Chapter 3

Mimi’s turn:

Waiting rooms. I hate ‘em. As a nurse, I’ve seen too many tragedies played out with families in one of those rooms awaiting the outcome of a procedure on a family member.

Now here I am. Worse, I’m not even sure of what MY status is. Three days ago that guy in surgery rescued me. Today I rescued him right back. Our actual connection is kind of sketchy. Rescued me. Gave me a place to stay for some indeterminate time until I get my stuff together.

We haven’t had really long discussions about who I’m supposed to call. This infection thing ran right up over him. I don’t know who’s supposed to be here besides me, and I’m really just barely connected.

Finally the door swings open. The guy wearing the scrubs, the mask dangling below his chin, has ‘doctor’ written all over him. “Fontenot family?” he asks.

“That’s me,” I said.

“Francis is in recovery. We did a few incisions to relieve pressure from his infection, so his blood supply can get to his foot. They’re culturing to identify the infection. He’s going to be going to a room soon. Isolation, at least until we get a handle on what sort of bug he’s got.”

“Isolation? What’s the protocol for visitors?” I knew some of this. Wanted to see where this hospital would fall out.

“He can have limited visitors. Hand sanitizer. No contact. I think that’s what they do.”

“Okay. Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome. Good luck.”

He pulled the door closed behind himself, leaving me ALONE.

Soon I was in the recovery room with this guy, and I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do. I sigh. ‘Okay, Mimi, ‘ I tell myself, ‘you’re a nurse. You’ve got ONE patient right now. You can do this.’

Apparently ‘doing this’ included a gentle caress, tracing my fingers along the curve of his brow, then down his cheek.

“I’ll bet you’re one fantastic nurse,” he said with a croak.

“Don’t try to talk. Your throat’s gonna be raw from the anesthesia protocols. And yes, If you’d listened yesterday, well ... I won’t say I told you so.” I squeezed his fingers. “Rest. We can argue later.”

A bit after that, I watched another nurse check him out. “We’re taking him to a room in isolation. You can follow, but we have rules...”

“I’ve worked isolation cases before,” I said.

Her eyes clicked to mine. “Nurse?”

“RN,” I said. “Agency nurse.”

“From here? I don’t recognize you.”

“No, I’m displaced by the flood. This guy rescued me. Caught that infection doing it.”

“Then you know what MRSA is. We’re pretty sure that’s his issue.”

“I can handle that.”

I followed the orderlies as they rolled him through the hospital to the surgical ward, then into his room. I stopped at the nurse’s station.

“You’ve got my friend Francis Fontenot. He goes by ‘Buddy’.”

“We just got the packet on him,” the clerk said. “That’s our isolation room he’s going in.”

“I’m a nurse myself. I’ll be here with him.”

“You can talk with his nurse when she finishes her admit protocol,” the clerk said. “She’ll have to brief you on our rules for the isolation room.”

“I’ll wait for her,” I said.

“He’ll be fine,” the clerk smiled. “We’re pretty good here. Want a cup of coffee?”

“Is it any good?”

“No,” she said, “but that never stopped anybody before.”

I took the offered cup. It was right there in the middle of the range of coffee I’ve drunk at dozens of units in the past few years. I made a mental note to bring some snacks up here when I got out and came back. Being nice to staff – well, I like it when somebody makes an effort, so I imagine they will, as well.

Finally, the nurse showed up. Middle-aged black woman, looking a bit tired. “You’re here with Mister Fontenot?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“You know he’s still groggy.”

“Post-surg,” I said. “What’s the deal? Meds?”

“Infectious isolation protocol,” she said. “You can visit, but you wash your hands with that sanitizer every time you come and go, and if you touch him. Nothing carried in ... Well, cellphone, okay? But he doesn’t touch it. And he’s gonna stay on the IV. We’re piggybacking some antibiotics. Surgeon will be in later to look at the drains in his leg, and I suppose that this Doctor M...”

“Mayanama?”

“Yeah. Infectious disease guy. He’ll be in to talk with y’all.”

“Pain meds?”

“Hon, you got that ‘nurse’ look to you...”

“RN,” I said.

She smiled. “I can tell. Yeah, we got Demerol on the list for pain.”

“Can I go see ‘im?”

“Wash your hands first, go see ‘im, then sanitize when you come back out.”

“I’m familiar,” I said.

“Sure, hon.”

I left the nurse’s station, walked up the hall, gently opened the door. I never stop marveling about how small and frail a human can look when he’s framed by a hospital bed. This guy, healthy, robust, vigorous when I first saw him – now, in that bed, he LOOKS helpless. I see that they have the covers tented up over his legs, so I know he’s helpless.

I ease up by his side. “I’m here, Buddy,” I said.

His eyelids flutter, then open. “I’m glad you’re here. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Let’s not think about that, Buddy. I’m here. You’re gonna be okay.”

He tried a smile. It works. He smiled a bit more when I patted his arm.

“If you’re going to stay here for a bit, I’m going to run home and get a few things. What do you need?”

“Nothing right now,” he said. “Take my wallet and stuff. And those clothes...”

“Those clothes are going to get a good washing, Typhoid Mary,” I said.

“You might want to think about YOUR things, too, Mimi. We were in the same flood, you know...”

“Yeah, but I’m not fragile like you...”

“Nurses ain’t s’posed to be mean,” he said. “Now go away while I sob quietly.”

“I’ll go.” I patted his hand gently. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Mimi, you don’t have to stay up here with me.”

“Thank you, Buddy, but I will be here as much as we can stand. I’m bringing ... Oh, shit! Lost my iPad in the flood.”

“Mine’s on the nightstand beside my bed. Use it...”

“I doubt we have the same tastes in literature...”

“So bring mine, get what you want...”

“I’ll think about it.” I gave my hands a good going over with the sanitizer, then left. Stopped by the nurse’s station and told them I’d be back.

Walking through the parking lot reminded me that it’s August in Louisiana – ninety-seven degrees and eighty percent humidity. Buddy’s pickup has a kick-ass air conditioner, though. Let’s see ... I followed an ambulance here ... Don’t remember much. But there’s a GPS. I turn it on, punch ‘home’. I hope that’s the way he programmed it. Oops! Cancel. Save the location of the hospital, THEN punch ‘home’ again.

Back at Buddy’s house, I bustled around, gathering ... Okay, I admit that at first I felt kind of strange going into HIS bedroom and going through closets and drawers to gather a few things, including a pair of socks. With the blankets propped up away from his feet ... I’ve put many a pair of socks on a patient.

I also took a shower. I was very meticulous and looked closely for signs of anything that might indicate that I had any infection. What Buddy had was aggressive. When I finished, I pulled on a set of the scrubs I’d bought yesterday. Why not? They’re comfortable, not flashy, and easy to clean.

On the way back to the hospital I stopped at a donut shop.

I dropped the donuts off in the coffee room at the surgery ward where Buddy’s staying, and I told the nurse at the counter.

She eyed me. “Scrubs?”

“Easy to keep clean. These’ll get washed when I get home.”

“You had me fooled. I thought you were a new nurse.”

“That’s a thought. I kind of lost everything in that stinkin’ flood. Buddy Fontenot rescued a bunch of people. I was one of them.”

“You’re a nurse?”

“RN,” I said. “Might be looking for a job after I see what’s happening back at my apartment. I’m sure I lost everything. I don’t know where I’d live around there, not to mention the job situation.”

“Hon,” she said, “You’re an RN. You can HAVE a job.”

“Agency,” I said. “Played that game.”

“Uh ... Buddy? Mister Fontenot? Your boyfriend?” she asked.

“Three days ago I was sitting on a rooftop with water up to the eaves at my feet. Buddy Fontenot came up the street in his fishing boat and rescued me and my neighbors. I helped him rescue a couple dozen more people that day. He gave me a place to stay until I get things together. Then he got his infection. My turn to return the favor.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Nice guy. Lives alone. Needs help. That’s me. I’m going to see him.”

“Remember the disinfection protocols.”

“Oh, I will. Thanks for the reminder.”

I walked into Buddy’s room. He was asleep, so I did a quick visual of his IV and his general condition, then put the bags down beside the visitor’s chair and made myself comfortable. I’d snagged a book off Buddy’s bookshelf. I thought it surprising that he had a bookshelf with actual BOOKS on it and I was even more surprised when I saw titles that I’d actually read and authors I was interested in.

I was going to the hospital, though, and mentally, I was sort of fried, I mean, flooded out two days ago, now staying at the hospital with a guy I just barely knew. He likes Tom Clancy. I like Tom Clancy, and there’s most of Clancy’s stuff. I picked up Without Remorse because I read it before and I liked the story line and as a reader I know that re-reading a book always reveals things you missed or failed to understand the first time through. I can dream about a man of action. I get into the book.

The nurse comes in, checks on Buddy’s IV. “Looks good,” I say.

She smiles. “I gotta do a pedal pulse. That’s one of their concerns.”

“Can I look?”

“He’s YOUR friend. That leg’s ugly.”

I looked. She palpated the pulse point. I mimicked her when she was finished. “Lot better than when he came in,” I said.

“Yeah, I would hope so. They left open incisions with drains. And that stuff we’re dumping in his IV will take paint off a Volkswagen.”

Buddy stirred, his eyes opening.

“Hey, Buddy,” I said.

“Hi, Mimi.”

“Mister Fontenot, how are you feeling?”

“My leg feels like a block of wood. That somebody set on fire...”

“On a scale of one to ten, what’s your pain level? Ten’s...”

“About a seven, I guess...”

“I’m gonna push another round of Demerol, then,” the nurse said. She looked over at me. “Pain management...”

“Stay ahead of it,” I replied to her. “Buddy ... You need to rest so you can heal.”

“I’m not much company ... Sorry...” he croaked.

“Here, take a sip of water,” I said. I held his cup and straw up with one hand. “Drink. Wet your mouth.” I cradled his head with the other. He felt warm. And more than a run of the mill patient.

He sipped. Worked up a bit of a smile.

“That’s good,” the nurse said. “He’s not putting out much.” She pointed to the collection bag. A catheter went to ... well, you KNOW where catheters go. I can be clinical. This is a medical venue. Clinical. Patient, I tell myself, not a pretty good looking, decent, intelligent guy. Patient. Right, Mimi?