Hot Mess (20 page)

"Daddy!" Amanda was breathless with excitement, and Sophia's eyes were wide, reminding him of her mother.

"Hang on just a minute." Pulling the phone from his ear, he turned to the girls. "What?"

"Can we put make-up on you?"

"Um…" Sam groaned inwardly. What else did he expect? They were ten. "Give me just a minute, okay?" The girls squealed as they ran out of the room. He put the phone back to his ear. "Sorry about that."

There was laughter in her voice. "Will you send me a picture when they're finished?"

"Um…no."

"Pity, that would give me sweet dreams, I'm sure."

The image of Rachel in her bed looking at pictures of him on her phone erased all else, and he felt an irresistible pull towards her once again. "I could send other pictures to help you go to sleep." His voice was husky, and he couldn't deny the affect this woman had on him.

"I'd better let you get back to your duties. You're in for a long night, I’m thinking."

"Yeah, me too. Um, I still wanted to tell you something, Rachel."

She sighed into the phone. "Not now, Sam. We can talk later, okay?"

Feeling a sudden sense of urgency, he continued, "But it's about you."

"Then I definitely don't want to talk about it right now. I'm going to watch some grown-up TV, maybe read a book, enjoy my evening. Whatever it is doesn't sound good, by the tone of your voice, and I'm not in the mood for bad news."

He certainly didn't want to do anything to make her mood poor, but he felt like she should know. "There's a reporter sniffing around. She wants to do a story about you," he blurted, regretting the way it came out.

"I have to go, Sam." He could hear tears in her voice, and he felt them too. Guilt tore at his gut. Again.

"I'm really sorry, Rachel."

She didn't say anything, she just hung up the phone.

From Remainingrachel.com

Living with and managing HIV/AIDS, just like any disease, can take a toll on one's mental health. In addition, the stigma associated with HIV can be extremely hard on a person's well being. If you are suffering from depression, it is important to find a therapist who is not only familiar with everything you're going through, but the disease itself. The most important aspect, however, is your comfort level with the therapist. Some people prefer a female therapist, a gay therapist, or a therapist of the same ethnicity. Some prefer older or younger therapists. It doesn't matter what your reasoning is behind your comfort level; if you can't talk to your therapist, you NEED A NEW ONE.

Therapy is an integral part of the treatment process. You can take all the prescribed drugs you want, but if you are sinking into a pit of despair, they won't be as effective. I am a strong advocate of support groups, and they can be effective, both personal support groups as well as public support groups. But everybody needs someone to talk to sometimes, and a therapist is actually trained to do that. I personally think everyone affected by this disease needs a personal counselor, in addition to a support group to talk to. Online groups are okay, like this one, but you need someplace to go to talk about your problems, face-to-face with another person who can help.

With all that said, I need to take my own advice. It's hard to talk to somebody about what you feel are your inadequacies. I have a therapist, but I haven't talked to her in almost a year, and it shows in my daily life. This mountain lion of depression has sunk her claws into my back, and I've been trying to wrestle her off by myself. I'm getting tired, and I need help.

We all do, sometimes.

Rachel had been fighting her depression for months. So she didn't recognize the fatigue at first for what it was. Not until the muscle aches and fever set in. When she started feeling chilled, Rachel sent Sophia across the street to Sam's and decided to take a hot bath.

Teeth chattering ferociously, Rachel drew the hottest bath she could stand, and locked the bathroom door, not wanting the girls to come in. As she sank her weak body into the tub, a sense of soothing calm came over her. Slowly, the chills were overtaken by an all encompassing warmth that flowed through her veins, sinking her into a languorous stupor. She sank her body into the steaming water, up to her chin, and closed her eyes, not wanting to ever leave the embryonic state she'd found herself in. As she drifted into unconsciousness, she heard a pounding on her front door, but was too weak to move. She wasn't aware of her own retching

Brenda had practically moved in with Sam for almost a week, as Amanda was at home sick with the flu. Sam had gotten her flu shot, but she came down with a different strain, which was typical. He'd been sitting at work when the nurse initially called to get her from school. Sam couldn't get in touch with Brenda at the time, but Chief had been understanding, and let him go pick her up.

The first day, when Sam came home from work, he'd been really worried about her. Brenda said she'd slept all day, and hadn't eaten anything she'd cooked. After sending Brenda home, Sam managed to get her to eat a little ice cream, before she went back to bed. He hated to leave her to go back to work the next day, but he couldn't take off from the fire station. He was still on probation, and the crew needed him to be there if a call came in. Each team member was integral to the fight.

On his days off that week, he nursed his daughter, unable to stop himself from thinking of his mother. He bathed Amanda's face with cool washcloths, helped her to the restroom when she was too weak to do it herself, and made sure she ate something. The diner around the corner made good soup, and Sam quickly came to be on a first name basis with them. Throughout it all, he wished his mother was there. Not to help with Amanda, he was enjoying that, because he knew she would get better. He wished his mother had known Amanda, had been alive to meet her grand daughter, teach her things, create memories that every child should have of their grandma.

It took almost a week, but eventually, Amanda got better. By the end of the week, she was back up and begging to go across the street. Sam wouldn't let her, afraid of getting Sophia or Rachel sick. He remembered that she said her viral loads were low, and his online research told him that she wasn't at too big of a risk for infection, but he didn't know about her white blood cells, which actually fought infection. Without telling his daughter why, he refused to let her go over there, until her fever had been gone for forty-eight hours.

Meanwhile, he just watched Rachel's house.

When Sophia told Sam that her mother was sick, all he could think about was the flu that Amanda had had, and how weak she'd been. He worried about Rachel for all of ten minutes before he decided to go check on her.

Since she didn't answer the door, he tried to open it, but it was locked. Instead of going back to ask Sophia for a key, he let the panic rule his actions, and broke into a window in her living room. After breaking and removing a small pane of glass near the lock, he unlocked the window, and let himself in, yelling as he did.

"Rachel? It's Sam, I'm coming in to check on you. Rachel?"

When she didn't answer, dread deadened his limbs, but he fought it, knowing he had to find her. She wasn't in her bedroom or the kitchen. When he found a door in the hallway that was locked, he pounded on it.

"Rachel! Are you in there?" No answer.

It was a heavy door, indicative of the style of house, built to last, but nothing would get in the way of Sam's enormous frame. He slammed his shoulder into the door, splintering the door frame, and made a mental note to add that to the list of things to fix in her house, that he was busting to get to her.

When he saw her in the bath tub, a mixture of relief and fear poured into his stomach, sending it into a roiling mess.

She was floating in the tub, face partially submerged, vomit on the top of the water. Sam lunged into the room, and pulled the stopper of the drain. Scooping her into his arms, he carried her into her bedroom, gently laying her on the bed. She was unconscious, so he called an ambulance, before grabbing a towel to dry her off and covering her with a robe he found hanging on her door.

She opened her eyes briefly before the emergency service people arrived, giving Sam a glimpse of glazed, feverish eyes. "…Sam…" She flashed a fleeting smile that warmed Sam before succumbing to unconsciousness again.

Sam called Brenda to come watch the girls and followed the ambulance to the hospital. When they arrived, an IV was already hooked up, with a saline solution flowing into her veins, and nurses were covering her body with bags of ice to bring her fever spike down. Sam sat down next to her, as unobtrusively as possible and held her hand, waiting for her to wake up.

Soon a bag of antibiotics was added to the IV drip, and a nurse came in to administer a shot, but Sam was oblivious to it all. He only watched Rachel, as her eyes fluttered behind her lids and her pale face regained color, slowly. He lost track of time as he watched her, lost in his own thoughts.

Sitting there, next to her, watching her frail body as it fought whatever infection had set in, he realized he was scared. He was scared because he hadn't gotten a chance to start over with her, to try again, to tell her how sorry he was for treating her the way he had. And he was afraid for her health. Not really knowing exactly how her health was, he didn't know how far back this infection would set her.

He'd been sitting by her bedside for three hours, when she finally opened her eyes and actually saw him.

"Sam? Why are you here?"

"I found you, in your tub, and called an ambulance. You scared me." He smoothed hair from her forehead, a motion he'd made a hundred times since he'd been there.

"Am I in the hospital?" Realization dawned on her face.

"Yes, honey you are." He didn't want to ever leave her again, and it took all of his willpower to not tell her that. Now was not the time, or the place.

"Where's Sophie?"

"At my house. Brenda is there with the girls. They're fine. You need to rest, hon. Don't worry about anything, I'll take care of it all." He squeezed her hand in a soothing gesture, trying to impart comfort. It appeared to work, because she sighed a long contented sigh, before closing her eyes again.

Before too much longer, a doctor that Sam wasn't familiar with came into the room, and shook Sam's hand.

"I'm Dr. Baine, Rachel's primary care physician. You are?" He seemed like a friendly man, and Sam was relieved to see somebody else here who knew Rachel. Nobody in her family had shown up, and he didn't have any numbers to call. She'd never talked about them.

"I’m Sam, a neighbor. I found her and called the ambulance."

"Good. I'm glad to see somebody else in her court." Sam watched as the doctor examined Rachel, listening to her heartbeat, checking her pupils. "Well, her flu test came back positive. Have you had the flu shot yet?"

"Yeah, my daughter and I both did, but she got sick anyway. I'm afraid that might be where Rachel caught it. Our daughters are friends."

"It's possible. Look, I don't know how much she's told you about herself, but this flu is nasty business. She doesn't seem to be in any danger now, but I'm going to have some blood tests done and keep her here until she's through the worst of it. Will you be able to care for her when I send her home?"

"If I can't, my housekeeper can. Rachel's told me about her…condition, so I'll do everything I can to help her get better."

Dr. Baine nodded, seeming satisfied, before leaving the room. Sam sat back down in the chair by her bed, continuing to watch her for signs of change.

The range of emotions that had flown through him in the last few hours were overwhelming. He was worried about Rachel, and he wondered what that meant. He realized that she had given his life a purpose in the brief period of time that he had known her, before he threw it away because of his own fears. Sam was ready to make things right.

From Remainingrachel.com:

I have blogged about eating healthy, exercising, and taking your prescribed medication as per your doctor's orders. I have told you about the importance of seeking therapy, in the form of support groups and professional help outside of your own little head for depression, because you don't need to face HIV/AIDS alone. But I have not talked to you about listening to your own body.

Communicate with your body. Listen to it. Talk to yourself (not out loud in public places, that might get you some sideways glances). Figure out what's going on with your body at all times. I recently had a dipsy-doodle with my body and ended up in the hospital (again) because I wasn't listening to it.

I know and you know that communication is a two-way street. We can talk to our bodies all we want to, tell it to get healthy, to lose weight, to stop staring at that lady with the unfortunate dye job. But we have to listen as well.