Rip Your Heart Out Page 4

  Like many teenagers who attempt risky things, Rip thought he was invincible. He was a lifelong cop, for goodness sake. And now, after all those years of dodging bullets—literally, on a couple of occasions—he was going to be taken out by those chocolate long johns he'd routinely gobbled down while keeping our streets safe. I was determined not to let that happen.

  As Rip scanned through the channels on the room's television, I sent up a silent prayer. I asked God to help me find an answer to my problem before He, the Lord himself, got so annoyed with my husband that He called him home prematurely just to put an end to Rip's incessant whining and self-destructive behavior. Maybe He could make Rip see the light. I just prayed it wasn't the one at the end of the tunnel leading my bull-headed husband straight to the pearly gates.

  * * *

  At five-thirty that evening, I felt as if my prayers had been answered. The answer arrived in a pretty little package—around five-feet-four, one hundred and twenty pounds, auburn-colored hair, and horn-rimmed glasses—all wrapped up in a set of baby blue scrubs with white bunnies across the front. She had a name tag hanging from a lanyard around her neck that had SYDNEY COMBS, CARDIO NURSE printed on it.

  Oh, boy. A new unsuspecting, undeserving butt for Rip to chew on for a while, I thought. Rip had been grouchy and ill-tempered all day, and his mood had not improved as the hours droned on. He'd snapped rudely at the man who'd wheeled him from ICU to his new room on the third floor, and then almost reduced a young hospital volunteer, or "candy striper", to tears when she'd come into the room to put a pitcher of fresh water on his table. He'd hollered, "What the hell do you mean I can't have coffee?"

  After he'd grumbled to the scrawny woman who brought his evening meal, I turned to Rip. "Okay, Clyde Ripple! I've officially had enough of your repulsive, unappreciative attitude for one day! I'm going home to feed Dolly, and I'm not coming back until tomorrow afternoon. For several days I've been scared senseless that you would die on me. Now I'm starting to entertain the thought of killing you myself."

  Rip looked at me in surprise. He knew when I used his given name, I was so ticked off that I was seeing red. I suppose saying I was seriously thinking about killing him might have been a clue, too. Before he could reply, Nurse Combs walked into the room with a stethoscope around her neck.

  "I won't stay long, Mr. Ripple. Just going to write the night nurse's name on your chalkboard, and then I'll leave you in peace to finish your supper." As she spoke, she picked up a piece of chalk and wrote "Travis" on the board at the foot of Rip's bed. I gritted my teeth, waiting for her patient to respond. I trusted he'd be unpleasant with the nurse, as he'd been with everyone else he'd interacted with the entire day, and I wasn't disappointed.

  "How do they expect all of us heart patients to eat this god-awful garbage?" Rip asked.

  Without batting an eye, Nurse Combs politely replied in a soft, but stern, voice. "They don't expect all of you heart patients to eat it. Just the ones who want to live to see the outside of this hospital again."

  "But..." Rip's mouth hung open. His complaint clearly did not get the response he'd hoped for.

  "Do you enjoy living, sir? If so, you best get used to the fact you're going to have to make some lifestyle changes. You're going to have to take medications, as prescribed, go to your cardio rehab appointments, exercise as scheduled, and eat this low-fat, low-sugar, low-sodium 'god-awful garbage', that's been ordered for you for the specific purpose of helping you restore your health. If you have other plans, please let me know. I'll put a DNR sign on your door and–"

  "DNR?" Rip asked. The look of bewilderment on his face made me want to give Nurse Combs a high-five. "What's that?"

  "It stands for Do Not Resuscitate!"

  "Oh."

  Without raising her voice or altering her pleasant, matter-of-fact tone, Sydney Combs continued by nearly echoing my earlier comments to Rip. "I will inform the nurses, kitchen help, physicians, and all other hospital staff to stay out of this room because you've opted not to make the effort to heal properly in order to survive the cardiac event you recently experienced. That will allow you to die peacefully without all the intrusions caring for you entails. More importantly, it will allow all of the cardiac center staff members who have patients who do want to live and who do appreciate our hard work and efforts, to use their time more wisely."

  Rip was rendered speechless. He glanced at me for support. Instead of offering any, I smiled smugly. Where are those imaginary friends when you need them? I wanted to ask, but bit my tongue and remained silent. I'm fairly certain your story about that dead cop, who's six-feet-under now because he didn't believe rehab was necessary, is not going to impress this nurse much.

  After waiting an adequate length of time for her patient to reply, Nurse Combs asked, "Would you like me to take this tray of god-awful garbage back to the kitchen now?"

  Still at a loss for words, Rip shook his head. His apprehension was blatantly apparent. Finally, he picked up his fork and knife and began to cut into what the kitchen aide had referred to as grilled fish. We'd have to take her word for it, although I've never seen a squiggly, square fish before. It appeared to be way past its prime, whatever "it" was.

  I did feel sorry for the poor guy, who I knew was craving something more palatable to consume. But I wanted him to get better and never have another heart scare like this one that had nearly killed him. I needed him to be around as long as I was. So I was relieved to hear Rip mutter, "I'll eat as much of it as I can choke down."

  "See that you do." The nurse's voice was terser than it'd been earlier. Rip was looking down at his supper in horror, as she added, "And don't upset one of my young candy stripers again. Coffee is a stimulant and off limits to all of our recent open-heart surgery patients. You hear me, Mr. Ripple? There's a pitcher of water on your table. If you're thirsty, I suggest you drink it."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Nurse Combs walked over to Rip's bed and put her hand on top of the bandage on his leg where they'd harvested part of a saphenous vein to use as a means to bypass the clogged area of his blocked arteries. As you can probably tell, I'd learned more about the cardiovascular system and what's involved in bypassing clogged arteries than I'd ever imagined I would—or ever hoped to. Rip winced at the nurse's touch as she poked and prodded the wound area. "Tender?"

  "Yes."

  "That's to be expected. It's a little warm due to the inflammation, but that's normal too. It's a natural part of healing."

  "At least it isn't throbbing like it was yesterday," Rip said. He then picked up his spoon and began to pick at the food on his plate. He was rearranging it more than eating it, which wasn't fooling me, or the nurse. After watching Rip for a few seconds, Nurse Combs confirmed his entree actually was fish.

  "That tuna's not a toy, Rip. Eat it. Don't play with it. I'll be back to check your vitals in a couple of minutes, after I figure out where I left my COW."

  Rip almost choked on his gelatin, as I asked, "You misplaced a cow?"

  "Yes, I can't remember where I last used it. Oh, sorry. Sometimes I forget most patients and their families aren't familiar with the slang we use in the medical field. COW stands for 'computer on wheels'. We have to tow them around to record our patients' vital signs and other important information. For lack of a better word, we call them COWs. However, we just heard a rumor the use of that term may soon be prohibited."

  "Why's that?" I asked. "It's rather clever, if you ask me."

  "Apparently not everyone agrees with you. A grossly obese patient heard a couple of nurses using that term outside her room one day and thought they were making fun of her. Supposedly, she's filed a lawsuit against that hospital. Word is we're going to have to start referring to them as a WOW, or workstation on wheels." Sydney smiled and placed her right hand under the automatic anti-bacterial soap dispenser to the left of the door. "Now finish your supper, Rip. When I return for your vitals, I'll help you get registered for the rehab facility which, incidentally, is
conveniently located one block from this hospital."

  "Swell." I detected sarcasm in Rip's tone and wondered if Nurse Combs had picked up on it, as well.

  She made it clear she had with her next question. She bent her head and stared straight into Rip's eyes over the top of her eyeglasses. "You are planning to participate in the rehab program, aren't you?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Rip sounded as if he was responding to a drill sergeant who'd been on him like ugly on an opossum since the day he'd enlisted.

  The cute and crafty nurse winked at me and walked out the door. But not before she smiled at her grumbling patient and said, "Bon appétit."

  I absolutely adored Nurse Combs.

  Chapter 7

  As promised, when Nurse Combs returned to take his vital signs at nine o'clock that evening, she brought Rip paperwork to sign regarding his registration for the hospital's cardio rehabilitation program. She discussed the program and scheduling, explained what he'd be required to do, and how frequently he'd have to do it. Rip had wisely waited until Sydney left the room to grumble. "Rehab sounds worse than boot camp!"

  "Relax, honey. We will get through it," I said.

  "We?" Rip's sarcastic retort was not appreciated. I'd been trying to offer moral support but had instead encouraged a new round of complaining. "I don't see you on this bed with a zipper down your—"

  "Oh, my! Look at the time! I best be heading back to the campground. Visiting hours are nearly over." I had glanced at the clock at the foot of Rip's bed and cut him off. I'd listened to all of the moaning and groaning I could stand for one day. I collected my purse and walked out of his room before he could utter another word.

  * * *

  I felt a twinge of guilt later on while I enjoyed a toasted cheese sandwich and cup of minestrone soup for supper, knowing this combo was one of Rip's favorite meals. I washed my dishes, fed Dolly, paid a couple of bills, and laid down for some much-needed rest at eleven-fifteen.

  As I was drifting off to sleep, the phone rang. As always, being awakened by a phone call during the night scared the devil out of me. I sat straight up in bed like I'd been yanked upward by a block and tackle pulley.

  Who'd call at this time of night unless they had bad news to report? I'd always think as I reached for the phone on my nightstand. When someone you love is in the hospital, an unexpected nighttime phone call is even more alarming.

  "Hello," I answered breathlessly.

  "Relax, honey," Rip said. He'd recognized the fear in my voice. "It's just me."

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yes, of course. I just wanted to tell you goodnight and that I loved you."

  "I'm kind of sweet on you too, handsome. I'm sorry I had to leave so abruptly this evening. I'd just remembered I hadn't fed the cat."

  "No problem, dear. I would've left too if I were you. Speaking of 'her majesty', how's Dolly doing? Does she miss me?"

  "Absolutely! She asks about you all the time."

  "Really?" Rip asked with a chuckle. It was nice to hear him in good spirits for the first time in days.

  "Trust me. She's feeling totally mistreated without you here," I teased. With me, Dolly was a typical feline: aloof, independent, and unaffectionate. But when Rip was around, she turned into a "cling-on" that stuck to him like a postage stamp. Rip called her his Star Trek kitty. She'd be curled up on his lap, on the windowpane behind his head, or stretched out on his chest while he was lounging on the sofa. She always had at least one paw touching some part of his body. Rip claimed it was her way of demonstrating love. I thought she was demonstrating possessiveness.

  Hearing a flash of the old Rip I knew and loved was refreshing. I was caught off-guard when next he issued a heart-felt apology.

  "I'm sorry about the cranky mood I've been in lately. It's not your fault I had to have my leg nearly sliced in two and my ribcage split open like an English walnut. Yet you've been more than patient with me. I don't know what I'd do without you, honey." I could hear the emotion in Rip's voice and I felt the sincerity in his words. If I wasn't so dog-tired, I'd have thrown some clothes on and drove back to the hospital to hug him and kiss him goodnight, something I'd neglected to do before leaving the hospital earlier that evening.

  "I couldn't survive without you, either, Rip. So please, for my sake, pay heed to what the medical professionals advise you to do."

  "Okay. It's the least I can do." Rip was acting so compliant, I had to wonder if Nurse Combs had been back in his room, putting the fear of God into him, following my hasty departure from the hospital a couple of hours earlier. He made it apparent she had with his next words. "I don't want them to wash their hands of me for being negligent about my own health."

  "No, you don't. What else did Nurse Combs say to you?"

  "How did you know she–"

  "Woman's intuition." I had to laugh that he couldn't see how I instinctively knew she'd been reading him the riot act. "So, what'd she say?"

  "Rehab three days per week, for an hour each session the first week, and increasing with time. Regular checkups and lab work, too, of course, and a healthy eating regimen. Basically, she said I'd have all of the enjoyment sucked out of my life until I reached the point I was praying for another heart attack – a fatal one, to be more exact."

  "Oh, good grief. It won't be all that bad. Can you at least try to look at the bright side of things for once? You have a lot to be thankful for, you know."

  "How's that?" Rip asked. There was a good measure of bitterness in his tone. His bubbly mood was sinking faster than an untied anchor. He'd never been the glass half-empty type before his health had taken this turn for the worse. There was no reason for me to tolerate that type of attitude now, either.

  "You're alive, for starters. You very easily could've been on the wrong side of the grass right now."

  "Well, I guess you have a point there," Rip consented. "And, there's another bright spot I hadn't thought of until just now. Cindy also told me, because of the anti-blood clotting medication they've put me on, I'm supposed to limit my intake of foods that are high in Vitamin K, like spinach, Brussels sprouts and kale. She said that vitamin K thickens the blood and can cause dangerous clotting."

  "The nurse's name is Sydney, not Cindy. And how is having to limit your intake of foods high in Vitamin K a bright spot?"

  "Now I won't have to keep coming up with excuses to avoid salad bars." Rip spoke with obvious amusement in his voice. I was happy to see his mood brightening again and his sense of humor returning, and told him so.

  "I suppose the only bad thing is," he continued, "the commute three times a week is going to put a lot of miles on the truck, and get tiresome."

  "Yes, but it's a small price to pay to get you back on your feet. We'll figure out something. Perhaps we can find a closer campground to stay in." I wasn't going to sweat the small stuff at this point. Rip's full recovery was all I was concerned with. "Good night for now, honey. I love you, and I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Love you more. Give Dolly a hug for me."

  "And get my nose scratched up in return? No, thanks. But I will give her your love. And an extra treat, to her from daddy."

  I could hear Rip laughing as he disconnected the call. Our fifty-year old daughter, Regina, thought our habit of treating our beloved cat like we'd conceived her ourselves was laughable.

  Despite the nightmare I'd had the previous night, it didn't take me long to fall into a deep slumber, most likely with a smile still planted on my face.

  Just before I dozed off, a funny thought crossed my mind. Instead of calling the home-on-wheels we towed around the country the Chartreuse Caboose, we could simply call it our HOW.

  * * *

  While I was getting around the next morning preparing for the long commute to the hospital, I thought about the upcoming drive back and forth to Rip's rehab appointments. I put my Googling skills to work, only to discover there was no good alternative RV park to relocate to. Seattle is not exactly riddled with designated RV parking area
s, I discovered.

  Once again, the answer to our quandary came in the form of Nurse Sydney Combs. When she stopped to visit Rip on her morning rounds, I chatted with her about the rehab facility and asked her if she knew of any nearby RV parks I might have missed on the Internet. She didn't, but she had an idea that might be ideal for us.

  "I don't know if this would interest you or not, but I have a dilemma myself that could result in a win-win situation for both of us."

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "I'm running behind at the moment, but I'll stop by after my morning rounds to discuss it with you two. All right?"

  "Of course!" My attention had been instantly piqued, and I was anxious to hear more. Patience had never been one of my virtues, but I didn't want to appear over-anxious in case it wasn't something we felt would work for us. "Whenever it's convenient for you is fine, dear."

  I'd fill the time watching two families competing on Family Feud while Rip tried to keep from gagging as he suffered through his breakfast. And, really, don't you agree with him that something as revolting as powdered eggs should be outlawed?

  Chapter 8

  "My great-aunt, Mabel Trumbo, had open-heart surgery here, too. Doctor Murillo performed a double bypass on her about a month ago. Unfortunately, she passed about ten days later from complications," Nurse Combs stated matter-of-factly. "That was two weeks ago tomorrow. She was seventy-five when she died."

  "Oh, no!" I exclaimed. "Seventy-five is very young. Especially now that I'm closing in on that age myself. I'm so sorry for your loss, Nurse Combs."

  What part of this win-win situation didn't I understand? I wondered. Her aunt, who was only six years older than Rip, had one less artery bypassed than he had, yet hadn't survived. What did that say about Rip's chances for a complete recovery? I could physically feel my anxiety level ratchet up a notch or two.