Priority Care

by Mary Hawkins

  Suddenly she wondered about Chris Hansen. At least he'd had the wisdom to realise he didn't have time for a wife and children. Would it always be like that for him? Or did he have some plan all worked out that one day they might fit into his scheme of things? He was so good-looking that she was sure there must have been plenty of women who would have needed little encouragement to ‑

  She deliberately cut off that line of thought as she busied herself in the laundry. When she had rinsed and left the linen to soak, she quickly went to her room to get ready for her visit to the hospital. After hesitating for a moment, she decided to exchange the T-shirt for a long-sleeved white blouse. She tucked it into a smartly tailored black skirt, then fastened a wide red leather belt around her waist and tied and arranged a matching rolled red silk scarf around the neckline of the blouse. A light touch of make-up and she knew she looked very different from the woman who had been driven to the hospital the day before.

  She was still relieved to see Sister Howard was not on duty, although the sister in charge that morning was also reserved as she told Jean her uncle seemed to be a little brighter that morning.

  The morning-tea trolley was just rattling along the corridor as Jean went into his room. He was propped up this time on more pillows, and opened his eyes as she drew near the bed. He stared up at her as she leaned over and kissed him.

  'Hello, darling. What on earth are you doing in here the minute my back is turned?' she said very gently in a choked voice.

  He lifted his head off the pillow as she spoke and then his good hand came up to her. To her dismay huge tears filled his eyes as she grasped it with both of hers. A deep sob shook his frail body. Then her arms were around him, holding his head to her strong young body and letting him soak her white blouse with his tears.

  The doctor and nursing staff in Sydney had warned her that his emotions would fluctuate and he would find them much harder to control since the stroke. Although she had remembered reading about that in her textbooks, she had found the reality of it all very difficult. He had been quicker to get upset, was angered faster and also laughed much easier. But never before had she seen him sob like this.

  She realised her tears were mingling with his when she heard the shocked voice behind her.

  'My goodness! Whatever's the matter, Mr Macallister?'

  Jean placed him gently back on the pillow, and turned to face the young nurse she had met the afternoon before.

  'You! What have you done to upset him like this?'

  The nurse moved quickly to the other side of the bed, grabbing a couple of tissues off the bedside table to lean over to wipe George's face. George's hand came up and viciously knocked her hand away.

  'George!'

  At Jean's exclamation of horror, he turned his face towards Jean and opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out and Jean's heart nearly broke with the look of anger and despair that filled his eyes. He subsided on the pillow, breathing fast.

  'I think perhaps you should leave, Miss Mac ‑'

  'No!'

  George's slurred voice accompanied the movement of his hand to grasp Jean's hand firmly.

  'It's OK, love,' she said rapidly, 'I'm not going anywhere.' She glared up at the flushed nurse who was rubbing her hand where George had hit it. 'Except perhaps to find someone to tell me what's been going on here with you.'

  'Good.'

  She saw him relax and close his eyes as another tear trickled down his pale cheek. Glancing up at the nurse again, she found she was watching George with a startled, considering look on her face.

  'That's the first words he's said since he was admitted,' Jean heard her say softly.

  'He . . .' Jean gulped and grabbed for control as her tears threatened to fall again. 'He's always been frightened he'll say the wrong word, and he often won't speak in front of strangers,' she murmured softly, and returned the slight squeeze he gave her hand.

  'Aphasia,' the nurse said softly, her expression sympathetic as she returned Jean's gaze.

  Jean hesitated and then shook her head slightly. 'No, dysphasia, we were told originally. It does seem to vary from time to time, though.'

  The nurse opened her mouth and then changed her mind, looking uncomfortable as she muttered, 'Guess I'd better tell Sister.'

  Jean looked after her thoughtfully and then at George. He was watching her, and his lips twisted a little as he shrugged.

  'Being devious, George, dear?'

  For a moment there was the merest hint of his old twinkle, and then he closed his eyes again. She let go of his hand and stood up from the side of the bed to get a chair. His head flew up again.

  'Stay,' he managed after a struggle.

  'Just getting a chair to rest my weary bones. I'm not going anywhere until you want me to,' she said vehemently.

  He relaxed again, and seemed to doze off after she had sat silently holding his hand for several minutes. She was debating whether to risk him waking to find her not there while she went to demand an interview with his doctor when she heard a stir outside the room. There was a murmur of voices and the door was pushed open behind her.

  Suddenly the room seem crowded as several people filed in. Leading the way was Sister Howard, followed by a rather stout, grey-haired man who said a little too heartily, 'Well, well, what do we have here, Mr Macallister? A pretty young visitor?'

  'Would you mind waiting outside while we do rounds, Miss Macallister?' Sister Howard said briskly.

  George stirred. His grasp on her hand tightened painfully as he opened his eyes and stared balefully from one to the other. He nodded his head vigorously, paused, and then hesitated and shook his head even more vigorously from side to side instead.

  Still holding that clutching hand, Jean stood up. 'Yes, I do mind, Sister.'

  All movement ceased as she stared as calmly as she could around the circle of faces, wondering who they all were. She caught the eye of a tall, older woman dressed in a neat navy skirt and matching jacket. She was studying Jean carefully. A twinkle lurked deep in her eyes, but her voice was grave when she spoke.

  'Are you Mr Macallister's daughter?'

  Jean hesitated for the fraction of a second, and then shook her head slowly.

  'This is Mr Macallister's niece who, I'm led to believe, has been his chief carer since his stroke,' a familiar voice said from the doorway.

  Jean's heart leaped, and then thudded in her chest as her gaze met a piercing look from Chris—a very neat, professional-looking Chris in a well cut dark suit.

  'Good morning, Miss Macallister, I trust you are recovered from your trip home yesterday?' he said very politely as he moved to stand beside the tall woman. She glanced quickly from him to Jean's surprised face.

  'You know this young lady, Dr Hansen?' the stout man said pompously, a frown creasing his forehead.

  'We met yesterday,' Chris said slowly, his gaze now studying George. He moved forward and around the bed, Sister Howard moving aside so that he could stand next to George. 'Hello, Mr Macallister. I'm sorry we had to meet again in here.'

  George stared blankly at him, a line deepening on his forehead.

  'I'm Maud Bensted's nephew,' Chris said gently, 'and from today I'll be taking over from Dr Evans here as your hospital consultant.'

  A consultant! A specialist! Aunt Maud's nephew had certainly done very well for himself. Jean stared curiously at him as George relaxed his hand from hers and lifted it towards Chris. Chris reached out and shook it briefly, not taking his watchful eyes from George's face. As he released it. he did glance quickly across the bed at Jean, who was still examining his face intently.

  Good.'

  They both looked at George as they heard his slurred voice. He was looking from one to the other with something in his eyes that it took Jean a moment to realise was utter relief.

  'Well.' Jean nearly smiled at the reluctance in Sister Howard's voice. 'It seems your niece's presence has at least helped you find your voice, Mr Macallister.'

  'Sister?
'

  She flushed at the sharp question in Chris's voice, hastening to add stiffly, 'We haven't been successful in getting him to talk, sir.'

  His steady regard increased her embarrassment as he said crisply, 'Then I'm sure that it will benefit our patient if Miss Macallister can come and stay with her uncle as much as possible, even outside usual visiting times. If that will be convenient, Miss Fisher?'

  The tall woman he had addressed nodded and smiled warmly at Jean and George. Jean suddenly knew this must be the director of nursing.

  'Of course,' Miss Fisher said cheerfully. 'Our visiting hours will be very flexible. Won't they, Sister?' she shot at the other woman, her smile still well in place, but with an added hint of firmness. Then she beamed at the people clustered quietly behind them watching the procedures with curious faces. 'Now, I think we should finish showing Dr Hansen over our hospital, and he'll be able to spend more time with his patients later.'

  They all started to file out again while Chris spoke softly to George. 'I'll be back later, sir. I believe there are quite a few things to sort out.' He touched George's hand and looked up at Jean as the door closed behind the last person.

  Electricity leapt across the bed as brown and hazel eyes locked. Suddenly Chris's whole face lit with amusement, utterly transforming his professional demeanour as Jean stared at him.

  'Jean, you should have seen Sister Howard's face when I arrived this morning. I think she was immensely relieved I was wearing a suit. It made up a bit for this,' he murmured very softly.

  'This' was the yellow discolouring around the bruise on his face. Then his expression changed, and his gaze dropped to her mouth.

  'You'd better close your mouth, little one, or I'll sort that out too,' he murmured, his deep voice a notch lower.

  Then he too had disappeared leaving a bemused Jean to stare after him. A sound came from the bed, making her realise she was still staring at the closed door. She looked at George swiftly to see his whole face alight with amusement.

  He chuckled again, strove for a word, shrugged and settled for, 'Good, good.'

  Jean plonked herself thankfully back on the chair, feeling herself start to tremble.

  'No, it's not good,' she snapped. 'He . . . he's a ‑' She caught herself, as a look of apprehension entered George's eyes. 'Oh, it's good he's your doctor, especially if he's anywhere near as good a one as Mrs Bensted used to say he was,' she said quickly.

  One thick white eyebrow raised in question.

  She hesitated, not wanting to worry him with the turmoil of confusion within herself. 'We'll see, George,' she said decisively. 'And one thing's for certain: I'm going to get him to discharge you from here as soon as I possibly can!'

  But there Jean found herself up against a brick wall of stubbornness. Chris looked at first astonished, and then implacable.

  'No, Jean,' he said firmly that evening, 'I don't want to discharge him just yet. The sedation he's been on I've ceased, but I need to have him observed for at least a few days to see how he is without it.'

  'But I could do that here,' Jean protested. 'He never needed anything like that before he went to hospital.'

  Chris looked down at the mug of instant coffee cradled in his hands. Jean had almost given up seeing him that evening by the time he had rung the doorbell at nine o'clock. He had looked tired, told her he couldn't stay, but had accepted the quick cup of coffee as they talked.

  'Jean, I'm afraid the hospital has not yet been able to obtain details of his history from Prince Alfred Hospital in Sydney yet. and we need them to see what changes have occurred since his stroke. We still aren't one hundred per cent sure what made him fall. It could have been—er—mishandling by his daughter-in-law. But according to you he had been walking a few steps with your assistance and the use of his pylon—er— tripod, but had been doing less and less by himself even before you went away. I want to know why.'

  A tinge of fear touched Jean. 'You think something else could be wrong, besides the brain damage from the stroke, don't you?'

  Chris looked up at her and hesitated again. 'He was showing sugar in his ward urine tests when he was admitted, but . . .' He frowned as he looked away. 'No full blood-tests were ordered. Blood was taken for pathology today. We need to be sure his electrolytes and blood-sugar levels are OK. The fall could have shocked him enough to show sugar on admission, but we have to be sure. He also apparently had faecal impaction on admission. It may even be possible to ease some of his incontinence. And then we can also have the pressure sore on his ‑'

  'Incontinence! Faecal impaction! Pressure sore!'

  Chris's gaze narrowed at her incredulous voice. 'Yes, all those things. He was admitted with a blister on his heel, and a very red area on his coccyx, as you very well know. The blister has broken and the nursing staff are still treating it,' he barked.

  Jean straightened in her chair. He was looking angrily at her, and she looked away before she caught another glimpse of the contempt he had felt for her the night before.

  'You still think I neglected him, don't you?' she said very slowly. She stood up and turned her back on him as she carried her cup over to the sink. 'Even though you've been told by your own aunt that I've been caring for him—"capably", I think was the word you used— you still think I haven't been looking after him properly!'

  He was silent. She fought for control, and was starting to turn, when he said slowly, 'I'm not so sure neglect is the right word. You may have found the going just too tough lately.'

  She swung back to the table, leaned her hands on it and stared angrily at him. But before she could speak he added with a trace of bitterness, 'It has been my experience many times that relatives don't really understand what it takes to care for someone at home after as severe a stroke as your uncle has had. Especially beautiful women who find it affects their love-life!'

  She caught her breath. He was glaring accusingly at her, and she suddenly knew that he still despised her, still thought she was a . . . a . . .

  'I don't know that I care now whether you believe me or not,' she said loudly, and even as she said it the hurt in her told her she was lying. 'But one thing I do know is that there was not so much as a reddened area on George's heels or his back before I left. The very first couple of nights when he came home from hospital he did get a very red back, and I knew we had to be very careful. An egg-crate mattress was obtained and a water chair for during the day. He has not been incontinent, although sometimes he doesn't place the urinal correctly. His bowels were regular up to the day I left. He may have been neglected after I left, but I . . .' she choked back an angry sob '. . . I love him,' she finished simply. She closed her eyes momentarily, and then turned away. 'I only wish I had never left him.'

  'Why did you?'

  The softly spoken question stopped her as she reached the door.

  Without looking at him she said sadly, 'Because he begged me to.' And then she added quietly with a touch of bitterness, 'You'd better go, or your reputation certainly won't stand another night with me.'

  There was dead silence, and then she heard him push his chair back and stand up. He followed her silently as she left the room. The tears were still very close as she opened the front door, and she avoided looking at him.

  'Georgie, I ‑' he began slowly.

  'No. That's not my name.' She did look at him then. 'My name is Jean,' she said very firmly.

  He was studying her closely, his expression uncertain.

  'Jean,' he said softly, and then paused.

  He's so very, good-looking, she thought wistfully. And he really does care about George. I wish ... I wish ...

  'Jean, I don't doubt you love your uncle. I could see that in the hospital.' A sudden smile twitched his lips. 'The way you faced that mob of hospital hierarchy was pretty wonderful.' The smile disappeared and he looked puzzled. He ran his hand suddenly through his already tousled curls, and started to say something, then stopped. Instead, he said slowly, 'There's quite a lot I'm afraid I
just don't understand.'

  They stared at each other silently.

  Then he said steadily, 'I'm just not sure you can give him the care at home that he needs, and I won't be allowing him to come home until I am sure of your ability to do so.'

  Jean shivered. She lost the battle with the tears and let them slide down her cheeks as she stared blindly at him.

  'And if I can't look after him?'

  She asked the question, knowing the answer that had haunted her since she had first realised how much brain damage George had suffered.

  One long finger came up and very gently wiped away the column of tears on one cheek.

  'We are going to do our utmost to try and get him home. And we won't let him go to a nursing home unless there is absolutely nothing else to be done.'

  The words were very decisive, but filled with such compassion and warmth that long after the door had closed behind him she felt strangely comforted.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The phone rang so early the next morning that Jean raced in from hanging out a load of washing and picked up the receiver with shaking hands. Half expecting to hear someone from the hospital, she only relaxed when she heard the cheerful voice of her old friend since school days, Julie Curton.

  'Curton here for all your curtains.'

  Jean groaned. 'Julie, please!'

  The voice on the other end giggled. 'Well, it was your original suggestion for my slogan, after all.'

  'And you know what your dear husband thought about that!'

  'Pooh! What do men know?'

  'Just what I've been thinking, lately.'

  There was a pause. Then Julie said slowly, 'That sounded rather grim, Jean, dear.' Before Jean could comment she said seriously, 'Also sounds as if the holiday was not a great success?'

  'Oh, it was great. What there was of it. But how did you know I was home early?'

  'Early? But I thought you were due back last Saturday.'