Back To Health

Lesson 7 : If a Patient Should Be in Danger, Do What's Necessary. Not Polite.

The next couple of weeks went on like a dream except for the burning suspicion of foul play between Michael and Murray. Michael gave me the name, "Lynnie" and I can honestly say that we became friends. Each evening before he would fall asleep he'd tell me an illustrious story from his past. From the Jackson 5 days to baby tales of his children. Those were my favorite. Michael loved his children dearly and always spoke of then smiling ear to ear. Then it would fade,

"God I miss them to the moon and back.." He'd always say. Sometimes Michael would fall asleep mid story. I could say it was endearing. His voice would get softer and softer, like a decrescendo into nothing.

I'd always tuck him in tight and sometimes kiss his head, hoping he'd sleep well. But on some days Michael would be exhausted. He'd sleep the majority of the day. We wouldn't walk, or make tea. He wouldn't tell me a story. He'd lie in bed, tossing and turning.

One day Michael was napping and out of nowhere, a trickle of blood came from him nose and my eyes became the size of dinner plates.

"Lynn..what's happening.." He asked me scared and I held a tissue to his face hunching him over. He'd told me that Murray hadn't been giving him the blood pressure medication as he needed, which made the nose bleed make sense. Murray was up to something and seeing Michael bleed that day sealed the deal, that something had to be done. I cleaned him up afterwards, removing the blotted sheets from his bed as he took a shower. 

Tucking the new bed sheet under the mattress I hear a rattle from under the bed, a glass like clank. Under the bed were almost ten bottles of empty probofol. All of them empty or having just one forth of substance left. All having puncture holes in the top, some of the dates going back to almost a week ago.

Why is there so many for just a week?

That made no fucking sense. Those bottles all hold at least three to five ounces of substance there's no way Michael needed that much. I still hear the shower running and I go over to the bedside that had Michaels IV equipment. I inspected the bag and the tube. 

According to the rings on the bag, Murray had been putting a proper amount inside for the drip to start. I ran my fingers down the side of the tube nodding until I feel a bump. A ridge in the smooth surface. I inspected it to find the imperfection glistening. I took my nail and scratched it. The bump peeled off like a scab and the saline from inside the drip leaked out onto the floor.

"What in the fuck..." I asked very soft. I go into the nightstand drawer and find a syringe next to a bottle of super glue. It all hit me at once.

"That unimaginable bastard...." He's been upping the doses. Telling Michael he's being weened but really he's damn near over dosing. He's injecting another dose of probofol into Michaels IV tube while he's asleep, then coating the puncture hole in super glue so it doesn't leak. He's trying to kill him. That's why there's so many bottles. He's been going through the shit like crazy. 

I hear a loud bang from the Michaels bathroom and gutteral growl it sounded like. I rushed in and found Michael hunched over the toilet, vomiting. He had a towel around his waist and I come over holding his back. I held his hair back and tied it in a bun. He dry heaved and I winced at the sound of pain in his exhales. He put his arm on the side of the sink and it shook strongly. "Lynn.." He asks weakly.

"Michael.. What is it..what caused you to feel nauseous?"

"I just want some water and help me to get back to bed...get me a robe please.." He says spitting and clearing his throat. I go and get his silk robe from the coat hanger in his closet. He tried to get up by holding onto the corner of the sink and pulling up, "No no no no.." I say coming over.