Luka sat doubled over, retching into the basin Susan held for him. Finally he lay back onto the pillows, exhausted.
"Time for another shot of Compazine, I think," Susan said brightly. She set the basin down and gently wiped Luka's face before opening the drawer and taking out the syringe. "I have to call Carter, have him bring us some more. There's just one more shot."
"Don't bother," Luka murmured. "Doesn't really help. Just makes me sleep."
"It's better than nothing, isn't it?" Luka had been sick for over a week now; low grade fever and endless vomiting. At first the Compazine had helped, but it was growing less effective. Luka winced a little as Susan injected the dose. It was getting hard to find a spot with enough muscle mass left.
"Not really," he said. "I just get a shot and I throw up." He watched her drop the used syringe into the improvised 'sharps' box. "You should be wearing gloves."
"We're out of those too." A lie. Susan just hated wearing gloves while caring for him. Hated making him feel that he was ... contaminated. "I'm being careful."
She looked at his face for a moment. He looked horrible. There was no other word to describe it. After a week of being able to keep virtually nothing down, he was thinner than ever, the skin yellowish gray, and taut over the bones of his face. But the peace was back in his eyes. They'd had a couple of good weeks -- happy weeks, after Father James' visit, and now this. But he would get over this, Susan told herself firmly, and they'd have a little more good time. He was still so strong. Even with this current infection, it had just been since the day before yesterday that he'd been too weak to get out of bed. They still loved each other so much. He wouldn't leave her yet.
Susan sighed. "Well, we have to do something. Without the Compazine, you can't keep anything down."
"If I don't try to eat, I don't throw up."
"You have to eat." The words came automatically. Then, Luka's hand, so thin, caught her arm. His eyes, so large, so calm, like the sea after a storm, looked into hers.
"No," he said quietly. Very quietly. "I don't."
"Luka ...."
"This isn't ... a bad way to die. I'm already dehydrated; it shouldn't be much longer. I'm not in much pain. I'm so tired. I'm ready to go. I want to go."
Susan swallowed the lump in her throat. She had thought she would be ready. Whenever the time came. "You're sure?" she finally asked.
"I've been sure for a while. A few days. There's just ... no point in this any more ... for either of us. Even if I got through this, somehow; it would be something else in a few days. I'm done. I want to stop. I just didn't know how to tell you."
"Well ... you told me."
"Are you angry?"
"No." Susan took a deep breath. "I told you a long time ago that this had to be the way you wanted it; however it would be easiest for you."
"It's just ... kind of sudden."
Susan just nodded, picked up the emesis basis. "Let me get rid of this." She fled into the bathroom, shut the door. She emptied and rinsed the basin, washed her hands, then splashed cold water onto her face. Sudden? It was what they had known was going to happen for over a year now. Since that day, almost exactly a year ago, she realized, when she'd sat in his living room and told him that she wanted to be with him ... be more than just a friend ... she had known that it would end this way. But all that mattered now was that it would be as easy as possible for Luka. She'd have plenty of time to deal with her own pain. Later. She steadied herself and returned to the bedroom, sat down on the bed.
"Do you umm ... want me to call Father James for you?" she asked.
Luka thought about that. "Not ... right now. Maybe later. I'm tired." A faint smile. "Damned Compazine. I need to sleep for a while."
"Ok." She smiled back. "I'll catch up on my soaps."
"Better not." His meaning was clear, though his smile told her that he knew full well she was teasing. The tv was in the living room. A sigh. "I'm cold."
Susan slid under the comforter beside him, nestled up against him. He was shivering, his skin was cold to the touch and a bit damp. "Better?" she asked, and kissed the back of his neck.
"Yeah. Much." He found her hand and held it. "I love you, y'know."
"I know." But he didn't hear it, because he was asleep.
-----
Luka slept, but Susan didn't. She knew she wouldn't sleep. Not until this was over. She couldn't risk being asleep when anything happened. And she wasn't going to miss a moment.
After a few hours, Luka stirred and wakened. Sitting up, Susan looked down at him and smiled. God .. he looked awful. It was ironic, she suddenly realized. In the ER, she dealt with death every day. But it wasn't that often that she saw people as ill as Luka. People in the final stages of terminal illnesses rarely came into the ER; being treated instead directly on the medical floors, or in hospices. Or at home. So many of those who died in the ER had been healthy until hours, sometimes moments before. And, of course, usually in the ER, death was an enemy to be battled, fought off at all costs. Not a welcome release. Yet, why was it the doctors, the ones who did the fighting on behalf of their patients, who so often refused such efforts for themselves?
She realized that she'd been looking at him for several minutes, that she needed to say something.
"How are you feeling?" she asked. Stupid thing to say.
"Thirsty."
"Could you try to take a little ..."
"No!"
Susan shook her head helplessly. "We could start an IV for you, sweetheart. Just some fluids. It would make you more comfortable." She wasn't ready. She wasn't.
"No." He took her hand. "I'm sorry. I won't complain."
"You could try some ice chips. Or a few sips of ginger tea. You've been able to hold that down pretty well.. Just enough to wet your mouth. It probably won't make you throw up, and you'd feel better."
Luka nodded, resigned. "I'll try."
"Which one?"
"Ice."
Susan ran to the kitchen, and brought back a cup of crushed ice from the refrigerator door and a spoon.
But she used her fingers to put a few chips between Luka's cracked lips. "Don't swallow it," she warned. Luka nodded, looking into her eyes. "Good?" Another nod.
"A little more?" Luka asked, after a minute, and Susan gave him a little more. A mistake. Whether he swallowed instinctively, or the melted ice in the back of his mouth was enough, he suddenly gagged, and was retching again before Susan had time to grab the basin. His stomach was empty, there was nothing to bring up, but he heaved for a long time while Susan supported his shoulders.
After several endless minutes the spasm ended. Susan said, "Are you done?"
Luka nodded. "Think so..." He was shaking, and Susan helped him lie down again. "Bad idea," he said, and managed to smile a little.
Susan didn't trust herself to speak; could just nod. She went again to empty the small amount of blood streaked bile from the basin, returning with a warm, wet washcloth, which she used to gently wipe Luka's face. It was clammy with sweat, and there was a little moisture around his eyes that might have been tears.
After a minute, Luka reached up and touched her cheek for an instant, then his arm fell weakly back to the bed. And Susan realized that she was crying.
"This isn't so bad," he said softly. "I've had ... hangovers that are worse."
Susan had to laugh a little through her tears. Comforting each other. That was all they could do now.
"You should get some lunch," he said after a bit. "Just 'cause I'm not eating, doesn't mean you can't."
"I'll eat later. Maybe when you're sleeping again. I'm not hungry right now."
"Yeah. I guess watching someone else throw up kills the appetite, doesn't it?"
A little more silence. It was hard to think of anything to say. Anything that didn't sound like dialogue from a bad 1930's romance movie, Susan thought.
"Is it snowing?" Luka asked after a while. Susan had to go to the window to look.
"No. It's sunny today."
"Open the blinds? So I can see?" Susan did as he asked. The sky was a brilliant blue.
"It's a nice day," she said.
"Yeah. We should go to the beach."
"Not that nice. A little too nippy, I think." She sat back down, smoothed the comforter over him.
"Think I'll catch cold?" Luka asked with a smile.
"No, but I might."
"No, you never get sick."
"Well, if it's still nice out tomorrow, we can go tomorrow," Susan said.
"I'll hold you to that." He looked out the window for a moment. Then, abruptly. "Do you think I might die today?"
Susan could just shrug. "I don't know. Maybe."
"You're a doctor. You're supposed to know stuff like that."
"I'm not a doctor today." She wasn't. She was just a woman about to lose the best thing that had ever happened to her. Making idle conversation about nothing, because that was what he seemed to want right now.
"What day is it?"
"Ummm... Tuesday."
"What date?"
Susan had to think about this one. She'd lost track of the date lately. It hadn't seemed important. "The 14th, I think."
"January?"
"No, December."
"Hmmm.... I'll spend Christmas with my kids."
"Yeah. That'll be nice."
He looked at her for a moment. "I'm not scared." Very calm. She knew he was telling the truth.
"I know. Why should you be? There's nothing to be scared of."
"I am tired though."
"You sleep some more then. I'll be right here." It wasn't the Compazine, of course. They both knew that.
"No ... you get something to eat. Need to take care of yourself too."
"Ok. I'll do that. After you're asleep." She kissed him and sat beside him until he fell asleep again. And couldn't make herself leave his side to get anything to eat.
--------
The next couple of days were, for Susan, a bizarre mixture of heaven and hell. There was something strangely satisfying in caring for Luka, tending to his needs. She saw that he was as comfortable as it was possible to make him. She bathed him and changed his clothes, shaved him, moistened his parched lips. And could be glad that he was spending his last days as he had hoped he would, at home, with her, not in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. Not dying as they had both seen so many people die over the years. He assured her, several times, that he was in little pain, nothing he couldn't cope with.
But the rest was hell.
At first he was relatively alert. They'd talk a little while he was awake, usually about inconsequential things still. But soon he slept more and more, and his waking moments were less and less lucid, more confused. He would ask questions that made little sense, or not seem to understand the answers. He would talk to her in Croatian, rambling, hoarse; call her Gordana, or Mama. (Susan had to smile a little at that one. She had seen a picture of Luka's mother. They didn't look even remotely alike.) But never Danijela. He always knew that she wasn't Danijela. He would try to get out of bed, though he no longer had the strength to even raise his head from the pillow. He no longer seemed to understand much of what she said to him, but would just watch her, wide eyed, and a little bit frightened, as she patiently cared for him, doing the little things that needed to be done. She just kept telling him that everything was ok, that there was nothing to be scared of ... and could only hope that he understood more than he appeared to. "Volim te, Luka. Volim te," she told him many times. One of the few Croatian phrases she knew. He had said it to her often enough. I love you. This he seemed to understand, even if he didn't always know who she was anymore. It would make him smile a little.
And then he would drift off to sleep again, and when he woke the next time, he would sometimes be lucid again. Ask her how she was feeling, tell her how tired she looked, but how beautiful, and how much he loved her. That he really wasn't afraid. Ask her what day it was, and then fall asleep again before she could tell him. And sometimes he would moan in his sleep, and seem to be in pain, though she couldn't figure out what was hurting him, and when he woke up, he would always insist that there was no pain ... assuming of course that he understood what she was asking him.
Sometimes she would lie beside him; hold him while he slept. And she thought that he might die in her arms. But the thought didn't strike her as romantic or beautiful. Because, at the end of it, he would be dead. And there could be nothing romantic or beautiful about that. Not for her, anyway. She never left his side, never even let go of his hand, for longer than it took to use the bathroom, or fill a fresh basin of water for his bath, or grab herself a quick snack, when she could go without food no longer.
And there were seizures. Just a few at first. He had stopped taking his anti-convulsants; he couldn't keep those down either. But they got worse as the days passed.
"Time for another shot of Compazine, I think," Susan said brightly. She set the basin down and gently wiped Luka's face before opening the drawer and taking out the syringe. "I have to call Carter, have him bring us some more. There's just one more shot."
"Don't bother," Luka murmured. "Doesn't really help. Just makes me sleep."
"It's better than nothing, isn't it?" Luka had been sick for over a week now; low grade fever and endless vomiting. At first the Compazine had helped, but it was growing less effective. Luka winced a little as Susan injected the dose. It was getting hard to find a spot with enough muscle mass left.
"Not really," he said. "I just get a shot and I throw up." He watched her drop the used syringe into the improvised 'sharps' box. "You should be wearing gloves."
"We're out of those too." A lie. Susan just hated wearing gloves while caring for him. Hated making him feel that he was ... contaminated. "I'm being careful."
She looked at his face for a moment. He looked horrible. There was no other word to describe it. After a week of being able to keep virtually nothing down, he was thinner than ever, the skin yellowish gray, and taut over the bones of his face. But the peace was back in his eyes. They'd had a couple of good weeks -- happy weeks, after Father James' visit, and now this. But he would get over this, Susan told herself firmly, and they'd have a little more good time. He was still so strong. Even with this current infection, it had just been since the day before yesterday that he'd been too weak to get out of bed. They still loved each other so much. He wouldn't leave her yet.
Susan sighed. "Well, we have to do something. Without the Compazine, you can't keep anything down."
"If I don't try to eat, I don't throw up."
"You have to eat." The words came automatically. Then, Luka's hand, so thin, caught her arm. His eyes, so large, so calm, like the sea after a storm, looked into hers.
"No," he said quietly. Very quietly. "I don't."
"Luka ...."
"This isn't ... a bad way to die. I'm already dehydrated; it shouldn't be much longer. I'm not in much pain. I'm so tired. I'm ready to go. I want to go."
Susan swallowed the lump in her throat. She had thought she would be ready. Whenever the time came. "You're sure?" she finally asked.
"I've been sure for a while. A few days. There's just ... no point in this any more ... for either of us. Even if I got through this, somehow; it would be something else in a few days. I'm done. I want to stop. I just didn't know how to tell you."
"Well ... you told me."
"Are you angry?"
"No." Susan took a deep breath. "I told you a long time ago that this had to be the way you wanted it; however it would be easiest for you."
"It's just ... kind of sudden."
Susan just nodded, picked up the emesis basis. "Let me get rid of this." She fled into the bathroom, shut the door. She emptied and rinsed the basin, washed her hands, then splashed cold water onto her face. Sudden? It was what they had known was going to happen for over a year now. Since that day, almost exactly a year ago, she realized, when she'd sat in his living room and told him that she wanted to be with him ... be more than just a friend ... she had known that it would end this way. But all that mattered now was that it would be as easy as possible for Luka. She'd have plenty of time to deal with her own pain. Later. She steadied herself and returned to the bedroom, sat down on the bed.
"Do you umm ... want me to call Father James for you?" she asked.
Luka thought about that. "Not ... right now. Maybe later. I'm tired." A faint smile. "Damned Compazine. I need to sleep for a while."
"Ok." She smiled back. "I'll catch up on my soaps."
"Better not." His meaning was clear, though his smile told her that he knew full well she was teasing. The tv was in the living room. A sigh. "I'm cold."
Susan slid under the comforter beside him, nestled up against him. He was shivering, his skin was cold to the touch and a bit damp. "Better?" she asked, and kissed the back of his neck.
"Yeah. Much." He found her hand and held it. "I love you, y'know."
"I know." But he didn't hear it, because he was asleep.
-----
Luka slept, but Susan didn't. She knew she wouldn't sleep. Not until this was over. She couldn't risk being asleep when anything happened. And she wasn't going to miss a moment.
After a few hours, Luka stirred and wakened. Sitting up, Susan looked down at him and smiled. God .. he looked awful. It was ironic, she suddenly realized. In the ER, she dealt with death every day. But it wasn't that often that she saw people as ill as Luka. People in the final stages of terminal illnesses rarely came into the ER; being treated instead directly on the medical floors, or in hospices. Or at home. So many of those who died in the ER had been healthy until hours, sometimes moments before. And, of course, usually in the ER, death was an enemy to be battled, fought off at all costs. Not a welcome release. Yet, why was it the doctors, the ones who did the fighting on behalf of their patients, who so often refused such efforts for themselves?
She realized that she'd been looking at him for several minutes, that she needed to say something.
"How are you feeling?" she asked. Stupid thing to say.
"Thirsty."
"Could you try to take a little ..."
"No!"
Susan shook her head helplessly. "We could start an IV for you, sweetheart. Just some fluids. It would make you more comfortable." She wasn't ready. She wasn't.
"No." He took her hand. "I'm sorry. I won't complain."
"You could try some ice chips. Or a few sips of ginger tea. You've been able to hold that down pretty well.. Just enough to wet your mouth. It probably won't make you throw up, and you'd feel better."
Luka nodded, resigned. "I'll try."
"Which one?"
"Ice."
Susan ran to the kitchen, and brought back a cup of crushed ice from the refrigerator door and a spoon.
But she used her fingers to put a few chips between Luka's cracked lips. "Don't swallow it," she warned. Luka nodded, looking into her eyes. "Good?" Another nod.
"A little more?" Luka asked, after a minute, and Susan gave him a little more. A mistake. Whether he swallowed instinctively, or the melted ice in the back of his mouth was enough, he suddenly gagged, and was retching again before Susan had time to grab the basin. His stomach was empty, there was nothing to bring up, but he heaved for a long time while Susan supported his shoulders.
After several endless minutes the spasm ended. Susan said, "Are you done?"
Luka nodded. "Think so..." He was shaking, and Susan helped him lie down again. "Bad idea," he said, and managed to smile a little.
Susan didn't trust herself to speak; could just nod. She went again to empty the small amount of blood streaked bile from the basin, returning with a warm, wet washcloth, which she used to gently wipe Luka's face. It was clammy with sweat, and there was a little moisture around his eyes that might have been tears.
After a minute, Luka reached up and touched her cheek for an instant, then his arm fell weakly back to the bed. And Susan realized that she was crying.
"This isn't so bad," he said softly. "I've had ... hangovers that are worse."
Susan had to laugh a little through her tears. Comforting each other. That was all they could do now.
"You should get some lunch," he said after a bit. "Just 'cause I'm not eating, doesn't mean you can't."
"I'll eat later. Maybe when you're sleeping again. I'm not hungry right now."
"Yeah. I guess watching someone else throw up kills the appetite, doesn't it?"
A little more silence. It was hard to think of anything to say. Anything that didn't sound like dialogue from a bad 1930's romance movie, Susan thought.
"Is it snowing?" Luka asked after a while. Susan had to go to the window to look.
"No. It's sunny today."
"Open the blinds? So I can see?" Susan did as he asked. The sky was a brilliant blue.
"It's a nice day," she said.
"Yeah. We should go to the beach."
"Not that nice. A little too nippy, I think." She sat back down, smoothed the comforter over him.
"Think I'll catch cold?" Luka asked with a smile.
"No, but I might."
"No, you never get sick."
"Well, if it's still nice out tomorrow, we can go tomorrow," Susan said.
"I'll hold you to that." He looked out the window for a moment. Then, abruptly. "Do you think I might die today?"
Susan could just shrug. "I don't know. Maybe."
"You're a doctor. You're supposed to know stuff like that."
"I'm not a doctor today." She wasn't. She was just a woman about to lose the best thing that had ever happened to her. Making idle conversation about nothing, because that was what he seemed to want right now.
"What day is it?"
"Ummm... Tuesday."
"What date?"
Susan had to think about this one. She'd lost track of the date lately. It hadn't seemed important. "The 14th, I think."
"January?"
"No, December."
"Hmmm.... I'll spend Christmas with my kids."
"Yeah. That'll be nice."
He looked at her for a moment. "I'm not scared." Very calm. She knew he was telling the truth.
"I know. Why should you be? There's nothing to be scared of."
"I am tired though."
"You sleep some more then. I'll be right here." It wasn't the Compazine, of course. They both knew that.
"No ... you get something to eat. Need to take care of yourself too."
"Ok. I'll do that. After you're asleep." She kissed him and sat beside him until he fell asleep again. And couldn't make herself leave his side to get anything to eat.
--------
The next couple of days were, for Susan, a bizarre mixture of heaven and hell. There was something strangely satisfying in caring for Luka, tending to his needs. She saw that he was as comfortable as it was possible to make him. She bathed him and changed his clothes, shaved him, moistened his parched lips. And could be glad that he was spending his last days as he had hoped he would, at home, with her, not in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. Not dying as they had both seen so many people die over the years. He assured her, several times, that he was in little pain, nothing he couldn't cope with.
But the rest was hell.
At first he was relatively alert. They'd talk a little while he was awake, usually about inconsequential things still. But soon he slept more and more, and his waking moments were less and less lucid, more confused. He would ask questions that made little sense, or not seem to understand the answers. He would talk to her in Croatian, rambling, hoarse; call her Gordana, or Mama. (Susan had to smile a little at that one. She had seen a picture of Luka's mother. They didn't look even remotely alike.) But never Danijela. He always knew that she wasn't Danijela. He would try to get out of bed, though he no longer had the strength to even raise his head from the pillow. He no longer seemed to understand much of what she said to him, but would just watch her, wide eyed, and a little bit frightened, as she patiently cared for him, doing the little things that needed to be done. She just kept telling him that everything was ok, that there was nothing to be scared of ... and could only hope that he understood more than he appeared to. "Volim te, Luka. Volim te," she told him many times. One of the few Croatian phrases she knew. He had said it to her often enough. I love you. This he seemed to understand, even if he didn't always know who she was anymore. It would make him smile a little.
And then he would drift off to sleep again, and when he woke the next time, he would sometimes be lucid again. Ask her how she was feeling, tell her how tired she looked, but how beautiful, and how much he loved her. That he really wasn't afraid. Ask her what day it was, and then fall asleep again before she could tell him. And sometimes he would moan in his sleep, and seem to be in pain, though she couldn't figure out what was hurting him, and when he woke up, he would always insist that there was no pain ... assuming of course that he understood what she was asking him.
Sometimes she would lie beside him; hold him while he slept. And she thought that he might die in her arms. But the thought didn't strike her as romantic or beautiful. Because, at the end of it, he would be dead. And there could be nothing romantic or beautiful about that. Not for her, anyway. She never left his side, never even let go of his hand, for longer than it took to use the bathroom, or fill a fresh basin of water for his bath, or grab herself a quick snack, when she could go without food no longer.
And there were seizures. Just a few at first. He had stopped taking his anti-convulsants; he couldn't keep those down either. But they got worse as the days passed.
