Love Happens

This is a work of fiction. All characters are over 18. It is very loosely based on a rumor I heard many years ago, long before Grey's Anatomy.

It is strictly about a man and a woman. As for the sex, it's not particularly wild. If you're looking for a quick read-n-jerk, this will disappoint you. There is no wine. There are no flowers. It is bittersweet story. I imagine some will believe I have placed it in the wrong category but to me it is a story of romance.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle for his assistance.

This was inadvertently posted in the "Non-English" section under the title "Continuity". If you found it there this is the same story.

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Allison hesitated as her fingers fumbled with the knot. She could lose her job, her license, all that she had worked so hard to achieve. Worse yet, she could lose all she hoped to achieve. She pulled one end of the woven ties and let her scrub bottoms fall to the floor.

Greg never noticed her hesitation.

-------

She met him, as she did most men these days, in a drab functional room utterly devoid of warmth or personality. It was a room interchangeable with any other room in the clinic except for the number on the door. In it, sat the same heavy gray exam table, with its slide out rubber-topped non-skid step, the same screeching handle that allowed the head of the table to be lowered, and the same row of drawers: drawers that in the past five years she had never had occasion to open. She often thought of opening one for no other reason than to see if it held anything. The table was covered with the same crinkly paper that clung to the patient's rear ends.

She would knock, paused as she had been instructed, and wait for an invitation to enter. She was never greeted with enthusiasm. She understood this and had learned not to take it personally. If the roles were reversed. If it was her sitting in the silly over large gown (open at the back, I might add), shivering, with hands clutched in her lap and legs crossed at the ankles, well, she would not have been thrilled at seeing anyone either. There were patients who were happy to see her but never, ever, the new ones. Greg had been a new one that early afternoon six weeks earlier.

It had been a perfect day. It had rained nearly every day the week before. The rain, having out stayed its welcome, moved off to the east. The air was scrubbed clean and smelled green. Grass, trees, and flowers had soaked up the rain and now they soaked up the bright clear sunlight and melded them into greens and yellows, oranges and purples. It had been the worst possible day to be sitting in a doctor's office, especially to discuss the odds of one's survival.

Greg had worn the lost and totally exhausted look of most of her patients. They weren't technically her patients. She was a second year fellow with another year to go before she would join the ranks of "attending physician". Greg was, technically, Dr. Molitor's patient. Molitor was not her favorite among the attendings. He was brilliant, that she conceded, but he was aloof. He made no attempt to connect with his patients on any level other than the strictly professional. Allison believed he had adopted the persona to protect himself from the pain of losing a patient, an inevitable and too frequent occurrence in their chosen field. Her greatest fear was that one morning she would wake, look in the mirror and see that same detached look in her own eyes.

So, Allison knocked, heard the soft "come in", and entered the room. She was still working on a smile that was welcoming but not patently false. She wore her soft brown hair in a bun at the back of her neck. On others it might have looked a little school teacherish but Allison's bun was a little off center, a little loose with wisps of loose hair that tickled her neck and resulted in her unconscious habit of brushing the hair away from her neck. In short, the bun looked rather ram shackled and on the verge of collapse. It added an innocence to her soft features and hazel eyes. She was one of those beautiful women who you have to look at twice to see she's beautiful and who looked better without make-up.

Greg was, in the beginning, simply one of three new patients she had to see that afternoon. If asked to describe him after their first visit she could have provided details regarding his weight, his height, his BMI, and his white count, hemoglobin, and platelet count but she would not have been able to describe his face. She did not notice the color of his eyes though she did notice the whites were not yellow and the pupils were the same size and did all the things pupils were supposed to do when you shined a light in them. She did notice his hair. She always noticed the hair. Losing their hair was one of the toughest things for some patients to deal with. He had pretty hair. It was medium in length and wavy enough to curl over his ears. It was neat and clean but he didn't sport a two hundred dollar haircut that would cause her to worry about his ability to deal with losing his hair.

As was often the case, she was struck by how healthy he looked for someone who might be dead in just a few weeks. She noticed an ecchymosis, a bruise, on his left forearm, and one on his right shin but beyond that he appeared to be a perfectly healthy twenty-eight year old man. Standing behind him at Starbucks you'd never know he was in the process of dying, his own body, part of it anyway, running amuck and consuming him from the inside.

Sitting behind him, this morning, at a stop light, you would have had no reason to imagine he had failed to notice the light had change because he was wondering what yet another doctor was going to tell him. As you laid on your horn, screaming at him to "fucking go, you fucking moron" you would have had no reason to understand that your worry about getting to work early enough to hit on the new receptionist was not even close to being on the list of things he was worried about.

Allison always saw the patients first. For one thing Molitor was always late and she couldn't imagine sitting in one of these awful rooms, kicking your heels, waiting for someone to discuss how you might avoid dying. For another, Molitor had no time for the social aspects of the visits, for questions about family support, friends, families, hopes, and especially not the fears. Molitor knew all about the fears.

She inquired if he was cold, did he need a blanket, to which he had thanked her for the offer but he was fine. Would he like to have a seat while they talked? No, he was fine. As good as she was, already superior to her nominal teacher, it never occurred to Allison that hopping off the table wearing an open back gown and sitting on a cold hard plastic chair would have been no more comfortable than the paper that crinkled every time he shifted his weight.

And so it began. He worked in IT. He was single. He had been engaged but broke it off when he found out he was sick. He had hoped she would protest a bit more before agreeing it was for the best. No, he had no family. His mother had died of breast cancer when he was a kid. His father in a car accident while he was in college. He had an older sister he had not seen in a decade. He had no idea if she was even still alive. She had spiraled out of control and out of their lives after their mom died. He hoped she was okay but there was no chance of testing her compatibility as a donor. Allison suppressed a sigh, a marrow bank donor lowered his odds unless you were lucky enough to find a match who was close enough to have been a relative.

He had shrugged and told her sure he had friends, friends from college, friends from work. He grew quiet and admitted work might be awkward. His former fiancé worked there as well. Most of his friends were her friends. Allison informed him he would be seeing a psychologist as part of the team. The psychologist could talk with him regarding mechanisms for dealing with friends uncomfortable with his illness. That comment was met with another shrug.

Her concern grew. She was way beyond imagining attitude alone accounted for who survived and who died but it counted for something. If your heart isn't in this fight, the odds grew longer.

Did he realize the chemo and radiation would render him sterile? Yes. Would he like to have his semen stored? I suppose. They covered the details of the process. Several specimens were recommended. No problem. He'd go tomorrow.

May I examine you now? Sure.

She washed her hands, dried them and then rubbed them together to take the chill off. The funny thing about lymph nodes is they cluster in the most personal of spaces. Her fingers probed behind his ears, along the muscles in the side of his neck, and above his collar bones. She had him slip his arms out of the gown. The gown fell in a puddle across his lap. She asked if he was ticklish. Not much. Her fingers probed his armpits, his axilla. They were damp, no surprise. It did not bother her. The thick dark hair in his armpits was of no interest to her at the time. She retrieved her stethoscope from her coat pocket and listen to his heart. Like his body, his heart gave no indication of perceiving its peril. His heartbeat, slow and steady and strong and was no more than half an inch from where her fingers rested on his chest. She listen to the breathe sigh in and out of his chest. She noticed, in a professional way that he was well muscled. That was good. The stronger he was, the better he would do. It was his mental strength that worried her.

She warned him about the squealing handle and lowered the head of the table. He laid back. She warned him she was going to feel for his liver and his spleen and that she did not mean to hurt or tickle him but she would be pressing firmly. His liver was smooth and appeared to be no bigger than it ought to be. His spleen was easily palpable. That was not good. She had not had to roll him on his side to feel it. The lymphoma was right there waiting for her knowledgeable fingers, taunting her: "I'm here. What the fuck you going to do about it? Huh?"

She covered his chest with the top of the gown and rested her fingers lightly on his forearm. I need to check for lymph nodes in your groin okay? He shrugged affirmation. She folded the gown over and felt in his right groin. She no longer had to remember to suppress her frowns, by now she did so automatically. She pulled the gown back and folded the other side over and palpated the left groin. She knew what she would find. It had been his fiancé who had noticed the swelling there and talked him into seeing a doctor. His only fear then was that she imagined he had an STD.

I need to examine your genitalia now. She thought the word was a silly but what else to call it? She remained the consummate professional. She noted he was not circumcised. She retracted the foreskin and noted the meatus was normal. She squeezed the corona gently and confirmed there was no discharge. She gently palpated his testicles, no masses, normal size, no tenderness in the epididymis. He had normal male genitalia. That morning, six weeks ago, that was all his cock had meant to her - normal male genitalia. She noticed he had started to get an erection but that was nothing unusual. Most young man having their genitalia touched had that response. What really freaked them out was when it happened as a male physician was examining them.

Almost done, she had told him and asked him to roll on to his side. She disagreed with Molitor about this but he was the boss and he was old school. A complete physical included a rectal exam. She went over the process with Greg, warned him about the touch of the cold jelly and asked him to relax. No masses, normal prostate, guaiac negative stool. She used tissue to clean him off and then handed him some more if he still felt wet down there. She tossed her gloves in the trash, washed her hands and stepped outside so he could dress. Molitor would feel the nodes in his neck and discuss the transplant procedure. He didn't need to sit there naked for that. Molitor used to insist they stay in the gown but she had won that argument.

-----

She had seen him in the clinic several times after that but never in a gown. They were waiting, hoping a match was found in the database before it was too late. She never really admitted, even years later that she had seen him primarily because she wanted to talk to him. The nurses noticed and offered sad little smiles behind her back. Allison was their favorite. They'd seen it before. They'd see it again. It was inevitable. It happened to everyone, male or female, at least once. It didn't always end badly but it nearly always ended in tears. The nurses were smart, wise, and tough. They knew there was nothing they could do but be there for her when she needed them.

They mostly talked. She always did a cursory exam and lied, telling him everything looked the same. It wasn't. For his part, he was always fine, maybe a little tired but fine. The pounds fell away from his already slender frame. He stopped riding his bike. His body bore more bruises but he was only a little tired.

They discovered they both liked their parent's sappy British mid-80s emo-rock. She loved the Cure. He liked them, too but not as much as Allison. No, she wasn't sure if her parents named her after the Allison in the Elvis Costello song. They denied it but she had her suspicions. He did not seem to begrudge the fact she still had her parents and her brother. She found his lack of bitterness over what most people would deem a tough life inspiring. And now, having non-Hodgkin's lymphoma thrown at you. Fuck. He never complained, though.

He wasn't happy about it. He just saw little reason to waste his energy ranting and raving about it. He had bad days, days when he snapped out answers to stupid questions he'd normally not be bothered by. In the privacy of his apartment, he had thrown a non-breakable item or two. He was too practical to throw a glass, knowing he was the only one around to pick up the pieces. He had things he hoped to do. He wanted a family. He wanted to see the Corn Palace, not the one in Sioux City but the one in Mitchell, South Dakota. Allison had laughed out loud and he gave her a pained look. She apologized but a corn palace? Not Versailles or the Taj Mahal? The Corn Palace? Yes, the Corn Palace. It sounds cool, he insisted.

He had had his semen frozen. What if he died? What would happen to it? Did they flush it down the drain? That bothered him. It bothered him a great deal. That would be all that was left of him on this earth. Could they bury it with him? Allison was not sure. He should ask the sperm bank. What about donating it for use by infertile couples? Would they take it? Use sperm from a man who died of lymphoma? Allison had shrugged, unsure, but concerned he might be correct. She vowed to herself to become an expert on the ins and outs of storing semen or eggs so that she could be a better resource for her patients in the future.

Greg talked with the psychologist but not about his fiancé or their friends. His fiancé had given up trying to pretend they could go on being friends and colleagues at work. She was quietly assigned to different projects. They rarely spoke. He felt bad for their friends, who seemed torn but most were bright enough to understand he needed their support at the moment more than she did. They went out of their way to make sure she knew they weren't punishing her for breaking the wedding off but they would be focusing on Greg.

He had asked the psychologist about making Allison executor of his estate, including his semen. The woman had been visibly taken aback. Had he discussed this with Allison? Of course not. She started into her lecture about patients falling for their perceived protector or savior but he waved her off. It's not that. She's the person I trust most. I have no family. I have quite a bit of money. I have my parent's money and the money from their insurance and house. My sister is gone or dead. I want to leave it to Allison but I don't want to get her in trouble. I'm telling you this because I want you to make it clear if I die she knew nothing about this. She started to talk about patient confidentiality but he cut her off again. Put it in writing. I'll sign it. How much more privacy do I need than death anyway, he had asked. She had no answer but discussed it with legal who helped draft a statement he was happy to sign in the presence of a notary. He had a will made, leaving everything to Allison. He wrote what he wanted said, making it clear he'd told her nothing and she had asked for nothing. Still he worried.

------

It had been a hot day. What had been so green a few weeks ago was now edged with brown. There had been no rain for several weeks. The world was covered in a fine white dust. At least the humidity was low.

They had found a match.

The donor had flown in and his marrow had been harvested earlier in the day. It was a painful procedure, not like donating blood or even a kidney. Hole after hole was drilled into his hips and the marrow sucked out. That part was at least done while he slept but the deep achy pain in his bones would last for days. Allison thanked him. Greg wanted to thank him but the donor preferred to remain anonymous.

She had gone to Greg's room to tell him that. He had shrugged, said he understood. He had on the ubiquitous baggy yellow PJ bottoms younger male patients wore in lieu of a gown. She knew her gaze was no longer as completely professional. It clutched at her heart to see him so thin. The PJs hung off his hips. She could see the hip bones clearly. The bottoms hung so low on his emaciated body that the top of his pubic hair was exposed. She could see that as well. She mourned its loss. Like the hair on his head, he was likely to lose that hair as well. All of it. The dark manly hair she had noticed in his armpits and the soft curls on his chest as well as the shorter, flatter fuzz on his belly. And his beautiful wavy hair that curled up around his ears. She felt tears rising in her eyes. She often cried with her patients but usually at the end, not the beginning.

Why are you crying? She snuffled, smile and told him not to mind her. She just happy a donor had been found.

I'm not worrying he told her. Allison replied with her most forceful and professional nod. She rose from the low bench that ran beneath the windows. The view was a good one. The river sparkled in the sun. The park looked a little the worse for wear given the lack of rain but it was a good view nonetheless. As she started to walk past the foot of bed, Greg stopped her with a touch of his hand on her arm. When she turned, he leaned in and kissed her. She was surprised and he had begun to stammer apologies. Apologies she silenced with her mouth. His arms felt perfect around her shoulders. She rested her cheek on his bare chest and was comforted by the strong beat of his heart. She could feel him growing hard beneath the thin pajama bottoms. She reached between them and squeezed him through the material and he shivered against her body.

She tilted her head back seeking his mouth. A deep feeling of contentment settled over her as their lips pressed together. She parted her lips and his tongue accepted the invitation. As they kissed, he grew rigid beneath her fingers. One of his hands found her breast the other cupped her ass. She wiggled a knee between his legs, pressing herself against his erection as his hand tightened on her breast.

She was wearing scrubs. It was a simple matter to pull the top free from her pants. His hand reached under the cotton top, his fingers brushed across the soft skin of her belly and it was her turn to shiver. His hand found a breast and boldly freed it from her bra. The feel of his palm against her nipple caused her to shiver again and whimper softly into his mouth. She separated enough to get her hands behind her back. She unhooked her bra and his hand left her ass and moved to her other breast. She arched her back, hands atop his shoulders as he kneaded her breasts. She hissed with pleasure as his fingers plucked at her nipples. As he lowered his head, she lifted her top and bra out of the way.