Informed Consent

Copyright 2014 by robindavisfiction. This story may not be republished or posted on other websites without the written permission of the author.

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Dear Readers, Once again, it was not immediately clear to me which category to select for this story. Although there is an element of reluctance, I ultimately decided this probably best fits in the loving wives section even though it may not be typical of the types of stories in this category. I hope you will enjoy reading, and I look forward to your feedback and votes.

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Debbie stepped out of the elevator and looked down the hall where Simon was arguing on his cell phone. His hand stabbed the air as his voice rose.

"What? All of a sudden the fucker don't trust me? I been selling that asshole good shit. Hell yeah. On the corner by the ambulance entrance? I don't give a fuck. Call me when the asshole shows up, damn it, and I'll be there."

Simon pocketed his phone and muttered something Debbie couldn't understand, and then he noticed her watching. Without speaking, he turned and beckoned her to follow.

She had a fleeting impulse to bolt and run, but instead she walked toward Simon down the deserted hallway. He rattled a ring of keys and unlocked Dr. Hastings' lab and office suite. They walked into the reception area, and he paused at the counter.

"Here's the deal. I'm gonna show you the drug, but before you get it, we go into the bitch's office for my payment."

Debbie followed him past the counter into the lab. He unlocked the walk-in cold-room and ushered her inside. With a second key, he unlocked the cabinet where the clinical trial materials were stored, and she saw several numbered glass vials, each containing a yellowish liquid. They were identical except for the numbers printed on the labels.

Debbie stared at the row of vials with a concerned expression.

"This is a randomized trial," she said. "For every two patients who get the real drug, one gets a placebo. How do I know you aren't going to give me a placebo?"

"Ain't my problem. Once you've paid me, it's your choice. Hell, be really nice to me and I'll let you have two. Maybe you'll get lucky."

Simon grinned and relocked the cabinet.

"Now you know I can get in here. Let's go get started on my payment— in that bitch doctor's office."

Debbie looked at Simon in alarm. "In her office? But what if we get caught?"

She had barely accepted the idea of having sex with Simon after failing to come up with any other options. Now, the possibility of being caught in the doctor's office and then being forced to leave without the drug stoked her already intense anxiety.

"Don't worry. Nobody works at night here. Anyway, I don't give a shit about getting caught. I'm leaving this rat hole soon for a much better line of work."

"But I care. I don't want to take the risk that we won't be able to get back in here. Give me the vial now, and then I'll do what you want. Please! This is too important to me to take a chance."

Simon rested his hand on her shoulder and looked at her as though trying to reach a complicated decision.

"No problem, but first, give me your clothes. I ain't gonna have you trying to make a run for it 'til my hour's up."

"What? You mean in here?"

"Damn straight. You strip. I unlock the cabinet. You choose your bottle and give it to me. I'll keep it with your clothes. My hour starts when you're in the bitch's office and I'm between your legs. What you do after I've taken my payment is your business."

Debbie was revolted by what she was about to do, and she didn't want him to see how close she was to crying. With grim determination, she ignored Simon's leer and began unbuttoning her blouse, trying to pretend she was alone.

She quickly dropped her blouse and skirt on the floor, remembering that Michael, the man she loved more than anything else in the world, had been with her when she picked out the skirt. After shopping they had eaten lunch together at a new Italian restaurant, and she remembered how Michael had made her laugh. She remembered the music playing in the background as they shared dessert. She looked at Simon defiantly and unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor. She would get through this ordeal and get the vial of medicine Michael needed so badly. To hell with Simon and his hungry stare.

"Panties too."

She ignored Simon's eyes roaming up and down her body. After her panties joined the pile, she stood awkwardly while he unlocked the cabinet.

Debbie stared at the row of identical vials. Her nakedness and sense of vulnerability spurred her to rush, but she was paralyzed by the seriousness of the choice she had to make. She had no way of knowing which vial held potential life and which held a useless saline solution, but she had to choose one, or two at most. She was tempted to take several, but she had studied the protocol carefully and knew it specified a single dose. Maybe if she took only one, no one would notice a vial missing while Michael was still in the hospital. She closed her eyes and reached toward the vials.

Simon stepped behind her and placed his hands on her waist. She shivered slightly when he lightly stroked her from the top of her hips to the edge of her breasts.

"Nice tits. I like what the cold air does to them."

She made her selection and stepped away from Simon before his fingers reached her nipples. She bent to pick up her clothes, but Simon quickly pushed them out of her reach with his foot.

"Not so fast. I'll keep the clothes. Give me the bottle, too."

He put her purse and clothes into an orange plastic bag labeled for biohazard waste and winked at Debbie as he dropped the vial on top of her clothes.

"I hope you picked the good shit. Either way, it's time for my payment. Let's go."

What little sense of control she may have felt before disappeared when Debbie saw Simon step away with her clothes in the bag. She had never been confident that agreeing to Simon's deal was a great idea, and now she was nearly overwhelmed with second thoughts.

"Please, let me give you money instead."

Debbie covered her breasts with her hands and shivered under the sterile fluorescent light and Simon's cold gaze.

"We have some savings. I can take you to our bank," she said. "It's almost two thousand dollars."

"No, I've told you, I don't want your money. You know my price. I ain't gonna force you to take the deal, but I ain't changing the price neither—your call. I'll wait for you by the bitch doctor's door for two minutes to give you time to think about your choices. If you don't show, I'll leave your clothes on the floor and take the medicine with me—no harm no foul."

He shut the door behind him with a loud click, and Debbie finally gave into the tears she had been fighting to control. She hunched her shoulders, rubbed her hands up and down her arms, and trembled in the cold air. She had no time to think, no way to ask for anyone's advice, and she knew her decision was something she would live with for the rest of her life. If only, oh God, if only—.

* * *

It seemed to Debbie that her last day of real happiness had been in a different lifetime rather than just over a week ago—back when imagining herself in Michael's arms never failed to brighten her mood after a long day of teaching unruly high school students. She remembered pedaling happily along the bike path toward home, daydreaming of the weekend to come and grinning in anticipation of watching her husband's face when she surprised him after his favorite dinner with her skimpy new silk nightgown to celebrate their decision to get pregnant. After three years of married familiarity, she still looked forward to every hour they spent together, and they both were eager to share their togetherness with a child to be born of their love for each other.

She remembered how Michael had sounded tired on the phone the previous couple of days. He had been out of town for a week with his firm's largest client, dealing with manufacturing process problems he had been only partially successful in solving. He had been unable to sleep well and told her he had difficulty concentrating on his work, but his mood had brightened when Debbie told him exactly how she would make him feel better once he got home.

When she heard Michael's cab pulled into their driveway, Debbie lit the candles on the dining room table, and before he could put his key in the door, she opened it wide and leapt into Michael's arms, almost knocking him off the front porch. They both laughed when he nearly dropped her, and laughed again when he tripped over his briefcase in his enthusiasm to give her a second glad-to-be-home kiss.

She remembered them catching up on the little details of their week apart as they enjoyed a relaxing dinner together. Michael sipped hot tea and watched the excitement in his wife's eyes as she described the surprising progress made by one of her more difficult students. When she paused in her story, he began clearing dishes.

"Keep talking. I'll just take care of this while you relax and finish your story. Sounds like you had a great week."

Debbie had a better idea. With a coy smile, she took the dishes from his hands, set them back on the table, and guided him into the bedroom.

"Both the story and the kitchen can wait. You relax and I'll be right back."

She lit two candles and placed them on the table beside their bed, turned off the light, and disappeared into the bathroom. Soon, she emerged transformed from conservative schoolteacher into sexy seductress.

"Wow. How did I get so lucky?" Michael asked as he closed his eyes briefly and steadied himself against the dresser. But, then he looked up and stepped toward her as strong and handsome as ever and she forgot all about her momentary worry. She unclipped her ponytail and walked slowly to meet him next to the bed. Her hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and flickering light danced over her face.

Michael pushed the straps of her nightgown down her shoulders and let the silk pool at her feet. He cupped her breasts gently and then caressed her cheeks with the back of his fingers. He brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes before he kissed her.

Their tongues danced together until Debbie stepped back and began unbuttoning his shirt. She unfastened his pants and knelt before him, flicking her tongue lightly across the tip of his hardening penis. She took him into her mouth and began to slowly slide her lips along his shaft, but paused and then looked up at him with a frown on her face. She had sensed that something wasn't right.

"How did you get this bruise on your leg?" she asked. "It looks painful."

"It doesn't hurt. I hadn't really noticed it—must have bumped against something walking through the plant." He ran his fingers lightly through Debbie's hair and smiled down at her.

"You know what?" he asked and drew her to her feet.

"What?"

She stepped closer, just close enough for her breasts to touch his chest, and his erection to caress her belly.

"I love you, Mrs. Taylor."

"I love you too, Mr. Taylor. And, you know what I want?"

"Anything, my love."

"I want you forever."

Michael found her lips with his and pulled her into a strong embrace. They fell together onto the bed, and she pushed him onto his back. She guided his cock to her wetness and impaled herself fully as he thrust upward to meet her. They moved together in familiar synchrony, gently at first, but soon with more urgency. The bed squeaked in time with their rhythm.

Michael rolled her over without slowing his steady pace. They looked into each other's eyes until hers fluttered, and she began moaning in passionate abandon. Her face glowed with ecstasy in the candlelight.

"Come with me." Her voice was ragged, and she shuddered on the edge of orgasm. "Fuck me." Her expression was midway between a smile and a grimace.

Michael entwined his fingers with hers. He drove into her hard and deep. Her head thrashed on the pillow. She moaned and convulsed under him as she came. He whispered, "I love you," as he pumped his semen into her eager body.

They continued moving gently together for a few more strokes before Michael broke their intimate embrace and rolled to the side without releasing Debbie's hand. He drew her fingers to his mouth for a gentle kiss. They lay side-by-side and looked into each other's eyes without speaking, resting together contentedly. With one hand on his wife's breast, Michael drifted quickly into sleep, and Debbie soon followed.

She was deep in a pleasant dream of surf and sun and Michael spreading suntan oil on her back when Debbie awoke with a start. Something had fallen. She reached for Michael, but her hand found only empty space in the sheets where he should have been. She heard him moan from across the room.

"Michael?"

There was no response. She fumbled for the light switch at the bottom of the bedside lamp and called his name louder. Her confusion changed quickly to fear when she turned on the light and saw Michael sprawled on the floor, half in the bathroom and half in the bedroom. She ran to kneel beside her husband, rested her hand on his shoulder, and called his name. He stirred slightly and groaned. Slowly he raised his head and gave her half a smile.

"You're hot. I think you have fever," she said. "And your mouth is bleeding."

"I must have bit my tongue when I fell. I'm okay—just got a little dizzy is all."

As soon as Michael stood, he had to grab the doorknob and Debbie's arm to keep from falling again.

"Maybe I'm coming down with the flu," he said as she helped him back to bed.

Michael fell quickly back to sleep, but Debbie lay awake worrying in the darkness before a restless sleep finally overtook her. She awoke feeling anxious, and her worry approached panic when she saw that Michael now had bruises on his chest and arm. His pillow was stained with blood.

Debbie clearly remembered the icy fear that had gripped her heart at the thought Michael might have something more serious than the flu, but she had not been remotely ready for the terrifying words the doctor first spoke to them after the test results were in.

"I'm sorry, but I have bad news for you."

Michael was seated on the exam table holding Debbie's hand. Dr. McKinley walked to stand next to them, and Debbie could sense his tension, as though the doctor was reluctant to give his patients bad news.

"Michael has a very aggressive form of leukemia called AML."

The doctor paused at Debbie's gasp and placed his hand on her shoulder before turning his attention to Michael.

"The good news is that we can treat it, but we have to act quickly. I'd like to get your consent to admit you to the hospital this afternoon and begin treatment tonight."

Dr. McKinley handed Michael a clipboard with several pages to read and sign.

"Doctor, this is a lot to read. Can't you just tell me what it says? I'll do whatever you recommend."

"My advice is to read each page. The drugs used for leukemia have risks. Basically, when you sign this, you are granting your informed consent to treatment that could harm you—with no guarantee of benefit."

"He'll be okay, won't he? You can cure him?" Debbie had asked in a trembling voice. Her eyes glistened, and her lips trembled as she fought back tears.

"We can treat him, yes. We'll give him the best treatment medicine has to offer. But I won't tell you this is not serious."

"Dr. McKinley, what are my chances?" Michael asked.

The doctor remained silent for a moment as though choosing his words carefully.

"You're young and otherwise healthy. Nearly fifty percent of younger patients achieve a long-term remission, maybe even a cure. We'll know more after the first week of treatment."

The doctor quietly closed the door as he left the room. Debbie couldn't speak, couldn't hold back the tide of emotion that had taken control of her mind and heart. A fifty percent chance was not high enough, not nearly high enough. Things were moving too fast. She shuddered. Michael put his arms around her, and she buried her face against the shoulder that had always been so strong for her. Michael gently stroked her face as she sobbed.

Eventually, Debbie found she could hardly stay awake despite the hospital noise. The steady beeps and changing numbers on the instruments monitoring Michael's vital signs had quickly lost their fascination. She had become accustomed to the false alarms that sounded each time the finger clip that measured his blood oxygen slipped off. The hospital staff had been reluctant to allow her to spend the night, but when she made it clear they would have to carry her out of the hospital, they grudgingly relented. Their kindness didn't extend as far as finding her something more comfortable to sleep on than the straight-backed chair next to his bed.

Each time her head began to fall toward her chest, she jerked back to wakefulness and looked to see if Michael was stirring. The night had been rough on him. She had sponged his face with a cool wet towel each time he vomited. Eventually his retching producing nothing, and as dawn approached, he fell into an exhausted sleep while Debbie struggled to remain alert in case he needed her help.

At mid-morning, a young doctor she had never seen before briefly looked in and scribbled notes for the nurses. "We'll try increasing the anti-nausea meds," he told Debbie. "So far there are no real problems, but we want your husband to be as comfortable as possible."

"Thank you, Doctor." Debbie was grateful for even small signs of concern.

The next few days passed slowly, a hazy blur of sleeplessness, fatigue, hope, and anxiety. The doctors ordered antibiotics to prevent infection as the chemotherapy slowly destroyed his immunity. Sores developed in Michael's mouth, and his remaining appetite disappeared with the pain of eating anything solid. Soon, he had a mild fever, became too weak to walk without assistance, and was seldom free of nausea.

Debbie spent two hours each morning in the medical library near the hospital and sat with Michael as long as possible each night. She had taken a leave of absence from teaching and brought books and medical journal articles to Michael's room to read as much as she could about leukemia. With the help of the librarian, she sorted through arcane details of experimental medicine and clinical trials.

Before she knew it, a week had passed. It was time for the test results that Debbie anticipated with dread and hope, a bone marrow analysis to determine whether or not the chemotherapy was working. She paced Michael's small room, two steps to the window, two steps to the sink, and one step to Michael's bed, until he summoned the energy and humor to tell her she was making him dizzy. She sat in the chair and took Michael's hand in hers, placed her head on the bed next to his, and waited.

"Good afternoon Michael, Debbie," said Dr. McKinley.

He walked into the small room with a younger doctor and a nurse, and Debbie could tell from his expression that he had bad news. The younger doctor refused to look her in the eye. She took a deep breath, said a silent prayer for good news, and resolved to remain calm no matter what the doctor said. She remained seated, holding Michael's hand.

"Unfortunately, there are still blast cells in your bone marrow. Michael, this means that your leukemia may be resistant to the drugs we've given you." The doctor paused as though collecting his thoughts and then continued, "We like to see success after a single course of induction chemotherapy—that's the medicine you've just finished—but we can sometimes achieve success with a second round."

Michael closed his eyes and sank back into his pillow.