Compass (Siren Songs Book 2)

by Stephie Walls

  “You didn’t do this, Moby. You didn’t choose any of this.” She lets out a deep sigh before continuing. “I’m not going to lie and say life is easy. It’s not, and frequently I wonder how we’re ever going to come through it, but I love you. For whatever reason, that’s being tested. Hopefully, we pass with flying colors.”

  I don’t even want to think about the hopefully part of that last sentence. The thought of not surviving this together is more than I can handle. Life without Piper is a life I don’t want to live, but I’m starting to wonder how much more she can withstand. I try to put myself in her situation, and the reality is, I doubt I could stay given the circumstances. That’s a hard pill to swallow. It has nothing to do with the depth of my affection but more to do with my inability to cope.

  I’ve never had to deal with much in my life. School, sports, work, it always comes easily for me. The toughest thing I’ve ever been through prior to the stroke was losing Jeremy, but compared to Dax’s pain, mine was nothing. But grief is different than disability. There was no amount of work or suffering that would bring him back from death, it was more about accepting the loss and learning to move on.

  It was hard to see Dax and Cam go through her ordeal, but again, I hated their situation, but it wasn’t mine to face. All I had to do was love them through it.

  This. This is my problem, and no one is going to love me through it. I have to fight like hell to come out on the other side, and I have to face reality—the other side might not include Piper.

  Watching her move through the house, I ponder what life without her around would be like. Everything about that scenario scares me, terrifies me even. I don’t know how to cling to her without strangling her and killing her spirit in the process. In the months since the stroke, I’ve seen so much change. Her once-vibrant personality is now lackluster; her exuberance for life is now tainted by the harsh realities of existence. Weary eyes and overtly apparent exhaustion hide her quirky sex appeal. My presence in her life is killing the woman I knew, the one I married.

  I should let her go, I really should walk away from her, giving her everything, but I’m a selfish bastard. I claimed her the day I put that ring on her finger. She committed to me the day she walked down the aisle. I may lose her in the end, but it won’t be because I was the better man and allowed her to go.

  As if she can sense me thinking of her, she stops vacuuming, appearing around the corner to check on me. “Feeling any better?”

  “I’ll be okay until morning. I’ll call Dr. Murdock then.”

  My lie must have been convincing as she resumes her housework without nagging me about a visit to the ER. As nightfall comes and the light in the house wanes, she brings me a sandwich, not stopping to cook. Finally finishing all the chores left undone when she arrived home she collapses in bed around ten without a word. I find her still fully dressed from the day and do my best to cover her with a blanket before joining her.

  The following weeks bring more of the same. Once again, Piper’s back to essentially being a full-time caregiver. We’ve been to countless doctors, specialists, internists, rheumatologists, and nutritionists; at last count, we’ve seen seventeen unique doctors or homeopathic specialists in three cities, all with the same result. None of them has a clue why I’m in such debilitating pain, and none have been able to relieve it longer than the narcotic lasts.

  Initially, I worried I’d become addicted to the painkillers. Now I’m afraid I’m going to die before someone can diagnose the problem. Once again I’m confined to a wheelchair, unable to walk because the pain is so severe. My wife helps me to the bathroom, bathes me, dresses me, feeds me. Every movement is more painful than the last.

  My rehabilitation process has completely halted since I can’t do any of the work. None of my therapists have ever seen anything in a stroke patient like I’m experiencing. Piper has an obsession with finding an answer and a solution. If she’s not at work, she’s on the phone with an expert in one subject or another, researching on the Internet, Googling people with similar experiences and symptoms. I think it’s the only way she can cope with my drastic downward spiral. I’m in far worse shape than I ever was after the stroke.

  When she left for work this morning, I begged her to let me stay home in bed. I couldn’t bear another day in her office watching her work or listening to her talk on the phone. I know she’s afraid to leave me but I have a phone and am still capable of pressing buttons. Nine-one-one only requires me to press three. I’m sure I can manage. She didn’t appreciate my sarcasm, but relented, leaving me with a urine container so I don’t have to try to get up as frequently. It’s disgusting, but this is my life.

  I spend my day answering her calls to check on me and watching countless reruns on Netflix. I haven’t heard from her in the last couple hours, which means she’s busy. By the time my phone rings I’m in so much pain I can’t reach for it lying next to me on the bed. When I don’t answer, she waits for a couple minutes and calls back. Ringing again, I force myself to roll over, touching the speaker button.

  “Hello,” I muster.

  “Everything all right? I was thinking about stopping to get pizza for dinner. I’m too tired to cook.”

  “Okay,” I croak out, my voice breaking on the second syllable.

  “Moby?”

  “I’m here,” I say through the distress.

  “Do I need to call an ambulance?” The peace in her voice when I first answered the phone no longer remains.

  “No. Just come home. Please.” I can’t hold back the tears. I sob into the phone, “Please come help me, Piper. I can’t bear the pain anymore.”

  “I’ll be there as fast as I can.” The line disconnects and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, my wife is calling for reinforcement.

  “Moby,” I hear someone calling my name, but they’re so far away I don’t recognize it.

  “Moby.” Their insistence is beginning to irritate me. There’s more than one voice, but I’m unable to distinguish who they belong to over the hum of the television.

  The fingers on my face smell like the lavender soap in the bathroom. When they pry my eyes open, there stands a blurry Dax, with Brooks and Landis in the background. Unable to focus on them, they allow my lids to close, or maybe it was my inability to communicate with them. Inability or unwillingness, I’m unsure which.

  Floating in and out of awareness, I fight like hell to regain my bearings when I hear Piper breaking down. I see her between the slits sobbing into her hands; my brother’s arms are wrapped around her to keep her from sinking. Reaching toward her in an effort to comfort her, I start to fall.

  “Whoa, Moby. Just stay still. The paramedics are on the way.” My oldest brother. Always taking care of everyone else. “Piper’s here. Brooks has her. Just stay still, man.” His face is near my ear. Oddly, I wonder if anyone else can hear his soft coos or if his whisper is solely for me. “Stay with me, Moby. You hear me? You fight like hell to stay with me.”

  It seeps out before I can stop it. “I just want to die. Please just let me go.” I’d fought the words for months knowing if I ever spoke them my will to fight would cease but I can’t do it anymore. I can’t live in the agony constantly surrounding me, not just the physical pain, but the emotional turmoil. I need to set my wife free, but she’ll never leave me on this side of eternity. She’ll stay and endure hell before walking away. I can’t continue as this burden on everyone in my life.

  I just want to go. I need to go. I want the peace death will bring.

  Squeezing my hand, my brother speaks into my ear, “Don’t say that, Moby. I can’t lose another brother and your wife can’t lose a husband.”

  Without opening my eyes, what seems like a wail but could possibly be a murmured plea, “Please, Dax. Let me go.”

  “Not happening, Moby. I’ll fight as long as I can to keep you here.”

  The effort to argue with my brother takes too much energy, as does the fight for my life. Just as I’m about to tell him g
oodbye, the paramedics push him to the side, and I let the darkness seep in.

  The lights are bright, so fucking white they’re blinding. My head is pounding but for the first time in months, I don’t feel pain—my hips, my knees, my arms, none of them hurt. Turning my head to the side, I attempt to peek through my lids. Next to me sits my wife balled up in a plastic chair, her head resting on her folded arm. She looks miserably uncomfortable, and she’s not wearing the clothes she had on this morning.

  I don’t wake her or call for the nurse. Sleep lures me back into the veil of darkness where I’m comfortably numb.

  “He’s moved around some, but I don’t think he’s woken up.” Piper’s voice is still that of an angel no matter how many times I hear it.

  “We’re keeping him pretty heavily dosed on morphine to ward off the pain until we can figure out what’s causing it. It will be difficult for him to come out of it as long as he continues to receive it. If he does, it will be fleeting, maybe a minute or two. His vitals are strong, so rest is the best thing we can give him.”

  “But you still have no idea what’s wrong?”

  “I’ve just been brought in on the case, but I have a couple ideas I haven’t seen in any of the notes. He’s seen a rheumatologist, correct?”

  “Yes, several times, but all he did was prescribe steroids, which caused his blood pressure to spike so he couldn’t take them. They took him off them after a two or three days. When Moby called him back to tell him, the doctor blew him off, so we haven’t been back since.”

  My dreams are few and far between, and I can’t distinguish if they’re delusions or reality. I used to love listening to my brother play the guitar but it seems so close I could almost reach out and touch the strings. My favorite songs echo in the background of my darkness. The acoustics a beautiful melody only Dax can bring to life.

  “He’s smiling,” she says to someone. “Keep playing, Dax. He hears you.”

  Knowing they’re here with me, I open my eyes as much as possible, the light again flooding my pupils. Blinking rapidly to keep it from coming in too quickly I can’t really make out the shapes, but I’d know those sounds anywhere.

  “Moby? Are you awake?” her face appears in my view, close up.

  “Mmmm,” is all I can manage to utter. My throat is dry and words just don’t seem to want to come.

  Her hand smooths my hair, a gentle smile crosses her face. “I’ll get the nurse,” she says softly.

  The grogginess begins to subside as the fog lifts. I fight the urge to go back to sleep in favor of seeing my wife and brother.

  When Piper returns to the room, Dax has helped me sit up a little in the bed.

  “The doctor will be in soon. How are you feeling?”

  “Better. My head hurts, but that’s about it. How long have I been asleep?”

  “About five days,” she replies nonchalantly. Her carefree attitude surprises me. “They figured out what was wrong on day two and believe they have the issue resolved, but I’m pretty sure the doctor has some questions for you.” I can’t detect what’s off in her voice. It’s not quite agitation. It’s almost accusation.

  Before I can ask, a doctor I don’t recognize comes in. “Mr. Cooper. Glad to have you with us. Hopefully in better shape than you came in.” His voice booms through the room, echoing off the sterile walls.

  I nod, unsure of what response he’s looking for.

  “Any pain in the joints?”

  I shake my head.

  “Good.” He takes a seat in one of the spare chairs in the room before continuing. “So your case presented some difficult challenges. As you know, you’re not a classic stroke victim, and therefore didn’t present issues typically following a stroke. I’ve only read about something like this in medical journals, but really feel like one of the doctors you’ve seen should have caught it.”

  Looking at Piper, she sees my confusion, comforting me with a hand to the shoulder as she listens to what I’m sure she’s heard before.

  “You’re on a myriad of drugs to maintain a stable blood pressure, more than anyone I’ve ever seen to be honest, and considerably higher doses than any of the manufacturers recommend. Most of those drugs are prescribed to patients much older than you are so we never see the long-term effects because they pass away before they actually manifest. But at high doses with continued use there are drugs that cause symptoms mimicking other diseases.”

  “Okay…”

  “You were prescribed Hydralazine. My understanding from your wife is you were to take it under specific circumstances in regards to where your blood pressure was at the time of dose. Is that correct?”

  Fuck.

  Shit is about to hit the fan.

  Looking to Piper, I now know what the tone of her voice represented. “Yes. That’s correct.”

  “Is it safe to assume you were not adhering to those directions?”

  I just nod.

  “There’s a reason prescriptions are written the way they are, Mr. Cooper. Your abuse of that drug—”

  I interrupt him, “Wait, I wasn’t abusing a drug. I never took more than I was supposed to or anything.”

  “Maybe not, but your instructions were to only take the medication if your diastolic or systolic pressure were above certain levels, correct?”

  I breathe in heavily through my nose, releasing that breath before taking one more. “Yes.” This is why I was supposed to take my blood pressure three times a day. Had I been doing so, I would have known I didn’t need the medication and wouldn’t be lying here.

  “Your body began to store the medication because it didn’t need it. The overuse of the drug caused Drug Induced Lupus. When we eliminated the drug from your system, your pain went away.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s an autoimmune disorder that causes the body to attack its own healthy cells producing symptoms like those of Systemic Lupus.”

  “So it’s not going to come back?” This seems too good to be true.

  “It shouldn’t. We’ll keep you here tonight to watch you, but you’ll be released in the morning assuming nothing unforeseen takes place between now and then preventing it.”

  “Wow.” I don’t know what else to say to him.

  “Mr. Cooper, let this be a lesson to you. Unless you have an MD after your name, don’t self-prescribe, trust the professionals to do it for you and take prescriptions as they’re written, not as you see fit.”

  Shaking my hand, he bids farewell to Dax and Piper before leaving the room.

  It’s apparent Dax already knew the answers to the doctor’s questions as did Piper. The look on her face is sheer devastation. I lied to her again and didn’t uphold my end of our deal.

  “I’m going to go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat. I’ll give you guys some time alone.” He stops by the door for a minute, tapping his hand on the doorframe before continuing. “I’m not going to call anyone other than Mom and Dad. They left a little while ago, so I’m going to update them. Piper, just let me know when you’re ready.”

  My eyes dart back and forth between the two of them unaware of what’s going on. Terrified of what my fate holds.

  I pull the chair close to Moby’s bed, prepared to have the most difficult conversation of my life. I’ve talked at length with my Fish and Dax and feel I have no other alternatives.

  Taking his hand in mine, I watch him search my face. I wish I thought he had no idea what’s coming, but I know he knows I can’t continue when he’s not doing his part.

  “Moby, I’ve spent the last few days thinking about what the doctors have said. How different things could’ve been if you had only followed their instructions. I think about the amount of money we’ve wasted on specialists and the pain you’ve unknowingly inflicted on yourself by your simple refusal to do what you’re told by licensed professionals.

  “You promised me when you came clean about not doing the rehabilitation work your lies and misrepresentation wer
e over. You committed to doing things the right way, exactly as prescribed. Whether that was exercising or taking medication, you promised me you would do it.”

  “I have done it. You’ve made sure I did it. You’ve had someone babysitting me day and night for months.”

  “Did you take your blood pressure three times a day before taking the Hydralazine?” My question seems like a simple yes or no, but the implications to the answer are far more severe.

  “Did you? Because according to your journal, you didn’t. All the workouts with Dax, Brooks, and Landis are all outlined but there are very few days where there’s even one BP charted, much less three. So, yes or no?”

  “No.” I know by the way he spits the word out he wants to argue, but the truth is the truth.

  “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t continue to give more of myself than you do of yours. I’ve been patient. I’ve sacrificed everything I know to do. We’ve cashed in every penny we had in savings and even borrowed money from my best friend to make sure you had the best money could buy. I can’t continue to sit back and watch you waste your life. I refuse to watch you die.”

  “So what are you saying, Piper?” His voice is louder than it should be, causes a passing nurse to stick her head in the door to make sure everything is okay.

  “Dax has spoken to your parents, and when the hospital releases you tomorrow, you’ll be going home with them.”

  “What?” he screams at my somber face. “You’re fucking leaving me? I’m in the goddamn hospital having been out of it for five days, and you’re telling me you want to separate? What the fuck is wrong with you, Piper? Are you really that shallow?” I listen to the litany of curse words flying from his mouth; each one hits like a dagger, I flinch at each cross syllable.

  His brother comes stomping in. I should’ve known he wouldn’t be far; always the knight in shining armor. “Moby, you need to calm down.”

  “Fuck you, man. You helped my wife orchestrate a separation from me while I was comatose? What the hell is your deal? I would never do that shit to you! Who do you think you are?”