Vulnerable
#3 of Hockey Hunk Tie-In Stories
Time never moved slower than while in the hospital.
*
Hey, folks!
No HH today, but instead, I present you with the long-awaited continuation to Inmates - the story of Peter and George - without forgetting Rowreeh of course! I felt like doing this today, so I hope you bear with me, and will come around on Monday for another installment of HH proper - but today, we all have a chance to learn more about the cougar, George, and Rory, definitely. It's been too long, I think, so I hope you'll enjoy this! If you haven't read "Inmates" yet, it's only a click away, so it's not difficult to catch up!
As always, comments are most welcome.
*
The hours were only punctuated by the sound of the toilet being flushed, the odd question, and the bothersome attempt to read an old women's magazine, before the room of the hospital room opened and the Doberman nurse entered. Peter's ears flicked from the ugly ceiling to the sight of the blue-scrubbed male, whom was walking backwards and hauling along something that looked about the size of a small fridge on wheels, with tubes hanging out of its sides. Peter's ears flattened against the pillow at the sight.
"Wish you'd brought in a Playstation or something, not that," the cougar muttered.
"Wow!" that coyote kid declared from the other bed.
"Courtesies of the Shepherd Center of Nephrology," the nurse rumbled as he parked the all too familiar dialysis machine next to Peter's bed.
"How nice of them to remember me," Peter chortled.
The Doberman snapped on the brakes on the wheeled contraption and then turned his attention to Peter.
"I'm going to take a set of vitals now, mister Sinclair," the Doberman declared.
Peter could barely snuffle. The fever and the drugs were making it hard enough to stay awake.
"I'm at your disposal."
The Doberman pulled on some purple gloves from a box attached to the wall and returned to put his paws on the scruffy cougar. He stuck a plastic sheath-covered thermometer into Peter's muzzle and measured his temperature. He poked at the IV bags hanging from their hooks and noted arcane information into the chart held in a plastic box on the foot of Peter's bed. The Doberman pulled on his gown to check Peter's stomach for any sights of and smells of the infection brewing inside his stomach. The Doberman wrote down some observations about that, too. Peter bit back his comments about bondage when the nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and noted the readings from a small electronic screen once the device had stopped buzzing. He made a couple of questions about passing stool and urine, which Peter answered in a quiet mutter.
"Are you in any pain?" the nurse asked.
"Not particularly, but I never turn down morphine," Peter huffed.
The nurse finished scribbling into the chart and dropped it back into the box on the foot of bed.
"Well you'll have to ask the doctor about that, but what I can offer is some heparin," the Doberman replied. "But I'll have to wait to hear from the nephrology on when they can send down the nurse to start you on dialysis. It has to be timed right so that you're anticoagulated when they want to start."
"Sure," Peter muttered.
The Doberman dropped his gloves into a pedal-operated trashcan, splashed some alcohol paw wash on his big, manly extremities and turned to face the cougar again.
"I'm sure it won't take too long, Mister Sinclair. I don't think they'd give up their machine if they intended to keep it here for particularly long."
"Humph," Peter breathed.
"I'll be back in half an hour to check your vitals again. The doctor probably will come around somewhere around 2 to see about blood tests. Remember to call the nurse immediately if you have any problems, Mister Sinclair."
"Thanks...Harry?"
"That's me!" the Doberman's tall ears jumped before he grinned briefly and sauntered out of the room, leaving Peter lying on the bed again, feeling lonely and small.
"You know, dude..."
Peter sighed and turned his head tiredly in the direction of the coyote in the next bed.
"What do I know now?"
"That's probably the one machine I haven't been hooked to yet," the coyote yapped.
"Lucky you," Peter mumbled.
"Does it hurt?"
Peter yawned.
"It involves huge needles. I could really do without."
"My mom used to give me candy for every needle stick," the coyote said. "Kinda had to stop that once the cavities appeared."
Peter snuffled. That was actually funny, though awful.
"You got any candy now?" Peter asked hopefully.
"I've got some healthy fruit some nuns brought in yesterday," the cougar pointed at a bowl of grapes, apples and bananas on his bedside table. "Guess they wanted to bribe me to confess my sins or something..."
Peter chortled.
"Got any you'd like to confess?"
The coyote let out a near-barking sound that was probably a chuckle. Peter wasn't sure He felt tired, and a bit muddled.
"Nothing that's meant to nuns' ears, dude," the coyote grinned toothily. "Dunno if a few Hail Mary's would be enough to cover those..."
Peter chuckled.
"Are you Catholic or something?"
"Naaah," the coyote scratched his chest through his belly. "I think they're kinda opportunistic or something...maybe hoping someone would convert on deadbed or something..."
Peter harrumphed.
"I don't think I'm there just yet," Peter muttered. "I think."
"You don't look half bad."
Peter turned his head a little so that he could look at the coyote. The boy was lying in bed and looking across the room at the cougar. Peter wasn't sure whether the coyote looked as sick as he himself must look. He definitely felt sick enough. Stupid bacteria. Stupid infection. Stupid death.
"Thanks."
"George."
Peter's ears flicked.
"Huh?"
"George, remember?"
Peter nodded weakly.
"Right...right, sorry...sorry, I'm just a bit slow today."
George eyed the IV bags and the infusion pumps, and nodded.
"You're on a lot of stuff, dude, it's probably messing around with you a bit. It happens."
Peter snorted.
"It's that or the uremia."
"What's that? Is it gross?" George sounded almost hopeful. "I like hearing about gross stuff that isn't about congenital heart disease."
Peter almost chuckled.
"When your kidneys stop working, it causes all the shit that's usually in your piss to just keep floating in your blood, and it can cause you to fall in the coma when the end is near. Your brain just stops working."
"That really is gross," George declared after a moment of forehead-wrinkling consideration.
"Thanks."
"So it's because you can't piss because your kidneys don't work?"
"Yeah...and I guess since my abdominal wall is inflamed, my dialysis hasn't been working properly so I'm a bit...fluid overloaded...and stuff..."
"Dude, you don't have to tell me," the coyote's ears perked. "Why do think I'm on Lasix? Heart failure causes water to build up in my body. I have to keep pissing like mad so that it doesn't get into my lungs and I'll drown to death."
Peter wasn't sure what to say to that. He wished he could just curl down and sleep. He wished that Rory was there.
"Maybe I'll feel better once they hook me up," he said, finally. "It should help."
"Let's hope so, dude," the coyote rumbled. "Wish there was a machine I could be hooked up to make me feel better."
"Don't they always have stuff on TV and newspapers about furs with those...I dunno what they're called but..." Peter's brow furrowed, "...something to keep the heart going with a pump or something..."
George let out a grumbling noise.
"Left Ventricular Assist Device," the coyote spoke with practiced ease.
"Guess you know better than I do."
"It's not an option for me," George replied. "I'm just sick enough to feel crap all the time, but not sick enough to need that. Hopefully I won't be needing that for a long time yet."
"Okay...uhm...sorry."
"Never mind, dude. You sure don't want a banana or something?"
Peter chuckled.
"Sorry, dude. Hyperkalemia means that bananas are a no no."
"Damn!" the coyote yelped. "My mom never believed when I told her that my doctor's banned me from eating broccoli..."
*
Wroom. Wroooom .Wroooom. Wroooom.
Peter wasn't sure whether he'd been actually sleeping, napping or just lingering in the border between consciousness and unconsciousness, but whatever it was, and despite the rumble of the machine and the pinching sensation on his arm, he had managed to become insensitive enough that someone had to shake him to make his eyes open.
"Peter?"
The cougar forced his heavy lids open. There was someone standing by the bed, someone clad in a tone of gold and ciel, and with a hunter green waistcoat that wasn't long enough to prevent the shirt hems from protruding below the creature's waist. Something white hung from a paw. Another paw still lingered on Peter's shoulder.
"Hi..."
"Rowreeh," Peter declared contently.
The lion spied a chair by the wall and pulled it up over next to the bed so that he could sit down by the cougar. He left two feet between himself and the suspicious bundle of tubes that originated from taped needles on Peter's arms and coiled over into the humming machine with all the right blinking lights and pulsing things that made it look like a science fiction film prop, rather than cutting edge lifesaving medical equipment.
"I brought your stuff," Rory lifted the white plastic bag up to view before he gently placed it to the floor next to his paws and his neatly tucked tail. "I'm not sure if I found all the books you mentioned but..."
"It's alright," Peter rumbled. "I'll manage."
"I did bring your toothbrush and stuff," Rory glanced down at the bag by his paws. "And those socks you like."
"The fluffy ones?" Peter pouted.
"Naturally," Rory managed a small smile, and put his paw carefully over the cougar's, still very much aware of the tubes vying for their place from comforting lions.
"Thank you, Rowreeh," the cougar managed a gentle purring edge to his voice, but nothing much.
"What are the doctors saying?" the lion asked carefully.
"Garden variety Staph A in the port," the cougar said. "They're keeping me in for a few days for IV antibiotics. They say it's nothing out of ordinary."
Rory nodded, his eyes glancing over at the humming machine.
"They hooked you up."
Peter gave the imposing device a look of his own, let his eyes linger on the bright red tubes on his arm, and then nodded tiredly.
"I haven't been dialyzing properly because of the infection," he said, "I have to do hemo until my stomach gets better again."
"Okay," Rory nodded, gently squeezing on the cougar's paw. "It's only for a couple of weeks, right?"
"If I'm lucky. If the infection scars my belly, I can't go back. I'll have to be on the machine three times a week."
"You're not there yet," Rory said. "Better not think about that now that you're feeling bad. You're probably fluid overloaded and your electrolytes are off, the machine's gonna take care of that."
Peter chuckled.
"Oh, Doctor Rowreeh, would you care to take a look at my chart to see my latest lab results and whether they agree with your diagnosis?" Peter waved his paw in the general direction of the foot of his bed.
The lion gave the cougar a bashful look and flicked his ears sharply. Peter smiled.
"How was your day?"
"The usual," Rory said. "Trying to think of new ways to make the mag more interesting to the pensioners. In this climate where even Reader's Digest is having problems..."
"Not going well, then?"
"We're still trying to decide whether the next new subscriber gift ought to be a fondue set or a paw bath machine," he said. "My boss says that we'd need something to attract the male demographic, too, so I'm trying to think of something appropriate."
"How about a tool kit? Bet they'd love those socket wrenches."
Rory chuckled.
"We did the pink HandyLady tool kit last year for the book club," the lion said. "It was a big hit, I think."
"So just get that same one in black and call it ManlyMan and you're set!"
Rory shook his head softly.
"Why didn't I think of that?"
"You think too much," Peter rumbled.
"Maybe I was distracted at work today, considering that you were here."
"There's nothing new about this, Rowreeh. This happens."
"I still don't like it," Rory breathed out. "I don't like seeing you like this. I never get used to it."
"Neither do I," Peter whispered. "Neither do I."
The sound of someone sneezing made Rory's ears jump. His eyes moved about the room and realized that the sound had to originate behind the white curtain that separated Peter's bed from another one. Rory glanced at the lion.
"You've got a roomie?" Rory queried.
"Yeah," Peter said. "This kid...let's see...George, are you awake, buddy?"
*
Thank you for reading! Don't forget to comment!
See you on Monday with The Hockey Hunk!