Episode
17 - Isolation
“So, the date went well?” asked
Mare.
Trace scanned the unit from the recreation
room to reassure himself he was not needed on the floor before
he answered: “Well enough.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Well, the date part was fine. That’s
the problem.”
“Why would that be a problem?”
asked Mare.
“I guess it’s not a problem then.”
“Except you just said it was.”
“It was a bit frustrating,” explained
Trace.
“That means you didn’t have sex,”
quipped Mare.
“We kind of had sex.”
“Oh, Christ, Trace, what does that mean?”
“He just wanted to dry hump.”
“Well, he’s probably afraid of
AIDS,” explained Mare.
“Mare, how did you get that instantly,
and I had to think about it?”
“He’s around Bill’s age,
and Bill’s friends, who are still alive, have become a
very conservative crowd.”
Trace paused to remember Mare had taken care
of her dying friend Bill. Before the development of AIDS care
networks and even after, given America’s tendency to read
the virus as an agent of morality instead of as a microorganism,
there have had to be friends like Mare. Friends like her had
to take the place of family for the HIV positive individuals
who were disowned or otherwise ignored by family, churches,
and governments. Trace had come to realize fag hags and cum
rags are two of the most indispensable parts of a gay man’s
life in the age of AIDS, and he expressed his gratitude through
Bill: “He was lucky to have you.”
“Well, I’d be luckier if he were
still here. Either way, this no pants thing is not going to
work for you unless you are patient, and you, honey, are not
patient.”
“No, I am not, and I am okay with that.
I mean isn’t that why we have condoms?” pressed
Trace.
“Yes, but most of the men in that age
group saw too much to fuck fast now. They’re too afraid.”
Trace could not let the pun’s irony go
unnoted “They are fuck fasting then. It’s like Ramadan,
but worse, it begins instead of ends at sunset.”
“I appreciate your rapid and endless
wit, but promise me, you’ll be safe, Trace.”
“I am; I will be. I think about it, but
I don’t think it should stop me from having sex.”
Trace was becoming increasingly less certain he thought about
AIDS as much as he should, and he wondered if he was too isolated
from the virus and the gay community and if this isolation explained
his inaction. He thought it was uniquely odd that he was in
the most at-risk group, but, unlike Mare, he had never known
one person with HIV, unless—but before a sense of panic
could rise within him, he put that thought away.
“For some guys, especially the ones who
lived through the eighties, they cannot help but think about
it. If this is what is going on with Dennis, then having sex
with him is probably not a good thing, unless you learn to be
patient.”
Dodging Mare’s recalibration of the conversation,
Trace responded: “That’s the thing, it kind of was
a good thing.”
“Okay, I don’t know if I really
want to hear this, but I’ll ask anyway.” Mare laughed
before continuing. “What the hell does that mean?”
“The rule was our pants stayed on, and
I wanted more—meaning less clothes, but I went with it—"
“Of course,” interrupted Mare.
“I’m just going to ignore that,”
retorted Trace. “The weird thing is I ended up really
getting off. I wasn’t really into the pants rule, but
I was horny—“
“When aren’t you?” interrupted
Mare.
“Excuse me for having a sex drive, but
the pants on rule was not much fun.”
“Except it seems that it was,”
argued Mare.
“Point for you; you got me there, but
the sex was out of proportion to the date.”
“How exactly?” questioned Mare.
“I don’t know. There was something
about it—the sex—that excited me, and while we were
going at it, I kinda got it, but now I don’t know why
I was into it or why I even pushed—let it to go that far.”
Trace grew increasingly uncomfortable, and
he hoped Mare would not pick up on his rewording. He attempted
to redirect the conversation before he found himself revealing
more than he was ready to deal with: “I mean the date
wasn’t—”
“Wasn’t what?” pressed Mare.
“What did you want the date to be?”
Trace struggled to answer the question that spoke directly to
the variance between his cock and his head, and with great effort,
he found the words to express his feelings: “It wasn’t—electric.”
“You said you had a great orgasm. That
sounds pretty electric to me.”
“Yeah, but that’s the thing, Mare.
I wanted the rest of the date to be that way too, but it just
wasn’t.”
“So what you are saying is he’s
a good fuck.”
“Really, Mare. You are so crude.”
“You’re the one dry humping until
you cum in your pants, and I’m the one that’s crude?”
exclaimed Mare.
“Yes, that’s the way this works,”
explained Trace sarcastically.
“Doesn’t your wit ever end?”
“No, not really.” Trace sighed.
“Argh. Enough with this; how are you?”
“Okay,” answered Mare.
“Just okay?”
“Whoa, I just noticed the time; I have
to run. Let’s meet later for nachos.”
“Okay, the usual place around 6:30?”
“You got it. See you then.”
Trace heard the line disconnect before he could
remove the phone from his ear, and he wondered at the haste.
For an underemployed person, Mare was always in a rush lately.
Trace knew he would press her on this point when he saw her
later, and he felt guilty he did not know why she was so rushed.
He remembered her job hunt, but he sensed there was something
else going on. He had sensed it before, but between Davis and
Dennis, he found himself being too self-absorbed to ask. Trace
grew uneasy as he realized their conversations had been very
one sided lately. He was always sharing a problem, and Mare
was always offering clarifying advice.
Remembering Mare’s latest insight about
Dennis’ fear of AIDS, Trace became intensely self-absorbed,
as a visceral self-concern knotted his abdomen, and he realized
it was time for him to be tested for HIV. This realization had
been with him for sometime, but it felt like he had been pondering
the idea as a suggestion for someone else, but now, he knew
he could no longer ignore it, as the porn screen of memory flickered
with his every at-risk behavior.
Trace’s self-concern faded as a scream
pealed through the unit, threatening to shatter the atrium glass
with its intensity. He instinctively ran toward the scream,
which transformed itself into a low guttural groan and knew
where it was coming from when Mrs. Johnson ran out from her
husband’s room.
Sighting Trace, she ran up to him, grabbed
his arm, and pleaded for help: “Help me with Sally. She’s
trying to nurse him, but she keeps lifting his arm, and it is
making Rich scream with pain.
Trace scanned the unit and realized the nursing
staff had not yet begun to respond. Stepping into the room,
he saw Sally holding Mr. Johnson’s arm, as if she was
looking for a vein to tap for blood, but her examination required
her to hyperextend the arm over the raised bedrail, causing
Mr. Johnson’s pain.
Trace listened for the nursing staff, but no
one was coming. His heart raced, but he calmed himself by mentally
repeating the training mantra ‘safety before protocol”,
as he moved into action and darted his hands toward Sally: “Sally,
take this!”
Fortunately, Sally was still reflexively responsive
to verbal cues, and she immediately let go of Mr. Johnson’s
arm and reached toward Trace’s extended hands.
Trace faked a handoff, and Sally beamed with
satisfaction and pride, as he took hold of her wheelchair handles
and rolled her away from the bed: “Thank you, Sally. I
will take over from here.”
Sally lolled in her chair, seeming grateful
for the intervention. Once she was far enough away from the
bed, Trace turned toward the bed and hit the call button, prompting
an immediate response from the nurses’ station: “Can
I help you?”
“It’s Trace. Mr. Johnson needs
assistance. He is in pain, and his arm will need to be assessed
for contusions or breaks.”
“I’ll get Patti, Trace!”
Trace looked down at Mr. Johnson. His arm still
hung over the rail, but Trace knew not to move it, and despite
the stimulation of pain, Mr. Johnson seemed completely removed.
Trace looked into his face, and he realized Sally’s nursing
instincts led her to try to tend to him because he was ashen,
his breathing was labored, his eyes gaunt, and his ears distended.
Sally could see that Mr. Johnson was dying, and Trace could
see it too.
Patti and two nursing aids rushed into the
room. One aide wheeled Sally from the room while the other assisted
Patti at the bedside.
Trace stepped into the hallway to find Mrs.
Johnson staring out of the atrium window. Her slight frame and
worry pinched face contrasted the lush tropical foliage that
filled the heights of the atrium. He approached her slowly:
“Mrs. Johnson, I am sorry that happened, and I am sorry
I wasn’t there to redirect Sally.”
Mrs. Johnson continued to stare out the window,
as she responded: “Sally was just trying to help. Watching
Rich for ten years, I know you cannot watch them all the time.
I just hope his arm is not broken.”
“Me too,” replied Trace.
“Trace, how does he look to you?”
“Not very good, Mrs. Johnson.”
“The doctor said he would start failing
soon, and when he did, it wouldn’t be long, but I’m
afraid to ask Patti about it.”
“Mrs. Johnson, do you want me to speak
to Patti for you or with you?” offered Trace.
Mrs. Johnson turned toward Trace, wearing a
look of resolution: “Yes, please.”
“Okay, you can come back in,” called
Patti. “No permanent damage!”
Trace followed Mrs. Johnson as she raced back
into the room: “It’s not broken!”
" It will certainly bruise and probably
quite a bit, but no, it’s not broken,” answered
Patti.
Trace assessed Mrs. Johnson. She looked relieved,
but she still wore a veil of resolution over her eyes, as she
looked at Trace expectantly.
“Patti, do you have a moment to talk?”
asked Trace.
“Sure, what’s up?”
Trace placed his hand on Mrs. Johnson’s
arm as he spoke: “Mrs. Johnson has noticed Mr. Johnson
is not looking well, and being aware of the doctor’s concerns,
she wondered what his prognosis is at this point.”
Patti’s face radiated with sympathy,
as she responded: “Well, I just took his vitals; let me
run them by the doctor, and we will see what he thinks.”
Mrs. Johnson offered a muted smile before responding:
“I would need to call my son and daughter.”
“Of course, let me call the doctor right
now,” replied Patti as she made her way out of the room.
“Mrs. Johnson, would you like me to stand
by until we hear from the doctor,” asked Trace.
Mrs. Johnson nodded in response.
“We will see what the doctor says, and
then, if you like, I will help you phone your children.”
Trace stood for a moment not expecting a response but wanting
to give Mrs. Johnson time. She simply nodded and mouthed a teary
thank you.
Trace found Patti at the nursing station rifling
through a medial chart with the phone receiver dangling from
her ear. Obviously, she was on-hold.
“Good catch, Trace. We knew he wasn’t
doing well, but reading his vitals now, it is probably time
to call the children.”
Trace nodded, “I told Mrs. Johnson I
would help her call, so let me know when you are going back
into the room.”
“Sure, hon. I appreciate having you on
the floor, and I know she appreciates it more.”
“Thanks,” Trace blushed as he turned
away.
Walking away from the desk, Trace reflected
on what had happened. He was displeased with himself for not
being there to redirect Sally, but he was pleased the situation
seemed to be handled in time to call the Johnson’s children,
but something deeper troubled him. He contrasted his experience
with the Johnson’s to his experiences at Hospice. The
benefits of the latter illuminated the deficiencies of the former,
and he decided the problem was largely the lack of privacy and
the isolation of Mr. Johnson’s room, which was the furthest
from the nurses’ station. He trusted his team, but as
he just witnessed, it only takes a moment for something to go
unnoticed and then wrong. He immediately thought about the isolation
room, a private room particular to his unit that had not been
used since he had been hired. Being a single private room and
close to the nurses’ station, it was the obvious answer.
Ironically, the isolation room would be less isolating.
Trace spun around and approached the nurses’
station again. Patti still sat rifling through the chart with
the receiver still hanging from her ear: “Patti, do you
think we could approach the DNS and the powers that be to convince
them to let us use the isolation room for actively dying patients?"
Patti’s eyes lit with a glow of appreciation
in response to what she clearly thought was a good idea: “I’ll
tell you what. I will handle the DNS, and you follow up with
administration. We’ll make this happen. It’s a brilliant
idea.”
Grateful for Patti’s desire to serve
patients, Trace walked away determined they would improve their
unit’s response to issues of death and dying.
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