of the bed. According to the chart, J.T. Prescott had been home for one month. “I’m so sorry about everything that’s happened to you,” she said, mostly to herself.

  Could this patient possibly be the same tall, robust, and confident medical director she’d known from Mercy Hospital? Could this shadow of life be the same man that had demanded her attention just by his mere presence, any time he’d visited the hospital ward? He looked more like a recluse than the dashing dark-haired Dr. Prescott.

  It had been six weeks since their meeting in his office.

  At a loss how to begin, she walked to the window and threw open the curtains to allow the natural light of day inside. “The sun will either begin your healing process or, if you’re a vampire, fry you.” Going for a bit of humor, she turned to catch any reaction. There was none.

  Well, he looked pale enough to be a vampire. His eyes twitched and blinked and fought with the invading rays of sun and he let go with a paroxysm of silent ventilator coughing, setting off the alarm. Did he even recognize her? Or had he withdrawn completely into the prison of his paralyzed body?

  Mallory closed the curtain halfway and approached the bedside to suction his tracheostomy. She vowed to use saline lavage every hour to thin and clear his airway secretions, hoping it would make a difference.

  “Do you like music?” Cringing that she’d asked him a question when he couldn’t talk, she plunged ahead. “I’ll bring a radio tomorrow and we’ll find a nice station.”

  Dull crusty gray eyes had replaced the vibrant blue she’d remembered.

  He looked so pitiful, lying there tethered to a breathing machine, feeding tube, urinary catheter, and intravenous line, the sum total of his being. All perfect entryways for opportunistic infection, and he was helpless to stop it. She knew it was like fighting a wild fire with a wet towel for nurses to prevent certain infections from developing in patients such as him.

  She’d do her best to create a cheerful atmosphere for the man she remembered and respected, despite the overwhelming surge of depression that passed through her.

  “Don’t suppose you want to hear all the latest gossip from Mercy Hospital, do you?” She shook her head and smiled down at him. “I didn’t think so. I’ll shut up now.”

  Mallory looked at the man before her, pale, gaunt, frail, oily and dry, all at once. He needed mouth care and once she’d finished with his suctioning, she planned to do just that. In fact, she intended to give him a complete bed bath and wash his hair before the morning was over. Today, she would definitely earn her money.

  The night-shift nurse had told her about the long list of dos and don’ts posted on the wall. The paper read, ‘The Patient’s Bill of Rights and Wishes.’ She read them a second time.

  “What idiot thought up these?” She spoke out loud to her patient.

  He furrowed his brow and sent her dagger looks.

  “And what genius had the bright idea to send you home from the hospital after two short weeks?” She waltzed over to Dr. Prescott. “Can you believe it? I know California is sending patients home sooner than they are ready, but this takes the cake. When you’re better, you should file a complaint against the hospital. Better yet, a lawsuit.”

  She thought she detected a low growl from his throat. Suddenly distracted, she heard footsteps creak down the wooden floor of the hallway. She stopped cold in her monologue and listened.

  “Isn’t it frightening to be alone here all the time?” She shivered just as the door opened.

  A man with a weathered face and grizzled hair, in a gray uniform, stuck his head inside. “Good morning. My name’s Jake.” He reached for Mallory’s hand and shook it. “I’ve worked for Dr. Prescott as his grounds keeper and security guard for the last five years. It’s just me and him around here now,” he said in a gravelly voice.

  He stepped inside the room. “Hiya, Doc.” He lifted a hand, like taking an oath, and acknowledged his boss.

  “He don’t have any relatives to take care of him. Heaven forbid his ex-wife might step up to the plate to help out. No. She couldn’t put a crimp in her social life the good Dr. Prescott here pays for.”

  The old man smiled toward the bed with a hint of blue visible beneath his drooping lids, and Mallory thought she saw JT’s strained face muscles relax.

  “How could the Mercy Hospital discharge planning team send him home to an empty house?”

  “They had no choice. Dr. Prescott here has everything written down. He’s not to stay in any hospital for more than two weeks. His wishes. His lawyer threatened to take it to court if they gave him any guff. This one here likes to be in charge, and he’s got everything written out.” He walked toward the door. “Just like these rules here. He thought through all of this when he wrote his directives out a long time ago.”

  Mallory blanched, remembering her earlier comment.

  “Dr Berger comes every day to check up on him, and so does a respiratory therapist. There’s twenty-four-hour round-the-clock bedside care. He specified only RNs should be hired and trusted the head of Mercy Hospital Personnel to find the best ones. I live on the premises. I’ve got a hotline to both the fire department and the police. Everything is all worked out.”

  He stepped toward the exit and made a rat-a-tap-tap with arthritic fingers on the wall. “He’s his own man, he is.” He winked a pouchy eye. “So I guess I’ll be seeing you around?”

  This ancient yet alert man was the person J.T. Prescott trusted with his very life. She guessed she could trust him, too.

  “Every weekend.”

  “Call if you need me.” He nodded, handed her his pager number and left.

  Slowly putting it all together, she realized J.T. Prescott was a total control freak to go to such extremes to have extensive and thorough advance directives for his personal medical care. Yet wasn’t that what all hospitals and doctors recommended these days?

  The horror of his helpless condition sank in. How must a man used to being in charge and running things feel being trapped inside his body?

  She turned to face him, completely aware of the video camera security system sweeping the room. No doubt Dr. Prescott had hired a security company to make sure no one abused him in the event he wound up like this. He’d probably written that part out, too. He’d thought of absolutely everything.

  “Don’t worry. Since it’s basically just you and me, I’m going to be your personal advocate every weekend. Since you can’t speak and I can, I’ll sum it all up for you. Un-freaking-believable. That’s what your situation is.” After a surge of emotion she pushed some stray hairs away from her face, and worked to regain her composure. “I promise to take good care of you.” She brushed oily hair off his forehead and smiled down at him. “Now, pardon me while I fill the basin and give you a bed bath.”

  She heard him break into another coughing spasm when she turned away.

  *

  His full and complete life had come down to this, a mere existence monitored by machines and strangers. He should have been in Kenya, snapping pictures of strange wildlife. The only thing strange in this room was him.

  But right this moment strong fingers were touching his head, massaging shampoo into his hair, invigorating the only senses he had left.

  The nurse he knew as the perky Mallory Glenn washed and scrubbed his head with warm water and scalp-tingling shampoo. Her fingertips felt like angel kisses, and he kept his eyes tightly shut so she wouldn’t be able to tell how she moved him. His head and face being the only place left on his body he could feel, her stroking caused chills down his neck. So starved for human contact, her touch danced right to his core. Which was strange, as theoretically he couldn’t feel anything below his neck. Yet he felt phantom electrical sparks across his body, and wondered if his paralyzed flesh could still make goose-bumps on his limbs.

  Wait. He had feeling back in his face. He made some exaggerated facial expressions to make sure. A big clown-like smile. A pouting frown. Eyes str
etched wide, then tightly shut. He hadn’t been able to do that yesterday. Progress! If he could laugh, he would.

  Man could not live by machine alone. Human contact was vital to his existence and he savored the feel of Mallory’s touch. Elated by the sudden small steps toward progress, he gave in to her spell. She washed and stroked his head with relaxing warm water, and he wanted to groan, but he fought the spontaneous response.

  After the invigorating ministrations, maybe he’d forgive her for accusing him of being an idiot.

  Why should he be called an idiot? Was man not the author of his own existence? Then why was it so far-fetched to dictate his wishes about medical care should a time such as this arise?

  He only wished his father had done the same thing before he’d had a massive stroke and had lain in a prolonged vegetative state, being kept alive by machines, until he’d finally died. The lawyers hadn’t been able to work fast enough through the court system to have his plug pulled.

  JT shuddered to think what would have happened to him had he not put everything in writing. He’d have been left to rot in a skilled nursing facility—one of many lives run by machines. Wasn’t that the point of building the rehab wing for the hospital—to have a place with skilled personnel for those in need of special care but not acute enough to remain in hospital?

  At least he knew here, at home, if his paralysis continued as it was, his trusted grounds keeper, Jake, would have the authority to make decisions.

  Everything had been spelled out far in advance of his becoming ill in a secret letter that only Jake possessed. They had an understanding, which he paid Jake well for. JT could breathe easier knowing that he wouldn’t be left in limbo, that was, if he couldn’t breathe on his own in another month.

  Resting assured that everything had been committed in writing, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to enjoy every stroke of Mallory’s skilled fingers.

  Her strong and talented hands almost lulled him to sleep. Feeling safe and secure in her care, he would have welcomed a nap.

  No such luck.

  *

  Once JT was clean, Mallory lathered his skin with lotion, lifting and bending each joint of his body. She knew he’d specified no massages with oil on his list, but she didn’t give a damn. His skin needed it, and if it got too dry, it could crack, break down, and become infected. She had a duty to her patient that overrode his misguided wishes.

  His body had already stiffened up, and she was damned if she would ever let JT develop contractures of his joints or pull inward to a fetal position on her watch.

  She started on his feet, and rolled the ankle joint around in its socket. Then worked up his leg.

  “There we go. Back and forth. Back and forth. Your muscles are craving this. I can tell.”

  Mallory was shocked by his loss of muscle mass. He’d always been athletic and well developed, and she’d often passed him on the stairwell at work, skipping up the flights, barely out of breath, as if it were nothing. She remembered the strong arms she’d noticed that day in his office. Now all of his strength had been zapped by complete bedrest.

  “In case you’re wondering why I took this job, my daughter is getting ready for college. She’s a great student, and I want to give her every opportunity I can. Thank God she got my brains and not her IQ-of-lettuce father’s. Not that I’m bitter or anything,” she said, poking her tongue in her cheek.

  She pushed inward and bent his knee toward the center of his body, covering his groin with a bath towel, respectful of his privacy. She’d done everything in her power not to gape when she’d bathed him. She was a paid professional, and bathing patients was part of what she did. She’d seen thousands of men in her lifetime as a nurse.

  But JT was the man for whom she’d carried a secret torch for ever. He was the kind of man she imagined she could find for herself one day, if she only stayed vigilant. Now he lay before her weak and helpless, yet something in his eyes remained proud. Was there a place for their prior friendship here in this dark and dreary room? The fact that he’d refused to look at her once when she’d cleaned him drove the point home that they had a unique relationship.

  “Yeah. So you’ll be seeing a lot of me for a while. Hopefully you’ll be out of this bed soon, and back to work, Dr. Prescott.”

  Working firmly yet gently, she pressed against the decreased range of motion. “We could use more good docs like you on the wards.”

  She repeated the same pattern on the other side of his body, and finally worked her way up to his hands and arms.

  She rubbed and stretched each finger, lacing her own through his and bending gently backward at the wrist. A subtle chill ran up her arm with the intimate intertwining of their fingers. Humming quietly, she massaged his forearms and worked his elbow joints. She leaned over him, lifted and tugged on his entire arm, away from the socket and around in a half-circle, then reversed it.

  They’d never been this close before. Granted, she’d imagined being skin to skin with him, but before today they’d never even touched.

  She noticed the strangest look in his eyes when she finished her therapy.

  She smiled at him and his forehead unfurled.

  “Tomorrow I’ll have you doing calisthenics.” Mallory grinned and patted his hand when she laid it gently across his chest. “It’s almost time for lunch.”

  She moved away from the bedside and found the cans of protein formula to bolus into his stomach tube.

  As she poured his liquid lunch into the feeding pouch, on the kangaroo pump, she wondered what kind of man would take the time to think through every step of his potential demise.

  J.T. Prescott had.

  *

  Mallory ate her brown-bag lunch and put her feet up on the leather ottoman during her break. JT slept peacefully, and she didn’t want to wake him, though soon it would be time to reposition him to avoid skin breakdown. No way would she allow him to develop bedsores while he was in her care.

  Was it her or had something strange passed between them when she’d washed his hair? It seemed as though he was feeling things for the first time. The prickling flesh across his body couldn’t be ignored. She’d caused a reaction in him. His thick black hair had grown to near shoulder-length, and she’d loved running her fingers through it. She’d fantasized about that once upon a time, but had never dreamed it would happen under these horrid circumstances.

  A sudden curiosity to find out more about her boss drove her out of the bedroom and into his living room. As suspected, a baby grand piano was in the corner. Sheet music lay spread across the music holder. She checked the composers—Debussy, Gershwin, Scott Joplin. More of his multitude of personal photographs with stunning vistas graced the intense rustred painted walls everywhere she looked. His taste in furniture was eclectic, almost bohemian, which surprised but also pleased her. His ex-wife must have gotten all of the decorator-perfect pieces.

  Afraid to spend more than a minute or two away from his bedside and her duty, she decided to head back into his room, but not before she noticed a wall full of books, many of them medical, and one particular book left open on his desk. The Day on Fire, a book based on the life of Arthur Rimbaud, the famous French poet. Hmm. So JT was a man of adventure, music, and poetry, not just a controlling, hard-as-nails doctor and hospital medical director. What else, she wondered, was there to discover about him?

  Before she left, one other thing nagged at the back of her brain. Guillain-Barré syndrome was supposed to be a condition of ascending and then descending paralysis. She understood the length of the illness was unpredictable, but why had Dr. Prescott remained in this protracted recovery? The medical progress notes in his chart had no definite reason as to why he’d contracted the acute inflammatory paralysis in the first place. Why had his immune system attacked itself? He’d been healthy without viral or bacterial infection for several months prior to being stricken, yet here he lay, helpless and dependent on the kindness of strangers.

  Mallory scanned the wall
for medical books. Surely somewhere inside one of them there had to be the key about his disease. She also had the internet at her fingertips at home. There had been a bond between them when they’d worked together, and earlier something unique had passed between them. Admitting what she’d sensed as a connection and betting he’d felt it too, she vowed to find out everything she could about the disease and its treatment. Hopefully, if she dug deep enough, she could find a way to help him.

  She removed a book from the shelf, Acute Medical Conditions—Possible Causes and Current Treatments. She planned to start her quest for saving Dr. Prescott that night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AFTER finding nothing of value in the medical book she’d brought home, Mallory turned to the internet. Though both physically and mentally exhausted from her twelve-hour day with JT, she pressed on with bleary eyes.

  Fifty per cent of GBS cases were caused by upper respiratory viruses or intestinal bacteria. The virus could change the nature of the cells in the nervous system so that the patient’s immune system identified them as foreign cells and attacked the nerve fibers.

  She pushed back in her chair.

  What caused the other fifty per cent? She thought back to that day in the ER. JT had answered no to both of those questions. What had caused his attack?

  She scooted forward, scrolled down the page bar and dug deeper into the information. Occasionally it occurred after surgery, and more rarely after a vaccination.

  Hmm. That was interesting.

  Guillain-Barré seemed to be a mysterious autoimmune disease. Neurological scientists, immunologists, virologists, and pharmacologists were all working to learn how to prevent the disorder and to make better therapies available when it struck, yet six weeks after developing his first symptoms, JT remained paralyzed, with no hint of the syndrome receding.

  Mallory had no idea what treatments had been given to him when he’d been in the ICU at Mercy Hospital, and she didn’t have access to his hospital chart.