A Chemical Romance by Reesa Roberts

Steven walked slowly along the edge of the sidewalk, staring down at the occasional tufts of grass defiantly thrusting up through the dirt-filled cracks. People hurried past him in both directions – it was lunch hour in the city. The traffic noise was deafening, but the young man paid little attention to the sounds he’d heard all his life. Someone bumped into him and he had to step off the curb, almost into a car that brushed past, its side-view mirror grazing his arm. He felt a sudden urge to step out further into the street, just a few more inches and it would surely all be over with, but sanity reigned, and he forced himself back onto the sidewalk. Not yet. He wasn’t sure yet. He turned into a small alcove and paused in front of the clinic’s large glass doors. He could hear his heart beating despite the tumult around him; it thumped against his eardrums at an incredibly fast rate.

Today he would find out. He’d walked in here several days ago and had become a number. Number 37495. The whole process had been clinical and impersonal. Get a number, sit and wait, go to a small, starkly furnished room, sit and wait again. Finally, a nurse in a blindingly white starched uniform walked in, a plastic smile floating above the snowy image. Her eyes looked through him to quitting time. She quickly and professionally took his blood as he despondently watched the glass tube fill, and then a band-aid was applied with as much compassion as his identity evoked - number 37495. Then came the hardest part: going home and spending the longest three days of his life waiting in agonizing suspense, unable to think straight, unable to eat or sleep.

Yet on the third day, he procrastinated about coming back. You know, what you don’t know won’t hurt you. That’s what his mother had always said. That was her answer to nearly everything he’d ever asked her. But he’d never stopped asking about things, his sharp wit and intelligence quickly outgrowing the tiny rooms he grew up in. Until now. Did he really want to know this? Would it be better to remain blissfully ignorant of the most important question of his short life?

Late in the afternoon, he found himself hovering at the clinic entrance, still undecided. When a large garbage trucked rolled by with a nauseatingly rank odor, he visibly stiffened, held his breath, and pushed open the heavy glass door. It whooshed shut behind him, muffling the city noises and effectively isolating all within. Shuffling up to the desk, he handed his crumpled yellow slip of paper over to a nondescript young woman. Number 37495, she wrote on a notepad. He went to the furthest corner and sat down to wait, studying the faded diagonal pattern of the old linoleum floor, trying not to look at the other patients in the room.

He wondered how many others had sat in this same chair, pondering their own fate. After an eternity, his number was called and he was directed to another little room. He knew this game. Sitting down at the small table, he settled in to wait. A nurse walked in seconds later, though, and he nearly jumped up in panic. This was it! Not yet, he wasn’t ready yet. Steven glanced up, wiping his sweat-soaked hands on his jeans. The nurse had long golden hair french-braided down her back with little wisps falling out here and there. She was beautiful – she was an angel – surely she couldn’t bring him bad news. He felt a leap of hope deep inside. She was wearing a standard white lab coat over a green sweater and slacks that matched the color of her eyes. He watched, mesmerized, as she sat down and placed a stack of papers down on the table – there were a lot of papers in that pile. She sat down across from him, and as she met his gaze, he read the answer in her incredible emerald-green eyes.

Steven’s heart jumped into his throat and he couldn’t swallow. His hands trembled violently and he began to sweat as if he’d just finished running a marathon. He wondered if he’d put on enough deodorant. As if it mattered anymore. Damn! Damn it all, this screwed-up dirty city, this stupid clinic, this lousy life he didn’t ask for and just when he started to want something better, this filthy disease was going to take it all away. As he stared mutely at the nurse, Steven gradually realized that she’d been talking to him. She was saying something about how important it was to make appointments and come in on time so he could get treated. He couldn’t hear her very well; the pounding in his ears was too loud.

She pointed to something on one of the papers, and he looked down, but the words blurred together into meaningless scratches. He tried to concentrate, but his chest was hurting now, and he was breathing in short gasps. The walls of the little room moved in closer, and he suddenly jumped up, grabbed the papers, and went stumbling out the door. Down the hall, through the waiting room, past the silent denizens, and out the glass doors he went, moving faster as he reached the sidewalk. Then he was running, dodging past men in three piece suits, women clicking along in high heels, old men leaning against buildings here and there, dogs on leashes squirting the lampposts. No one gave him a second glance.

Lana injected six milliliters of sterile water into a vial and began shaking it up. She attached the nebulizer unit and set it down on the table. She didn’t usually give breathing treatments, but the respiratory therapist was late today.

“Oh, God, not that crap again...” Lana looked toward the voice to see a young woman glaring at her. She was slouched in the doorway to the treatment room, her arms folded across her chest. Blood-red lipstick and heavy eye makeup flashed beneath long jagged bangs that obscured half of her face; the rest of her hair was shaved off. She wore a threadbare denim jacket over nothing but jeans, and when she turned to the side, Lana could see almost all of her left breast exposed. Lana focused on her face, careful not to show any reaction to the exhibition.

“Have you had the Pentamidine mist before?” asked Lana, sitting down at the table.

Gena rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “I ain’t breathing them diesel fumes again. Gimme a pill or something.” At Lana’s gesture, the girl slowly sauntered over to sit down at the table.

“Your history states that you weren’t able to tolerate the side effects of the oral medication. The mist will protect your lungs just as well, against a type of pneumonia that can kill you.” Lana looked her in the eye that was visible.

“Pneumocystic Carinii Pneumonia,” said the girl, to Lana’s surprise. “Yeah, I know all the big words. But there’s gotta be something else that works. I’m not puttin’ my lips on that thing.” She flipped her hand toward the nebulizer’s mouthpiece, sending it scattering across the table. Lana caught it just before it slid off the edge.

“Is it that bad?” asked Lana, trying to empathize as she adjusted the tubing.

Lana only momentarily wondered why the girl had been in a car full of exhaust fumes. “I guess you know what you’re talking about,” she carefully replied, “but the alternative is worse.”

“Is it? Have you died before? How would you know?” Gena leaned forward over the table toward Lana. She narrowed her eyes and raised her voice, “You don’t hafta breath that crap. You don’t hafta choke on it. How would you know?” She thumped her fist down on the table.

Lana didn’t flinch. She slowly rolled the mouthpiece across her palm as she watched Gena slump back into her seat. Lana thought about how the other nurses would handle this. They’d tell this girl that if she didn’t want the treatment, then she could just go ahead and leave. No one was forcing her to save her own life, for God’s sake. But Lana, never breaking eye contact, reached to her side and flipped on a switch, starting the steam flowing from the plastic mouthpiece. She put her mouth around it and drew in a long, deep breath. Holding it in for about thirty seconds, she then slowly let it out. Almost immediately, a burning sensation stung her throat, and her eyes started to water.

The corner of Gena’s mouth twitched. Lana took in a second breathful, and the girl started to smile. Lana tried to hold her breath, but began to laugh, and then broke into a fit of coughing as Gena laughed with her.

Gasping for breath, Lana said, “I...see... what you... mean!” A few moments later, she was able to breathe easier, and she attached a new mouthpiece to the unit.

“This is how you do it.” Gena picked it up and started to inhale. She held it in awhile with a grimace of distaste, and then exhaled. “I’ll bet you ain’t never smoked before,” she grinned.

Lana shook her head, smiled, and stood up. “Well, I’d better leave the room now. Our policy says no unnecessary exposure.” Lana couldn’t help glancing down at the girl’s jacket. Gena laughed again and waved her off as she continued her treatment.

Lana softly closed the door. Turning to go down the hall, she almost walked right into the new Medical Director, Adam Hayes, who was standing just outside the door, a stormy expression on his face.

“Miss Taylor, I’d like a word with you in private, please,” he told her in a low, quiet voice. He turned and strode toward his office, not waiting for an answer. Lana paused, aware that several staff members were at strategic positions in the hallway, having covertly observed the encounter. Straightening her back, she pretended nonchalance as she made her way down the hall. She stopped at the door to the restroom and hesitated. What the hell, she thought, let him wait. She went in and shut the door behind her, locking out any prying eyes. One glance in the mirror showed that her cheeks were flushed, whether from embarrassment or from nearly choking to death, she didn’t know.

All the treatment rooms had glass windows in them, so Dr. Hayes must have seen her sucking in the Pentamidine mist, thought Lana. She methodically washed her hands, concentrating on scrubbing them under hot water until her heart rate decreased enough to breathe normally again. She’d only had one brief encounter with Dr. Hayes before, but it was enough for her to make a quick judgment of his character. Strong, decisive, and used to getting his own way just about summed him up. He was strikingly attractive, though, with dark brown hair and green eyes like her own, only lighter. She noted the wisps of hair falling out from her braid, and started to tuck them back in, then stopped herself. He was the type of man she avoided like the plague. She didn’t want to look neat and pretty. Wiping off her lipstick with a paper towel, she headed for the Medical Director’s office.

Upon opening his door, she saw Dr. Hayes seated behind his desk, talking animatedly on the phone. He didn’t seem to be annoyed any longer, she thought, as she heard him mention an upcoming golf tournament with apparent anticipation.

The doctor glanced up and waved his hand toward the chair opposite the desk. Lana sat down and surveyed the room as he continued his telephone conversation. He’d only arrived two days before, and most of the staff hadn’t even been properly introduced yet, but he’d already redecorated the office to his taste. Healthy green potted plants outlined the two big picture windows that showcased the inner courtyard. The effect was as if the well-tended garden continued right into the office. His large desk was neat and spotless, with only the bare essentials covering its smooth, walnut finish. Several framed degrees hung on one wall, over a leather couch. A Monet reproduction print finished off the look of expensive comfort.

Lana suspected that he was purposefully keeping her waiting as he continued to talk, seemingly oblivious to her presence. She leaned back in the butter-soft leather chair and watched the birds pecking along the ground outside. Then the handset clicked into place, and she turned back to the doctor. He sat up in his chair and folded his hands together on the desk in front of him.

“Shut the door, please,” he said, his tone now quiet but stern. Lana rose gracefully and quietly swung the door closed. She sat back down and folded her arms over her chest.

“Miss Taylor, would you please tell me this facility’s policy on giving nebulizer treatments?” He watched her expectantly.

Lana met his gaze and replied, “The respiratory therapist usually gives them. The nurse or therapist should prepare the solution and instruct the patient as to its use, and possible side effects, and then wear a protective mask while the patient demonstrates the proper technique. Then, the nurse or therapist should leave the room, checking back occasionally to ensure that the treatment is completed and that no adverse reactions occur.”

Dr. Hayes frowned a bit. “And now, tell me how you performed this procedure.”

Lana sat up taller and leaned a little toward his desk. “I based the procedure on the patient’s needs,” she stated simply. She couldn’t read his expression.

“The patient needed to receive the treatment. You didn’t.” Dr. Hayes’ voice was still low and calm, but now had a definite edge. “You recklessly inhaled a potent antibiotic without a thought for universal precautions or the possible side effects you may as yet suffer.”

“That’s not true!” Lana objected. Dr Hayes raised one eyebrow, but allowed her to continue. “I did think about the side effects first, but I didn’t believe any of them to be serious. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, fatigue, dizziness, headache, coughing, rash...” Lana paused, thinking harder. “And those are more likely with a full treatment of thirty to forty-five minutes, not two brief lung-fulls.” She felt her pulse rate quicken, and fought to control her temper.

“Did you think of pneumothorax? Or anaphylactic shock?” He paused to let those serious possibilities sink in.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Lana let her irritation show. “Risks go with the territory around here. I drive for forty minutes every day in heavy traffic to the inner city to work with AIDS patients. Don’t you find your concern a little ironic?” She glared at him, and watched several emotions flicker across his face. Suddenly, she felt a little dizzy. Damn, she shouldn’t have lost her temper; she didn’t need this kind of stress.

Dr. Hayes let out a sigh. “Ms. Taylor, I see that you don’t intend to take responsibility for your actions in this matter. I’d hoped you’d be able to understand that many problems arise when employees are allowed to change policies as they see fit. I’m sorry, but I can’t...” he broke off as Lana’s face turned pale. “Are you all right?”

She suddenly jumped up, covering her face with her hands as she turned and hurried down the hall to the restroom. She barely made it to the sink in time as waves of nausea overcame her.

Lana felt a little better after Elaine, her best friend and also a nurse, had made her some hot tea in the break room. Lana sat at the table catching up on her paperwork. She was having trouble concentrating; she was sure she’d have to go and receive some reprimand from the esteemed Dr. Hayes before she left today. It had not been a good day. It had started off with the young man who’d come in for his test results. She always dreaded having to tell someone that they had HIV. Instant death sentence. Everyone knew that there were few cures unless you were fantastically rich. Elaine had told her many times that she was just too sympathetic with the patients. You had to remove yourself from them; you couldn’t get too close. But Lana just couldn’t block her feelings that well.

Elaine came in then and handed her a memo printed on bright yellow paper. It was to all the employees, announcing a meeting with the new director, Dr. Hayes, at closing time that day. Elaine looked apologetic as she watched Lana read it. Slowly, Lana crumpled it up and then tossed it expertly into the wastebasket on the other side of the room, just as Dr. Hayes walked by. Seeing the flying yellow object, he paused, glanced into the basket, and murmured “Good shot!” before continuing on his way.

Lana stared in disbelief at his retreating back, then heard Elaine giggling. She gave her a look of mock disgust. “You’re supposed to be my friend,” she complained, “That’s the second time today he’s seen me doing something foolish. I wish you’d be more supportive.”

Elaine put her hand on Lana’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lana. Your aim is great, but your timing’s all off.” She grinned. “And don’t worry, you’ll soon be back to your usual, competent, unorthodox self.”

With a sigh, Lana put her head in her hands. “I’ve got to get some work done now, before my next escapade.” She picked up her pen. “Thanks for taking over Gina’s treatment for me, Elli. Did she do all right?”

“Yes, she finished the neb, and Dr. Hayes wrote her some prescriptions.” Elaine started toward the door.

“Good. I really wanted to talk to her again, though. I hope she made another appointment.” Lana started writing on the chart in front of her as Elaine left to see her next patient.

Lana sat curled up in her recliner, watching the evening news. There’d been a robbery today at a gas station only four blocks from the clinic she worked in. It really was a dangerous place to work, she thought, but she needed the experience, and she felt that the patients needed someone to treat them decently. They’d been dealt a pretty bad hand in life. It wasn’t only the impact of the disease itself, but the fear and disgust handed to them on a daily basis by those who were either ignorant or too prejudiced to care. When she’d worked at the hospital, she’d seen some nurses refuse to walk into the same room with an AIDS patient. She’d heard a doctor telling a patient that he’d reaped what he’d sown and had only himself to blame. She’d heard nurses gossip about whether the patient was a junkie or gay or just plain promiscuous. Everyone, except the babies, was treated like dirt by most of the staff there. Here at the clinic, though, things were a lot better. All of the staff were here by choice, and they treated the patients with care and sensitivity. But even so, they rarely went out on a limb to help the noncompliant ones.

Lana thought back to this afternoon’s meeting. Dr. Hayes had introduced himself, related a little of his background to them, and had then given a rather inspiring speech on how he expected the patients to be treated. It had become obvious that he was either a damn good actor or he really did care about their special cases. Lana had modified her earlier opinion of him to include a grudging respect for his views. The meeting hadn’t lasted very long, and Lana had been the first to file out of the conference room. She’d rushed to her locker to gather her things and get out to her car while it was still safe to do so.

Lana and Elaine had just pushed open the back door when they’d heard Dr. Hayes calling Lana’s name, and she’d reluctantly walked back up the hall. He’d detained her only briefly, telling her that although he hadn’t approved of her actions earlier, he’d decided to overlook the incident as long as she complied with the clinic’s policies in the future. Lana had had the distinct feeling that he’d been expecting her to kiss his feet in gratitude, but she’d mumbled, “thanks,” and had hurried away.

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