DUM SPIRO, SPERO
Part 50
 

"When my strength is spent, I will be done.
I know I am pleasing those whom I must."

"Antigone," Translation by Richard Emil Braun. Lines 113-114. Used without permission.
 

FROHIKE:

September 15, 2001

It's been so long since I wore my own clothes, it's actually a bit strange.

But it's a good strange. I think in the future I'd prefer to avoid anything that passes for fashion in hospitals. Light blue isn't a bad color for me, but I don't like wearing it every day, for Christ's sake! And I prefer keeping my backside covered, thank you very much. I'd like to be the one to determine if and when it's exposed.

And to whom I'd like to expose it to.

My IV lines are gone-thank God. My arms and hands make it appear as though I was a junkie.

Well, I've had enough morphine in the last several weeks that an argument could be made for that.

I don't remember these jeans being this loose. Good thing Michael thought to pack suspenders. I haven't worn them in ages, and I was a bit mystified as to why they were in the package of clothing he sent over, but now I think I understand why.

This shirt used to fit better, too. Now it hangs there. But at least it covers the incisions.

Looking at the incisions, getting dressed and seeing them full on, was a bit of a shock to the system. I've certainly been aware of them-God knows they hurt enough. The ribs that were broken during the bypass seem to be healing, but between them and the cuts, every time I cough-forget that, every time I move!-I'm sharply reminded that they are still very much in a violated state.

I admit it, I feel violated. Nothing like a long hospital stint to give you some inside knowledge of what it's like to be assaulted. What it's like to feel absolutely powerless.

This makes me angry.

I should be celebrating today. I'm going home, which I've been craving like you wouldn't believe. Or, if you've ever been held prisoner for medical treatments, you would. I get to be in my own chair, type on my own computers, watch my own movies, sleep in my own bed.

And I am happy for all these things.

Yet I'm still furious, and I'm at a loss as to explain why.

The scars anger me. It's as if it's some sort of cosmic punishment, but for what?

I know I've done many things I'm not proud of, and some I shouldn't be proud of, but what have I done to merit this?

I'm not a great-looking guy to begin with. And don't say otherwise, because you'll be a liar. As if these are going to increase my currency in the looks department. I somehow doubt it.

And the idea that I'm going to have to change the way I live, the way I do things, the way I handle things...this is having its effect, mostly on increasing my anxiety, which is exactly what I'm supposed to avoid!

Everyone around here tells you to avoid stress, but does anyone have a clue as to how to do it? I haven't gotten one suitable answer from anyone on staff here, and that includes my idiot-savant cardiologist. Yes, the boy can fix hearts (and I swear to God, he's closer to Michael's age than my own). But try telling someone like him what your life is like. What's important to you. What experiences you bring to the table. It flies right over them.

They don't get it.

I resent that I'm not able to do much of anything for myself at this point. I'm accustomed to not only caring for myself, but for those around me. And right now, they all treat me as though I'm made of porcelain.

Allison will never know how much good she did me by not treating me like some you-break-it, you-bought-it object. At least one person recognized that the body may be weak (and trust me, if I have anything to say about it, that will strictly be temporary), but the spirit is still strong.

I've been fearful. I'm mad as hell. And I'm in still in pain and even just getting ready to go home has exhausted me. I'll probably be ready for bed by the time I get to our apartment.

But I can honestly say I never gave in to it. Never gave up. Just assumed I'd get well. And dammit, I will. Even if it kills me.

I will get well. I'll do what I have to do, even if I'm not happy about it. I plan to be around a long time, if for no other reason than to terrorize the young ones around me. It's the least I can do for them.

And goddammit, if they start fussing over me like a bunch of mother hens, I will have to hurt them. Byers and Langly will probably feel that they should treat me with some solicitousness for a time, but if they try it, they're going to get whacked on the butt, like someone should have done with both of them long ago.

And Michael better not try Dad-as-invalid in any fashion. I know, I should have been a lot better to him when he came to be with me while I was laid up, and he's got no idea how grateful I am that he's such an affectionate and caring child. But at least if I yell at him, he knows that I haven't broken. And I think for him, that's important. Michael has a long way to go. He still looks to me for love and guidance, and I'm just praying that in all this, that hasn't changed.

Fact is, I'm not comfortable showing vulnerability to most people.

Except one.

With Martha, I don't even think about these things. I'm not sure why. I can let her take over and not feel threatened or compromised in any way. She always treats me with respect, not as if I'm a low-rent idiot who couldn't possibly comprehend a procedure or treatment. She explains well, but not condescendingly. And her touch is deft, professional-and consummately gentle. She's got that rare gift in a nurse, the ability to provide expert care without undercutting one's dignity.

Actually, I wouldn't mind if she would undercut my dignity a little, although the realm I'm imagining is personal as opposed to medical.

She's seen me naked. She knows what the scars look like. She's been there through some of the worst pain, and she knows what a bastard I am.

And she didn't run away screaming, in either case.

Of course she wouldn't, you idiot! She's a nurse! It's her job.

I'd still like to think it was something else.

I still keep imagining that it was more than a petty-cash payment from the senior Byers (and why he did it, I'll never know, and ordinarily, it'd piss me off pretty good-but in this case, I am the beneficiary. I'll let it go and be grateful-and for him, it truly was petty cash. J.A. Byers is rich, baby. Makes his son look like a poor churchmouse-and last time I checked, J.F. had a cool $30 million in his estate.

Money is such a strange and complicated thing. I'm surrounded by people who have it-Mulder has decided that for his daughters, he will accept the blood money that was willed to him by his father, although I suspect he is still ill at ease with the concept. I may be the only person who thought Allison did the right thing by forking over 75 percent of her estate to her greedy brother in the name of avoiding an argument. As she said, how much do you need to live?

How much, indeed?

I'm not likely to be working much for a while, although I'll do from the house what I can and ease back into going to TMB. I have accepted this part of the bargain. I don't like it, but I'll go with it.

Mostly because just waiting for Martha, I feel as if I'm going to fall asleep.

Yes, she's taking me home. She offered. I accepted. She will not be back at her regular position until Wednesday night.

Which means I have four days to enjoy her. In a way, I'm immensely grateful that Michael is so busy. This means privacy...to get to know her.

Provided, of course, that she wants to get to know me.

I keep thinking, she does. Papa Byers has paid her debts. She is a woman living free and clear save for her house payment-and she kept that for the tax advantages.

So why would she agree to care for me when she doesn't need the money?

I know what I hope the answer will be.
 

Breathing the outside air is wonderful. Even if it is laden with auto smog and pollen.

However, I was right about the short trip back to Alexandria. By the time we reach my apartment, I'm nearly asleep. And sore. I swear I felt every pothole between Fairfax and Alexandria.

I hate to admit it, but I'm ready for bed.

But of course the children are there-Leslie, Michael and Kelly. And Jo has come. She's been by a number of times, and she and Martha have gotten to be friends.

I wonder what they talk about when I'm not listening.

Jo and I have talked a great deal the last week. She is going to begin to undergo chemotherapy treatments this week, which makes her nervous.

I don't blame her. I've known a number of people who've gone through chemo. Some of whom have lived to tell about it.

I wish to God I could be of more help to her right now. I'd take her for treatments.

But she says that Martha has agreed to do that, and if Martha is unavailable, Michael has offered.

Michael? As in my son?

She nodded in acknowledgment. Yes, your son. And she didn't ask. He offered.

I'm proud of him for that.

Allison has agreed to serve as backup, and she'll stay with Jo if necessary after she goes home from the treatments.

I hope she's not planning to drag her son with her. Jo's home is not childproof.

We hammered out her care regime while I was lying in bed. She's another one that knows not to treat me like glass. Her conversations with me are hardly maudlin-Jo is not of the self-pitying kind, or even the deeply introspective kind, that's not in her nature. They were friendly and businesslike and when the business was done, we'd move on to other topics, like work and
friends and family.

Where does she get her courage?

Was she just born with it?

And Martha? Is there a gene in there? Or was it being brought up by a weapons instructor and then being married to a man with dangerous, unpredictable assignments? Is it that she sees death and dying every day, and maintains her humanity in the face of it? And her hope?

These ladies put me to shame, and rightfully so.

My kids are happy to see me, and really, I'm thrilled that they're there. Our apartment is clean and decorated with balloons and a banner that Langly designed, filled with goofy cartoons, that simply says, 'About Fucking Time!'

This gives me some reassurance that I'll be treated with the normal jibes and torments I've grown so accustomed to.

And miss so very much.

I sit in my chair-oh, it feels as if it's been forever since I sat in the Frohike chair!-and the kids talk to me, asking me about how I'm feeling, but then moving on to their own concerns about school and work.

I get the impression there is something Michael wants to tell me...I don't know why, but I do.

I've probably just been locked up too long.

While the kids tell me all about their lives-and I'm grateful for this-Martha prepares lunch for us. I'm supposed to be on some restricted diet, and this makes me very unhappy.

Until I smell what comes forth from the kitchen.

It's ratatouille, all fresh vegetables and spices, with a lovely whole-wheat sourdough, and all different melons mixed together. Gelati for dessert-I haven't had gelati for so long, and I look at Martha quizzically.

She smiles. "It's approved."

If this is an approved meal, then I can deal with this.

It's delicious. And I could almost swear...

It was cooked with love.

But I'm probably imagining it.
 

I'm watching everyone at lunch-the food is more delicious than I could have imagined, but eating is an effort right now.

I really must have been sick. I don't recall that eating was ever an effort for me.

The kids have lapsed into silliness-I'm always astonished at how quickly Michael and Leslie regress. Michael's flinging bits of bread at Leslie, and she's responding by stuffing melons into his water glass.

Wonderful impression my children make.

"You two, enough!" I bark at them. I notice that I'm lacking in energy to be very threatening-and they both look at me, and smirk.

Christ.

"Leslie. Michael. Stop!" I try to increase the volume and force here. Not working.

They continue with their poor manners and horseplay, and they're really irritating the hell out of me.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Finally. They both look at me with some surprise, look at each other, and resume eating like civilized human beings.

But they do stick their tongues out at me.

I'm getting too old for this shit.
 

Jo leaves shortly after lunch-going into chemo, she wants to make certain she has as little unfinished business as possible, as she knows that for the next six weeks or so, she's likely to be close to useless.

Martha and I both hug her lightly and tell her to call us if she needs anything.

I'm worried for her.

But worrying requires energy, and mine is extremely limited right now. I'm definitely ready for a nap.

I tell Leslie, reiterating my instructions from yesterday, that she is to get back on the highway and head for Rutgers to finish her work. She wants to come next weekend.

I want to see her-but I tell her to hold off and see how things are coming. I inform her she must make progress on her dissertation this week.

She's all ready to argue, saying that I can't mandate that-but then Martha looks over at her, with a schoolmarmish look-and Leslie is immediately cowed.

I'd like to know how she does that.

Reluctantly, she grabs her backpack and heads out-but she does kiss me goodbye, and gives me a tentative hug.

It feels so good not to have my daughter hate me.

I just hope she'll feel the same way when I've recovered.
 

Michael and Kelly stay with us for a time. They mostly converse with Martha-right now, speech is a real effort. It's taking everything I have not to snooze in the chair.

It wouldn't be the first time I've fallen asleep in the chair-I do it on a regular basis, in fact-but I don't need the comments-or the pity.

Watching Michael and Kelly, they seem...

I don't know.

He's looking at her in a way that can only be described as both fiercely possessive and ecstatically happy-and she's eyeing him the same way.

This frightens me. Both in its intensity and its meaning.

Oh God. Quit fooling yourself, Frohike. They really are in love.

It's not young lust anymore. I'd like to tell myself that that's all it is...but it's not.

And I should know.

I eye Martha the same way.

As soon as I'm feeling better, I think I need to have a talk with my son.
 

Michael and Kelly have to study.

Thank God.

I have to admit that Kelly is hard for me to warm up to at times, but I will say one thing for her: she's had a positive influence on my son's academic progress.

Now if she can just get him to pick out a major, we'll be in good shape.

I'm so exhausted, my eyelids are falling and I feel myself fading out...

But my son does give me a hug, and he's not ashamed of it. This is a real hug, heartfelt, and open.

He's smiling when he leaves.

I wonder what that boy is up to.

Martha comes over quietly to my chair. "Mel. Let's get you in bed."

How about let's get us both in bed?

Not that I could do anything today. But just to feel her presence there...

That would be extremely therapeutic.
 

MARTHA:

He's exhausted, as expected.

And as much as it irritates him-and I know it does-he's going to have to live with it for a while. Probably quite a while. He'll need time to get his strength back.

I lead him to the bedroom and begin to help him undress.

I've helped hundreds of patients undress. It's not a titillating experience...

Until now.

I'm trying so hard to see him as a patient, but I can't help but view him as a man.

In spite of the scarring, he is a lovely man. Small, compact, sturdily built. This is evident even amidst the weight loss.

I need to get some more flesh back on him. I've been checking out recipes, thinking of things that will tempt him to eat more. Eating is hard for heart patients, and ulcer patients. I'm going to have to be creative in this regard.

Fortunately, I've been watching Emeril and Justin Powers. And gotten some good suggestions. And my dad e-mailed me some of his creations that fall into the cholesterol-lowering camp. (Read: Not Southern cooking). Dad of course wanted to know why I needed these-he knows I'm crazy for ribs and a good steak and Mexican food. I simply said it was time to try something
different.

Somehow, I don't think he believed me, but he obliged me, anyway.

"Do you need some pain medication?" Among the numerous prescriptions he was sent home with-one of my tasks this afternoon is to arrange and schedule his meds-was Vicodin.

"I...don't think so." He's wincing a little.

"Are you all right?" I ask softly.

I'm having to do everything but straitjacket myself to keep from wrapping my arms around his small but very masculine body and drawing it into me.

The son says he has feelings for me.

I'd so much like to believe this is true. But I can't say that I completely trust Michael. I like him better than when I met him, and his confiding in me was a sweet gesture, but trust him?

I think I need to watch him in action a little more.

"I'm all right," he says, a bit weakly, smiling lopsidely.

God, I love that smile...I want to take that smile and plant my lips right on it. Draw his breath into mine.

I help him into the blue bunny pajamas. Michael says they're his favorite.

I think Mel has a very, very soft side that he's reluctant to let people see.

I'm lucky in that I've had a glimpse. I've watched him with his children. And they're treated with love and tenderness in spades...except when he's shouting at them, which is frequent.

Still, it's not the yelling of one who has trouble with anger control. It's one who is deeply concerned about the welfare and social viability of his children. It's a way of forcing them to sit up and fly right.

And these kids need it, in spades.

I help him into bed...he's stiff, but still insists on no pain meds.

I want him so very much. I want to just lie down next to him, hold him close, whisper nonsense syllables to him and let him know that all will be fine.

Instead, I sit down at his side as he lies down, closing his eyes wearily.

He doesn't look at me, but to my surprise, and delight, he gropes blindly...for what seems to be my hand.

I extend it to him on the off chance that that is what he needs...and he takes it in his. Not letting go. At first the grip is tentative, but it holds fast, and soon, I think he's giving it a squeeze.

I squeeze back to see if I'm deluding myself.

And I get back a firm squeeze this time.

He falls asleep...but for many hours, I just stay.

His hand in mine. Mine in his.

I don't want to let go.

END OF PART 50