CHAPTER SEVEN

Against all odds, the housekeeping department manages to deliver a fresh cart of clean laundry to the unit just as the wild goose-chase for Tommy winds down. Some of the blankets are still warm from the dryer when I touch them, and so, I pluck one off and bring it to my still shivering patient.

The fury of the snowstorm continues to pound against the hospital windows as I make my way down the deserted hallway. The narcotic keys that I carry around my neck jangle softly as I tiptoe past several of the dimly lit patient rooms.

Every once in a while, I notice that the overhead lights are blinking off and on, but I calmly attribute that to the howling winds from the blizzard outside. I am aware that hospitals are required to be able to operate on auxiliary power during outages like this. Even if the unit goes completely dark, I tell myself, the lights will come back on in just a matter of seconds.

That is when the breath in my lungs suddenly catches and then seems to be completely cut off. My throat is constricted by some kind of overpowering force, and I realize that someone is actually strangling me. Someone is twisting the rope from the narcotic keys ever tighter around my neck, making the passage of air impossible.

Dizzy with anoxia and sheer terror, my peripheral vision begins to dwindle, and the clinical nurse inside of me dutifully notes that there are only seconds left before I surely will lose consciousness. No matter how hard I try to fight back and wriggle out of the vise-like grip around my neck, I’m unable to get a good look at my attacker.

“These keys belong to me, now,” a husky male voice growls into my ear from behind.

“No!” I somehow manage to choke out. The sudden threat of losing any kind of control over my world not only fills me with rage, but also opens up the floodgates of adrenalin. With what little strength I have left, I implement an old trick I once learned as a student nurse on the psychiatric floor. Bending my right knee up behind me, I scrape the heel of my shoe as hard as I can down my attacker’s shin. Disappointingly, this elicits only a small grunt from him, and does nothing to encourage him to loosen his grip on the rope around my neck.

It’s funny, what goes through your head when you believe you are about to die. It’s also amazing just how fast those disjointed fragments are able to stream through your consciousness. Thought fragments like:

‘I’ll bet my Steve Madden boots would have made a much better weapon than these stupid, rubber-soled nurse’s shoes. Oh, God! I can’t believe I’m actually going to die this way! And what will happen to Jason if I die? Will he suddenly feel free to break his promise about undergoing chemotherapy? And, why do I care in the first place? I’m the one who’s dying this time! Oh, why didn’t I ever bother taking a self-defense class? A betting man probably would have put his money on that darn motorcycle as being the cause of my final demise; not getting strangled by a set of narcotic keys like this. And by the way, where are the security guards or, for that matter, the National Guard? Are we nurses the only ones who show up for work in a blizzard?’

Desperate to suck any amount of air into my starving lungs, I realize that all four of my extremities are starting to go limp. The ceiling lights flicker above me again, and a heavy blanket of darkness begins closing in on me … but not before I make one … last … attempt … to … take … my … power … back.

As my nearly flaccid left arm drops down to my side, I will my fingers to snatch the ever-present Kelly Clamp from the waistband of my scrub-pants. In one adrenaline-fueled move, I reach up and bite into the intruder’s wrist with the stainless steel teeth of my Kelly Clamp. Enraged now, my attacker cries out in pain, using his other hand to dislodge the clamp as everything around me grows dark and still.

The next thing I know, I have no sense of time or place or even physical discomfort. Instead, I seem to be floating peacefully above the entire scene. I am unconcerned with any of it, except for the fact that I’m not fighting to breathe anymore! All at once, oxygen is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, and I wonder how come I never noticed that before? Then again, I have to wonder why I am breathing at all. I’m pretty sure I’m dead.

Eventually, I nudge my eyes open and, at first, I don’t see anything at all. Little by little though, a couple of shapeless forms come into focus. If I thought everything had been moving incredibly fast while I’d been struggling for my life, now it all seems to be happening in slow motion. In fact, for one brief flash, I am practically positive that I see Ralph leaning over me with an almost angelic smile on his chiseled face. His lips are moving but, for some reason, I’m unable to hear whatever it is he’s saying.

So, this is what death feels like, I think to myself. It’s really not so bad, either. Though I no longer have much control over my physical body, I am acutely aware of an enormous weight being lifted from my shoulders, releasing me from all of my former worries and responsibilities. Whether or not I am clinically dead (as we in the medical profession like to refer to it), or simply having a near-death-experience, I’m not exactly sure. All I know is that being suspended in this odd state of total helplessness is surprisingly freeing and, of all things, empowering! I’m serious. Nothing is my fault now, and even if it were, there is nothing I can do about any of it. For the first time in my existence, I don’t have to struggle to fix, or change, or control anything. All is well in my little surreal world.

Without warning, the sound and the lights suddenly snap back on, and it is like parachuting through the blissful, silent heavens and then crashing onto a crowded, jagged, and unstable precipice somewhere. Every bone in my body pulsates with pain and I eventually determine that I am lying on my back on the cold, unforgiving floor of a hospital hallway. I am also surrounded by a frenzied mob of hospital personnel; all talking at once, asking me questions, barking orders, and probing my injuries.

‘Oh, no, I’m alive,’ I am disappointed to discover, and at the same time I am bewildered by the inappropriateness of that response.

Amidst the crowd, and drifting in and out of consciousness, I find myself staring up into Ralph’s familiar and bottomless green eyes.

“That’s one hell of a left hook you’ve got there, Molly Driscoll,” he quips quietly, a hint of admiration tingeing his tone. “Remind me never to get into a fight with you, okay?”

“Okay,” I manage to choke out. I am astounded by how weak and raspy my voice is now. And my throat, oh, God, my throat feels like it has been rubbed raw with sandpaper.

“C’mon, let’s get you down to the Emergency Room for some x-rays,” Ralph says, scooping me up from the floor and placing me onto a waiting gurney that someone has rolled up beside me.

I’m embarrassed to admit this, but all I can think about at the moment is how much I weigh and how much I regret having had three slices of pizza for dinner last night. Sometimes, even I can’t believe how shallow I can be.

Anonymous faces guide my stretcher onto a waiting elevator car, and automated doors seal us all inside. It occurs to me then that after all these years of working as a nurse, I am about to find out what it’s like to be a patient. I don’t think I want to know. So far, I don’t like it. Being transported around like this on four wheels is downright embarrassing. Shouldn’t all the time I’ve put in on the other side of these gurneys earn me some kind of immunity from this, I wonder.

A bell pings softly as we reach the main floor, and Ralph gazes down at me with a concerned expression on his boyish face. “Why are you blushing?” he asks.

“Because I’m a nurse, and not a patient!” I hoarsely complain.

“Those are pretty strong words for someone who’s lying on her back with blue lips, and ligature-induced-bruises all around her neck,” Ralph answers back with a playful grin.

The Emergency Room staff get right to work on me, monitoring vital signs, measuring oxygen saturation levels, drawing blood for the lab, and scanning, probing, and palpating every inch of my aching body. In between these procedures, two police detectives question me about the identity of my attacker who, they inform me, is still at large.

“He came at me from behind,” I tell them over and over again. “I never was able to get a good look at his face.”

“Yes, we understand that,” one detective patiently explains, “but wasn’t there something? Any identifying feature at all, that stands out in your mind? A tattoo, maybe?”

“Yeah, or a scar?” the other partner tries. “Maybe even a particular smell that you might have noticed? Any little thing could help us find this guy.”

I shake my head ‘no’. “The whole thing is just such a big blur to me,” I apologize. Then I remember something. “Wait a minute!” I gasp. “I do remember something!”

Both detectives’ faces light up in anticipation of what I am about to reveal.

“I remember noticing what great veins the guy had!”

“Excuse me?” the first detective deadpans.

“Yes, I remember thinking that, for a drug addict, this guy has really good veins. You don’t usually see such prominent, superficial vessels on someone like that. So, maybe he’s not a known drug addict, right?”

Personally, I consider this to be a pretty significant piece of information, but the two detectives exchange exasperated looks. I can tell by the scowls on their faces that they figure they are back to square one again. Even so, they politely thank me for my efforts, and promise to keep me updated on any new developments. They disappear behind the curtain that surrounds my cubicle, just as Ralph reappears from the opposite side.

“What time is it?” I suddenly gasp, thinking about my patients and how much paper work I still have left to finish up before my shift is over.

“It’s a little past midnight,” Ralph informs me without even looking at his watch.

“What? It’s past midnight?” I panic. “Oh, no! I have to get back to the unit,” I insist, swinging my legs over the side of my stretcher. I almost get past him, too. That is, until Ralph blocks my path with his powerful shoulders.

“Your patients are being cared for, and you’re not going anywhere,” he somberly informs me while gently guiding me back onto the gurney.

“Who? Who’s taking care of them?” I have to know. “I was the only R.N. up there and …”

“As difficult as this probably is for you to accept,” Ralph firmly states, “the world can and will keep turning without you to show it how.”

“That’s not true! I was in charge!” I hear myself protest, and then I flush with embarrassment at my obvious arrogance.

“What about Jason?” I try next. “I need to call him. Otherwise, he’ll be worried that he hasn’t heard from me tonight.”

“All right, all right.” Ralph calmly pats his chest and retrieves something from his breast pocket. “Here. You can use my cell phone to call whoever this ‘Jason’ guy is.”

“He’s my ex-husband,” I casually mention, snatching the phone from Ralph’s outstretched hand.

As the phone rings, I make a mental promise to myself that I will not mention anything about what happened to me tonight. Jason doesn’t need the extra worry, I decide. Besides, I don’t want to give him any excuse to back out of our deal. He needs this chemotherapy, and I’m going to make darn sure he gets it.

“Still controlling the universe, are you?” Ralph asks with a sly smile, and it really annoys me the way he always seems to know what I am thinking.

At last, someone picks up and a jovial voice laughs into my ear. “Yo, Jason here,” he chortles above boisterous voices in the background.

It sounds to me like there’s a party going on.

“J-jason. It’s me. M-molly,” I stammer into the phone, wishing that Ralph would just excuse himself and give me some privacy during this conversation. “I-I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I lie, and the sudden flicker of interest in Ralph’s eyes does not escape my notice.

“No! No! Of course you’re not interrupting anything, Babe,” Jason repeats a little too loudly, and I instinctively know that this is his way of telling his ‘company’ to quiet down.

“I, uhm, I was just calling to see how your chemo went today,” I bring up in as casual a manner as my traumatized state will permit.

“My chemo?” he repeats in a light-hearted tone. “Hmmmph. This chemotherapy thing is no big deal. It’s a walk in the park, Babe,” he slurs, and I am not sure if his speech impediment is the result of prescribed medication … or a contra-indicated party with some of his chums.

As I contemplate which of the two is responsible for his magnanimous mood, I notice a high-pitched female giggle erupt in the background.

“Who’s that I just heard laughing?” I demand to know.

“Oh, that’s just Greta,” Jason replies in a dismissive tone. “She’s a, er … she’s just a friend of mine.”

Already the judge and jury in my ex-wife-mind have found him guilty of lying under oath and want him punished for it. But why do I feel this way? And just what oath am I referring to? Our wedding vows? We’re not married any more. What is wrong with me?

“Good. Well, good,” I fumble, trying to force some cheer into my voice. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing okay.”

“Yeah. Like I said, it’s a walk in the park, Babe.”

“I’m kind of tired at the moment, myself. I, uhm, I’ll give you a call tomorrow, all right?”

“Sure. That sounds good,” my ex-husband tells me. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

And then he hangs up.

Before I do.

To his credit, Ralph has enough sense to remain silent. He just stands there, ignoring the astonishment and disappointment that I know must be written all over my face.

“Well,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Jason sounds, uhm, he sounds good,” I announce, handing Ralph’s phone back to him. “He’s a little doped up maybe, but he … he sounds … good.”

“And, what about Molly?” Ralph asks, ever so gently. “How is she feeling right this minute?”

“Me? Oh, I’m good. I’m fine.”

“You could have fooled me,” he mumbles, calling my bluff. “If you’re so ‘fine’, then why are your eyes all watery and bloodshot like that?”

“It’s called, ‘petichiae’, ‘Mr. I.C.U. Nurse’,” I remind him, crossing my arms in front of me. “It’s from all the broken blood vessels in my eyes from nearly being strangled to death just a little while ago.”

“Oh, I see,” Ralph says. “Silly me. I guess I thought maybe you still might have feelings for that ex-husband of yours. My mistake, apparently.”

This is too much. “Of course, I still have feelings for him!” I blurt out. “Why shouldn’t I? I used to love him!”

That is when the tears from a million old hurts, dashed dreams, and broken promises decide to explode from my bloodshot eyes.

“Did he love you back?” Ralph bluntly inquires.

I reach for a nearby gauze pad and wipe my nose with it. “Yes. As a matter of fact, he did.”

“So what happened?” Ralph probes, seating himself beside me on the stretcher, and then placing one strong arm around my quivering shoulders.

“Who knows?” I blubber, miserably. “I’ve always been terrible at relationships, Ralph. I don’t know how to behave when I’m in one. Just ask Jason, or my younger sisters, or just about anyone else who really knows me.”

I have no idea why I am suddenly revealing such personal information to this man I hardly know, but that doesn’t stop me. I’ve never once told anyone what it was like to be the eldest of three children, and the only one in the family who was capable of acting like an adult. “My sisters always joke that I was born already a grown-up.” I sniffle. “But what choice did I have? Somebody had to be responsible, didn’t they? Okay, maybe sometimes I can be a bit demanding and controlling and inflexible and co-dependent, just like Jason says I am, but …”

“Whoa! Whoa!” Ralph interrupts, waving his other hand in the air. “What did you just say? Coda … coda … what?”

“Co-dependent,” I repeat. “You know. It’s typical of adult children of alcoholics. We’re always trying to fix the other people in our life, but we have no clue how to fix ourselves.”

“Semantics,” Ralph says.

“Huh?”

“Coda-whatever-you-just-called-it, and all the other labels you allow people to put on you. They’re just words. Inaccurate ones at that. Listen to me, Molly. I once watched a girl walk into a biker bar all by herself, wearing Steve Madden boots, and you know what she did?”

He does not wait for me to answer.

“With a couple of well-chosen words, she put a bunch of rowdy drunks right in their place. You know what I’d call that?”

Wordlessly, I shrug.

“That’s what I would call ‘confident’ and ‘strong’.”

He waits a minute or so for that to sink in, and then he continues.

“Not too long ago, I also saw a nurse who figured out exactly where to find her missing patient, and then marched out into the middle of a blizzard, and sweet-talked him into coming back inside. You know what I’d call her?”

“What?” I mumble.

“’Dedicated’, for one thing. ‘Smart’ and ‘sensitive’, for another.”

“You’re just saying this stuff to make me feel better,” I pout.

Ralph lets out a long sigh of frustration. “You still don’t know how to take a compliment, do you, Molly?”

I don’t know what to say, so I just mutely stare up at him.

“Okay, I’m going to give you one more example,” he finally offers. “What about that feisty ‘Travel Nurse’ who, with her very last breath, fought her way out of a death-grip using nothing more than a Kelly Clamp as a weapon? I don’t know what you’d call that, but I know I’d call it something like ‘valiant’ and ‘resourceful’ and ‘resilient’.”

“I guess I’m always too busy criticizing my own behavior to actually see myself that way,” I bashfully admit.

“Well, maybe it’s about time you started changing that,” Ralph softly suggests.