《Flowers For Death》


 Chapter 1

    The latest test results should be ready to view, but I hesitate to check because I already know what they will say. I¡¯m tired after a 12-hour shift and hate that this is the last thing I will do today after such a long day. I always pray to whoever is listening that my bad hunches will be wrong and my patient will recover to live a long, healthy life.


    Logging into the computer, I try to force myself to breathe. I may be tough most of the time, but the things outside my control always humble me despite all my resources and knowledge. I did my best even though I¡¯m not the best.


    Yet, the parents of this young man had already visited the best doctors and didn¡¯t receive the answers they wanted, so they returned to their hometown and sought me out. I rub my eyebrow as the program retrieves the results. I know I¡¯ll have a terrible headache by the time I leave.


    Then there they are, the answer that I¡¯ve feared. It¡¯s clear Tyler is terminal, and he only has a week or two to live. I push away from my desk, gripping the edge of the desk, and I let myself have a moment.


    I try to be tough, but when I find myself in a moment like this, I can¡¯t help but feel sad. I wish I could be more like my colleagues, who accept that they can¡¯t save every patient and then move on to the next. Sometimes, I feel like I¡¯ll never reach that statue no matter how hard I try, but the family is waiting, and I must deliver the news.


    But before I do that, I will make one last visit to the patient. I get up and smoothly walk around my desk, picking up my lab coat in one sweep motion. I¡¯m out the door and down the hall before the door to my office swings shut behind me.


    The walk to the patient¡¯s room was uneventful, thankfully. When I find myself at the open door to Tyler¡¯s room, I don¡¯t hesitate before entering. I stand next to his bed, looking down at all the tubes that protrude from his body, keeping him alive.


    I look at his heart monitor; his beats are steady but weak. Tyler is in worse condition than the test results have led me to believe. He is so ghostly; the disease has aged him, and he no longer looks his young age of sixteen.


    I pull up a chair nearby. I told both of his parents to get something to eat and that the test results would be up in an hour or two. My eyes fall on his hand as I sit down, and I can¡¯t help but take it in mine. It¡¯s cold, and I give it a gentle squeeze. It¡¯s the only way I can think of to tell him I¡¯m sorry.


    My pager goes off, and I look down to see that it¡¯s an urgent request. The time has come, the next patient is coming, and my time with this one has ended. I hope to do better with the next one.


    I straighten my shoulders and stand. My eyes can¡¯t help but take in all the beautiful flowers his family and friends brought to his room. They tell me he loves flowers even though he¡¯s a star athlete at his high school.


    I brush my fingers over a perfect daisy, then turn on my heels and leave without a backward glance. As I leave the room, the nurse on call walks past me.


    ¡°When Mr. and Mrs. Asker return, will you page me?¡± I gently ask her.


    ¡°Of course,¡± he replies.


    I tell myself to forget about the Asker family and to focus on the next patient who needs my help.


    ***


    An hour later, I receive the page that the Asker family is waiting for me. My new patient¡¯s prognosis is much better, but this doesn¡¯t lift my mood. It must be because it¡¯s been a long time since I¡¯ve lost a patient so young in the Asker boy. I shove my hands in my coat pockets and stroll back towards his room.


    Before I reach the room, I see the parents coming down the hallway to meet me. I pull at my lab coat to straighten it, hoping it will give me the strength to tell them what I need to say.


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    The fatigue on their faces shows the long months spent in hospitals trying to find a cure for their son. I give them the gentlest smile I can without appearing happy. They don¡¯t smile back.


    I notice the wife take her husband¡¯s hand as they slowly approach me. They must sense what I am about to tell them and want to delay the inevitable as long as possible.


    ¡°Dr. Horattas,¡± the mother says to me without looking at her husband. She gets right to the point. ¡°The test results. What did they say? Is our son going to live?¡± She has been very blunt since her son has been here, and I¡¯ve admired that about her.


    ¡°I¡¯ve reviewed the test results, and they confirm my suspicions.¡± I take a slow breath, more for me than for them. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry to tell you your son is not improving.¡±


    The father raises his intertwined hand with his wife and places his other hand on it. I can see it on their face; they know what that means.


    ¡°How long does he have?¡± Comes the quiet voice of the father.


    ¡°A week at the most,¡± a loud cry comes from the mother, and she covers her mouth with her free hand, and her husband engulfs her in a tight hug. They both cry.


    We tried an experimental drug, and I could see the hope in their eyes that it might save him. I can¡¯t take the failure personally even though I want to.


    I stand there patiently waiting because I know they will ask me at least one crucial question. The mother pulls away, wiping her eyes. She is strong, yet moms usually are.


    ¡°Will he wake up?¡± She asks me as she tries to dry her tears.


    ¡°His chances of waking up are slim, but it is possible.¡± I am proud that my voice is clear and concise. Both parents nod, not surprised by my answer. Again, they hoped I would say something different. A haunted look has come over their faces as they look at each other. Then, the father turns to me.


    ¡°I want to see him. Is he back in his room?¡± I wonder how often he has returned to his son¡¯s room only to find him gone and a nurse waiting to tell him he¡¯s gone to surgery.


    ¡°Yes, he¡¯s in his room,¡± I gesture for them to enter. New tears fill their eyes. The mother steps past me and enters the room, but abruptly stops. Her eyes grow big, and she tries to open her mouth as if to scream, but rushes into the room.


    ¡°Help! Help him!¡± She yells from inside the room. I call for the nurse and rush in behind her and her husband. But I stop dead in my tracks as I can¡¯t believe what I see.


    All the beautiful flowers have died and lie shriveled up, lying on the floor or in their vases. I hear the mother crying. She¡¯s leaning over her son. She straightens as she looks at her husband, and I see her son''s eyes open. I rush to him; the two nurses are stalled behind me, examining the dead flowers.


    ¡°Move!¡± I snap at them, and in the next heartbeat, they are beside me, examining the boy. It quickly becomes apparent that he is struggling with all the tubes as fear shines in his eyes.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, you¡¯re okay.¡± I look at his blood pressure to see that it has reached a normal level and is, in fact, elevated. I listen to his heart. It¡¯s a little frantic but strong. Next, I check his lungs; they no longer rattle. I look at his face as his parents stand beside him while we examine him. The color on his face has returned, and he looks as if he¡¯s gained the twenty pounds he¡¯s lost since he¡¯s been here. I can¡¯t believe what I¡¯m seeing. An hour ago, he was at death¡¯s door.


    ¡°Okay, I¡¯m going to take the tube out of your mouth.¡± Both of the nurses look at me, and they open their mouths. ¡°Don¡¯t argue with me; just do it.¡± After getting the tube out of his mouth, we take him off his oxygen. After a few deep breaths and a quiet moment, he speaks.


    ¡°What happened?¡± Tyler asks. His eyes are bright and healthy. I step away from him to let his mother and father hug him. The nurse doesn¡¯t question me. They are as taken aback as I am. I see his arm grip his mother in a hug and see powerful muscles flex, muscles that have not been there for months.


    ¡°Do his blood work again,¡± I quietly tell the nurse beside me. I am grateful that she says nothing. She gets a needle and draws his blood. The other nurse leans close to whisper in my ear.


    ¡°What happened here?¡± He asks. All I can do is shake my head.


    ¡°I have no idea.¡± I look around the room. All the flowers are dead, shriveled on the floor or in their vases.


    As I look back at the patient and the two nurses, I question whether I am in my right mind. But they see what I see; I¡¯m not crazy. The nurse gathers the blood samples.


    ¡°Tell the technician this is an emergency and to rush these as fast as they can. Push them to the front of the queue,¡± I tell her, but she hesitates.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think they ever do that,¡± she says as she holds the blood samples.


    ¡°Talk to Burt and tell him I¡¯m calling in that favor that he owes me,¡± but she still hesitates.


    ¡°Are you sure he¡¯ll do it?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll do it; tell him what I just told you, now go.¡± But I don¡¯t need to see the blood work to know this young man is completely disease-free.


    I step away from the family, and on my way out, I stop next to the vase of daisies I was admiring a short time ago. The daisies have wilted, browned, and blackened. I want to touch them to ensure they¡¯re real, but I don¡¯t out of fear.

 Chapter 2

    ¡°Jessi, wake up! Claire whispers harshly. Next comes an elbow shoved into my rib cage from my so-called friend. I jack knife into a sitting position from resting my head on my arms on the table and fight the urge to look around the room. I wasn¡¯t asleep, but even acting like I¡¯m sleeping is bad in English class.


    ¡°There isn¡¯t a problem, is there, Roarke?¡± I continue to stare straight at the chalkboard. Mr. Cummings is like a military instructor. He calls all his students by their last name.


    ¡°No, Mr. Cummings.¡± I keep my voice as even as possible. The slightest indication of an attitude will get me detention on the first day of school.


    ¡°Hmm,¡± is his only reply. He continues his lecture, and I successfully continue to tune him out. Mr. Cummings is a tough cookie, and the unfortunate part is that he is the only teacher who teaches AP English class. Anyone who is even thinking about going to college takes it.


    He slowly paces back and forth in front of the chalkboard, gesturing as he drones on about the syllabus for the semester. As he turns his back away from me, my friend Claire crosses her eyes and sticks her tongue out at me. I smile and roll my eyes before Mr. Cummings turns around.


    The only good things about this class are that I¡¯m sitting right next to the window and that it¡¯s the last class of the day. It¡¯s such a pretty day, and I can¡¯t help but feel it¡¯s a waste.


    Starting school in August sucks because it¡¯s still technically summer. I hear Mr. Cummings rambles on about the big literary critique that is due at the end of the semester, and not to leave it until the end of the semester to do.


    I struggle to find peace of mind as his scratchy voice pollutes the air in the room. His thick glasses magnify these small, beady eyes, making them appear inhumanely penetrating. He has a slight limp that no one knows from what, but of course, the student body speculates. He has a cane but only carries it around with him. Instead of using it, he gestures wildly whenever he''s upset or lecturing a student.


    ¡°Now don¡¯t forget this literary critique is worth fifty percent of your grade, don¡¯t blow it off and don¡¯t wait until the end of the semester to do it.¡± I can feel his eyes scanning the room and I look back at him in time to meet his eyes before he catches me staring out the window. His eyes settle on mine a fraction of a second too long and I can¡¯t help but feel he has it out for me, but I think every student would say that.


    The bell rings, and I can feel the tension leave the room as everyone jumps up and shoves their books and notebooks into their book bag. Mr. Cummings has a very harsh punishment for the clock watchers, who start getting ready to leave ten minutes before class is over. Mr. Cummings pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, grunts, walks over to his desk to pick up his briefcase, and is out the door before any of the students can make it out. Maybe he hates being a teacher as much as we hate having him as a teacher.


    I think the first day of school is the worst day of the year, the beginning of a jail sentence for the next nine months. I look over to see Claire chatting with the surrounding students. She is so confident and stylish; I wish I could be more like her. She turns towards me.


    ¡°Hey, don¡¯t make an enemy of Mr. Cummings on the first day. He is notorious for holding grudges.¡± I roll my eyes.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to tell me twice.¡± I gather up my notebook and let my eyes drift out the window one last time before I get up and leave. Luckily, school started on a Wednesday, so we¡¯re halfway through the week already.


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    I thought being a senior this year would make things easier in school, but I¡¯m finding the exact opposite. The pressure is on to decide about college and our future and the truth is I haven¡¯t even thought about it. I¡¯m even questioning why I signed up for this class if I¡¯m not sure. Why torture myself when I don¡¯t have to?


    I guess it¡¯s better to keep all my options open.


    But in the meantime, Claire and I joined the honors society to look good on college applications. After school today, we¡¯re supposed to meet at the local hospital to volunteer for a few hours. I¡¯m already hitting the ground running, and it¡¯s only the first day back. If this is any indication of how the rest of the year is going to be, I¡¯m not even going to have time to make big life decisions.


    I take a deep breath and get up. As I approach Claire, she waves off some students I don¡¯t recognize and says, ¡°Ready to head to the hospital?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I guess.¡±


    Claire gives me a reassuring smile. ¡°I¡¯m sure it won¡¯t be as bad as you think.¡± She gives me a nudge as we leave the classroom. ¡°Maybe we¡¯ll be inspired to be doctors. This could change your whole life!¡±


    ¡°I think you¡¯re getting a little ahead of yourself.¡± As we exit the school doors, I remember another cool thing about Claire, she has a car.


    ¡°Are you sure you want to take your bike?¡± I know she is trying to be nice, but I can¡¯t tell her the real reason I prefer my bike. Since we live in a small town, it¡¯s an easy way to get around without busting my allowance. I could get a job, but then I would have to work, and since my Uncle isn¡¯t making me, I¡¯m not going to bring it up.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, I¡¯ll see you soon.¡± We wave each other off, and I make my way to the bike rack.


    I don¡¯t tell anyone, but I secretly love riding my bike. Even though it sucks not having a car, in moments like this I don¡¯t care. I speed down a hill and the wind feels cool in the final hot days of summer. The sun is bright, and the sky is clear; it feels like a crime that I¡¯m heading somewhere to spend the next two hours inside.


    I ride up to the front of the hospital and don¡¯t see my classmates. As I park my bike, I see a middle-aged man coming out the front door, he has his arm around a middle-aged woman as she cries. My gut tells me they are husband and wife. As they pass by, he looks over at me, his eyes are distant and lifeless. I feel my heart drop and hope that doing this will not worsen my day. I sigh, lock my bike at the bike rack, and head inside.


    I¡¯ve never been to the hospital for anything, so I wasn¡¯t expecting the bright sunlight streaming through large windows that reach from the floor to the ceiling. People are carrying children, holding balloons, talking to doctors and nurses. I feel my spirits lift when I hear someone laughing. I let my gaze move over to the waiting area right next to the large windows. A man is snoozing in a chair, directly in the sunlight, and next to him are my classmates. I find Claire right away. As I approach her, she laughs at something someone said. She¡¯s everything that I wish I were: confident, pretty, and outgoing.


    Our teacher divides us into groups. I¡¯m disappointed that I¡¯m not in the same group as Claire, but of course, she knows everyone in her group. My group lacked the necessary materials, and they voted for me to get them. All I had to do was walk to the other side of the building to get what we needed.


    I pass a few people on my way, and then I smell the coffee before seeing the coffee shop. Of course, every hospital has one. But surprisingly, there weren¡¯t very many people around. I read the signs above me and see I need to go straight. But before I can take another step¡­


    ¡°You look lost,¡± comes a soothing voice. I whip my head around. A senior woman is sitting at a small table.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m fine, thanks,¡± I wave her off and turn around to continue on my way.


    ¡°No, you¡¯re heading in the wrong direction,¡± she continues. I feel my eyebrows draw together in irritation, but I smooth them out with my fingers before I turn around. She is smiling, looking at me over the rim of her coffee mug.


    ¡°Thank you, but I know exactly where I¡¯m going.¡± I didn¡¯t mean for it to come out harsh. She puts her cup down, and her kind smile doesn¡¯t leave her face. What a strange woman. I ignore her this time and carry on.


    ¡°When you realize you¡¯re lost, take a left.¡± She tells me.