Fall From Grace. Kristi Gold
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would rival a West Texas mountain. Despite his casual expression, shaggy hair and close-cropped goatee, Pete the Nurse looked ominous.
Jack’s gaze roamed to the shower chair next to the bed—hell on rollers, with a seat that consisted of an open circle made to accommodate a bare ass. His bare ass, if Pete had his way. “Don’t need a shower. I had a sponge bath…this morning.” A spit-and-shine administered by a young nurse who’d had novice moves, and embarrassment written all over her face. She’d made quick work of her job and chatted nonstop. Enough humiliation for one day, Jack decided. Enough of everything. He wanted only to sleep. To escape from this hell.
Pete sighed. “Come on, Doc. Don’t give me a hard time. Policy states everybody has to have a shower bath every three days.” He put heavy emphasis on everybody—which meant, We don’t give a damn who you are. Or were. Jack felt closer to a nobody than he ever had in his life.
Why couldn’t they just let him wallow in his stink? Nobody cared anyway. “L-leave me alone. I’m tired.”
It was obvious to Jack that Pete had no intention of leaving. The nurse just moved the damn torture chair closer to the bed. “Now we can do this one of two ways,” Pete said. “I can get a lift—and we both know those are uncomfortable as hell—or I can just grab you up and set you in the chair.”
As far as options went, Jack found neither appealing. But Pete continued to stand firm. “G-go away.”
“Not a chance.”
Jack wasn’t so ready to accept defeat, at least where the chair was concerned. “Why can’t I try standing in the sh-shower?”
“You could try, but if you fall, then my ass is grass. You’ll sue the hospital and I’ll be in the unemployment line. So let’s just do it my way, okay?”
Maybe he would fall. More humiliation. “No lift.”
Pete taped up the IV and hung it on a rolling stand, then in one smooth move slipped his arms underneath Jack and grabbed him up with little effort. Jack’s dead arm dangled lifelessly at his side, his leg just as useless. He could imagine what kind of sick picture this would make—Dr. Jack Morgan in the arms of Pete the Mountain. He suddenly recalled the painting of the Pietà in his mom’s dining room, a depiction of an emaciated Jesus in Mary’s arms. Contrary to popular belief, even though Jack had held life in his hands, he wasn’t God.
The back of the open-air hospital gown split, exposing Jack to the elements, sending a burst of cold air across his butt. At least he could feel the cool on the right side of his hip, and in some odd way he welcomed the sensation. But he didn’t welcome the shower chair’s hard plastic surface as Pete arranged him in it and rolled him and the IV pole into the bathroom shower. A shower not big enough for the all the equipment and both men. Somehow, Pete managed.
The effort of sitting up made Jack’s stomach churn and threaten to expel what little he’d eaten for lunch—his first solid meal, if you could call cold soup and runny Jell-O solid. He fought the nausea, determined not to vomit all over the floor.
“I’m just going to take this gown off, Doc.”
Jack didn’t have time to prepare. As soon as Pete said it, he did it, unsnapping the gown’s shoulders with proficiency and peeling it away. Now Jack sat in his birthday suit in a butt-exposing chair with a Samoan sadomasochist standing by. Thank God, Pete laid a towel over his privates. At least the nurse had left him that much dignity in a totally undignified situation.
After pushing the overhead faucet toward the wall, Pete turned on the water. Still, some frigid droplets bouncing off the tiled surface hit Jack on the face, awakening him to the fact he was completely helpless. Anger simmered in a deep dark place in his soul. He was wasted. Useless.
Pete busied himself with removing the paper from the bar of soap and gathering another towel and a washcloth. Jack sent him his best scowl, hoping the guy would get on with it. Once he’d tested the water, Pete pulled the faucet over him, thankfully angling it so it didn’t drown him, and worked the soap into the washcloth, creating sufficient lather to bathe three men. “Heard your little girl’s coming to see you tonight.”
Jack wasn’t surprised Pete knew. The hospital gab line was notorious for getting into everyone’s business. Especially where he was concerned. And Annie. “Yeah.”
“We’ll get you all cleaned up and ready.” Pete then commenced soaping Jack down, raising his arms to wash pits, moving on to his chest, stopping where the towel draped across his lap. He offered Jack the washcloth and nodded toward his lap. “You’ve got one good hand. You wanna do this yourself?”
“Best idea you’ve h-had…all day, P-Pete.”
“Okay. Go to it.”
“You gonna…watch?”
Pete streaked a damp forearm over his chin. “Hadn’t intended to. But I can’t leave. I can just turn my back here and let you give the package a good scrubbing.”
Jack laid the washcloth in his lap and held out his hand. “Soap?”
Pete handed him the bar. “Watch out. It’s slippery.”
“I can still do s-soap.” Even if he couldn’t speak without stuttering like an idiot. Even if he couldn’t do surgery.
Just as Jack lifted the towel, someone called from outside the door. Pete pushed open the door to Melba, another hospital icon, who was changing the bedsheets. She smiled and asked, “How are you doing today, Dr. Morgan?”
Just peachy, he wanted to say. Come in and join the party. Have a look at Dr. Jack Morgan, today’s sideshow, while he scrubs his jewels. Instead he simply said, “I’m g-great, Melba,” with enough sarcasm to melt a steel O.R. table.
When the soap slipped from his fingers, Jack automatically leaned forward. Pete stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Whoa, Doc. I’ll get that.”
A teenage volunteer with a wide-eyed expression joined Melba at the open door, clutching a stack of magazines to her chest. Now Jack really felt like a circus act. At one time he’d thought to encourage Katie to volunteer at the hospital when she got older. A bad idea.
His anger threatened to combust. This was totally dehumanizing. But hadn’t he treated his own patients the same way? How many times had he invaded someone’s privacy for the sake of his schedule? How many people had he reduced to utter humiliation by holding a conversation while they sat on a bedpan? He swore if he ever got out of this mess, if he ever recovered enough to resume his career—and that was a big if—he’d never let it happen again.
Jack clenched his jaw and hissed, “Sh-shut the d-damn door, Pete.”
Pete blinked as though he’d just woken up to reality. “Sure, Doc. Sorry.” He closed the door with a hangdog look and studied the toilet while Jack finished washing.
“I’m done,” Jack pronounced, realizing how much truth rang out in his words.
Pete helped him dry off, replaced the hospital gown with a clean one and rolled him back into the room. He maneuvered Jack out of the chair and into bed, readjusted all the equipment and monitors, then raised the side rails, leaving him feeling like a caged animal. Couldn’t they see he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon? Except maybe home alone to wallow in his pity with a stranger attending to his needs. Unless he decided to take Annie up on her offer. Nope. Couldn’t do that. He couldn’t tolerate her sympathy on a daily basis. They’d both be miserable.
The loud reverberation of activity at the adjacent nurses’ station traveled into the room. Jack would normally welcome the sound, but right now it clanked in his head.
He brought his attention back to Pete, who was finishing cleanup. “When you leave, sh-shut the door. Can’t sleep with all the noise.”
Pete gave him a quick salute. “Yes, sir.” Then he left Jack alone to study the ceiling and wonder how in the hell he would ever survive this mess. How he would deal with