(Edited and Reposted on 29/01/2014)
This is my first erotic story -- I welcome all feedback.
---
I am pretty sure he was saying something, but all I could hear was a dull rush. The last words I remember clearly were "pancreatic cancer". I sat in the doctor's examination room while he continued doing whatever he was doing, which I now presume was explaining my options to me.
I had a friend with pancreatic cancer -- he lasted six months after the diagnosis. That was three years ago. It's a death sentence every time. I didn't need to hear from him what my options were. I was fucked.
Something changed. He was now silently staring at me, waiting for something. I returned to earth. I think he was waiting for me to speak.
"I'm sorry. I ... ah ... didn't hear what you said." A graceful bedside manner replaced his clinician's demeanor. He was obviously skilled at breaking this kind of news.
"I was explaining that we should do an explorative procedure as quickly as possible. I don't want to offer false hope, but there is a chance this type of cancer is treatable, or at least we can slow it down." He checked for my understanding before continuing. "We need to do a biopsy. I prefer to schedule one right away -- tomorrow if possible." He added for emphasis, "this cancer can be very aggressive -- we need to know exactly what we are dealing with as quickly as possible. But if there is a compelling reason to wait a day or two, we can hold off."
"Okay," I said, realizing even I wasn't sure what I was agreeing to.
"Okay to tomorrow?" he asked.
"Yeah ... no," I contradicted. "I need ..." I cut myself off from vocalizing that thought. "Can we do it on Wednesday?"
"As long as the O.R. has a slot," he agreed.
"O.R? Isn't this just a biopsy? Like just a needle, or something?"
"Most pancreatic biopsies are," he confirmed, "but in your case the location and nature of the cancerous tissue contraindicates a simple biopsy. We can't know what we're dealing with without going in and taking a look." He paused, gauging how much of the medi-babble I was taking in. I was mostly alert now, listening, so he continued. "We will do a laparoscopy. It is a relatively simple procedure in which the doctor inserts a camera and a surgical instrument through tiny holes in your abdomen.
"When I say relatively simple," he continued, "I mean compared to many surgeries, this is an uncomplicated procedure. But it is still surgery, which always has small, but definite risks. Risks come from a potential reaction to the anesthetics, a surgical site infection, and in any cancer surgery, there is always risk of metastasis." Dr. English (why do doctors always have such weird names?) spent another fifteen minutes explaining the risks, the reasons, the alternatives.
At last I asked him "What is the cost of doing nothing -- just wait it out?"
He didn't seem put off by the question. He took a moment before answering. "Our real problem right now is we don't have a detailed understanding of what you're dealing with. Your test results don't tell us if your cancer started in the pancreas or somewhere else, so we don't know how to treat it. If we don't know how to treat it, then it runs its own course.
"Don, I'm not going to sugar coat this. You have an uphill battle ahead of you, but right now, we don't even know which way is up, so there can be no battle until we go in there and take a look around." Dr. English was aptly named. He had a way of explaining complicated matters clearly.
My focus drifted back to my present hospital room. A pulled curtain across the middle of the room created the illusion of privacy between me and my fellow oncology roommate. Outside the window, a grey Friday afternoon beheld the infinite loop of a million faceless commuters plodding their way back home again, like streams of countless ants tracing along their insect highways.
My recollected conversation with Dr. English was on Monday. The biopsy procedure was scheduled for Wednesday morning, but an apartment fire with a roof collapse in the wee hours filled up the operating rooms with emergency surgeries, bumping me to Thursday morning. The procedure was uneventful. The doctors wouldn't tell me any results though, which I was taking to mean bad news. I figured they're waiting for the biopsy lab results to confirm what they already knew.
While the laparoscopic surgery was fine, the nurses started to worry at the fever I developed overnight -- possible signs of a postoperative infection, so the resident doctor ordered antibiotics and decided to keep me in for observation until I stabilized. Looks like I had the weekend with my thoughts. And with Billy.
Billy was my semi-private room fellow oncology patient. We spoke a few times. I'm guessing Billy is in his early thirties. Divorced, no kids. Billy had testicular cancer -- one of them had to go. I had heard Billy ask his doctor about having sex after the operation. I get the impression Billy considers himself a player, and the thought of losing half his manhood terrified him. I overheard his doctors tell him that everything will return to normal after a few months, but I could tell he didn't believe it.
My thoughts were interrupted by the nurse who came in to check my vitals. She's 50 pounds overweight and I could smell traces of cigarette smoke on her breath. I am always intrigued by such ironies. She checked my IV drip, blood pressure, and temperature -- 102.3. She asked if I needed anything for pain -- I vaguely ached all over from the fever, but I was fine otherwise, so I declined the offer. There wasn't much for her to do for Billy -- he arrived that morning as a pre-op patient -- his nut-ectomy was scheduled for Saturday morning. They took him away earlier on Friday for a manscape shave, but health wise he was an ordinary guy waiting for someone to cut his left ball off -- not much for the nurse to fuss over.
"I'll be finishing my shift in a few minutes," announced the nurse on her way out. "Claire will be your night nurse."
"Okay," I replied.
"Do you know Claire?" Billy asked after the nurse left.
"She was on last night."
"Nice?" I knew what he was asking. The guy was still fixating on his sun setting manhood.
"Cute face. Hot little hard body."
"Ah man," he moaned. "On the night before. If only ..." he couldn't bring himself to finish the impossible thought.
"You never know," I mused. Billy didn't dignify my optimism platitude with an answer, but he had no way of knowing I was in the early stages of planning a going away party for Billy's left nut.
Claire checked in on me at just after 6:30. Late twenties and five foot five, I'd guess. Green eyes, clear complexion. Her sharp bangs and shoulder length straight black hair framed her long face attractively. Think of Demi Moore in Ghost, but with green eyes and longer hair, and you get the picture. Even with the typical loose nurse attire, you could tell Claire was slim, firm, and fit. She had very slim hips. I imagined supple, strong legs beneath those baggy scrubs with a perfect round ass. Small breasts -- I am more of a mid to large size breast man, but I imagined Claire's were perky and shapely.
Claire was pleasant and talkative, but all business. No flirting, no innuendos. She frowned at my temperature -- 102.1.
She visited on the bottom of every hour to take my vitals. Every time Claire came in I made idle conversation, and asked innocent details about her. In five visits I found out Claire was born and raised locally. Single, no kids, one cat. She had never travelled abroad, but wants to see Europe. She got her nursing degree two years ago at Heymount College. Still paying off her school loans. Speaks only English. Works out at the gym regularly. Has a sister in law school. Doesn't smoke. I mentioned I could smell it on my earlier nurse, and that got Claire going -- to her it isn't irony, it's personally irresponsible. Her parents are still alive and have a cottage on a lake I have never heard of about 3 hours away. She alternates between three and four 12-hour shifts week to week, which she enjoys because of the built-in long weekends.
I noticed Billy took a keen interest in my fireside chats with Claire. He was too nervous to sleep anyway, so he was wide awake when Claire came in at 2:30 in the morning. The deep night time is slow. Many patients don't get checked when they sleep, but they checked my fever every hour like clockwork. I hadn't done the usual background checks on Claire, but my pleasant banter didn't raise any flags, so I took a chance.
Every nurse has a routine. With Claire, the pulse was the last thing she checked. So when she held my wrist to feel my heartbeat, I lay back on my bed let my vision collapse into a long, dark tunnel. I was expecting the disorientation as I jumped Claire, so I steadied myself against the bed, looking down upon my own peaceful body.
I pretended to finish up the pulse check, and then in Claire's voice said "all good", a common phrase she used. I looked around, checking if I might have missed anything, but everything looked in order. I walked to the door like Claire does every time, but instead of leaving, I closed the door. There is no lock on patient doors. I then went into the attached bathroom and closed that door. I wanted to give Billy a little show. I pulled Claire's stethoscope from around her neck and stuffed it into her shirt pocket. Then I took off her shirt and bra. I was wrong about her breasts -- they weren't small and shapely, they were nearly flat with long, hard nipples -- they looked like pencil erasers. If it weren't for her dazzling facial features, Claire could easily pass for a man wearing just Jeans and a T-Shirt. Oh, well, they would have to do.
I left Claire's bra in the sink and pulled her top back on. I opened the bathroom door and went to the door to the hallway and checked through the small window -- all clear. I walked with Claire's professional gait to Billy's side of the room, and pulled the curtain around his bed so prying eyes couldn't see from the hallway. Billy was following Claire's every move with wide eyes. At last, I slipped inside the curtain enclosure.
"I hear you're going into surgery tomorrow," I said.
"Yeah," sulked Billy.
"You know, people who go through this procedure find that their full sexual performance returns to normal within a few months." I didn't know shit about what I was talking about, except I was parroting what I had overheard the doctors say earlier that day.
"Yeah," he offered politely, "that's what they tell me."
"No, seriously," I offered earnestly, "you're mojo will come back."
"I don't know," he huffed politely.
"Well, let's take a look," I offered in that condescending "we" nurse tone. I pulled his bed covers down to his knees. He was wearing one of those hospital gowns that ties up in the back -- the kind that comes down to your mid-thigh. I delicately lifted his gown away from his lower body, and folded it upwards, exposing his flaccid junk. I was trying to act professionally, like I knew Claire would. Billy was on his best behavior, trying desperately not to grow a boner. "Do you mind," I said, touching my finger to his shaved ball sack.
"No," he breathed hoarsely. I clinically inspected his scrotum, felt his balls and -- OH MY GOD! -- I could feel the lump. I nearly stopped everything, but then remembered my mission. I let go with my hand and erased the lump from my mind. I randomly poked and prodded a bit more around Billy's hairless groin, as if I knew what I was doing. Finally I encircled Claire's thumb and forefinger around the base of Billy's penis and squeezed gently but firmly.
"Does that hurt?" I asked.
