—Corey—
Friday, we watched football, ate leftovers and played a lot of cards. Lucy made sure that there was at least one hand of Uno to every game of euchre.
On Saturday, we took Theresa out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant, which offered fifty different varieties of dumplings. Hartley’s mom looked worn out from two nine-hour shifts in holiday retail hell. But her tired brown eyes were happy nonetheless. Hartley sat next to his mother, and from time to time she reached over to muss his hair. Dana tried to teach Lucy how to use chopsticks, and I ate my weight in chicken cabbage dumplings.
But later, after both Theresa and Lucy had gone to bed, and the guys had gone out to the garage to drink beer and change the oil in Theresa’s car, I had to admit that I was feeling off. There was a vague pain in my stomach, and my body felt hot and weary. Even though it was only ten o’clock, I took a couple of pain relievers and went to sleep.
That night, I didn’t even hear Hartley come in and lie down next to me. That should have been a clue that something was wrong. The American Medical Association should add Indifference to Hartley as a symptom in their compendium.
Even my hope fairy slept through it. I should have known.
The next morning, I hid my increasing discomfort. I took more Advil and drank two glasses of water. Still, I felt dizzy and hot.
“You’re quiet today, Corey,” Theresa observed, proving that you can never get anything past a mom.
“I’m just been thinking about exams,” I lied. I refilled my orange juice glass and forced a smile on my face. I needed fluids, and I needed to get home.
Luckily, Bridger had to get the car back to his mother, and so our weekend at Hartley’s drew to a close by late afternoon.
By the time we got back to McHerrin, I felt feverish and increasingly ornery. With a heavy heart, I phoned the Nazi police. “Mom, don’t freak out,” I said. “But I think I might have a bladder infection.”
She freaked out.
Ten minutes later — after listening to my mother rant about all the nasty things that can happen if a UTI is left to fester — I told Dana that I was under orders to roll myself to the hospital E.R.
“Crumbs!” she said, jumping off the couch. “I’ll come with you.”
“You really don’t have to,” I argued. “It’s going to be hours of waiting around for someone to hand me a prescription.”
“I’ll bring a book. Let me get my coat.”
When we went out in the hallway, I held up a finger to my lips. The fewer people who knew I was a wimp, the better. I could hear Hartley’s music through the door of his room as we snuck out.
By the time we got to the E.R., I felt shaky and exhausted. The fluorescent lighting made even the employees look ill. The hospital was the very last place in the world I wanted to be. The only saving grace was that the place seemed deserted. “Thanksgiving Day is always nuts,” the triage nurse told us. “People visiting with family tend to injure themselves. Go figure. But tonight they’re all in their cars on the way home. If most of them aren’t drunk, we might have a quiet night.”
She took my forms. “Callahan? I pulled your file already. Your parents called ahead.”
Of course they did.
“Don’t admit me,” I begged about a half hour later, after peeing into a cup. (By the way, that’s no easy feat when you can’t squat over the toilet.) “I’ll take the medicine, I promise. I hate the hospital.”
The young E.R. doctor nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure you do. But your fever is something we want to watch, and there’s a risk that the infection could spread to your kidneys.”
“But it hasn’t. I don’t have much pain.”
He smiled, but we both knew that it didn’t matter what I reported, because decreased sensitivity down there made me an unreliable witness. “We have to stomp it out, Corey. Spinal cord patients have to be careful. There have been cases when UTIs permanently impaired patients’ bladder control.”
That made me cringe.
“I believe you that this is probably a fluke,” he went on. “But it isn’t worth the risk, okay? I just need to ask you a few more questions. Have you been drinking enough fluids?”
I nodded.
“And voiding your bladder regularly?”
Here’s where I had to fess up. “Yes. The only thing that changed is that I didn’t self-cath for a couple of days.” Each morning and evening, I was supposed to use a catheter to fully empty my bladder. But I hadn’t brought catheters to Hartley’s house, because I didn’t want anyone to see them. “I’ve gone without it a few days before, and I didn’t have any problems.”
He frowned. “When this is over, you’re going to need to be vigilant again, I’m sure you realize that.”
I nodded, embarrassed.
“Another trigger is sexual activity, both touching and intercourse,” he said. “Try to urinate before and after. Especially after.”
“That’s really not the issue here,” I said, turning red.
He actually laughed. “File that advice away for later, then. For now, you’ll get one night of intravenous antibiotics, Okay? You’ll conk out in a room upstairs, and in the morning we’ll release you. You’ll be gone before you know it.”
Liars.
Dana went home. I put on the stupid gown — open in the back, of course — and watched some bad TV while a nurse stuck a needle in my arm. Overnight, I was interrupted no fewer than four times, as nurses clocked my vital signs and swapped out my IV bag.
I peed about fifty times in the chilly hospital room toilet.
When morning came, I began to ask every human who wandered into my room when I could leave, from nurses’ assistants to the bringer of breakfast cereal. Unfortunately, the human I saw most often was a large, surly nurse with garishly hennaed hair. And Big Red was not helpful. “The resident will start rounds at ten,” was all she said.
I put on my underwear, jeans and socks. I transferred to my chair, but I couldn’t change my top until my IV was removed. Ten o’clock came and went. I stared at the clock, fuming.
Hartley texted me from econ class. Yoo hoo! Did U oversleep? U R missing a stimulating lecture on international trade.
Me: Sounds better than my day. Having a little snafu. C U back at the ranch.
Around noon, a doctor came in. Naturally it wasn’t the youngster from last night, because that would have been too efficient. This doctor had plenty of gray hair and a hasty demeanor. He yanked my chart out of the holder and squinted at the notes. “Okay,” he said finally. “Fever’s down. I’ll leave a prescription with the nurse, and you can be on your way.”
He left.
I still had an IV in my arm. Someone brought me a plate of gray mystery meat and rice, which I did not eat.
When Big Red came back, I told her what the doctor had said. “So let’s remove this IV?”
“He didn’t leave that prescription,” she frowned. “I’ll check.” She turned to walk out.
“Wait!” I called as her wide bottom retreated.
Another hour passed, and when she came back in with my prescription, I could barely be civil. “Would you please take this out?” I begged. “And then I can go?”
She looked at my wrist as if she’d never seen an IV before. “The assistant does that. And I can’t release you without someone over eighteen to accompany you.”
“What?”
She nodded. “Students need to be picked up after a procedure.”
“But…” I felt my blood pressure double. “An IV is not a procedure!”
Big Red shrugged. “That’s the rule.” She left.
“Fuck!” I yelled, sounding like Hartley. I looked at my watch. He had his Monday afternoons free, because that’s when he should have been at Hockey.
No. Sitting there half-dressed, I was not going to call Hartley. Anyone but Hartley. He was the last person who I wanted to see me with unwashed hair in this awful hospital gown.
Unfortunately, Dana had Italian class until two every single day. I texted her, asking me to call when she had a second. Pretty please.
Two o’clock came and went, with no call. I texted again, and she didn’t reply. If her phone was dead, I’d never reach her. I couldn’t think of what to do. If the E.R. doc who had admitted me was working today, I could try to find him and explain my problem. But that involved wandering the hospital half-dressed, with an IV tower at my side.
I dialed Dana again, putting my phone to my ear. It went right to voice-mail.
“Damn it!” I hollered. I would have stamped my feet, if only they worked.
—Hartley—
“Is there a problem in here?” I asked, fighting a smile.
Corey’s head whipped around to find me in the doorway to her hospital room, leaning on my crutches. “Arrrrgh!” she cried, curling over herself. “I just want out of here, but they won’t let me go.”
“Because you don’t have someone over eighteen to escort you off the premises?” I crutched into the room.
Her mouth fell open. “How did you know?”
“I ran into Dana after lunch, and she told me you were here. So I thought that might happen. And Bridger had to spring me after my knee surgery. So why didn’t you call?”
Something passed across her face that I couldn’t read. “Because it’s a long crutch from McHerrin.”
“It wasn’t too bad. So let’s get out of here. Didn’t you ask them to remove that IV?”
The look on her face threatened an imminent explosion. “ONLY TEN TIMES!”
I held up both hands. “Easy, Callahan. Watch that blood pressure, or you might end up in the hospital.”
At that, Corey deflated. “Would you please come here a second?”
“What do you need?” I made my way over to her.
She held out her left hand. “Press down on the IV tube.”
Uh oh. “Why?”
“So I can take it out, Hartley. And change my shirt. And leave. And get on with my life.”
“You are a piece of work, Callahan.”
“Just press here,” she instructed. Trying not to notice the way the little tube poked right through her skin, I trapped the plastic under my thumb. Then Corey removed all the tape. “Okay, you can let go. Thanks,” she said.
Before I could look away, she yanked the little catheter out from under her skin. Gross. “Now you’re bleeding from the wrist. Isn’t that, like, dangerous?”
She looked at me with suspicion on her face. “Seriously, Hartley? You’re squeamish?”
I turned around and grabbed a tissue off of the counter, handing it to her, keeping my eyes trained on the wall in front of me.
“Wow. Tough hockey star faints at the sight of blood.” I heard her giggle as she dabbed at the blood.
“Hey, I haven’t fainted since the fifth grade.”
The giggle bloomed into a belly laugh. “What did you do after your knee surgery? Weren’t there bandages?”
There were, and it wasn’t pretty. “I changed them myself. With my eyes half-closed.”
For what it was worth, embarrassing myself had one benefit. At least Corey was smiling again. “And you say I’m a piece of work. Turn around so I can change my shirt.”
“What, I can’t watch? I just saw blood for you.” Chuckling, I faced the wall.
I heard her wrestling with her clothes. “I’m good with gore. You can always ask me to change a bandage. Not that we’re ever coming back to this godforsaken place.”
“Sing it to me, sister.”
“All done,” Corey said.
A nurse with unnaturally red hair walked in then. “This is your escort?” she asked, eyeing my cast and crutches, a sneer curling her lip.
Corey whirled on her. “Don’t tell me you’re discriminating against him,” she snapped. “We’re leaving now.” Corey wheeled around the end of the bed and bore down on the nurse. The poor woman lumbered out of the way, and Corey sailed out the door. If a wheelchair could squeal its tires, hers would have.
The nurse stuck a clipboard in my hands. “Sign here, sir.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
By the time I found her, Corey was holding the elevator door open for me.
Because my leg was aching, we called for the gimpmobile, but they told us it would be a thirty-minute wait.
“Fuck it,” I said. “Let’s walk.”
For Callahan, it was an easy roll towards campus. But for me, it was slow going. When we were about halfway back, I needed a break. Crutching over to a bench outside the medical school, I sat down. “So how did you end up in the hospital, anyway?”
She bit down on her lip. “It was just a stupid little infection. I was a little careless, and everyone overreacted.”
“Careless? This weekend?” I massaged my aching leg.
Corey’s face went stony. “I’d rather not talk about it, okay? I know you just did me a huge favor, but…” she shook her head.
“Alright. I’m just saying that we could have come back a day early. You only had to say…”
She cut me off. “I didn’t want to, Hartley. I’m not fragile!” The look on her face just cut me. She looked vulnerable, and miserable about it.
“That’s not the way it is, Callahan.” I grabbed her hands and rolled her closer to me, until our knees touched. “The thing is, we’re all fragile. It’s just that most of our friends are lucky enough not to know it yet.”
Her eyes blinked against exhaustion, and I wondered if she might cry. But not Corey. Not my blue-eyed fighter, the girl who dreamed of skating every night, but always had something positive to say. She humbled me every fucking day.
I tugged on her hands again, leaning forward until I could get her into an awkward hug. I don’t know if she needed one, but I sure did.
With her chin on my shoulder, she swallowed hard. “Thanks for springing me from jail, Hartley.”
“Any time, beautiful. Now let’s go home.”
