It had been four and a half years since Liz Porelli had her last infusion treatment and as she anticipated her current treatment, the memories of those infusions came back to her, as if it had been only yesterday. This time she would not be getting the steroid treatment. This would be a new experience, although the infusion process would be much the same.
She had been reluctant to agree to the treatment when Doctor Callan first suggested it. It was strictly an experimental treatment. If it worked as predicted, motor function control could be managed somewhat with less pain, enabling the MS patient to have more so called” good days” over an extended period of time. The drug had not yet been named. For the time being it was referred to as AXB4.
Liz had dismissed the thought of any experimental treatment, but when doctor Callan pointed out that she could be doing a service for other multiple sclerosis sufferers, as well as potentially improving the quality of her own life, she finally agreed to the treatment. Liz liked Doctor Callan.
He was young, but he seemed competent and Liz had known his father, Martin Callan, who ran the local farm equipment store in Mandalyn, for many years. He had been a good friend of her husband, Joe, and had often accompanied him on hunting and fishing trips, but that was several years ago now.
As she checked into Amity Hospital, early that morning, her apprehension grew and beckoned the return of the monster as stressful situations often did. The pain in her leg seemed to be screaming at her, the vision in her right eye was blurring, and her footing was unsteady, even with the help of the four pronged bottomed cane she leaned on as she made her way from the waiting area to the infusion room.
It still looked the same as when Liz had been here before; just a little dingier, a little less bright, and more cluttered with usage. It still had that hot, stale, antiseptic air, mixed with the smell of disinfectant detergent.
As Liz made her way down the hallway, she passed the open closet area for hanging coats and jackets. There was no door on it. She thought about stopping and hanging up her brown suede jacket, but decided against it. She just didn’t feel that comfortable with hospital security. She decided she would stack the jacket, as usual, on the pile with her other belongings; her purse, a book, and a magazine, next to her infusion chair, where even though close to her, they could disappear if she went to sleep during the process. Such happenings had occurred many times with other patients and once to her. Today she had brought an extra bag with her containing three sweat suits which were now too small for her. She would leave them on the coffee table in the center of the infusion room and tell everyone that they were there for the taking.
On her right, Liz passed by the nursing station partitioned off from the main infusion room by a half height wall with a foot high window running the full length of the partition. Liz noted her reflection in the glass. Her normally curled and puffed hair was frizzy from the early morning breeze outside. The once dark auburn hair seemed much lighter as the bits of gray ends peeked through the curl. Getting frumpy looking, she thought to herself, as she saw her reflection which was distorted by the angle of glass and light, making her look shorter and chubbier than she really was, for she was fairly tall and carried herself well, despite hunching over a cane.
There were two nurses sitting at two of the three desks, behind the partition. The third desk was empty, but the chair was rolled away, indicating that the third nurse was somewhere around but not in the station currently. She was probably one of the three attendees roaming about the infusion room, setting up procedures and keeping a constant watch on each patient’s progress. Two of them wore purple uniforms and one wore a white one. The one in white was obviously the nurse; a different one than she had seen here on the previous days. And the other two were merely attendants; only one had been on duty during Liz’s other visits. She had not seen the young black girl before.
The room was a big open bay area with padded lounge style chairs spaced along three walls. There were twenty of these chairs and patients of both sexes, various ages, walks of life and social status, occupied these chairs with very little privacy. Each chair had an overhead light for reading and an accompanying transom equipped with apparatus for varying types of intravenous treatments, requiring constant monitoring. The procedures were the same for everyone; only the kind of medication administered was different. While some patients might be receiving potassium, others might be receiving chemo, steroids, vitamin B12, or experimental drugs, through a translucent bag that hung from the transom and fed intravenously into the patient’s arm.
Liz dropped her package of old clothes off on the coffee table as she passed by and found her way to her usual chair which was the third one from the right corner of the far wall next to the rest rooms and a large garbage can. A middle aged man with thin balding gray hair pulled back into a spindly pony tail, and dressed in blue scrubs was emptying the can into a barrel like container on rollers. He wheeled it away leaving a sticky chocolate covered ice cream wrapper behind on the floor. He backed the cart up and then went forward again. He ran over the wrapper with the wheels of his cart. The wrapper stuck to one of the wheels and there it stayed, going around and around with each cycle.
Several patients were already seated along the adjacent wall. Some had already started their infusions and others were still waiting to start. Other patients were still coming in behind Liz.
Liz stacked her belongings against the wall next to her chair and eased herself into it. Her arm throbbed with pain where the needle in her vein was still placed from the previous treatment and available for use today. There was a large black, blue, purplish bruise around the needle site.
There was a large map of the U. S on the wall. It had been a subject for idle conversation, the first day she came for treatment. It seemed odd to be the only decorative item in the otherwise austere room. There was a table model television on a plain white wooden table beneath it.
Many of the patients were watching Good Morning America while others merely sat or dozed in their chairs. Four patients were gathered along the left wall; their chairs turned slightly inward to form a half semi quarter circle of sorts. Three were women and one was a flabby old man with a gray beard and mustache. They were playing cards, while waiting for their procedures to start.
To Liz’s left, a thin middle aged man with thinning dark hair was talking to a much younger man with a full head of shaggy black hair and a scruffy beard that appeared to be more like several days of stubble rather than an actual beard. The younger man had been boasting about having ten children, while the older man lamented very openly about his inabilities to have any. Both were very vocal and boisterous, ignoring Liz’s presence, or anyone else’s, for that matter, and being very graphic in their conversation.
Over against the right wall, kitty corner from where Liz sat, a lady in a U. S. Army uniform sat next to a young man. The lady was probably in her late thirties and the rank showing on her uniform collar identified her as Lieutenant Colonel. The young man was thin shouldered, short and bony. He had a silver ring protruding from his left nostril and a series of three varied colored rings, pinched around each eyebrow. There was a faded imprint of a rebel flag on the front of his dirty tee shirt.
The lady Colonel was explaining the advantages the United States Army had available to the boy. He merely scoffed at the thought of it, but it didn’t deter the lady from continuing to try to influence him.
On the other side of the young man, sat a middle aged woman with obviously dyed red hair, framing her lean face with long strands that tumbled across her shoulders. Aging wrinkles seemed to appear more prominent against the obvious attempt to look younger. She wore a beautiful Cashmere sweater and there were expensive rings on her fingers. She obviously was a lady of means and wealth and was totally uncomfortable with these surroundings and having to associate with the lower echelons of society. She held her chin high and remained aloof, not caring to converse with anyone else. This was the first day Liz had seen this patient, and s
he was occupying the same chair that another lady across the room had occupied the day before.
To her left sat an older woman in a pudding stained yellow shirt. Her straight, gray streaked, unkempt black hair hung in greasy, dirty clumps around the folds of a thick neck. She had worn the same pudding stained shirt and the same torn jeans as she had on the previous days Liz had been there. Liz saw her keep glancing toward the table where she had left the package.
“I left some clothes in that bag on the coffee table,” Liz announced to the room, but she was making sure the pudding stained woman understood.” Anyone who can use them; feel free to take them,” she said.
The pudding stained woman glanced away quickly as if not interested, but occasionally, Liz would see her cast a furtive glance toward the package.
The cashmere sweater lady only rolled her eyes in disgust and if she could have wrinkled her nose, she probably would have.
Liz was still watching the others around her when the young black attendant rolled a transom next to her on the left.” How are you today?” She said in a light, cheerful tone.
“Fine,” Liz lied, for she was feeling most uncomfortable with the needle in her vein and her leg was paining fitfully. Her head leaned back against the chair’s head rest and she rolled her eyes upward to see the attendant. Even with her blurred vision, Liz could see that the aide was very attractive. She was short and slender with a good figure and her face was oval shaped, with sharp features that were very striking, with large black lashes curving above the dark eyes. She had a warm and genuine smile. She couldn’t have been more than twenty one. Liz tried to make out the name tag, but she couldn’t focus on it through the blurred fog of her vision.
“My name is Celia,” the aide said.” I’ll be attending to you this morning, Ms. . . . . .” She checked Liz’s chart that she had clamped to a clip board.” Ms., Mrs. Porelli?” she said as if verifying she had the correct patient.
Liz often wondered how they kept everyone straight, here in the infusion room. Patients were constantly moving around and changing chair positions. If the attendants kept track of numbered chair positions instead of by patient’s name, the results could be disastrous and the wrong patients could be getting the wrong treatments. Knowing her luck, Liz never wanted to take any chances, so she always made sure she took the same chair on each visit and she stayed with it until the entire procedure was over.
“Yes, that’s right,” Liz said.” But call me Liz. Mrs. makes me feel old and worthless and Ms. makes me feel women’s libbish, if they still use that term. I never did subscribe to that crap. I never wanted to be a man’s equal. I was always happy to just be his better.”
Celia smiled.” No, I don’t think they use that term anymore,” she said as she began to fit the transom apparatus and attach the infusion bag.
“Honey,” Liz said.” Do me a favor, will you. And go easy attaching that tube. The needle in my vein is killing me.”
“That is a nasty bruise,” Celia said, lifting Liz’s wrist gently and examining the needle site. She moved the needle a bit and Liz winced with the pain. The pain lasted only a brief moment and then eased significantly.” There. That should be better” she added.
“Much,” Liz said gratefully.” What did you do?”
“It wasn’t inserted properly. Whoever did it originally, wasn’t careful.”
“It was that one over there,” Liz said, pointing her chin toward the other aide.
Celia grimaced.” That’s Shirley. She shouldn’t even be working here. She’s lazy and takes too many shortcuts. She doesn’t care about the patients. She’s just here for a paycheck.” She attached the tube to the needle and adjusted the liquid flow from the infusion bag.
“Then I’m glad I have you today, Celia,” Liz said. She glanced upward and saw the medication start to drip into the tube. She started to think of all the times she had been there and all the nurses she had talked to. For twenty five years she had returned to the hospital. The same sick smells that overwrought the rooms were still here.
Celia smiled,” You just relax, now,” she said.” I’ll be back to check on you later.”
“Thank you,’’ Liz said, settling back in her chair and watching her cross the room to the woman in the cashmere sweater.
Liz leaned back and rested for a few minutes. The activity in the room, as more and more patients were prepared, soon weighed on Liz’s energy. Just the sight of such hustle and bustle tired her. She leaned back, trying to get more comfortable, but lying on her back was never a good position for her. She could always rest best when sleeping in her bed and on her stomach.
She watched the steady drip, drip of the medication for several minutes. She felt fidgety and tired all at the same time. She started to count the drops and when she reached a hundred, she continued to count them. But as a countdown, this time, counting backwards from one hundred to zero. She did this two times and somewhere during the third countdown she fell asleep.
When she awoke, the room was filled with excitement. As she gradually wiped the sleep from her eyes, she began to focus in on the scene before her. Her blurred vision was gone and she could see clearly now.
The nurses and attendants and several resident doctors were congregated in the area where the cashmere sweater lady had been sitting. Liz couldn’t see what was happening, but the residents were hovered over her.
“What’s going on?” Liz asked to no one in particular, looking to her left at the man next to her and to her right toward the military lady.
“Well, I’m only hearing whispers, but I think she died,” the Lieutenant Colonel said.” I think she got the wrong medication.”
“Who?”
“The lady in the cashmere sweater. I think they said her name was Mrs. Porelli?”
“What?” Liz exclaimed. She felt of herself all over.” This is ridiculous,” she said.” Every morning I feel like I wake up dead. And now I wake up dead and it’s no different. Wait’ll I tell Deb. She’ll never believe this one.”
*****
Chapter Two