A Promise for Keeping (standard:romance, 10294 words)
Author: Mick@Nite	Added: Apr 27 2003	Views/Reads: 4135/2476	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Is love enough to keep a promise alive?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

viable blood cells left to carry oxygen, fight infection or clot their 
blood.  For months following treatment, the patient is supported with 
countless life saving blood and platelet transfusions and covered with 
an arsenal of antibiotics until their body slowly begins producing 
fresh bone marrow and still then, it is merely a fifty/fifty chance 
that the new marrow will not also be diseased. 

If all this were not bad enough, just to mock the patient further,
chemotherapy ravages the lining of the gastrointestinal tract causing 
severe nausea and vomiting, and as an encore - one final insult - 
chemotherapy exterminates the hair follicles, branding the offended 
with baldness, identifying him or her to the rest of the world a 
leukemic. 

If leukemia is a holocaust then chemotherapy may very well be its
concentration camp. 

Unseen by her, this was the future that awaited Alison Lumm as she was
admitted to 6 North to receive what is known as ‘induction 
chemotherapy'- a fourteen day attack on her infested bone marrow.  With 
crisp white linen, spotless uniforms and colorful floral paintings on 
her walls, 6 North is a cunning deceiver; misleading her guests upon 
first impression to the miseries she is capable of bestowing. 

Alison would not be my patient that day but I watched with much
curiosity as she was orientated to our unit by my nurse manager.  She 
was a very pretty but diminutive girl, looking more like a teen-ager 
than the 26-year-old woman she actually was.  But what made her look 
even smaller was the giant that accompanied her - a huge man with dark 
features and unsettling eyes. 

As she was shown to her room, my heart felt for this young woman,
knowing what dreadful roads lie ahead, what unpleasantness awaited.  As 
for her enormous companion, something about him left me feeling uneasy, 
concerned. 

“Who's your new patient?” I asked the doctor who was writing her chemo
orders. 

“Her name is Alison Lumm,” she said as I took a look at what she was
writing. 

“Ara-c, continuous IV,” I read over her shoulder. “Leukemic, huh?” 

“Yeah, I just diagnosed her.” 

“She looks young.  Who's King Kong there with her?” 

“Her husband,” she replied. 

She barely looks old enough to have a prom date, I thought, returning to
my work but still keeping an element of my attention tuned to the new 
young leukemic, Alison Lumm, and her monstrous husband. 

From within her room, I could hear voices, mostly that of the nurse
manager, but occasionally, a low gruff tone I knew could only belong to 
her husband. 

“Is this going to take much longer?” he asked. 

Jeeze buddy, your wife was just diagnosed with leukemia.  My manager
explained to him how his wife could be here for some time, as she was 
very sick. 

“I mean right now,” he clarified. “I'd like to go have a smoke.” 

Something about this Goliath had troubled me and he was quickly
validating my assessment. 

Always the tactful practitioner, my manager suggested he go do whatever
it was he needed and she would finish up with his wife alone. 

He simply said “Great,” telling his wife that he would call her later in
the day to see how she was.  I heard what sounded like a small kiss and 
before I could look up to get out of the way, he burst from the room, 
plowing directly into me, sending me down to the hard tile floor. 

“Excuse me,” he said, not really meaning it by his tone but extending an
extra large hand to help me up anyway.  Up close, he was even larger 
than I had originally perceived.  With jet-black hair, full thick beard 
and rugged features, he was not very handsome but more ape like in 
appearance.  His neck was thick, like a fire hydrant, his body a bulky 
mass. He stunk of cigarette smoke and contempt. 

“No problem,” I said, rising to my feet, reaching only as high as his
chest. 

Watching him lumber off the unit, I anticipated that he would not make
his wife's lengthy and complicated treatment any easier. 

My day became quite busy following his departure and attention was soon
required back to where it belonged, with my patients.  I neither saw 
nor heard of Alison Lumm the rest of that day except for once, when I 
passed her room to notice her standing at the window, admiring the 
picturesque view the hospital has of Long Island Sound. 

Stripped of her clothing and wearing nothing more than a green hospital
gown, the transformation from civilian to cancer patient had already 
begun.  Her wavy hair was an exquisite shade of auburn and it glistened 
in the dazzling afternoon sunlight that was streaming brilliantly 
through her window.  Soon she will lose that too, I thought watching 
(possibly admiring) her. 

As I was about to walk away, she saw me and offered the sweetest of
smiles.  Embarrassed at being caught, I smiled back, only for a moment, 
before returning my work and thinking about that lovely smile for the 
rest of the day. 

Off for the next few days, upon returning to work to begin a long string
of night shifts, I was a bit disappointed, I confess, to not find the 
name Lumm on my assignment.  Alison was instead under the care of my 
colleague Maria and during that unusually slow night, I inquired about 
our newest patient. 

“She is doing well,” Maria told me.  “Tolerating her chemo so far. She
is a tiny little thing, barely says a word.  And have you seen her 
husband?” 

“No,” I lied.  “What about him?” 

“He is a giant compared to her.  And not very nice from what I hear.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked, very interested in her answer. 

She proceeded to tell me about how another nurse had caught him giving
his wife a hard time about being sick and in the hospital because it 
was going to ‘infringe too much' on his life. 

“Well, I'm sure this is hard on him also,” I said. 

“No Eric, the jerk was talking about her not being around to make his
dinner and wash his clothes and stuff like that,” she explained as a 
call bell rang, sending her off to a patient's room. 

Five a.m. is blood work time on 6 North and it is the night nurses
responsibility to draw their patients' morning labs so the results will 
be available when the doctors begin filing onto the unit to see their 
inpatients before rushing off to their offices.  Most oncology patients 
have what are called central lines, larger, sturdier and longer lasting 
IV's than the small peripheral ones most hospitalized patients receive. 
 Cancer patients, especially leukemics, require these lines for the 
highly corrosive chemotherapies they receive for weeks at a time.  
These catheters are also useful for drawing blood, saving the patient 
from never-ending, and sometimes harmful, needle sticks. 

Maria was busy getting ready for her blood draws when I offered my
assistance.  I had purposely drawn all of mine early hoping that she 
would need help; she accepted my offer eagerly. 

“Okay,” I said. “I'll do Mr. Collins, Mr. Buttone and, um how about the
new girl, Lumm.” 

“Great,” Maria replied. “Collins and Buttone both have PICCs,” (a type
of central line) “and Lumm has a Hickman.” 

Hickman catheters are the most common type of central line our hospital
uses for leukemics and, unfortunately for them, is also the most 
cumbersome of the lot.  Inserted by a surgeon, the tip rests within a 
large vein directly above the heart and the tubing is then tunneled 
under the skin until it exits the body just below the right breast 
where the double-ended catheter simply dangles over the stomach.  I 
have listened to more than my share of patient complaints regarding a 
bothersome Hickman's lack of practicality and attractiveness. 

I readied my equipment and saw Maria's other two patients before
knocking softy on Alison's door.  Not hearing a response, I entered her 
room in silence, finding her still asleep.  Through her window, the 
early morning sun had spilled across her face encircling it like a 
halo; quite fitting as I observed how angelic her appearance was upon 
seeing her up close for the first time.  Her complexion was fair and 
her features light.  Her pale skin, nearly translucent, was adorned 
with small purple spots known as petechiae, a classic symptom of 
leukemia. Her pink lips were small and delicate looking, like the 
petals of a fragile flower. 

I approached her bed and knelt by her side, gently rubbing her warm
shoulder.  “Mrs. Lumm?” 

Her eyes slowly opened and for the first time of many, I would be the
first person she would see to start her day. 

“Mrs. Lumm, my name is Eric.  I'm a nurse here on the floor.  How did
you sleep?” 

“Okay, thank you,” her voice was sleepy and soft.  “How was your night?”
 Terribly polite, it was not often that a patient asked me how my night 
had gone. 

“Better than Maria's,” I replied.  “That's why I'm helping her out with
her morning blood work.  Is that ok with you?” 

“Sure,” she said rubbing her tired eyes.  She lifted her head from her
pillow, leaving behind the splash of sunlight and, already, a few stray 
clumps of auburn hair.  When she turned and noticed, a worried look 
seized her pretty face. 

Having seen that look many times before, I leaned forward, pointing to
the large bald spot that had been growing steadily on the top of my 
head since my late twenties.  “See this?” I asked looking up.  “Yours 
is going to grow back someday. Mine?  I'm stuck like this forever.” 

This brought a smile to her sleepy face; the same refreshing one I had
admired the day she arrived on the unit. 

“And with a smile like that,” I added.  “No one will even notice that
you don't have any hair.” 

Her smile grew brighter yet and, already assimilated to our routines,
she lifted her gown just enough for me to access her Hickman.  As I 
flushed the line to begin drawing her blood, she spoke gently. 

“Brian hates it.” 

“Brain?” I asked. 

“My husband.  He hates it.  He says it looks ugly.” 

“What?  Your Hickman?” 

“Yes.  He told me it makes me look like a cyborg.” 

“Well, let me tell you,” I said, finishing my blood draw and hooking her
back up to the chemo, “I don't know how many Hickman's your husband has 
seen in his days, but I've seen hundreds and I have to admit, yours is 
awfully cute. Have you named it yet?” 

“The catheter?” 

“Sure.  It's yours now.  Kind of like a dog that follows you home.  You
have to call it something.” 

She looked down to her Hickman then back to me. “I don't know. What do
you think?” 

I held the double lumen in my gloved hand and studied it intently with
an exaggerated expression on my face.  “Harry,” I replied.  “Definitely 
Harry.” 

“Harry the Hickman?” she laughed. 

“Yep,” I said, snapping my gloves from my hands and dropping them in the
trash.  “Harry it is.” 

“Thank you Eric,” she said as that delightfully contagious smile once
again graced her small, lovely face. 

“You are entirely welcome.”  I replied, collecting my belongings and
making my way to the door.  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” 

“Draw my blood again sometime?” she asked. 

“Your Hickman and I are on a first name basis, how can I possibly say
no,” I replied.  “It was a pleasure meeting you Mrs. Lumm.” 

“Alison, please,” she replied. 

“Now we're all on a first name basis,” I smiled.  “I hope you have a
wonderful day. Alison!” 

She waved, beaming the same captivating smile that still haunts me to
this day. 

For the next three mornings, I would draw Alison's blood, each time,
learning a little more about her.  She told me of her childhood in 
rural Indiana, growing up poor on her family's small farm and how the 
only thing that saved her from continuing the family legacy of toil and 
dearth was ambition, a love of the English language and a full 
scholarship to NYU.  Upon graduating, she remained in Manhattan, using 
her degree in English to find work as a copywriter for a major 
financial publication. 

Alison had embraced the big city but was seduced away by the large
imposing man she had met at a company function.  In stark contrast to 
her background, Brian had come from wealth and privilege and was 13 
years her senior.  Alison left Manhattan shortly after they met, 
becoming one of the masses who leave the Connecticut suburbs every 
morning to work by train. The unlikely pair were wed five months after 
and it was at Brian's insistence that she left her job in the city to 
take one with less pay, but closer to home.  When speaking of Brian, 
she would often lose eye contact, her gaze drifting elsewhere. 

“You seem sad when you talk about him,” I offered one morning. 

“He was my first love.  He swept me off my feet and all I ever seem to
do is let him down.” 

Such was Alison, so full of inner simplistic beauty yet so lacking in
self-esteem, always putting others requirements before her own. 

“Also,” she added honestly. “He doesn't like you very much.” 

“Gee.  I usually have to lay a couple of my bad jokes on people before
they start disliking me. Besides, he and I have never really met.” 

“I told him about you.  And about Harry here as well,” she said lightly
tugging her Hickman.  “He said naming it was stupid and that he doesn't 
like the idea of another man taking care of me either.” 

“You tell him, I am a nurse first.  That whole ‘being a man' stuff,
that's all secondary.” 

She smiled. 

“You also tell him,” I added in all seriousness, “that he is going to
have to live with playing second fiddle for a while.  You have a long 
road ahead of you Kiddo. Believe me, I know.  And there is nothing 
selfish about taking care of your needs and yourself right now. Do you 
understand?” 

She nodded. 

“Just don't tell him I put you up to it, okay?” joking again.  “I've
seen him and I don't need that giant after me.” 

Leaving that morning, I told her that I would not be in for a few days
but when I returned, I was hoping she would be part of my assignment 
and that I would be able to do more for her than just draw her blood. 

“You are doing more,” she replied.  “You're being my friend.” 

When I returned to work, I was pleasantly surprised to find that Alison
had in fact been assigned to my care.  Upon entering her room, I found 
her appearance – even after such a brief period of time - already 
beginning to change.  Her skin was much paler than before, riddled not 
only with petechiae, but angry purple bruises as well.  Her auburn hair 
was losing its sheen; exposed areas of chalky skin already visible 
behind her thinning curls.  An emesis basin in her lap, I had been 
informed by the nurse before me that Alison had been up most of the 
night, retching and nauseated. 

The chemo had begun waging its internal war against her contaminated
bone marrow, the rest of her body, collateral damage. 

She managed a faint smile upon seeing me. 

“This is where it gets real hard Kiddo,” I told her honestly. “This is
where you have to get tough.” 

“Get tough?” she said.  “I've never felt weaker in my life.” 

“In here,” I said, pointing to my heart. “And when you feel you don't
have any left, you let me know and I'll give you some of mine.” 

When I informed her that I was going to be her nurse that day, she
confessed to asking to be put on my assignment.  I told her I was 
delighted she had. 

As I began taking her vital signs, she asked, “Eric, when am I going to
start feeling better?” 

“Oh, Alison,” I admitted as I took her blood pressure, feeling her thin
arm against mine, “First, it is going to get much worse.” 

And as I told her it would, Alison's physical condition continued to
deteriorate. 

When I began working on 6 North, a veteran oncology nurse had told me
that in order to cure a leukemic, we had to practically kill them 
first.  She was not exaggerating.  Over the next two weeks, all of 
Alison's blood counts would drop to precariously low levels and the 
nausea and vomiting had become so relentless that she was unable to 
tolerate even the smallest amounts of nutrition. 

Daily transfusions of donated blood and platelets became her way of
life.  She was placed on protective isolation and all visitors to her 
room were required to wear masks and gowns to defend her from even to 
most common of bacteria.  When she began to spike fevers, IV 
antibiotics were added to assist her depleted immune system in fighting 
off any invading organisms.  In order to avert malnutrition, she was 
fed intravenously, but still, the vomiting came in agonizing, 
unbearable waves. 

Despite this misery, I never once heard her complain but I could feel
her heartache nonetheless.  Brian's visits were few but she would 
always have an excuse for him; “he is busy with work” or “he does not 
like seeing me this way.”  I did my best to support her through this 
terribly difficult time with a carefully blended mixture of humor and 
moral support. 

With each shift I cared for her, this frail sick girl - who somehow
managed through all the gloom to furnish me with at least one 
breathtaking smile a day - would become more and more dear to me. 

Finally, on the fourteenth day, the induction chemo was complete.  The
full throttle assault against her bone marrow would conclude and the 
long period of waiting for her body to recover would commence.  Slowly, 
her blood counts would return to safer levels and by day twenty-two, 
transfusions were no longer required and the isolation precautions were 
lifted.  During that time she had received nine blood transfusions, 
eleven units of platelets, had cultured positive for a urinary, as well 
as a double ear infection and had been on no less than four different 
antibiotics. 

I had told Alison that when her nausea subsided and she could once again
tolerate solid food, I would prepare for her whatever meal she desired. 
 She chose melon of all things and on the twenty-seventh day of her 
prolonged visit to 6 North, the two of us feasted upon fresh honeydew, 
tangy cantaloupe and succulent watermelon, seeds and all. 

By now, her scalp was completely devoid of hair - short of a few lonely
auburn curls - and she had taken to wearing a floppy purple beret that 
made her tiny head appear even smaller than it actually was.  “How long 
until they know whether or not I'm in remission Eric?” she asked as I 
cleaned up the skeletal rinds of our all-melon dinner. 

“That is a hard question to answer Kiddo.  Everybody is different.”  I
explained to her how in a week or two she would be started on daily 
infusions of what is known as ‘maintenance chemo' - less potent doses 
of chemotherapeutic agents that were intended to keep her regrowing 
bone marrow in check and free of malignant cells.  “In time,” I 
continued, “the doctor will do another bone marrow biopsy and if all 
she finds are healthy cells, you my friend, will be in remission.” 

“What if she doesn't?” 

“Hey, right now let's worry about getting you well enough to get the
hell out of this hospital and back home where you belong.  You have 
been in here so long, this stale hospital air is starting to stunt your 
growth.” 

“Yeah, that and about two weeks worth of high test Ara-C.” 

I laughed.  “You've been hanging around me too long.” 

On the thirty-third day of her admission, Alison's doctor cleared her
for discharge.  With the exception of her first few days on the unit, I 
had been her nurse every shift I had worked.  In two days she would 
begin daily maintenance chemo as an outpatient in the hospitals cancer 
center on the first floor. 

“So, how does it finally feel to get out of this place?” I asked her the
morning of her discharge. 

“Scary,” she confessed.  “It's not over yet, is it?” 

“No,” I confirmed, “but the hard part is done for now.  I'm so happy
that you're going home, but I have to admit, I'm going to miss you a 
little.” 

“Will you be giving me my chemo in the cancer center?” she asked. 

“No, but I can come down there and visit you.” 

She smiled, gave me a small kiss on the cheek and handed me a card,
which I did not open, but put in my pocket for safekeeping. 

Shortly thereafter, Brian arrived, the first time I had personally seen
him on the unit since the day he barreled into me, sending me to the 
floor.  He said nothing, only went to his wife's room and escorted her 
off the floor.  The other nurses had gathered to say their goodbyes and 
I watched her step into the elevator from the sanctity of the nurse's 
station.  As the elevator doors closed, stealing her from me, she 
smiled her wondrous smile one last time and pointed to the card I had 
stuffed in my pocket. 

That night, in the solitude of my bed, I opened her note.  A tiny card -
much like its sender - on the front were two cartoon bears, one helping 
the other to stand, the words ‘Thank You' in script over them.  Inside, 
she wrote: 

Dear Eric, I cannot thank you enough for all the wonderful care,
encouragement and support you have given me over the past month. I know 
my stay on 6 North would have been twice as difficult if not for you. I 
will never forget your kindness and compassion.  You are the best!!! 
With Love, Alison 

Also enclosed was a slip of paper, an e-mail address on it, with the
words keep in touch inscribed underneath.  I placed the address on my 
nightstand and tucked the card into a small cardboard box - one 
reserved for things special to me- that I keep in my dresser drawer. 

I visited Alison when I could in the cancer center, but work being as
busy as it can, it was rare that I would find enough time to escape to 
the first floor.  She was always thrilled by my visits, rare as they 
were, and each time I called, she would look a little healthier, a 
little stronger. 

We did most of our communicating by e-mail.  She said that she was still
suffering the occasional bout of nausea and every once and awhile, when 
her white blood cell count would drop, she would have to wear a mask 
when out in public, but otherwise, things were going well.  She told me 
she had bought herself a wig, but added that she “took issue with the 
old adage that blondes have more fun.” 

According to her, she and Brian were also getting along rather well.  He
had even promised her that once her cycle of maintenance chemo was 
completed, he would buy her a plane ticket so she could visit her 
family in Indiana, whom she had not seen in person since beginning 
treatment.  As nice as his sentiment was, it would have to wait. 

It was about three in the morning when I received the call from the ER
informing me of a patient they were sending up: twenty-six year old 
female with a history of leukemia, complaining of fever and shaking 
chills.  They did not have to tell me the patient's name. 

Alison had been doing so well, but after the last dose of chemo, her
white cells had again plummeted to a dangerously low level.  She had 
been running low-grade fevers at home and was prescribed oral 
antibiotics but had awoken shortly before midnight, feeling lousy, with 
shivers and a temperature of 102. 

She had driven herself to the hospital. 

“Why didn't Brian bring you in?” I asked. 

“He has a big meeting in the morning.  I didn't want to wake him up.” 
Her teeth were chattering. 

I only shook my head as I settled her into her room.  She did not look
good at all.  Her skin was cool and clammy; the few strands of hair she 
had left, wet and matted to her pale scalp.  Her heart raced.  Her 
blood pressure was so low I could barely auscultate it. 

“Hello Harry,” I said as I started fluids through her Hickman and hung a
dose of IV antibiotic.  “Long time no see.” 

She neither laughed nor smiled.  She was very sick. Her eyes where
glassy and scared, her fragile body aflame with fever. 

I continued to settle her, wrapping her trembling body in warm blankets,
when she began to worsen before my eyes.  Sweat began pouring from her 
hairless head and she was having trouble staying alert.  Her blood 
pressure bottomed, her temperature spiked to 104.  I opened her IV 
fluids wide and yelled for one of my colleagues to call her doctor. 

“What should I tell her,” she asked. 

“Tell her Alison is septic.” 

Sepsis is a medical term referring to a bacterial contamination of the
bloodstream, resulting in a total body infection.  Unable to defend 
itself against these invisible trespassers, Alison's fragile body was 
rapidly shutting down and she needed to be transferred to the ICU 
quickly. 

As we waited for her doctor, I supported Alison with fluids, assurances
and even a few silent prayers. The Doctor arrived promptly and together 
we wheeled Alison up to intensive care. 

“Are you coming with me Eric,” she asked weakly. 

“Only for the ride Kiddo, but the ICU nurses will take real good care of
you.  I'll make sure of it.” 

Her doctor told her that she would call Brian to let him know she had
been transferred to the ICU and the last thing Alison said before 
drifting off into semi-consciousness was “No, don't wake him up. He has 
a big meeting in the morning.” 

Following my shift, I returned to the ICU to see Alison but found her
asleep with Brian resting in a chair beside her.  The doctor had called 
despite Alison's objections and he had come.  He saw me but said 
nothing, nor did I approach him.  Instead, I checked in with the ICU 
nurse to see how the rest of Alison's night had gone. 

Alison was very lucky.  Large volumes of fluid and potent vasoactive
medications kept her blood pressure within an acceptable range long 
enough for strong antibiotics to suppress the infection and begin 
restoring her health. 

Within five days, Alison was back on 6 North and I was again her nurse. 
Because her white cells were still very low, she was once again put on 
isolation but that only lasted three days. 

Brian had brought in her new blonde wig from home and it became the
subject of much banter between the two of us. 

“I like the purple beret much better,” I confessed. 

“I'm just so sexy in this thing, you can't stand it!” 

Brian had also, much to Alison's and my surprise alike, flown her
parents in from Indiana to visit her.  I was unfortunately off the two 
days they were in town and did not get to meet them. 

As her health was improving, the doctor felt the time had come to repeat
a bone marrow biopsy and the entire unit held it's collective breath 
awaiting the results, which would not be available until the following 
day. 

Though she had told no one, the day of the biopsy was also her
twenty-seventh birthday. 

“What is this?” she asked as I entered her room that evening. 

“It looks like a birthday cake to me. A small one, but still a birthday
cake.”  I had bought a blueberry muffin in the cafeteria and placed an 
unlit candle in the middle. 

“How did you know?” 

“I'm your nurse. I know when the last time you went to the bathroom was.
You think I can't look up your birthday.” 

I sung for her an inspired but out of tune “Happy Birthday” and right
before she bit in, I took out a small Polaroid camera we keep at the 
nurse's station for documenting old ladies' bedsores and yelled, 
“Smile!” 

“No, Please,” she protested, but to no avail. 

“Yes,” I replied.  “Now smile or I confiscate the cake.” 

And she did, that same brilliant, beautiful smile that I had fallen in
love with months ago. 

That night, as I lay in bed staring at that Polaroid, I admitted to
myself for the first time that it was more than her smile I had fallen 
in love with. 

As I contemplated the precariousness of falling in love with a married
woman, I found I felt more threatened, not by Brian, but by her other 
suitor; the one who loved her from deep within her bones, the one who's 
jealously was a hundred times as deadly as Brian's, the one who would 
not relinquish her heart until either he had destroyed her or he, 
himself, was destroyed.  If it came to it, Brian and I could vie for 
Alison's affection all we wanted, but still, leukemia would have the 
final say. 

The following morning, Alison's doctor informed her of the outcome of
the biopsy.  Upon hearing the results, she burst into tears. The first 
time I had seen her cry since joining us on 6 North. 

Her marrow was clean and cancer free - for now. 

Alison went home two days later; again, Brian picked her up.  Before his
arrival, she called me into her room. 

“Thank you again,” she said.  “Will we still keep in touch?” 

“Of course.  Just because your not my patient anymore doesn't mean you
still aren't my friend.” 

“You saved my life, you know.  When I came back from the ICU that day I
would have kissed you if you didn't have to wear that awful mask.” 

I just blushed, saying nothing as she put her soft hand to my cheek. 

“How come some lucky woman has not found out about you?” she asked as I
slowly melted at the touch of her hand. 

“Guess I just haven't met the right one yet,” I said, looking down to
the floor. 

She lifted my chin and the two of us looked deeply at one another.  As I
was about to get completely lost in those soft brown eyes, the moment 
was stolen from us by an angry voice. 

“What the hell is this?” Brian demanded angrily. 

“We were just saying good-bye,” Alison stated. 

“We were just saying good-bye Brian,” I repeated. 

“Come on Alison.  We've gotta go,” he said as she stood to join him, his
angry eyes never breaking from mine. 

He said not another word, he didn't need to; his eyes said it all.  They
said, “Danger!” and “Stay away!”  They warned, “Your fucking with the 
wrong jealous husband!” and “Don't even try it, because your gonna 
lose!” 

That evening, I made an accord with myself to not permit my feelings for
Alison to get the better of our relationship.  While I could admit that 
I had fallen in love with her, I would not allow myself to be an 
obstacle between her and her husband.  It was more than his warning to 
me; it was also my belief in the sanctity of marriage, regardless of 
how wrong I knew Brian was for her. 

As promised, I did continue to correspond with Alison through e-mails
however, despite her invitations, I no longer visited her when she made 
her weekly visits to the cancer center.  Still, I would often find 
myself opening the small cardboard box I kept at my bedside late at 
night to gaze upon that beautiful smile. 

During the next thirteen months, Alison would do exceptionally well. 
Weekly visits to the cancer center soon became monthly check-ups and 
she was even able to start back at work, if only part time.  She told 
me that Brian was not around much, as he was “always busy with work”, 
so life for her was quiet and peaceful.  This notion made me happy. 

I had known for some time where she and Brian lived and although it was
out of my way, after many months without seeing her in person, I would 
often find myself driving by their house in the hopes of catching a 
glimpse.  One time, as I rounded the corner before her driveway, I saw 
a small figure in a familiar looking purple beret walking down the 
street but dared not stop and continued on my way. 

While I would have loved nothing more than to see Alison in person, I
remembered my oath to myself and was content for now to open my e-mail 
and find her name gracing my inbox.  Her messages told of wonderful 
happenings during those months; her hair had grown back, she had spent 
her twenty-eighth birthday in Indiana with her folks.  Until, that is, 
the day her correspondence brought with it some rather unsettling news. 


At her last check-up, Alison's blood counts had been worrisome and as a
result, a third biopsy needed to be performed.  Despite months of 
maintenance chemo and in spite of being in remission for over a year, 
Alison's bone marrow had begun growing malignant cells once again and 
the doctor would need to initiate a regime of new drugs immediately. 

She was admitted to 6 North the next day.  I was not scheduled to work
but, knowing she was coming in, had signed up for overtime.  While I 
was excited to see her, our reunion was somewhat melancholy. 

“Hey there Kiddo,” I said with the best smile I could muster. 

When she saw me, her sad eyes filled with tears and despite my better
judgment, I took her tiny body in my arms and held her close. 

“I'm so scared, Eric. I don't think I can do this again.” 

I kissed the top of her head, her new hair thinner and curlier but still
the bold shade of auburn I had remembered. 

I helped get her settled and we would again begin at square one,
induction chemo. 

Harry the Hickman long gone – an angry scar across her chest the only
evidence of his existence – she now had what is known as a Port-a-Cath; 
an internal central line that is implanted in the chest wall and 
accessed through the skin with a hooked needle.  I accessed her Port 
and initiated her first new dose of chemo. 

Brian had not come with her to the hospital initially, but when he
arrived later that evening, he was not at all pleased to find me in 
Alison's room.  My shift had ended over an hour ago and I was there on 
my own time, catching up on all the particulars she and I had forgotten 
to mention in e-mail over the past year. 

“I need to talk to you outside,” he said, addressing me as he entered
the room. 

I told Alison that I should be going anyway and that I would see her
tomorrow.  She was visibly concerned as her husband and I exited the 
room together, closing the door behind us. 

“Why don't you stay away from my wife,” he asked, and not very kindly,
as we stood in the hallway outside Alison's room. 

“Why don't you treat her a little more like a wife?” I responded. 

“Listen buddy.  I don't need you to tell me how to treat Alison. What I
need you to do is keep the fuck away from her, understand?” 

“I'm her nurse Brian,” I said trying to contain my voice, as well as my
anger the best I could. “If you're asking me not to take care of Alison 
anymore, the answer is ‘No'.  And if you're asking me not to be her 
friend, the answer is still ‘No'.” 

“Listen asshole...” 

“No, you listen,” I interrupted.  “Do you realize how sick Alison is? 
Do you even comprehend for a second how close she came to dying last 
year?  She doesn't need some jealous thug of a husband that bullies 
around nurses, she needs one that'll support her and hold her hand 
every once in a while.  Someone who'll give her a little encouragement 
and think about how she's feeling instead of only worrying about 
himself and how her illness impacts him.  Why don't you try to help her 
through this for once, rather than making her feel guilty about it?” 

He just stood there. 

“You don't seem to be able to do that Brian.  So I'm just filling in
your void.” 

At this, he simply shook his square head and pointed a crooked finger my
way repeating, “We'll see.  We'll see.” 

The next morning, I arrived at work to find that Alison not part of my
assignment. 

“What's this all about?” I asked my manager in the privacy of her
office. 

“Mrs. Lumm's husband is...” 

“A jerk,” I interrupted over her words. 

“Is very concerned,” ignoring my comment, “about your relationship with
his wife. He has asked that you no longer care for her.” 

“He can't do that,” I replied. 

“True, but I can.” 

“Why?  Why would you want to?” 

“Because frankly, I agree with him.” 

I did not respond; I just stared at her in disbelief. 

“You're getting too close Eric.  That's not good,” she rose from her
desk and stood beside me. “Look, I am not accusing you of anything. You 
are one of my best nurses.  I know you would never mishandle a 
nurse-patient relationship, especially with a married patient, but you 
are simply getting too close.” 

She returned to her desk before adding, “You know she is out of
remission.” 

“Of course I do,” I said softly. 

“She is very sick Eric, the odds are not with her. Her prognosis is
grim. We see this every day, you know what happens. I do not want to 
see you get hurt.” 

I returned to my work, accepting her decision, but once my shift was
complete, I went to visit Alison. 

“I thought you weren't allowed to take care of me anymore?” 

“They can tell me that I can't be your nurse anymore but they can never
stop me from being your friend.” 

“What about Brian?” 

“Alison,” I answered with a question of my own, “Do you want to continue
being friends?” 

“Yes,” she said with her sad eyes. 

“Then it's our decision, no one else's.” 

We decided then that we would not allow anyone to prevent us from
remaining friends.  We also agreed, however, that it would not be wise 
for me to be around when Brian was visiting.  That did not matter much 
though as he was, much like her previous admissions, rarely around.  
Some nights, I would drive by their house late only find it vacant, 
cloaked in darkness, his car not in the driveway. 

Alison's third visit to 6 North was, as expected, much like her first:
thinning hair, low blood counts, daily transfusions, nausea, 
infections.  The only thing different was that I was not her nurse. 

I would check on my friend frequently.  On the rare occurrence that
Brian was in, the nurse caring for Alison would alert me and I would 
keep out of his sight.  On days we would not get a chance to talk, 
Alison would often write me brief notes, leaving them with one of the 
nurses for delivery.  At days end, those notes would always find their 
way into the small cardboard box by my nightstand. 

One day, four weeks into her stay, I found her sobbing miserably in her
room. 

She was again on isolation and I was cloaked in gown and gloves, a mask
concealing my face.  Seeing her so sad, I wanted nothing more than to 
hold her but I knew could, and should, not. 

“Alison, what is it Hon?” 

“He's leaving me Eric.  He found someone else.” 

“Who, Brian?” I asked. “What are you talking about?” 

“He came in today and told me, right here,” she said in a very sad, low
voice.  “He met a woman at work.  He told me he has been seeing her for 
a year now and that it is all my fault.” 

“You know that's not true Alison.” 

“He said that if I had been there to take care of him, it never would
have happened. He said he is going to move in with her now and that 
when I am better, he wants a divorce.” 

“That is the most cowardly thing I have ever heard.  Don't you dare
believe him Alison, not for a second.” 

“He said I'm only sick because I'm not strong like him,” she was just
staring blankly out the window. 

“That is not true, Alison.” 

Finally, she looked up at me.  “I know Eric.  I know that now, because
of you.” 

And with that she broke down, the hardest I had seen her cry her entire
illness.  Before I could stop her, she reached out and placed her small 
head against my chest, the floppy beret she had resumed wearing falling 
to the floor. 

“Make it go away, Eric.  Make it all go away.” 

I caressed her tiny head, hairless once again, with my gloved hand
saying nothing, only listening to her heartrending sobs, wishing I 
could do as she requested, fighting back tears of my own. 

Things were very different after that. Without Brian around at all, I
could now visit Alison whenever I felt and would do so everyday, 
including my days off.  Things were also better in that Alison's health 
was slowly returning as her bone marrow began recovering from the 
chemo's deadly assault. 

Within two weeks, Alison was doing remarkably well.  Her spirits were
high and with the exception of her platelets, so were her blood counts. 
 Sometimes, when a patient receives as many blood or platelet 
transfusions as Alison had, the body begins creating antibodies against 
the foreign cells.  Over time, Alison's body had produced so many 
antibodies to donor platelets that despite how many units we would give 
her, her counts remained at unsafe levels leaving her blood too thin to 
clot properly.  What this meant to Alison was that even though she was 
feeling better, she would have to remain with us on 6 North for a few 
more days until her marrow could produce enough platelets of her own 
that she would no longer be at risk of bleeding. 

That was fine with me, and as she was not looking forward to going home
to an empty house for the first time, it was OK with Alison as well. 

We decided to celebrate what we called ‘A few extra days on 6 North'
with a pizza party during my dinner break that evening. 

We enjoyed our pizza but as usual, enjoyed each other's company even
more.  The sterile gowns were gone and it was nice to be able to sit 
near her and touch her without a gloved hand. 

“I'm feeling so much better,” she said as we ate.  The color was
returning to her face and her eyes did not look nearly as sad. 

“You look much better,” I replied. 

“I mean inside,” she said tapping the area above her heart. 

We sat quietly for sometime and without warning, she reached for my
hands. 

“Promise me, Eric. Promise me I am not going to die.” 

Rule number one of oncology nursing is to never make promises. 
Accepting Alison's small hands in mine, I brought them to my chest.  
Holding them over my heart, I broke that rule.  “You are not going to 
die Alison. I promise.” 

She smiled with a small tear in her eye and kissed away the one that had
fallen down my cheek.  I smiled back and kissed her hands.  I wanted to 
tell her right then that I had fallen in love with her and that no 
matter what, I was willing to see this thing through, but I had already 
broken one rule of nursing that night and did not feel that this was 
the time or place to break another. 

“Hey, I have a shift to finish here,” I said looking at the clock on the
wall.  I got up to leave but Alison held on to my hand for one extra 
second and if ever anything were ever going to be said between us, it 
would have been right then.  Before either of us could speak, her door 
opened and Robin, Alison's nurse for the night, who was beginning a 
twelve-hour shift, entered the room. 

I squeezed Alison's hand gently and told her I would stop in after my
shift to say goodnight.  Robin smiled at me, almost knowingly, as I 
left the room. 

By the time my shift was complete, Alison had fallen fast asleep.  I did
not have the heart to wake her and instead, stood silently at the foot 
of her bed, admiring her angelic face in the moonlight that shone 
through the window and I whispered under my breath, in a sort of 
wishful prayer, that it would not be long until the time would be right 
for the two of us to be more than just friends. 

As I punched out, Robin asked if I was working in the morning.  I said
no but added that she still might see me anyway, as a visitor, and she 
smiled as I skipped off the unit and onto the elevators. 

That night, I dreamed of Alison.  In my dream, she was anything but
sick.  Her body was strong and cancer-free, dressed not in a sterile 
hospital gown but a magnificent evening dress.  Flowing and white; it 
fluttered in the wind behind her like the wings of a butterfly.  Her 
own auburn hair grew freely and it spilled across her shoulders as we 
ran together, hand in hand, across the sands of some far away beach so 
breath taking, it could only be envisioned in a dream.  We laughed and 
touched and kissed, unashamed and unafraid of deadly bacteria or 
jealous husbands. 

In my dream, we fell to the sand and into each other's arms, her dress
spilling open to reveal only her beautiful breasts – free from 
catheters, clean of surgical scars.  I brushed the hair from her lovely 
face and we kissed as the orange sun fell asleep and the sky was 
claimed by a brilliant white and full moon.  Clothed only in silver 
moonlight, we made love as warm tropical winds enveloped us like a 
blanket. 

“I have fallen in love with you Alison,” I confessed to her in my dream,
bringing tears to both of our eyes. 

“Now, I will never die Eric,” she said as her hand rested gently on my
chest, directly over my heart.  “Because I will always live here.” 

Because, I will always live here. 

I awoke that morning with a renewed sense of urgency.  What was I
waiting for?  Her husband had left her; I was still no longer allowed 
to care for her.  What did I have left to lose?  If my love for Alison 
raised some eyebrows around the hospital, well then to hell with them.  
I dressed quickly and headed for the hospital. 

Robin saw and tried to stop me as I made my way to Alison's room, but I
was a man who would not be impeded.  I entered her room only to find it 
empty, the walls striped of her pictures and cards, her bed vacant.  
They couldn't have sent her home already, I thought to myself and 
before my brain could imagine the only other reason why she would no 
longer be in her room, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around 
quickly to see Robin before me with tears in her eyes and Alison's 
purple beret in her hands. 

“Don't you dare tell me she's dead Robin,” I pleaded. “Don't you dare!” 

“She's not dead Eric, but she...” Robin looked into my desperate eyes,
almost apologizing, “she bled sometime during the night.  I found her 
unresponsive early this morning, barely breathing.  I called a code and 
we saved her, but the CAT scan showed a massive intercranial 
hemorrhage.” 

Without enough platelets in her tired body, Alison's blood had become so
thin that she spontaneously bled into her brain, sharing the fate of so 
many leukemics before and after her. 

Robin wrapped her arms around me but I could not respond.  I just stood
there, numb, dying. “I'm so sorry.  I know how close you were.  They 
brought her to intensive care and they're waiting for her family to 
arrive before... before they withdraw life-support.” 

“I love her Robin,” I finally managed weakly, staring out at nothing at
all. 

“I know Eric,” Robin said as she placed Alison's beret into my trembling
hands.  “And she loves you too.” 

I looked at her, taken aback.  “She told me,” Robin confessed, smiling
between her tears. “Last night, after you left.  Go be with her Eric.  
She would have wanted you there.” 

I rushed up to the intensive care unit on the ninth floor and, out of
breath, checked in at the nurses' station where I, even as an employee, 
had to request authorization before seeing a patient. 

“There's been a restriction placed on visitors for Mrs. Lumm,” I was
told by the nurse on duty. 

“By who?” I asked confused. 

“By me.” 

I turned around to see Brian hulking over me. 

“What are you doing here?” I asked angrily. 

“Watching my wife die.  What are you doing here?” 

“I came to go say goodbye to my friend,” I responded as I tried to push
my way past him, fighting back the tears that were beginning to fill my 
eyes. 

He grabbed me around the shoulder and pulled me back.  “No one sees her,
except her parents when they get here.” 

Legally, he had every right to forbid me from seeing her.  I could not
fight him on that.  I tried one final plea. 

“Please Brian.  Please let me say goodbye.”  The tears were beginning to
flow freely now.  Softy I added, “Please, I love her.” 

This infuriated him and he raised his fist, bringing it down hard on my
jaw.  I fell to the floor, blood spilling from my mouth.  The ICU nurse 
picked up the phone but I asked her to stop knowing she was about to 
call security.  Brian was standing his ground, fists clenched.  I 
slowly rose to my feet, wiping fresh blood from the corner of my mouth 
with the back of my hand. 

I stood no chance against this giant and I was not about to try.  That
is not what Alison would have wanted.  With her in mind, I lifted my 
hands in surrender.  He would win, but I still had something I wanted 
to say. 

“You never once realized what you had, did you?”  I said backing away. 

“Get the fuck out of here!” he demanded, fists still raised. 

“She did love you Brian.  And it is so sad that you don't even
appreciate what a precious gift that was.”  I continued to back away, 
blood trickling from my mouth, tears falling from my eyes. 

“I said get the fuck out!” 

I swallowed hard and was about to turn and leave when I decided there
was one more thing he needed to know. “I do love her Brian, and she 
loves me too.  And you can never take that away from me.” 

He did not respond, he just continued to stare me down with his ugly,
hate filled gaze.  In time I would learn to feel sorry for him but at 
that moment the only thing I was capable of feeling was the bitter 
throbbing of my fractured heart.  I turned and walked away. 

The first door I came to lead to a fire escape stairwell.  From nine
stories up I began a rapid descent, my sobs and footsteps echoing off 
the walls, until I lost my footing and fell, my body tumbling through 
the air before landing hard on a guard rail, dangling over the edge, 
staring down seven stories of openness.  I watched as a drop of blood 
fell from my mouth and disappeared into the darkness below.  For a 
moment, I saw myself climbing over the guardrail and following that 
lone drop through the shadows and into the concrete floor that awaited 
me beneath. 

What a fitting end to this tragedy, I thought as I hung there halfway
between life and death, just as Alison did two floors above me.  How 
fitting that we end like all those celebrated star-crossed lovers that 
came and suffered before us.  And as my legs slowly scaled the 
guardrail like a condemned man climbing the gallows, I saw Alison in my 
mind, much like I had in my dream, asking me to stop.  I paused and 
watched as one more trickle of blood fell from my lips and held my 
breath, counting the seconds - one, two, three, four, five - until it 
made it's nearly silent splash in the obscurity below. 

I climbed down from the guardrail, slumping to the stairs, defeated and
heartbroken.  I sat alone in that cold empty stairwell for almost an 
hour and wept like I never had before, mourning a life so beautiful, so 
precious and a love that would never be given a chance to bloom; my 
pitiful sobs, hushed by a floppy purple beret. 

Alison's family arrived from Indiana later that evening and life support
was withdrawn about an hour after.  A fighter to the end, I was told 
that she held her own, much to the amazement of the ICU nurses, for 
almost an hour, before her exhausted body could take no more, finally 
succumbing to the illness that held her prisoner for over two years. 

Alison Lumm, the tiny girl with the sad eyes and brilliant smile, was
freed from leukemia at 8:32 that evening with her parents by her side, 
about the same time I was sealing the small cardboard box I had filled 
with seven hand written notes and one floppy purple beret. An ICU nurse 
told me Brian had been outside having a cigarette at the time of her 
death. 

Alison's family brought her body home to Indiana for burial and on the
day after her funeral, I received a phone call from her mother.  She 
told me she was contacting all the doctors and nurses who had taken 
care of her daughter to thank them personally and added that I must 
have been special because Alison had mentioned my name “more than once 
or twice”.  I told her that “Alison was the special one” and left it at 
that.  She thanked me once more before saying good-bye. 

Brian moved the rest of his and Alison's belongings from the house they
had shared and sold it to an older couple who always say ‘hello' to me 
when I stand in front of their home longer than is polite.  As far as I 
know, he is still with the woman he left Alison for as I have neither 
seen nor heard of him since that day in the ICU. 

Like any wound, mine is slowly healing, but the scar, it will always
remain.  Not a day goes by that I do not think of the tiny girl with 
the sad eyes and brilliant smile.  Work has, and never will be the 
same.  I unfortunately care for my patients now with a dull sense of 
empathy, never getting to intimate with them nor letting them get to 
intimate with me. 

On a piece of corkboard at the nurse's station, I have hung the Polaroid
I took of Alison on the night we celebrated her birthday.  When people 
who do not know of her ask me who the happy girl with the wonderful 
smile is, I simply say, “That is Alison.  Isn't she beautiful?” 

Some men yearn for just one more day with their lost love.  Me, I ache
for just one-day period with the woman I never had the opportunity to 
love.  I sometimes wonder what life would be like if Alison had not 
died.  I imagine the two of us on that beautiful sandy beach from my 
dream, running free and in love, living a lifetime in one perfect day.  
And when the full moon finally rises and that magnificent day meets its 
end, I feel Alison's tiny but warm hand on my chest, directly over my 
slowly healing heart, and I hear her words as if she were still right 
beside me.  “Now I will never die Eric, because I will always live 
here.” 

No Alison, you never will die.  I made a promise and until the day comes
when I breathe no more and we meet again, you will never die because 
you will live within my heart. 

Always. 

************** 

For Carrie – I have not forgotten. 


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