“It’s like the first day of school,” Maggie mumbles through a yawn.
“Yeah, just like that. Except, instead of recess, my blood is being taken out of my body, cleaned, and put back in. Just like kindergarten.” I’m so not in the mood for her shit, especially at six AM.
“Goose,” I hear in my ear, accompanied by a neck squeeze. “Be nice. What do you need? What can I do?” Miller whispers, reining my mood back in. And, just that quick, I feel better. Not better, like I’m okay with this whole thing, but better, like I can actually walk through the doors of this horrible place.
“Just hold my hand and walk with me. Can you please just stay the whole time?”
Miller comes to stand in front of me and Dad takes all of my stuff from his arms.
“Well, I had a really hot date lined up this morning, but since you asked so nicely, I think I’d rather stay here with you,” he tells me, accompanied by one of his smirks.
“Come on Luce, let’s make dialysis your bitch!” my sister says from my other side.
Maggie is just so classy. Here goes nothing.
We push through the double doors and I’m immediately assaulted with the smells I have come to despise from years spent in hospitals and doctors’ offices. Hospital cleaners, that ugly, trademark vinyl smell of institutional furniture, and old, rancid coffee. The nausea is setting in, and I haven’t made it two feet inside. It settles deeper as my cheering section urges me toward the front desk. Mom, Dad, and Maggie hang back, and Miller and I walk to the receptionist. I’m greeted by an elderly woman with a “volunteer” badge pinned to the pink and white striped smock she’s wearing over her clothes. She has kind eyes, quite the weathered face, and beautiful grey hair. It looks like it would melt away if it got wet, like cotton candy. I instantly think of my sweet Grandmother, whose piece of furniture I took all my frustrations out on during my freak-out the other day.
“Hi, dear. How can I help you this morning? Are you here to visit someone?”
Well, that answers one question I had. I will definitely be the youngest person here. I can’t seem to find my voice to answer this sweet old lady’s questions. My vocal cords are paralyzed.
“Good morning, ma’am. I’m Miller. This is Lucy Brennan. She has a six o’clock appointment with her new health care team.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I was expecting someone a bit older. Right this way.”
The woman, ‘Rose’ according to her tag, shuffles from behind the desk and gestures for us to walk ahead of her. Miller and I start down a narrow hallway that runs along the side of desk, followed by Rose, and then the rest of the crew.
“This morning you will be meeting with the social worker you spoke with over the phone, as well as the chief administrator for the center, the nutritionist, and a few of the many nurses and techs who will be helping you out during your visits. I will come in at the end of the meeting to collect all of your paperwork and set up your standing appointments,” Rose rambles on as we continue down the hall and are seated in the office.
Everything she is saying is going in one ear and out the other. I can’t focus on a single word.
“Any questions so far, dear?”
I’m looking at poor Rose like she’s sprouted a second head.
“Ms. Rose, I think Lucy is feeling a bit overwhelmed. Let’s get her settled and then maybe she will have some things to ask.”
Saved again by Miller.
“Oh, of course,” she says, giving me a sweet smile and a gentle pat on the arm. “Your team will be in shortly. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Rose scoots out as quickly as her frail little body can go, which isn’t very quick at all.
I look around the room at the small table with just a few chairs and giggle. We are like sardines in this tiny room. I take a seat, Mom at my side in the other chair. Daddy and Miller are flanked at either side behind my back, each one holding onto a shoulder in a show of support. Maggie has deposited herself in a corner. She freaks out at anything medical. This is not her thing at all. How she will handle it when I am going through the actual act of dialyzing, I’m not sure. One of us may be hitting the floor today. Obviously, I’m not so good at medical shit either.
A few tense minutes later, a team comes strolling in. I meet Ana, the social worker, face to face. I also meet Mr. Hawkins, the administrator of the center, and Leslie, the nutritionist. I was unaware I needed a nutritionist. From what I gather, we have to monitor fluid intake, diet, salt, protein, etc. I also have to be weighed before and after each treatment. When they are all done with their speeches, about ten different nurses and techs introduce themselves to me. I have no idea what any of their names are. I can’t process anything that is being said to me right now. Thank God Mom is so OCD and is writing everything down that every person in the room is saying. Mom has a notebook that is filled with my medical history. She’s always got that damn thing with her. I guess I will have to carry her little notebook of facts with me each time I come to this wretched place.
Everyone is talking and asking questions, getting to know one another.
Everyone but me.
I keep getting little squeezes on my shoulders from Dad and Miller, or on the thigh from Mom, but they know better than to push right now. I may snap. So, I just smile, nod, and keep my mouth shut. Rose comes back and copies all of my insurance information. I now officially have a standing appointment every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at eight AM until this stops working and we need to go to the other option.
“Are we ready to get started?” Mr. Hawkins asks, looking at Mom.
I guess he’s figured out I’m not participating today.
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Mom replies, giving Mr. Hawkins a half-assed smile.
“I’m assuming that Lucy will be most comfortable in a treatment area with a little more privacy. We do have a few chairs open in the middle of the treatment room, but we also have several open towards the back. This will accommodate all of you and allow you freedom to visit, if you all are staying.”
Panicking, I shout, “The back,” as if my life depends on it.
These are the first words I speak since walking in the office over an hour ago. I do not want to sit in the middle of the damn room, chit chatting with the other patients, playing BINGO, and discussing our latest lab results. I just want to be left alone. Invisible. No need to draw attention to myself.
Every head in that room whips around to me. Mom is not happy with that declaration, but, shit. I cannot hang out and make new friends with all the dialysis patients. I won’t do it. So, with that, Mr. Hawkins leads us to the treatment room.
I am paraded through a long, narrow room full of people already attached to machines. All eyes are on me at this point. It’s like I’m walking the Green Mile, heading to my execution. Everyone here is at least 40 years older than me. Walkers, wheelchairs, and canes are leaning against treatment chairs. Some patients are hooked up to oxygen masks. Lots of gray or balding heads are following my path across the room. I hear their not so subtle whispers, asking their care takers and family members what could possibly be wrong with me. What am I doing here at such a young age? Why don’t my kidneys work? I just keep my head down and keep walking.
We finally reach my destination.
“Well, this is nice,” Mom declares when she sees my chair.
“Seriously?”
Miller drops my bag next to the navy blue, vinyl recliner. It has a little fold-out table coming out from one of the arms for me to put my stuff on. The other attached table is folded down. A huge machine, my fake kidney, is in its place. There are two blue and gray striped chairs on either side for my entertainment to sit and keep me occupied for the next several hours. I guess the average person does not bring a whole entourage with them. The curtains hanging in the window are a dull gray to match the grey and blue vinyl floor. It’s the same generic set-up you might see in any hospital waiting room anywhere in the world.
“Well, give it a s
hot. May as well get comfortable,” Daddy says.
Maggie pushes me down in the chair, pulling up the lever on the side to make the leg rest come up. Is it comfortable? It’s ok. Do I want to spend the next four hours in it? No. Just as I’m pulling the lever back down, a nurse that is way too perky for seven in the morning comes to get me for my weigh in, blood pressure, and pulse. She also starts to talk about how much blood will be taken at a time and how many times it will be filtered.
I put my hand up to make her shut up.
“Please stop. I want to remain as oblivious as possible to all of this. I need you to not talk about it or I will likely vomit all over those Crocs you’re wearing.”
She looks at me like I just threatened to kill her first born child, but it is effective at shutting her up. She finishes taking my vitals and walks me back to my chair, where she starts adjusting knobs on my fake kidney. Since mine doesn’t work worth a shit anymore, this machine will help it do its job. For four hours, three times a week. Fuck me.
While I was gone, someone unpacked my bag, and put out my pillow and blanket for me. I’m hoping I can sleep through this whole ordeal.
“OK, Lucy, I need you to get that arm out for me so I can clean your fistula and connect you.”
I take off my hoodie and throw my arm on the side of the chair. I’ve come to grips with the fact that this is how my arm looks now, but that doesn’t mean that I love looking at it. I keep it covered at all times, even when I’m just at the apartment. My eyes stay glued to the worn floor beneath me. As Perky is cleaning my arm, she is telling me more about what to expect.
“Remember what we discussed earlier, Lucy. If you start feeling nauseous, dizzy, cramping, or anything like that, press your call button, or send someone to get one of us at the nurses’ station. We will be over in a jiffy to see all about you.”
“Well, I’m feeling all of that now, so we better just stop,” I reply with a glare. I can’t do friendly at this ungodly hour.
“Oh, Lucy, you are going to keep us on our toes around here! I just know it!” Perky replies with a giggle.
And, with that, we’re off. She connects me to the beast. I am tucking my face into my right shoulder, while Mom and Dad are watching Nurse Perky like hawks. Mom is writing more shit in that notebook. Maggie is curling herself up in the fetal position in one of the other chairs, and Miller is smoothing down the hair on the top of my head, whispering reassurances to me the whole time. The switch is flipped, I hear humming, and my four hours starts. Seven o’clock. Right on time.
I open an eye and glance at everyone, careful not to look to the left. They are all staring at me with bated breath. I’m not sure what they are expecting me to do. It’s probably not what I actually do. I open the other eye, lay my head back, cover myself up to my chin with my blanket, and settle in for a nap. This has been exhausting. I hear collective sighs of relief, and notice everyone visibly relax. No one is saying a word- they are probably scared to set me off.
It’s okay. I got this. I’m totally doing this dialysis thing. In the words of the ever poetic Maggie, I’m making it my bitch.
That is, until around hour two.
I doze off, and wake up a bit later, sweating like a whore in church. Pulling the blanket off me in a huff, Miller immediately jumps up from his nap. I don’t see anyone else.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, rubbing his face. He’s doing a visual scan, head to toe, and back up again.
“I’m fine. I just got hot. Where is everyone else? Too much excitement for them to handle?” It’s hard to talk, but I don’t want to worry him.
“I think they went to stretch their legs and get something to drink. I dozed off for a second. I should go get your mom, though. She probably needs to write down that at,” he glances at his phone, “8:27 you got hot and took your blanket off.”
“God. Enough with the damn notebook. Don’t even tell her I woke up. She will probably freak out and call Nurse Perky back. I just need to get a sip of water and I’ll go back to sleep.”
I reach over the side of my chair to get my bottle of water and it hits me. Nausea like I have never experienced before. I lay my head back on the pillow and sweat starts pouring down my face. At this point I’m panting like I just ran a marathon. Miller shoots to my side and I’m clawing at his arm to sit back down, but he manages to pull out of my death grip and starts walking to the nurses’ station. Why is he leaving right now? I have a damn call button that Perky told me to press. His booming, commanding voice is asking for a nurse to come check on me, but I’m too busy concentrating on not dying to really pay attention to what else he’s saying or who he’s talking to. Being flat on my back is not helping the situation, so I lean over the right side of the chair and look at the hideous floor, trying to find a fleck of something to focus on. After a few seconds I see Miller’s denim-clad legs coming, a wet cloth hanging from his hand, as well as another pair of legs in scrubs walking quickly behind him.
“Goose, baby, sit up and lean forward for me. Let me put this on your neck. Bennett is going to take your vitals.”
I know I’m in the process of dying, but I’m pretty sure Perky’s name is not Bennett.
Miller helps me sit up and forward and places the cloth on the back of my neck. My eyes are down, and I see a pair of strong, tan hands coming towards mine. They turn my right hand over and one of them finds my pulse. The other hand attaches a pulse-ox reader to my finger and then moves to gently run up and down the top of my arm. A strong, deep voice, one not belonging to Miller, is telling me to breathe deeply and that it will pass in a minute.
At this point, my eyes decide to make the trip up to see who these hands, arms, and voice belong to. This is also the point when my stomach decides that it is done and I puke all over this man. I’m pretty sure that when we make eye contact my heart also stops beating.
Chapter Five
Oh My God. Except for the vomit, dialysis, and the fact that my crazy family has returned because alarms are screeching from my machine, this is like a cliché from one of Mom’s smut books. I am staring up at this man and my mouth is hanging open. Not necessarily a good thing, considering what just happened moments before. Luckily, I hardly ate this morning and most of it missed him on the way back up, but, totally not the point. So, despite the vomit, erratic heartbeat, hair clinging to my face due to obscene amounts of sweat, I can do nothing but stare at this man. He’s beautiful, but huge, which is quite a contradiction. He looks like a military man- blond, short hair that’s cut close to his scalp. His face is covered in scruff the same color and almost the same length. I can’t tell if it’s intentional, or if he just can’t be bothered to shave. He’s got a golden tan and he’s built, like he spends his free time outside working out. His eyes are an amazing shade of dark green. He’s asking me how I’m feeling, all while listening to my chest and my fistula site with his stethoscope. Gibberish is coming out of my mouth right now. This man, Bennett, according to Miller and his name tag, is becoming concerned about my inability to speak and says we need to call my doctor. He moves to the other side of me and starts adjusting knobs and buttons on the machine.
“Ummm, I, no, you don’t need, to, uh, to call him,” comes oh so eloquently out of my mouth. Great.
“Are you feeling any better? I’ve lowered some settings and slowed this down a bit. Give it a minute, and you should feel a difference.” He messes with the machine some more and then continues talking. His deep voice has a calming effect on my body.
“Is this your first time? I haven’t noticed you or your family in here before.”
“Yep, she’s a virgin,” blurts Maggie.
If I make it out of here alive, I will strangle her on the way home.
“And we certainly didn’t notice you before in the parade of nurses and techs earlier, either. I’m Maggie, Lucy’s sister. Will you be on my sister’s care team?” Maggie’s inching closer and closer to him, clearly not affected by the situation, or my vomit. Her wheels
are turning, I’m sure planning the perfect hair/makeup/outfit combo for round two of dialysis to impress this man. Who in the hell tries to pick up a man at eight in the morning?
Bennett clears his throat and backs away from my sister slightly. Huh. There must be a ‘don’t flirt with the family of dialysis patients’ rule here.
“Actually, no. I work at the hospital next door. When I have patients here, I walk over in the morning to check in on them. I just happen to be the lucky one grabbed from the nurses’ station by her boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Multiple sets of eyes whip towards me. I have never clarified that for anyone. Not once. It’s a common mistake, and I just let it go. There’s never been a need for anyone to think different. Miller is giving me a strange look, one I can’t put my finger on. He almost looks hurt, but that’s crazy. He knows he’s not my boyfriend. It’s probably lingering concern over the vomit incident. Because, let’s not forget, the doctor is still standing here with my puke on his scrubs.
“So, you’re here a lot then. You just don’t technically work here?” asks Maggie.
“Right.”
He’s not very impressed with Maggie’s line of questioning. He’s looking at me strangely, as well. I don’t like it. Yes, he’s probably the most attractive person I’ve ever seen. Yes, I felt IT when I saw him for the first time. But, not happening. I’ve got to get him away from me. I don’t like any of this…these uneasy feelings about a stranger, this conversation, or this entire situation.
“I think you should go change,” I gesture weakly to his scrubs. “That’s kind of disgusting.”
The bastard WINKS at me and starts walking away. He shows me this smug grin, along with a deep set dimple on the left side of his face, and fucking winks. That is not the reaction I was hoping for. And, I did not expect the butterflies to take flight again in my queasy belly.
More Than Ever: The Home Series, Book One Page 3
