For Better...For Worse

"For Better...For Worse          

Martin Scott, retired policeman, packed up jars of old coins, rings and other trinkets to clear space.  His prized collection came from years of scanning Rockaway Beach with a metal detector.  Relocating the jars to an upstairs linen closet made the room for her medical paraphernalia.  Josie was coming home, and he had to be ready.  Her stroke was severe.  She couldn’t swallow, her speech was hard to understand and her left side lay limp as a newborn babe.  Doctors warned him that she would need around-the-clock help.   

“Your wife can’t eat or drink,” the hospital nurse had told him.  “She must be fed through this tube that goes directly into her stomach.”  Martin watched as the chalky nutritional solution drained into Josie’s stomach from a feeding syringe. 
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes blinking rapidly.

“Josie will be fine with me,” he said.  “We have been together for over forty years, just the two of us.”  He clasped Josie’s good hand and wondered about that bold statement.  What does an old cop know about bathing, dressing and feeding someone like Josie?

They insisted he attend case conferences where they listed Josie’s disabilities
in medical terms too difficult to understand.  Martin listened like a convicted felon
hearing a jury’s verdict, his lined face blank and grey eyes fixed.  The nurses
swished past him, never offering words of encouragement.  He was given her
discharge instructions, prescriptions and referral information.  Josie’s medical
equipment would be delivered before she arrived home.   

Martin’s fingers ran along the top of the hospital bed side-rail, which was set up in the center of their small living room.  Cases of liquid nutritional feedings were stacked near the foot of the bed.  On the opposite side of the room were two reclining chairs, his brown leather, hers teal brocade upholstered.  Between the chairs was a small end table with their favorite cribbage board poised as if waiting for players. 

Martin walked to the living room bay window and gazed at the empty street. 
A gust of wind swirled the last of autumn leaves lying on the cracked sidewalk.  His
wire-rimmed glasses were smudged.  He cleaned them using the bottom of his red
plaid flannel shirt. 

A white van, with Care Transport in bold lettering, rounded the corner and
parked at the curb.  Two burly male attendants stepped out and opened the rear of
the vehicle.  Martin watched as they lifted Josie on a gurney and rolled her toward
the front door.  Her grey hair splayed on the pillow, blue eyes wide, blinking
nervously.  He winced as he looked at Josie’s pale face and drooping lip. 

“This is Josie’s feeding tool,” Linda said.  She handed Martin a large syringe
that looked like the basting device used for a Thanksgiving turkey.  It felt cold and
foreign in his stubby hands.  Linda Van Meer was the home health nurse assigned to teach Martin the techniques for his wife’s care.  She demonstrated the routine of
pouring the canned liquid nutrition into the syringe.  The liquid slowly funneled into
Josie’s stomach through a red rubber tube. 

“Josie needs a can of Ensure every four hours when she is awake.”

Martin nodded.  He rubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs and surveyed the
feeding equipment laying on top of the bookcase.  So much to remember.  The dull
ache in the back of his neck had returned.  He tried to ignore the pain and
concentrate on Linda’s instructions.  Focus, he thought  Overnight, his comfortable
home had been transformed into a miniature hospital room.  Josie’s liquid
medications were lined up like spices on the pantry shelf. 

Josie’s crooked smile was Martin’s nutrition.  He sensed a warm feeling
inside knowing she was home.  They had met at a neighborhood bar and became
instant soul-mates, marrying just a month later.  Theirs was a good union.  Martin
worked with the police department, assigned to street patrols during his fifty year
career.  Josephine was a librarian at the reference desk. 

“No children?”  Linda was completing routine admission forms.

“No.  Doctors told us Josie couldn’t have children.”

“Family?”

“It’s always been just Josie and me.”  Martin reached over to stroke Josie’s
arm.  Her eyes sparkled.  “Guess we were lucky to meet, that night in Cambert’s
Bar.  She moved here to attend college, had a job at the library.  My shift with
the police was over for the day, and I stopped to relax.”

“You’ve been together a long time.”  Linda looked over the top of her horn-
rimmed glasses. 

“You got it.  Married forty-five years in July.  Best friends, forever.”

“Martin, here’s a list of Josie’s medications and the times for each.  Give her
a few ounces of water after each medication.  Just enough to make sure all the
medication gets into her stomach.”  Linda smiled and folded the completed
paperwork

Martin nodded and placed the medication list on the chest.  “I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow, to check Josie out and answer questions.” 

“Good.  That’ll be good.” 

“One of our aides can come to help Josie bathe, get dressed.”  Linda
straightened the covers on Josie’s hospital bed. 

Martin looked at Josie.  “Shall we try some help, love?”  They always made
decisions together, that is…before everything changed. 

Josie’s fingers on her right hand – the good hand – tapped on the arms of her
wheelchair.  She made a soft murmuring sound, eyes narrowing. 

“We will make it alone, no help,” he said in a low voice.  “Josie would do the
same for me, if I was the one in the chair.”  Martin swallowed, his back stiffened.

“Okay, you can change your mind later.”  Linda gathered her nursing
equipment.  “See you in the morning.  And, don’t forget to call the agency if you
have any questions.”  She placed a brochure on a small table near the door and left.

They were alone.  Martin listened to sounds of tree branches tapping against
the windows with the wind.  A relentless knocking as if something was sending him
a warning using Morse code.  He pulled the drapes closed to shut off the outside
view. 

A lifetime of being alone with Josie, but this was different.  The quiet was
deafening.  Before her stroke, Josie brought life to the house with her singing, her
conversation, her laughter.  The doctors said that her brain’s speech center was
damaged with the stroke.  Martin strained to remember the sound of her voice, now
gone forever.  He looked around the small living-room, transformed to a make-shift
hospital room.  Indentations remained on the blue carpet where the sofa had been. 

“Music, what would you like to hear, love,” he said.  Josie smiled and
shrugged her shoulders.  Martin turned on the radio and tuned to a favorite station.
Soft jazz soon filled the empty spaces in the room.  For him, it didn’t matter
that she couldn’t hum to the music.  Just having Josie home made him feel secure
and whole. 

Martin went through the routines practiced at the hospital before Josie came
home.  Transferring her to the commode and into bed.  Helping her dress in
pajamas.  The years of walking beaches looking for coins left him with strength for
this new job.  But, the feeding routine for Josie was what worried him.  Pulling out
the list of instructions that Linda left, he mentally prepared her next feeding.  Clean
the top of the can, attach the syringe to her feeding tube, and pour.  Seemed simple enough.  Josie’s eyes were fixed on his face. 

There was a knock on the door.  Martin invited the parish priest to enter. 
Josie was a member of St. Anthony’s Catholic Church.  Martin attended on
special occasions like Christmas and Easter. 

“Martin, how are you doing?” Father Bill said.

“Just fine, Father.  Josie will be pleased to see you.  She’s resting in here.” 

He gestured toward the living room and followed the priest to her bedside. 
Father Bill took Josie’s hand.  “We have all been praying for you,” he said. 

Josie smiled, her mouth opened as if to speak.  “Ah-rah-h.”

“No need to talk,” Father Bill said.  “Just wanted to tell you that our parish has not forgotten you.  You are in our prayers, Josie.”  He opened a small book of prayers and read in a radio announcer’s voice.  Martin’s thoughts drifted to Josie’s rosary beads that he placed in her jewelry box.  Her hands wouldn’t be able to finger the prayer beads.  He had put them away, out of sight. 

“Martin…Josie…Can we continue with the Sacrament of Communion?” 
Father Bill placed the prayer book on the table.  He clasped his hands, fingers
interlaced in a prayer-like fashion.

“No…no,” Martin said.  “Josie can’t have anything in her mouth.”  Prayers
were one thing.  Communion was another.  He felt sweat beading on his upper lip. 
Was it a sin to refuse a sacrament?
 
“M-m-m, I see.”  Father Bill’s eyebrows raised.  “Let me offer you a blessing.”  He turned and chanted something in a low monotone, using his index finger to make the sign of a cross on Josie’s forehead. 

“Call me if you need anything,” Father Bill said, turning to Martin. 

Anything?  What about bringing back the Josie who can speak, who can enjoy
dinner with me.  “Thanks, Father.  That’s kind of you,” Martin said.  He shook the
priest’s hand and accompanied him to the door. 



Martin awoke to the sounds of loud knocking on the front door.  Sunlight
was pouring around the brocade bedroom drapes.  He grabbed a robe, pushed his
feet into slippers and stumbled toward the living room.  Josie was sleeping, her
mouth open.  The stale room air smelled like moldy bread.  His pace quickened
toward the persistent knocking on the door.

“Good afternoon, Martin.”  It was Linda, the nurse.  “How was the morning
feeding?”

“Come in,” he stepped aside as she entered the room.  Linda walked to Josie’s bedside, placing her bag on the chest near the feeding equipment.  She pulled out a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff.  “Going to check her vitals,” she said. 

Martin studied her face as she completed the exam.  “Everything okay?”

“Josie, can you squeeze my hand?”  Linda repeated the question in a louder
voice.  “She seems groggy today.  Did the morning feeding go okay?”

Martin glanced at the clock.  Two o’clock in the afternoon.  Josie made no
sounds during the night.  He must have slept very soundly, and so did Josie. 
“Haven’t given her the feeding.  Was about to do that when you came.”  He ran a
hand over his head, to smooth his hair.

“What about her medications?”  Linda’s questions continued.  The tone of
her voice was louder, more demanding.

Martin wanted to tell her the truth, that he had been sleeping.  Josie hadn’t
had her feeding, hadn’t been given her liquid medications, hadn’t been toileted.  He
wanted to be honest.  All his life he had been honest.  Cops were always honest and trusted.  This time was different.  His ears burned, face flushed and he smiled.
“She had her medications.  Time just slipped away from me, I guess.  Need to
give her the feeding.”  He picked up the Ensure can, fingers trembling.

“Good.  I’ll just watch to see how it goes,” she said.

Martin connected the syringe to the red tube from Josie’s abdomen.  He
opened a can of liquid nutrition and quickly poured, spilling it over the top of the
syringe and down on Josie’s pajamas.

“Oh, no.  What a mess I made.” 

“Slow down, Martin,” Linda advised.  She held the syringe in a vertical
position while he poured the remainder of the can into the vessel.  “Josie’s feedings
are super important.  It’s her life-line.  You can manage.  Go slowly.  Relax.”

They talked in the kitchen, later, after helping Josie into clean pajamas. 
Linda had transferred Josie to a wheelchair.  Martin had rolled it to the front
window.

“You really love her, don’t you,” Linda said.

“Josie and I belong together.”

“Her blood pressure is a little low today.  And, she seems groggy, not as
responsive.  Maybe it’s nothing to worry about.”

Martin wiped his mouth, his eyes falling on the half-empty bottle of vodka on
the kitchen counter.  Vodka martinis were Josie’s favorite.  It was a ritual they
shared for years:  vodka martini before dinner and brandy after.  Josie always
insisted on chilled glasses and candles on the dinner table.     

Linda reviewed the medication list with Martin.  His mind wandered to seven
years ago when his wrist was broken.  Josie took good care of him.  He needed to
return the promise and care for her. 

“Looks like I need to check on Josie again.  Tomorrow, I will be here in the
morning,” Linda said. 

“Right.  We will be here.”  Martin moistened his lips.  His mouth tasted like
rotten eggs. 

“Are you the vodka drinker?” she asked.

There was no reason to ignore her question.  Martin nodded and told Linda
about his vodka martinis.  “Josie always said I made better martinis than the
bartenders in Cambert’s bar.”

“Josie liked martinis?”

“She looked forward to a smooth drink before dinner.  Said it relaxed her. 
We always did it up right, candles and the works.”

“Where did you learn to make martinis?”

“Trial and error, I guess.  They’re her favorite.” 

“And your favorite?”

“Guess it would be the drinks after dinner.  Brandy or aperitif.  Something
to settle the stomach.  We loved to talk while sipping brandy around the fireplace.” 
Martin’s face glowed as he talked.  “So good to have Josie back, missed her.”

“Martin,” Linda began, “have you been giving vodka to Josie?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  “Some,” he replied. 

“Not a good idea.”  Linda’s voice was stern.     

“She seemed to relax.  It was only a thimble full, just before the liquid stuff…last night.  She slept so well.”

Linda leaned back on the kitchen counter.  “So, that may be why she seems
groggy today.  I really don’t think your doctor would want you to give Josie
alcohol.” 

Martin nodded.  “Probably not… probably wasn’t a good idea.  Josie seemed
to relax, that’s all.  It was almost like the old days.”

“No alcohol for Josie.”

“Didn’t give her to drink…just through the tube.”  Martin rested his arm on the counter, leaning toward Linda.  His bent frame towered over the petite nurse.

“She’s not the same as before, Martin.  You can’t give her anything but the
cans of nutritional supplement, water and her medications.”  Linda’s hand pointed
for emphasis. 

“Yes, understood,” said Martin.  Aye, aye sergeant, he thought.  All those
years on the police force taught me how to say I agree with orders, even when I
don’t.   

Linda gathered her papers.  “I’ll be here tomorrow.  And, our social worker
will be here this week.  She may have suggestions for additional help.  Her name is Loretta.” 

Josie sat in her wheelchair, head nodding slightly.  She smiled, that crooked
lip smile, when Martin returned to the room. 

“Little bit cold, Josie?”  He tucked a blue knit afghan around her legs.  Linda
was wrong, he thought.  A little vodka to relax never hurt anyone.  Josie always had
the martini glasses chilled.  She loved the cocktails before dinner, said it made the
stress of the day disappear.  Just a little vodka, he promised himself.



The noise of someone banging on the front door startled Martin from a
sound sleep.  He realized that he had fallen asleep in the reclining chair next to
Josie’s bed.  Must have slept there all night.  Was still dressed in his plaid shirt and wrinkled work pants. 

“Coming…hold on, I’m coming.”  He rubbed his eyes and glanced at his face
in the mirror.  Where was the old face, he wondered, as he looked at the ghost-like
reflection.  His thick grey mane of hair stuck out in all directions. 

“Mr. Scott?  Good afternoon.  Linda asked me to see you.”  A middle-aged,
plump lady with brown hair pulled into a bun held out her hand. 

Martin shook the woman’s hand.  “Sorry it took me time to get to the door. 
Was busy with Josie.”

“Yes, she takes time.  I’m Loretta, your social worker.  Can I come in?”

“Oh, sure.  Come in.”  He ushered her into the living room, opening heavy
drapes.  The mid-day sun illuminated dust layered on the table tops.  Josie would be embarrassed, he thought.  She always kept a neat house, organized like the books on her library reference desk.

“Tried to call you, Mr. Scott.  Your phone rang and rang…were you out?” 
Loretta walked slowly toward Josie’s bed.  She looked around the room, as if
making a mental recording for evidence.

“Sometimes I don’t hear the phone.”

“Well, I was worried,” Loretta slipped her coat off and hung it over the back of the blue reclining chair.  She moved a pile of newspapers and placed her bag on
an end table.  As she approached Josie’s bed, Loretta’s foot bumped an empty
vodka bottle and it rolled away.  She touched Josie’s shoulder.  A faint odor of urine
wafted from her sheets.

“My job is to connect you with resources.  Josie needs lots of attention and
care.  Perhaps I can find some help for you.  Church volunteers, and the like.”

“No…Josie and I are doing fine,” Martin said.  Another do-gooder, he thought.  Smile, be polite and she will leave.

“There are community resources, some for little or no cost,” Loretta said.

“Appreciate the interest, but we will be alright.”  Martin pulled the sheet to
cover a stain on Josie’s flannel nightgown. 

“Can I review her medications, Martin?”  Loretta pulled a list of medicines
from the home health folder left by the nurse.  “What meds have you given her
today?”

Martin rubbed his face, the whiskers made a scratchy noise against his hand. 
The rhythmic tick of a wall clock seemed deafening in the silence.  Loretta was
waiting for an answer.  Her face carried a no-nonsense expression. 

“Can’t say…guess I didn’t write it down,” he said.

Loretta paused, her hands on her hips.  She looked at Martin’s bloodshot
eyes,  wrinkled face and slight hand tremor.  “Linda and I are worried about Josie.”

“What do you mean?”

“She needs feedings and medications on a schedule, Martin.”  She folded her
arms like a drill sergeant and stared. 

“Don’t you think I know that?”  Martin felt like a truant school boy.

“This is a heroic task you are trying to do.  Josie needs more care than it is
possible for you.  All the bathing, toileting, feeding is too much work.” 

“That’s your opinion, lady.”  Martin voice was shaky.  He swallowed to clear
the lump from his throat. 

“Martin, it’s my job to report those situations where someone could be in
danger.  Someone, like Josie who can’t protect herself.”  Loretta pulled a pen from
her bag and began writing. 

“What are you saying?”  He shifted his weight as if to keep from losing
balance.  He ran a hand over his messy mane of hair.

“I have to contact Adult Protective Services.  Part of my job.  Someone will
be coming here to investigate.”  Loretta turned placed her notes into her leather
bag. 

“What for?”  Martin heard the noise of cars driving through the slush on the
street outside.  The sunlight through stained glass windows cast a cold light across
the hospital bed. 

“The caseworker from Adult Protective will review Josie’s case.  If she believes that she is in danger, she will find a nursing home for Josie.”

“What?  Nursing Home?  No way.  You can’t take Josie away from me.” 
Martin stiffened his arms, fists clenched.  His face flushed beet red. 

“Martin, we are doing what’s right for Josie.”

“Right?  What do you know about what’s right for us?”  His eyes narrowed
and jaws clenched.  “Josie and I are okay…don’t need anyone.”  Martin’s voice was
low and steady.

Loretta placed her hand on his shoulder.  “You have done your best, but Josie’s care is…” 

“Get out of my house,” he shouted.  “Leave us alone.  Josie will stay here.”
Martin stomped to the door and held it open.  Loretta folded her coat over
her arm, closed her bag and left.  He watched her drive away, tears welled in his his
eyes.  Losing Josie would be like death.  She was his only reason for being. 
Martin thought about the time when she gave him courage to continue
walking the street-beat, kept him from resigning from the police force.  His
promotion to a desk job was denied.  He wanted to quit.

“That’s it.  Had enough of the politics in this business.”  Martin had thrown
his badge on the kitchen counter. 

“What happened, Martin?”  Josie purred.

“Sergeant Conroy announced promotions today.  My name wasn’t on the list,
and I know it’s cause I don’t kiss up like the rest.”

“Come here, darling,” she said.  She held him close and caressed the back of
his neck.  “Let’s have a drink and relax.”

It was the routine that changed everything.  Being with Josie, relaxing with a
little drink.  Made it easier to talk, somehow.  They said so much that night.  He
admitted to feeling guilty for not giving her a child.  He was impotent and she would
never know the joy of being a mother. 

Josie had laughed, a sound like jingling bells.  “You are all I need and want.”
                   
“Forever, love?”

“Till death, Martin.  It’s you and me, here in our little nest.  Promise me that
you’ll never put me away,” she had said.

“What do you mean, away?”

“You know, Martin…old people that can’t manage.  They put them in
homes.  I’d rather die that be stuck in a place like that,” she had said.  Josie worked  as an aide in a nursing home, while studying to be a librarian.  She told him about the nightmares of patients crying for help, when there wasn’t enough time or staff to give decent help. 

In the upstairs bathroom medicine cabinet, Martin found the bottle of
pain medicine.  The doctor had prescribed it for his broken wrist, years ago.  He
opened the cap and poured the pills into his bear-like hand.  Twelve pills left.  The
label read:  Oxycontin 80 mg.  Take one every 6 hours for pain.  He placed the pills
back into the bottle and set it near the sink.  On the top shelf, he found a small bottle of sleeping pills:  Seconal 100 mg, Take one at bedtime for sleep.  The doctor had given Josie sleeping pills when she had “hot flashes” from her change.  She never took them, said brandy was her sleeping potion.  The bottle was half full.  He placed the bottle of sleeping pills next to the pain medicine.

Martin had seen lots of death in his lifetime.  Cops were used to scenes of
brutal deaths from gunshots, and the like.  Violent deaths left him nauseated for
days.  Cops also got called to houses where people were found dead, usually from
natural causes.  There was always an aura of peace when an old person was found
lifeless in his bed.  Like sleeping into another world.  No pain, no struggle. 
He knew Josie would understand, even though the rest of the world might
not. 

He took the pill bottles down to the kitchen.  This would help ease Josie into a
peaceful sleep.  He would be able to keep his promise to Josie.  No nursing home for her.  Martin poured vodka into the martini shaker, then added the pills…all of
them. 

The nurses would come in the morning and find her.  They would call the
authorities.  He would face all of that when it happened.  He had lived a decent life. 
Always paid his bills on time, never cheated on taxes.  This was a decision that
would have consequences, and he was prepared to face them.  He was ready to face the interrogations, the probable penalties, the scorn of those who didn’t know what he knew.  Josie would be in a better world. 

Just one more thing to do before feeding the solution to Josie.  Martin found
a pencil and paper to write a note.  He got tongue-tied trying to explain things and
was better with writing on paper.   

Josie and I have had a good life.
We have lived as we wanted to live.
This is my final act of love. 
Martin Scott