love, sally :)
 

LUX IN TENEBRIS
Part 1
 

"Marcet sino adversario virtus; tunc apparet quanta sit quantumque polleat, cum qui possit patientia ostendit." (Without an adversary, prowess shrivels. We see how great and efficient it really is only when it shows by endurance what it is capable of).

Seneca, 'De Providentia,' II, 4
 

FROHIKE:

October 19, 2001
 

Oh God.

Waking up was my first mistake.

Trying to move my leg out of the bed so that I could get to the bathroom was my second.

This is worse than when I woke up after surgery. At least after surgery, my IV drip was chock-full of lovely opiates that, while not completely numbing
the pain, at least kept my mind from being fully cognizant of it.

"Martha." I try to call her name.

I discover that I'd been so overwhelmed by the pain in my leg that I hadn't even noticed how sore my throat is-until now.

She's awake and alive, of course. I can hear her in the kitchen, talking with Michael and Kelly (who I'm sure spent the night in Michael's bed. Well, I asked for it when I kicked him out of the house for Martha's birthday. I don't like it, but I'm not sure how I can stop it now).

I can't move. I will die in this bed. Alone.

I wait.

Nobody comes in.

Finally, I cough-and when I do, I feel as if my head is going to explode.

Yes, waking up was a serious mistake. The more alert I become, the more conscious I am of how many places hurt. Now it's my head. I can feel a definite cold coming on.

I will die in this bed. Martha will hold me prisoner here until I am well. Which, at the rate things are going, might be never.

In the meantime, I still have to get to the bathroom.

"Hey Dad. You hungry? Martha made pancakes." My son sticks his head in the door.

"No," I try to respond, and it comes out as a pathetic croak.

He opens the door further. "You okay, Dad?"

"No, I am not. I have a headache, a sore throat, and if someone offered to amputate my leg right now, I just might take them up on it."

"Oh man, you're sick, shit! Martha!"

Michael, couldn't you just cut the old man a little slack and help me get out of bed?

No, he's got to get the whole damn place in an uproar.

Little brat. I'd strangle him if I could get my sorry old ass out of bed.

Martha comes in, not running, not frantic. Well, she's a critical care nurse-this is strictly small potatoes for her. On her heels are Michael and Kelly, which I can see even without my glasses.

Goddammit, I get the sniffles and all dignity and respect fly out the window.

"You two. Out." I flick my thumb at the two kids.

"Hey, just making sure you're okay!" Michael sounds vaguely defensive.

"Are you all right Mr.-I mean-"

"Kelly, just call me Mel, that will do." I mean it to sound authoritative, but mostly, it just sounds...pathetic.

Martha turns to them. "Go eat some pancakes while they're hot. I'll be with you in a minute."

"Close the door!" I'm trying to yell to them, but I can't.

She comes and sits beside me on the bed-which causes a fresh spasm of pain to course through my aged body. She runs her cool wrists against my face.

"You've got a fever," she announces.

"Not that much of one."

"I'll be the judge of that. Let me see your leg."

"I would but I can't move it."

"All right." She pulls back the blankets and begins to unlatch the blue bunny pajamas.

"Did the kids close the door?"

"No, they didn't."

"Well, close it!"

"Mel, you might be able to get away with talking to your son that way, but don't try it on me." Her voice is firm. I think right now she's in nursing mode as opposed to lover mode.

At least she closes the door.

Normally, I enjoy this. Her removing my jammies from me.

Not today. This hurts. Like hell, I may add.

She examines the scar where I had a vein stripped for the bypass. Of my three scars, this is the most painful one, especially today.

"Not looking good," she announces in her best clinical voice. "I don't think it's infected, but it's definitely swollen. You're going to need to keep ice on it and keep it elevated." She slips her pillow under my leg, which causes me to recoil in pain.

"Martha, I really need to get to the bathroom."

"All right. Here. Take my arm."

I grasp her outstretched arm, much as I did last night to dance at Byers's wedding. That was a lot nicer than trying to do this.

She wraps her arm around my waist, but I've forgotten that she unhooked my jammies, and they promptly slide down.

"Martha, I have kids out there," I reproach her. Sometimes, being a nurse, she has no sense of people's need for privacy about their own bodies.

"Relax, here." She makes me nominally decent again. Wrapping her arm around my waist, not unlike last night, but with a far less romantic purpose in mind.

Oh, why can't I be young and stupid like my son, instead of old and stupid like myself?

"Keep your weight off the sore leg," she warns. "Lean into me."

I can follow that particular advice, without difficulty.

"Do you want some help?" She asks me, indicating that she'll come in with me if I need her to.

"I think I can take it from here." Really. I have been doing this since the age of two.

I don't like it when I'm so grouchy with her, but right now, I can't help it.

Yesterday, I felt young, and happy, and loved, and playful.

Today, I just feel...

Old.
 

Actually, even though I have been performing such functions since the age of two, trying to do it when you're feeling dizzy and half-crippled is quite a different animal.

I'm grateful she waited near the door.

I should thank her, but I'm such a nasty bastard when I'm sick.

"Back to bed," she tells me, hooking her arm around me like before.

As if there was anywhere else I could be right now.

She lays me on my back, situating pillows under my head and leg so that I'm at least marginally comfortable.

"I think Michael has some NyQuil," I say to her.

"NyQuil's off-limits, Mel. Sorry."

"Why?"

"Combines badly with some of your heart medicine."

"Don't we have anything? I don't feel like being laid up for days on end."

She looks at me, a worried frown crossing her lovely features.

"I'm afraid that's where you'll be for a few days at least, dear heart."

"Martha, I have work to do. Luanne Russell has a huge job for us-"

"Which will wait."

"It's important."

"And so are you. Which is why you need to be resting right now."

"Can you have Michael bring me my laptop?"

She thinks for a moment, or pretends to. "Absolutely, positively-not. Not today."

"At least let me answer my e-mail."

"Mel, you have one job today. That's to rest and get well. And don't argue with me." She tucks me under the covers. "Now sleep, dear heart. Please."

I have so much to do...people are counting on me...

I fade into slumber.
 

ALLY:

I'm not too badly hung over, considering that last night was Byers's and Juliet's wedding. I'm mostly just tired as opposed to headachy and barfish.

Unlike someone else we know.

It's nearly noon, and he hasn't stirred, which is fine. He needs the rest.

Patrick comes up to me, arm full of race cars and track. "When's Daddy gonna get up?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, sweetie."

"But he says he's not sick anymore!"

"I don't think he's feeling so hot today."

"But I wanna play!"

"Patrick, if you want to try and wake him up, be my guest. I don't like living that dangerously."

Ah, youth. No comprehension of mortality.

I miss that.
 

LANGLY:

How many Sam's did I have last night? I lost count. Wonder if Ally knows.

Not that knowing would make me feel better. I am like so fucking hung over it's not funny.

Wonder what time it is. So far Ally's been righteous and hasn't tried to wake me up.

Works for me. I pull the covers back up to my nose and snuggle in. Maybe Ally'll come in later and cuddle up with me.

Door opens, not like the way Ally does, she tries not to disturb me, usually
.

Nope, this is little-guy door opening, complete with...

JUMPING RIGHT ON THE BED!!!

Jesus fuck, can't he tell I'm asleep?

"Daddy, you 'wake?"

"No."

"But Mommy says if you say no, then you not really 'sleep 'cause you can talk, if you really 'sleep then you don't say anything!"

Couldn't my darling nephew have been a little bit more of a dullard?

And couldn't my wife pass on a little less information?

"Trust me, I'm asleep," I tell him, burying my head under the blanket.

"No, you not!" He pulls back the covers and plops himself on top of me-ouch!

I think that kid's heavier than he used to be. Been growing like crazy all summer.

"You're right, Patrick. I'm not asleep. I'm dead."

Oops. Wrong thing to say.

He bursts out crying. "No, no, no! You not, you not!"

I keep forgetting this kid's only four and has traumas in his repertoire. Shit. Ally's gonna be mad now, now I got this wicked hangover and a crying kid.

Shit.

"C'mere, dude, I'm only joking, really. C'mere."

He doesn't calm down so easy sometimes. This is one of those times.

Ally comes bursting in. "What the hell's going on in here?"

I've sat up by now, and I've got a sniveling, shaking little dude on my lap. "He's okay."

"He doesn't look okay."

"He'll be fine. I think I just sort of pissed him off."

"Patrick, do you want to come with me?" Ally asks him. Good call. Go with Mommy, kid.

"No! Don't wanna!"

"Yeah, but Mommy's not a zombie. She can actually play."

"No! Want you to!"

Oh man, I got a wicked headache, my stomach didn't feel too good to start with and after Patrick got all over it, it's like total agony and I'm tired and I just wanna go back to bed...

Ally looks at me, she's like, yeah, I'm sympathetic, but...

She shrugs. "You wanted kids, babe."

I did?

Who was that guy who said, be careful what you wish for, you'll surely get it?

He had no idea.
 

MARTHA:

Kelly is getting ready to leave; she says she has a lot of homework to complete, and she doesn't have her books with her. Michael takes her back to the Langlys, where he's left his car, anyway and has to retrieve it. He says he's coming back, which I believe since he doesn't take his backpack with him.

I clean up after the breakfast dishes and straighten up the apartment. Mel and Michael are lovely men, but they are not neat. The term 'bachelor housekeeping,' an oxymoron if there ever was one, immediately comes to mind.

The big problem is that neither one ever puts anything away. Mel puts away videos and albums, but everything else is fair game. Michael doesn't even go that far-and this has made for many an argument between the two.

Bachelor living. A concept I've never tried.

Granted, I'm widowed now, and I still have my house in Baltimore, which has been put on the market. No nibbles so far-the housing market is atrocious right now. Nonetheless, I have secured an apartment in DC, a tiny studio in DuPont Circle, which is what anything less than Bill Gates's bank account will get you in DuPont Circle.

I have mixed feelings about this. I was somewhat expecting Mel to ask me to move in-and I was both disappointed and immensely relieved when he did not. We're not ready for that yet. I was disappointed in that I would have liked to have been asked, but relieved in that I still have moments of doubt.

I adore this man. He is lovely, kind, gentle, and for the love of God, how much more romance could a girl stand? He is tender and protective, and in bed, a skillful and considerate lover.

He also has two adult children, one of whom is still residing here, and a bevy of serious health problems. He does fine at taking care of his child in residence. As for taking care of himself, that's quite another matter. Meds go untaken, breakfasts and walks skipped, doctors' appointments cancelled. He's been very much back at work at a time when he is supposed to be resting much of the time.

I've nursed one husband into his grave, and I have no desire to do it again.

I've tried to appeal to Mel on the basis of what happens to him, happens to me. This message has not sunk in.

He is a terribly stubborn man, and trying to make him listen is one step beyond impossible.

But he's got to.

Because I've spent enough of my life doing everything for myself. Yes, I've been married since the age of 18. But I was married to a man in Special Forces, and spent more than my share of time alone, not knowing where he was or what he was doing, not knowing when he'd return-provided he did return, taking care of everything on the homefront, for both of us. I accepted that as the life I'd chosen.

But I hadn't counted on Daniel becoming terminally ill, and the very country he'd served turning its back on him. At the point in my life where we were ready to become a couple on a full-time basis, is when once again I was doing more than ever for the both of us.

It's tough and lonely and stressful, and I get exhausted just thinking about what I went through.

I can't do it again. I need Mel to be there. I need to share the mechanics of daily life with him. I need his physical and emotional support.

I need his love, and last time I checked, dead men weren't able to offer that.

And if he doesn't start taking his meds, watching what he eats, keeping appointments, and balancing the demands of work and family and friends, he's not going to make it to his 60th birthday. Two heart attacks before the age of 60 are a serious thing. And he's got an ulcer on top of it.

And now he's in bed with a cold. It sounds trivial after what he's been through lately, but what he's been through lately is exactly why it's not trivial.

I check on him. He's resting, I think somewhat comfortably.   The longer he sleeps today, the better.

And I hope that his leg is simply swollen, not infected. A postsurgical infection in the leg is a bitch. It would probably mean more hospitalization, and I have an idea how well he'd tolerate that.

He hates hospitals. I don't blame him; I hate them myself these days. Why can't he just figure out that if he looks after himself, he'll be able to better stay out of them?

"Hey Martha, how's Dad?" I've been so lost in my own thoughts that I didn't even hear Michael come back.

I can see that Michael is trying to be cool, but Michael has a face that does not hide what he's thinking very well. He's not exactly a stud at the poker table for this reason, but it is one of the things I find oddly endearing about this young man.

You can see the worry etching itself into his young skin. I wish Mel would realize what his behavior is doing to his son.

"For the moment, sleeping. I'd like to keep him that way for a while." Actually, what I'd rather do is take a walk in the park on this beautiful, crisp October Sunday, but that's not what will be today.

"Cool. You mind if I study out here in the kitchen? I'm gonna need a lot of caffeine to keep going."

"Want me to put some coffee on now?"

"You don't mind, that'd be awesome."

With Mel asleep, we can have the real thing. I pour some Jamaica Blue Mountain fresh-ground into the filter-JBM is a true indulgence these days. But worth it.

Coffee made, I prepare to take my mug into the living room and leave Michael to his homework.

"No, sit down, why don't you?" He asks, motioning me with his hands.

"If you need to study, I don't want to interrupt." I know how important it is to study, believe me. Nursing school was not easy, and I worked my butt off.

"Nah, wanted to talk to you anyway."

Me? "About what, dear?"

"Um...I think I'm gonna declare a major."

"That's great!" Mel will be delighted, as am I.

"Yeah, I'm gonna declare premed."

Maybe not so delighted...

"Michael, I think it's wonderful that you've chosen. I'm so pleased."

He looks at me with the clear green eyes that are his father's lovely legacy to him. "I feel a but coming on here."

"Well, you're right."

"You don't think I can do it."

"No, Michael, I think you'd do very well. I just...medicine is hard, dear."

"Well, yeah, it's a lot of school."

"It's a lot of emotional drain. That's the part they never tell you about."

He blinks at me, not quite comprehending. "How so?"

How do I phrase this to him without discouraging him? I want him to do this. I'm proud of him, more than I even should be for a child that's not even mine.

I also want him to have his eyes wide open.

"Michael, the first thing they'll tell you in medical school is, patients die."

He continues to look at me.

"Your patients die."

That hits a little harder.

And right now, it's slamming me in the guts like a boulder at a hundred miles an hour.

Not only is that man in the bedroom my lover, he's my patient.

Patients die.

Please God, not this one.

END OF PART 1