We had signed all the papers put before us—describing, in cryptic terms, the many possible “negative outcomes” of transplant, up to and including the most negative outcome of all—disbelieving each page. We were at the beginning, when good things still felt possible.
A line from Mike Tyson came back to me, something Brian said once: Everyone’s got a plan, until they get hit.
“She’ll be OK,” Brian said.
And I loved him for saying that, whether he knew it or not.
40
Our “primary nurse” was named Bobbie. “Hi you Gracie,” she said in a North Carolina drawl. “I’m the one you’re gonna ask for anything you want in this hospital. And I’m gonna help you.” Bobbie was delicately built, though tall and wiry. She had cat-eye glasses, a short bob with blunt bangs, which expressed an earnestness, playfulness, and readiness; the hairstyle equivalent of rolling up your sleeves. She wore a pink cardigan with pearl buttons over scrubs and an air of complete competence.
Gracie watched Bobbie with interest. On principle, she disliked everyone in scrubs, but Bobbie made it hard. Under her prim presentation there was obvious power. She bopped around the room with a fluttery, restless energy. When she left I said to Brian, “She’s the one to stand next to in a street fight. Warrior-librarians are the best!”
Eventually, we would learn that Bobbie worked with refugees all around the world, that she was married to an Irish doctor, that they had four sons together. We’d know she was someone who did not give ground when ground had to be held. We’d know that her oldest son was a gifted musician, and her youngest a natural comedian. But that first day we only knew that she made Gracie laugh.
As soon as we were settled, Bobbie rolled a large IV pole into the room. “Okeydoke, Gracie, time to hook you up.” The pole held multiple pumps, programmed to dispense medications round the clock. Each med flowed through tubing that would be attached to one of Gracie’s three central-line catheters. Bobbie hooked them up, med by med. As she attached each tube to the catheter and screwed it in, she’d introduce the two ends to each other: “Mr. Red, meet Mr. White; you two are gonna be good friends.” Gracie laughed at this little skit, each time, and asked if she could attach them too. Bobbie said sure, as long as she cleaned her hands with alcohol wipes first. I knew Bobbie was guarding against bacteria. Bacteria in the blood is a bullet. You don’t want it near the heart.
When Bobbie finished, Gracie and the IV pole were tethered together, inseparable.
“How long will she be hooked up?” I asked.
“Pretty much all the time,” Bobbie said, with an apologetic look. Nurses were so often the bearer of the bad news that docs neglected to mention.
“But how will she get around?” I said, wishing I’d put it less starkly in front of Gracie. Bobbie motioned me out into the hall.
“She likely won’t feel like getting out of bed much anyway, but for the days when she feels good, she can get unhooked for about an hour. Total.”
As soon as she was hooked up, Gracie wanted down. “Ask Bobbie if I can get off from this!” she commanded, pointing at the pole. She had anointed Bobbie the ultimate authority. Brian and I had been demoted to ancillary underlings. “Ask Bobbie!” Gracie said again. These were phrases that we’d come to hear dozens, maybe hundreds of times a day. “Ask Bobbie” and “Get unhooked.”
Gracie’s IV pole was about six feet tall, made of steel, with a round tri-wheel base wide enough to stand on. The pole was her traveling companion, her straight man. All day, every day, he towered over her, silent, forbearing, doing his duty. And like anyone under the constant eye of a protector, she often wanted to give him the slip.
My mom, who’d stayed for our admission day, had diversionary ideas. She pulled a bottle of nail polish out of her purse, glittery gold. It was the most cheerful thing in the room by miles.
“Gracie,” she said, “would you please do my nails?”
Gracie painted my mom’s nails carefully, slowly, with her full attention. If my mom had offered to do Gracie’s nails, it wouldn’t have worked, but to ask for Gracie’s help was perfect.
When she got gold polish more on finger than nail, she said, “Sorry for that, Didi.”
My mom kissed the crown of her head, “I don’t mind, sweet Gracie girl.”
When she fell asleep, my mom said, “Go home, you two. Or go out to dinner. Pamper each other for a few hours; we’re fine here.” Brian and I looked at each other.
“It’s OK. She’s gonna sleep for a long time,” Bobbie said, as if reading our minds. “The first day really takes it out of them.”
And so we left. Only for a few hours. In our bedroom, getting out of my slacks felt heavenly. My dress-up-for-doctors habit (to emanate a little dignity, a little litigious power) was getting old quick. Hospital life is pretty much the reason sweats were invented. I got into pajamas, washed my face, brushed my teeth.
I slid into bed beside Brian, who was looking at online menus of local places.
“What would you like, of all the many foods of Durham?”
“I’m not sure. What sounds good to you?”
This was a game we sometimes played: What do you want? No, what do you want? A dance of deferring desires.
“No, you,” he said.
I gave him a blank stare. “Whatever sounds good to you.”
I pictured Gracie tied to her pole, all kinds of odious drugs flowing into her body via the catheters. I had nothing left with which to make a decision.
And I didn’t want to communicate with anyone, not even Brian. I wanted to stop picturing the moment Gabriel had dropped Brian’s glasses from the balcony, and we’d watched them fall, four stories down. I wanted an isolation tank. I wanted to bob in the blackness and silence of body-temperature water. Gravity suspended, I wanted to be a beautifully blank slate. To forget for an hour. To be breath and black, and black and breath; skin and bones, empty and alone.
Skin and bones, empty and alone—I was turning into a country music song.
“Any mind-obliterating drugs on those menus?”
“Not at first glance, but I can keep looking.”
I knew he meant it. Though we didn’t do drugs, never really had, if I asked him now to help me go numb, I was pretty sure Brian would. He’d be concerned, he’d ask if there wasn’t a better way of dealing with one’s anxieties, but he’d probably help me score. I felt a rush of affection for him. But I still didn’t want to talk. Or think.
“Listen,” I said. “I know this makes no sense, but I want to go back to the hospital.”
“We just left the hospital.”
“I know.”
“Sweetheart,” Brian said. “Pace yourself. The hardest parts are still ahead.”
“I know,” I said again. But I wouldn’t relax until I climbed into bed beside Gracie. Even if this was a pointlessly melodramatic gesture, even if she was not in any immediate danger, and we were exhausted and hungry, I wanted to be there.
“I’ll go back with you.”