CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Something is beginning to bother me lately. I’m not one-hundred per cent sure of it, but I strongly suspect that my new friend, Elizabeth, has taken quite a shine to Ralph these days. It’s not that she’s come right out and said anything about it, but every time he drops by our unit to say hello, she seems to get all wide-eyed and flustered in his presence. And it’s not that Ralph has deliberately done anything to provoke such a giddy reaction from her. Not at all. As far as I can tell, he’s just the same old Ralph he’s always been; a mildly annoying man who happens to be my good friend, but who certainly isn’t capable of making me blush or get all mushy whenever he decides to show up.

Anyway, I feel an obligation to protect these two semi-strangers from one another, if you know what I mean. After all, Elizabeth is a married woman, and Ralph is some kind of a high-ranking archangel. Talk about being on a collision course! Do you see why I’m concerned? I don’t want to just stand by and watch as one or both of them says or does something that might result in irrevocable damage.

So, this time, I’m the one who surprises Ralph by showing up in the I.C.U. just before the start of my shift in the Flap Room again. He is gently pulling a very full bedpan out from under his barely conscious patient when he spots me standing in the center of the Nurse’s Station. Without hesitation, he reaches for a nearby bath towel and politely drapes it over the bedpan he is carrying before he approaches me.

Ah, the strange and subtle etiquette of holding a conversation in the hospital setting.

“Molly. Is everything all right?” he is quick to ask as he draws closer.

“Yes, yes. Everything’s fine,” I tell him, backing away from the stench of his parcel. “Call me later, okay?” I choke, retreating back toward the elevators. “I just need to talk with you, is all.”

“Okay.” He grins affably. “Want to have a drink at the ‘Sand Dollar Pub’ when we get off? You know. That joint beside the tattoo parlor down on Sullivan’s Island?”

“Yeah, I know the place. Great idea,” I return, speaking in only short and shallow breaths. “Meet you there around midnight. Sound good?”

Ralph is laughing at me as the elevator doors erect a shield between us, but I don’t care. Even after years of seeing and smelling some of the worst things possible, most nurses have at least one aspect of this job that they never quite get used to; usually it’s sputum or vomit, but in my case, it happens to be a loaded bedpan.

I should probably preface that statement by noting that I’ve yet to be involved in the care and monitoring of a replanted male organ. God only knows what the sight of that might do to me!

Once again, there are three patients in the Flap Room this evening; Bruce Kellogg, a below-knee-amputee who’s had a recent stump revision, Stevie Wilson, who continues to await nursing home placement, and Mr. K., who … well, who could ever forget his story?

Elizabeth and I take a full and detailed report on all three patients from a very fatigued day-shift Flapper. In addition to the fact that Mr. K.’s urine is temporarily being re-routed through what is called a ‘supra-pubic tube’ in his lower abdomen, I also learn several fascinating details about the ten-hour, painstaking surgery that has – hopefully – saved his, er, manhood. Most notably, is that his penis is receiving its entire blood supply from just one artery and one vein that have been very delicately reconstructed. If anything at all interferes with that essential blood flow, the surrounding tissue (i.e. his phallus) will surely wither and die. Therefore, it is now my responsibility to constantly check the circulatory status on either side of his replanted penis with the help of some very specialized and high-tech equipment.

When I approach Mr. K. to introduce myself, I am mildly surprised to note that he is quite a nice-looking young man. He has a fair, almost delicate complexion, an athletic build, and a sort of boyish innocence etched across his freckled features. I’m not exactly sure what I had been expecting to encounter, but the man in this bed bears no resemblance to the deranged, psychotic, out-of-control wild-man I had imagined he might possibly be.

Silently, I lecture myself that the most difficult part of treating this particular patient is going to be earning his trust and protecting his dignity. I realize that it is absolutely imperative for me to put Mr. K. at ease by appearing to be completely unaffected regarding the precarious well-being of his, er, circulation.

Like the wispy wings of a butterfly, I place my fingers over the pulse of his wrist; a non-threatening technique I often employ to establish immediate credibility and rapport with any new patient.

Mr. K. opens his eyes and looks up at me. “Oh, you must be my new nurse for tonight,” he says pleasantly.

“That’s right. My name is Molly,” I tell him, mutely counting each beat of his heart. “How are you feeling right now? Any pain or discomfort?”

I learned a long time ago that making the patient’s level of pain the first subject that I address, seems to put even the most anxious of them at ease.

“Nope,” he assures me. “I’m not having any pain at all right now.”

“Good.” I smile my tender nurse’s smile. “Is it all right if I take a look at your incision right now?” I ask, drawing the curtains around him for privacy.

Mr. K. shrugs his shoulders. “Have at it,” he invites, and then adds, “Call me Mike when we’re just talking, will you? This ‘Mr. K.’ stuff is kind of creepy.”

“I understand, Mike,” I tell him.

Lifting up the sheet, I set my jaw and force myself to keep my facial expression completely neutral. Really, I do. But the sight that assaults my eyes, well, let’s just say that it is enough to test the poker-face of even the most elite scam artist.

Bulbous swelling, deep purple bruising, a tangle of drainage tubes, and countless microscopic sutures all jump out at me at once. It occurs to me then that all of the Flappers I’ve met so far are female. This does not surprise me in the least, since I can’t think of even one male nurse I’ve ever known who would be able to come within ten feet of this shocking spectacle without wincing in horror and then crossing his own two legs as an instinctive and protective reflex.

“How’s everything look down there?” Mr. K. is asking, his unblinking eyes glued to the ceiling.

“Oh, it looks pretty good,” I fib rather convincingly. “Have you seen it for yourself, yet?”

“Are you nuts?” He shudders. “That’s your job … thank God.”

I ignore the comment and pull on a pair of sterile gloves to examine the ventral surface of his, er, wound. “Okay, Mike,” I inform him in the most professional tone I can muster, considering that I’m speaking from between a total stranger’s legs, “I need to check your pulses now, so you’re going to feel me put some lubricant on you and then I’ll slide this little Doppler along both sides until I hear the sound of blood flowing through the vessels, all right?”

“Yeah, okay,” Mike winces. “I know the drill by now. Go ahead.”

I don’t know which of us is more relieved when I detect the amplified swoosh, swoosh, swoosh of unobstructed circulation, but then something else catches my eye. There is no visible urine in the abdominal tube that is protruding from his bladder. It must be clogged, I figure, which is not at all uncommon. I glance around the bedside for an irrigation set, only to find that someone has forgotten to restock the supplies needed for this shift.

“Is something wrong down there?” the patient asks, as though he is a completely separate entity from the lower hemisphere of his body.

“No, I just need some extra supplies. Put your call light on, will you, Mike?”

Within seconds, Elizabeth’s velvety southern drawl wafts over the intercom. “Y’all need something, Molly-Dahlin’?”

“Yes. Could you please send someone down here with an irrigation set? I seem to have run out.”

“Will do.”

While I am waiting, I delicately lift Mr. K.’s penis with one gloved hand, and carefully examine the suture line around the base of it for any signs of drainage, infection, or bleeding.

“Knock, knock,” a male voice calls from behind the curtain. “Somebody in here call for an irrigation tray?”

“Yes,” I answer, maintaining my gentle grip on Mr. K.’s genitalia. “Could you bring it in here and open it up for me, please?”

With that, the curtain is drawn aside, and in strides Ralph carrying my requested supplies. “Holy Mother of God!” he nearly shrieks the second he lays eyes on the gruesome sight before him.

I shoot Ralph a look which I hope warns him not to upset my patient, but the poor man seems momentarily incapable of shrouding his shocked reaction.

“You can set the tray down on that table behind me,” I casually suggest in an effort to buy him a few extra seconds to collect himself.

Ralph obediently follows my command and arranges the sterile instruments on the table for me.

“How’d you know I needed this?” I ask, still holding Mr. K.’s penis in my hand as if it is a dead fish or some other perfectly meaningless object. Once again, I am struck by the bizarre and oftentimes macabre circumstances to which we in the healthcare field grow frighteningly accustomed.

“Elizabeth told me,” Ralph replies in a shaky voice. “I wanted to know what room you were working in tonight and she asked if I wouldn’t mind bringing you the equipment you needed as long as I was going that way.”

“Hmmmmm,” is all I respond, concentrating more on pushing a syringe filled with sterile saline through Mr. K.’s suprapubic tube.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ralph persists.

“Got it!” I announce, nodding toward the clear saffron stream of urine that instantly begins flowing through the tube again.

“Nice work,” Mr. K. comments, consciously avoiding direct eye contact with anything south of his waist.

“Yeah, nice job,” Ralph chimes in, wrapping up the soiled tray and heading toward the door with it. “By the way, the reason I came by was to tell you not to worry if I’m a little late getting to the Sand Dollar Pub tonight. The I.C.U.’s been pretty quiet so far, but later on we’re expecting two fresh trauma cases straight from the O.R.”

“Oh? What happened?” I ask, still examining Mr. K.’s flow of urine through his tube. “Car accident?”

“Worse,” Ralph mutters, disappearing into the hallway. “Big-rig versus Motorcycle.”

Ralph’s Harley is nowhere in sight when I pull into the graveled parking lot of the Sand Dollar Pub just a little past midnight. Once inside, I’m surprised to find that most of the patrons in here are fit, clean-shaven, young men with military haircuts. Oh, right, I remind myself, the city of Charleston is home to a large Navy base. I spot an empty barstool right next to the pool table where a group of beer-swilling sailors seem to be choosing up sides for some kind of a tournament. As unobtrusively as possible, I perch myself on the tattered vinyl seat, and quietly order myself a Diet Coke.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” one of the sailors barks in my direction. “Non-alcoholic beverages are strictly prohibited within twenty feet of any pool table in Charleston,” he says. “Don’t you know that?”

“Um, no, I-I didn’t know that,” I stammer just a fraction of a second before realizing that these guys are getting a great big kick out of drawing undue attention to me.

“You know how to play pool?” another one inquires with a genial smile.

“Nope. No idea.” I say, turning my back to them and smugly sipping my zero-calorie soda through a straw.

“Perfect!” a third sailor pipes up. “We’re playing eight-ball, and we need one more player to be on Nick’s team. He’s an expert, so it’s only fair that his partner should be someone with absolutely no experience in the game. What do you say? Will you join us?”

So, okay. Things get a little hazy after that, which might have something to do with the endless supply of beer that suddenly seems to be on hand. As best as I can remember, I begin to start enjoying one heck of a good time. I swear, I don’t know what gets into me, but after a few basic instructions from my adorable young teammate, not to mention his insistence upon ‘chalking my cue’, whatever that means, I am on fire! I’m invincible; unstoppable! One of the players on the losing team even accuses me of being ‘on the lemonade’, which I later find out refers to the deliberate disguising of one’s excellent level of ability.

In a way, it’s a lot like being a travel nurse. What I mean is that the majority of the time, you really have no awareness of your own potential to handle things like live leeches, penile pulses, and pool games with a bunch of local sailors, that is, until you’re thrown right smack into the middle of them. This is quite a revelation to me.

Anyway, the more shots I take – both with a pool cue and the kind you slug down your throat - the better I seem to get at playing this game. I am definitely in the zone, if you know what I mean. First the solid-colored balls, and then all of the striped ones begin dropping into pockets like well-timed bodily secretions into specimen cups. I am hitting shots that these guys refer to as, ‘dead balls’ which apparently is a good thing because it elicits yelps of, “Pocket ‘em Peas, Baby!” every time I do it.

Next, I knock the eight-ball right into a corner pocket, which I’m guessing is an exceptionally good thing to do. The second I accomplish this, the entire place bursts into a cacophony of applause, cheers, and clashing beer mugs.

It is at the height of all this commotion that I notice Ralph walk through the front door sporting a rakish grin on his wind-burned face. He saunters up to the pool table and a couple of the celebrating sailors begin slapping him on the back as though he is some old crony of theirs. Of course, scenarios like this don’t really surprise me anymore.

“I see you guys have already met my good friend Molly, here,” Ralph announces, sidling up to me. The sailors erupt into another ear-splitting chorus of hoots and hollers in response.

“Good,” Ralph tells them, “then you won’t mind if I steal her away for a few minutes, right? Believe it or not, we actually have some serious business to discuss.”

Ralph takes the pool cue from my hand and slides it back onto the rack on the wall. There is some good-natured complaining and booing from my new pool buddies, and one of the guys even calls out some bizarre comment about seeing Ralph again at some ‘Grand Parade’ or something.

Where have I heard that same reference mentioned before, I suddenly wonder. I can’t seem to put my finger on it at the moment, but I’m sure it will come back to me. I’m usually good at things like that.

Ralph guides me toward a quiet corner of the bar and orders a beer for himself and a Diet Coke for me.

“Maybe I want a beer too,” I challenge him. “I don’t always drink Diet Coke, you know.”

“You do if you’re driving home,” he flatly informs me. “And before you even begin to argue with me, the beer I just ordered is for public relations purposes, only. You’ll see. In another minute or so, they’ll bring me my real drink … a Shirley Temple.”

“Hmph,” I grumble. “Well, maybe I’ve already had a few beers with those sailors at the pool table,” I suggest. “Did you ever think of that? Huh?”

“I think you’ve had more than a few,” he quips. “And by the way, your pool-buddies over there? They’re not sailors, they’re Navy SEALs.”

“Shut up!” I fire back, drunkenly swatting Ralph on both of his shoulders in utter disbelief. “How do you know that?”

Ralph just raises his blond eyebrows and says nothing, leaving me to wonder just how many shots I also must have consumed during that pool game.

“Wait a minute!” I shout, scraping my stool back from the bar. “Do you mean to tell me that I just won a round of pool against a bunch of Navy SEALs!!! I, er, I did win, didn’t I?”

“Beginner’s luck,” Ralph laughs, mussing my hair again with his long fingers, just because he knows how much it irritates me. “Besides, it was a team effort,” he reminds me. “You did have a partner. A pool shark named ‘Nick’, remember?”

“So, what?” I persist, gloating over the very idea of such an unlikely feat. “Me! Molly Driscoll, R.N.; I won a game of pool against some Navy SEALs in a beach bar! How cool is that?”

“Yeah, you’re cool, all right,” Ralph mutters, humoring me. “Next thing I know, you’ll be covered in tattoos.”

“I would never do that!” I argue back. “I hate tattoos on girls! They’re trashy and dumb, never mind extremely risky and unhygienic. I would never do that!” I repeat.

“No, huh?” Ralph looks really amused by this. “Never say ‘never’,” he teases. The bartender slides a ‘Shirley Temple’ along the bar and, without spilling a drop, the glass comes to an abrupt halt right in front of Ralph, who nods his thanks before taking a long, slow swallow of it. “Anyway,” he finally says upon exhaling, “what’s all this about some serious talk you and I need to have? Are we going to get around to that or not?”

“Oh, yeah. Right,” I remember, trying my best to at least appear sober. “Well, there are actually two subjects I’d like for us to discuss.”

“I’m listening. What’s the first one?”

I hesitate for only a second. “Elishabeth,” I slur, much to my embarrassment.

“You mean, ‘Elizabeth’, the nurse you work with?” he corrects me with perfect elocution. “Why? What’s wrong with her?”

“I think she likes you,” I blurt out.

“That means there’s gotta be something wrong with her?” Now, he looks hurt. “Lots of women like me, you know, Molly. At least, I hope they do. So, what’s wrong if Elizabeth is one of them?”

“What’s wrong is that she doesn’t just like you, Ralph, she really, really likes you, and I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

“How is she going to get hurt?”

I roll my eyes in exasperation. “Because she’s married to some guy who curses at her and God only knows what else he does, and because you’re a, well, you’re … an … angel.”

“An Archangel,” Ralph clarifies with a playful wink in my direction.

“The point is that it’s a completely impossible situation, and you and I both know how vulnerable Elizabeth is right now. Don’t you see? Any misperceptions or misinterpreted signals from you, and the whole thing could end up a disaster!”

Ralph just stares straight ahead. “Okay. What’s the second problem you wanted to discuss?” he actually has the nerve to ask.

I am aghast. “What? Didn’t you hear a word I just said?”

“Every single one of them,” he assures me. “But you’re way off base on this one, Molly. If you’re going to replace me in this role as healer of the healers, then the one thing you must never assume is that you are any wiser than the troubled souls who are going to cross your path. You’ll never effectively be able to help them until you accept the fact that they are your teachers too. Only a very small percentage of whatever it is you think is going on in someone else’s life, is going to turn out to be accurate. That’s what makes it imperative for you to take on the stance of a very curious and non-judgmental observer.”

“Then, how can I help them if I don’t have accurate information? Honestly, Ralph, this role you’re asking me to take on is really confusing to me.”

“It’s not confusing at all,” he insists. “You don’t choose the people who need your help, your job is to just stand back, be a good observer, and wait for them to ask you for help.”

“Oh. So, I don’t get a list or an assignment sheet of some sort?”

“No,” he laughs. “The people who need your help will find you. Don’t go making it all complicated, okay?”

I feel much better now that Ralph has cleared this up. What a relief this is for me. Apparently, I can just go along my merry way and wait for the challenges to come to me. No chance of an oversight. No unfulfilled quotas. I like this idea.”

Ralph smiles wryly. “Okay, next issue,” he invites again, reaching for his glass.

“Weeelll,” I say tentatively, “the next item is about Jason.”

“What about him?”

“He thinks he’s hallucinating.”

Ralph takes another long draw from his Shirley Temple, and then sets it down in front of him. “How do you know that?”

“Because he told me so! Besides, I still know my ex-husband quite well, and I can tell when he’s crazy and when he’s not!” I go on. “It’s just that I don’t know whether or not I should tell him the truth, you know, that’s he is definitely not hallucinating. Then again, maybe I should just let him go on believing that he’s losing his mind. That might actually be more palatable for him than the truth.”

“These hallucinations of his,” Ralph muses, “are they visual, auditory, or both?”

“Just visual, I’m pretty sure.”

Ralph gets a pensive look on that usually mischievous face of his. “Tell me something, Molly,” he says, “have you ever hallucinated? I mean … personally?”

“What! Me? No, of course not!” I retort, resenting the implication, but Ralph doesn’t appear to be one bit bothered by this.

“Oh. Well, hallucinating can actually be a pretty intriguing experience,” he notes, “kind of freeing, in some instances.” Ralph rests his chin in his hand then and ponders this. “Besides, Jason is on some pretty heavy-duty medications right now, and they have been known to trigger some rather surreal side effects,” he notes, as if I need reminding.

“He’s seeing green feathers, for God’s sake!” I practically shout back at him. “The same kind that seem to keep falling off of you!”

“Oh, I see,” Ralph smirks into his Shirley Temple, “the old ‘glowing-green-feather syndrome’, eh?”

“Ralph, be serious,” I beg. “Does this mean that he’s, well, you know … that Jason’s dying? I mean … soon?”

“We’re all dying, Molly,” Ralph answers as gently as he’s ever said anything to me. “That reminds me, did I happen to tell you that our friend, Tommy, you know, from Connecticut, crossed over just a few nights ago?”

I am floored by this. Grief-stricken. And then, I am deeply offended.

“How dare you just blurt out something like that so, so, so casually!” I demand, absolutely fuming now.

Ralph looks contrite. “Whoops. Sorry,” he offers. “I always forget how upset you human beings seem to get over things like this. Personally, I don’t understand it at all. I mean every single one of you come into this world knowing right from the start, that you’re going to die someday; that it’s inevitable. Yet, you’re all always so shocked and dumbfounded when it actually occurs. You see death as some kind of a horrible tragedy, instead of the beautiful blossoming of the soul that it truly is.” Ralph shakes his head sadly before he continues. “I’m sorry to say this, but, as a species, you humans are a very strange bunch.”

“Now who’s being judgmental,” I mutter into my Diet Coke.

I do not remember the drive home that night, only that I spent it on the passenger seat of Ralph’s Harley, my arms tightly secured around his waist, and both of my wrists bound in front of him by another one of his all-purpose leather bands. Ralph claims that I insisted on visiting the tattoo parlor next door after leaving the Sand Dollar Pub, but I don’t believe him. After all, I’m quite certain I would recall doing anything as senseless and completely out-of-character as that.

I can feel Ralph staring at me as I stumble up the stairs to my apartment. I fumble around for my keys, and then let myself inside, while he just watches from below, grinning as usual.

“A tattoo parlor,” I sneer as soon as I close the door behind me and then lock it. Unsteadily, I set about undressing and preparing myself for a good night’s sleep.

“Just how gullible does Ralph really think I am?”

Gratefully, I crawl between freshly laundered sheets and then reach up to turn out the lamp beside my bed. That is when I let out a high-pitched shriek that I don’t even recognize as my own.

There, in the opaque darkness of my room, something green is glowing around the base my left fourth finger. Even before turning the light back on for confirmation, I can already tell that it is a circular tattoo … in the shape of a feather.