Post by Lab Rat King on Dec 28, 2020 20:12:46 GMT -5
Doctor can you help me? 'Cause I don't feel right
Better make it fast before I change my mind
Doctor can you help me? 'Cause I don't feel right
Better make it fast, because there ain't much time.
Cage the Elephant, Cold Cold Cold
Ernest Conagher held the vial of blood up to the light in a gloved hand, his dark brown eyes narrowing in confusion as he watched the ichor within congeal in real time in less than a minute the moment it made contact with air.
“What… the fuck, Leon.”
Silvio’s bathroom had been converted into a sort of makeshift clinic room. Ernest’s supplies were set up across the bathroom counter, taken out of an old leather bag with a heavy metal clasp at the top. His ‘patient’ was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, squeezing his wife’s hand to help calm him from his phobic reaction to the hypo. He seemed to be fighting an instinct inside himself, low growls rumbling in his throat. Even though he’d been doing much better as of late, his defensive secondary self was still present, and still reactive to the same... situations.
“I didn’t do anything!” Silvio said. That seemed to be a common refrain between Ernest and he, but that was neither here nor there. “This is why we can’t really just take a trip to the hospital.”
“Do you know what’s going on with my husband?” Grace asked, concern written in her features. “Can you help him?”
Ernest sighed, setting the vial down into a plastic stand.
“Well, based on listening to his lungs, and seeing the way his blood clots like that…”
The tailor indicated his own chest, bumping it with the side of his fist as he looked to Grace with a furrowed brow.
“Sounds like there’s been some damage caused by an abnormal volume of stomach acid comin’ back up and then gettin’ hacked down the wrong pipe. Like GERD--you know, Gastro-esophageal--but advanced from a lot of involuntary up-chuckin’. His throat and lungs healed the damage, but not naturally, because of the fast clot... so there’s a buildup of scar tissue that shouldn’t be there. It’s prob’ly gettin’ worse and happenin’ more often because every time his stomach spasms and he chokes more acid down there, process repeats.”
He frowned, looking at Kane, who was staring at him in numb silence.
“Technically, if you had normal blood, you’d be dead. As things are, your blood’s savin’ you from burnin’ out your own lungs, but it’s like a bandaid on a stab wound. Temporary. Delayin’ what would otherwise be inevitable.”
Feeling her heart plummet, Grace’s grip on her husband’s hand tightened.
“Can we do anything for him? Please - whatever needs to happen to make him well, we’ll do it.”
She hadn’t come this far, hadn’t found Kane again now only to lose him. Heaven and Earth would just have to move if that’s what it took to keep him alive.
“Surgery would be the best option, but I understand you're in a tight spot so far as that goes right now.”
A quick glance in Silvio's direction was made before Ernest continued.
“I brought along a few meds that might help. Right now we need to focus on breakin’ down the clots that’re where they shouldn't be. It'll be unpleasant, but it's gotta be done. A diet shift would help, too. No alcohol. No carbonated anythin’. No caffeine, no spicy shit… no smokin’.”
Kane grimaced at that, burying his face in one hand. He couldn’t help but remember all the times he’d ingested or indulged in exactly those things in the past few months. “... Right.”
“Thank you, Ernest.”
Silvio got to his feet, relief and dread mingling oddly in the pit of his stomach. Ernest wasn’t what you’d expect out of a medical professional. Standing at a little under six feet tall, he was a little like an immaculately suited refrigerator in appearance. His craggy face was bisected diagonally by a jagged scar and his gnarled hands were more dexterous than anyone would guess at first glance. Still, there was no one that Silvio would more readily trust to do a job and keep it quiet.
There was a reason, after all, Ernest ‘Stitch’ Conagher’s hands were as messed-up looking as they were.
Ernest never squealed.
Ever.
“Whenever you’re done here,” Silvio said quietly, “I have something else I wanted to ask you about. If you don’t mind.”
The tailor nodded in silent answer to Silvio, said scar-riddled and rough-knuckled hands diving into the medic’s bag in search of the medications he was considering.
“Alright… this one for the lungs… one pill a day for two weeks. It’ll break down the clots in your lungs, so you’re gonna cough ‘em up. It’ll be nasty, but you’ll feel better. These ones for the pain--this ain’t over the counter stuff, it’s serious shit. It’ll make you sleep. Before bed only, just one, until the bottle’s empty. You need more, get in touch. And this one…” Ernest held up a third bottle. “These are your lifers, big fella. For the stomach. This is what’s called a protein pump inhibitor--stops your stomach from overproducin’ acid. In your special case, I’d say take two, one in the mornin’, one at night. Should keep you from havin’ another acid burn episode.”
Kane took all three bottles, staring at the labels. He felt so numb. He felt like he was outside himself, looking on. He was in his mid-thirties, and he already had to take all this medication just to stay on his feet… if it even worked. He couldn’t help but feel fragile in the moment. It was a tough pill to swallow, after all.
“... Got it, doc.”
“Not legally ‘doc’, but you call me whatever you want, tank.”
“Thank you,” Grace said, getting to her feet and laying a hand on Ernest’s shoulder. “What do we owe you?”
The contact gave the old tailor pause; he hesitated, looking down at Grace almost with a sense of familiarity. If her hair were darker, she’d look so much like…
… he just shook his head, absently rubbing his hands together, his fingertips rubbing against the circular scar on his left ring finger.
“Just your silence about the whole thing, ma’am. I don’t like attention--this was a special favour for an old friend… do me a favour back and give that little girl of yours a good life.”
Nodding, Grace gave him a grateful smile. “If you ever change your mind, let us know.” She turned back to her husband, kissing his forehead. It wasn’t a solution. Not yet. Not exactly. But it was a start.
Silvio took that as a cue to step out of the bathroom, pacing down the hall and into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. This whole situation had his nerves on edge, but he wasn’t able to think of anything else he could have done or anyone else he could have called. As he pulled his glass away from the faucet and took a long pull, he waited for Ernest.
There was just…
...one more thing. One more thing to ask about.
His eyes strayed briefly to one of his cabinets; the one where he kept candies and sweets. One that also currently housed an uneaten fortune cookie.
The old man joined him shortly thereafter, giving the couple a moment to process what they’d just learned in private; he wasn’t really used to maintaining any sort of bedside manner, but the presence of a young woman did tend to soften him up a bit. He couldn’t bring himself to be so gruff and cold around them. He was still mulling over the absolute strangeness of what he’d just seen when he came through the kitchen doorway, nodding to Silvio.
“You weren’t kiddin’ about this bein’ a special case, kid.”
“I really appreciate you coming out here for this. I’ve been wanting to help, but I didn’t know who else to turn to. Seriously - if I can do anything for you, just ask.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Especially...well...see, I got this other friend…”
Ernest raised a brow, but didn’t even look surprised. He seated himself at the kitchen table, removing a flask from his back pocket and unscrewing the cap as he watched Silvio.
“Uh huh?”
“It’s not as unusual,” Silvio assured him. “His little sister has type 1 diabetes and you know how expensive insulin can be. I was wondering if...maybe...you had a connection or some way to get it cheaper. I don’t really know how to get a hold of that myself and make sure it’s not cut with something, but I thought you might know somebody or…”
The old tailor scoffed a bit, swallowing a mouthful from the flask. “Insulin? Yeah, that’s easy. You got a passport or somebody you know who does?”
Silvio blinked, surprised.
“Yeah, I have one.”
“Good. You’re lucky we ain’t far from the Canadian border.” Ernest pointed upward, as if to indicate ‘north’. “Up in Hockeyville, you don’t need a scrip or nothin’ to buy insulin. They figured out ain’t nobody gonna abuse the stuff because it’s basically poison if you don’t need it. Over the counter, I’d say… twenty-five, maybe thirty bucks a vial. And that’s in Loonies. Hop up, stock up, scoot back down--not illegal to cross the border with it. You might get hassled a bit because of the global health crisis and all, but that’s not because of anybody's blood sugar.”
For a moment, Silvio’s jaw dropped.
“That...holy shit! Are you serious?!”
Hell, Mitch lived in Detroit. Getting over the border would be a hop, skip and a jump away! This was it.
Beaming, he laughed, running a hand over the top of his head.
“Holy shit! That’s great!”
He resisted the urge to hug Ernest - he’d probably get a right cross for his trouble - but he was all but bouncing up and down on the kitchen floor.
“I can’t wait to tell him! I mean...heck, even if neither of us can get over the border, my friend Zach’s a dual citizen - they’re Metis. I don’t think he can be kept out; First Nations and everything.”
Laughing again, almost deliriously, Silvio shook his head.
“Ernest...thank you!”
“Jesus, look at you go,” Ernest muttered, watching Silvio spring up and down on his heels. “Like an energizer bunny with a championship belt.”
Snorting, Silvio said, “God I wish I’d gotten a photo of your face when you found out I wasn’t bullshitting you about that.”
“Lemme know when you learn to box,” Ernest taunted, a subtle smirk tugging at his mouth. “Then maybe I’ll take you seriously.”
Looking affronted, Silvio staggered as if he’d actually been punched.
“Mr. Conagher, as champion I am wounded at your besmirching of the sport.”
Grinning, he gave a little shrug.
“But seriously, if you wanna come catch a show sometime, it’s my treat.” He gave him a crooked smile. “Believe it or not, I missed you. You’re a good guy to have around.”
The tailor looked a bit surprised at that, but the ragged lines of his face softened… just a little.
“Someone’s gotta keep you idiots in one piece.”
“Couldn’t ask for anyone better,” Silvio said. “I’m going to make some dinner here - you wanna hang around? Got stuff for chicken parmesan.”
“Italian.” Ernest sounded pleased. “That’s more like it.”
Better make it fast before I change my mind
Doctor can you help me? 'Cause I don't feel right
Better make it fast, because there ain't much time.
Ernest Conagher held the vial of blood up to the light in a gloved hand, his dark brown eyes narrowing in confusion as he watched the ichor within congeal in real time in less than a minute the moment it made contact with air.
“What… the fuck, Leon.”
Silvio’s bathroom had been converted into a sort of makeshift clinic room. Ernest’s supplies were set up across the bathroom counter, taken out of an old leather bag with a heavy metal clasp at the top. His ‘patient’ was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, squeezing his wife’s hand to help calm him from his phobic reaction to the hypo. He seemed to be fighting an instinct inside himself, low growls rumbling in his throat. Even though he’d been doing much better as of late, his defensive secondary self was still present, and still reactive to the same... situations.
“I didn’t do anything!” Silvio said. That seemed to be a common refrain between Ernest and he, but that was neither here nor there. “This is why we can’t really just take a trip to the hospital.”
“Do you know what’s going on with my husband?” Grace asked, concern written in her features. “Can you help him?”
Ernest sighed, setting the vial down into a plastic stand.
“Well, based on listening to his lungs, and seeing the way his blood clots like that…”
The tailor indicated his own chest, bumping it with the side of his fist as he looked to Grace with a furrowed brow.
“Sounds like there’s been some damage caused by an abnormal volume of stomach acid comin’ back up and then gettin’ hacked down the wrong pipe. Like GERD--you know, Gastro-esophageal--but advanced from a lot of involuntary up-chuckin’. His throat and lungs healed the damage, but not naturally, because of the fast clot... so there’s a buildup of scar tissue that shouldn’t be there. It’s prob’ly gettin’ worse and happenin’ more often because every time his stomach spasms and he chokes more acid down there, process repeats.”
He frowned, looking at Kane, who was staring at him in numb silence.
“Technically, if you had normal blood, you’d be dead. As things are, your blood’s savin’ you from burnin’ out your own lungs, but it’s like a bandaid on a stab wound. Temporary. Delayin’ what would otherwise be inevitable.”
Feeling her heart plummet, Grace’s grip on her husband’s hand tightened.
“Can we do anything for him? Please - whatever needs to happen to make him well, we’ll do it.”
She hadn’t come this far, hadn’t found Kane again now only to lose him. Heaven and Earth would just have to move if that’s what it took to keep him alive.
“Surgery would be the best option, but I understand you're in a tight spot so far as that goes right now.”
A quick glance in Silvio's direction was made before Ernest continued.
“I brought along a few meds that might help. Right now we need to focus on breakin’ down the clots that’re where they shouldn't be. It'll be unpleasant, but it's gotta be done. A diet shift would help, too. No alcohol. No carbonated anythin’. No caffeine, no spicy shit… no smokin’.”
Kane grimaced at that, burying his face in one hand. He couldn’t help but remember all the times he’d ingested or indulged in exactly those things in the past few months. “... Right.”
“Thank you, Ernest.”
Silvio got to his feet, relief and dread mingling oddly in the pit of his stomach. Ernest wasn’t what you’d expect out of a medical professional. Standing at a little under six feet tall, he was a little like an immaculately suited refrigerator in appearance. His craggy face was bisected diagonally by a jagged scar and his gnarled hands were more dexterous than anyone would guess at first glance. Still, there was no one that Silvio would more readily trust to do a job and keep it quiet.
There was a reason, after all, Ernest ‘Stitch’ Conagher’s hands were as messed-up looking as they were.
Ernest never squealed.
Ever.
“Whenever you’re done here,” Silvio said quietly, “I have something else I wanted to ask you about. If you don’t mind.”
The tailor nodded in silent answer to Silvio, said scar-riddled and rough-knuckled hands diving into the medic’s bag in search of the medications he was considering.
“Alright… this one for the lungs… one pill a day for two weeks. It’ll break down the clots in your lungs, so you’re gonna cough ‘em up. It’ll be nasty, but you’ll feel better. These ones for the pain--this ain’t over the counter stuff, it’s serious shit. It’ll make you sleep. Before bed only, just one, until the bottle’s empty. You need more, get in touch. And this one…” Ernest held up a third bottle. “These are your lifers, big fella. For the stomach. This is what’s called a protein pump inhibitor--stops your stomach from overproducin’ acid. In your special case, I’d say take two, one in the mornin’, one at night. Should keep you from havin’ another acid burn episode.”
Kane took all three bottles, staring at the labels. He felt so numb. He felt like he was outside himself, looking on. He was in his mid-thirties, and he already had to take all this medication just to stay on his feet… if it even worked. He couldn’t help but feel fragile in the moment. It was a tough pill to swallow, after all.
“... Got it, doc.”
“Not legally ‘doc’, but you call me whatever you want, tank.”
“Thank you,” Grace said, getting to her feet and laying a hand on Ernest’s shoulder. “What do we owe you?”
The contact gave the old tailor pause; he hesitated, looking down at Grace almost with a sense of familiarity. If her hair were darker, she’d look so much like…
… he just shook his head, absently rubbing his hands together, his fingertips rubbing against the circular scar on his left ring finger.
“Just your silence about the whole thing, ma’am. I don’t like attention--this was a special favour for an old friend… do me a favour back and give that little girl of yours a good life.”
Nodding, Grace gave him a grateful smile. “If you ever change your mind, let us know.” She turned back to her husband, kissing his forehead. It wasn’t a solution. Not yet. Not exactly. But it was a start.
Silvio took that as a cue to step out of the bathroom, pacing down the hall and into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. This whole situation had his nerves on edge, but he wasn’t able to think of anything else he could have done or anyone else he could have called. As he pulled his glass away from the faucet and took a long pull, he waited for Ernest.
There was just…
...one more thing. One more thing to ask about.
His eyes strayed briefly to one of his cabinets; the one where he kept candies and sweets. One that also currently housed an uneaten fortune cookie.
The old man joined him shortly thereafter, giving the couple a moment to process what they’d just learned in private; he wasn’t really used to maintaining any sort of bedside manner, but the presence of a young woman did tend to soften him up a bit. He couldn’t bring himself to be so gruff and cold around them. He was still mulling over the absolute strangeness of what he’d just seen when he came through the kitchen doorway, nodding to Silvio.
“You weren’t kiddin’ about this bein’ a special case, kid.”
“I really appreciate you coming out here for this. I’ve been wanting to help, but I didn’t know who else to turn to. Seriously - if I can do anything for you, just ask.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Especially...well...see, I got this other friend…”
Ernest raised a brow, but didn’t even look surprised. He seated himself at the kitchen table, removing a flask from his back pocket and unscrewing the cap as he watched Silvio.
“Uh huh?”
“It’s not as unusual,” Silvio assured him. “His little sister has type 1 diabetes and you know how expensive insulin can be. I was wondering if...maybe...you had a connection or some way to get it cheaper. I don’t really know how to get a hold of that myself and make sure it’s not cut with something, but I thought you might know somebody or…”
The old tailor scoffed a bit, swallowing a mouthful from the flask. “Insulin? Yeah, that’s easy. You got a passport or somebody you know who does?”
Silvio blinked, surprised.
“Yeah, I have one.”
“Good. You’re lucky we ain’t far from the Canadian border.” Ernest pointed upward, as if to indicate ‘north’. “Up in Hockeyville, you don’t need a scrip or nothin’ to buy insulin. They figured out ain’t nobody gonna abuse the stuff because it’s basically poison if you don’t need it. Over the counter, I’d say… twenty-five, maybe thirty bucks a vial. And that’s in Loonies. Hop up, stock up, scoot back down--not illegal to cross the border with it. You might get hassled a bit because of the global health crisis and all, but that’s not because of anybody's blood sugar.”
For a moment, Silvio’s jaw dropped.
“That...holy shit! Are you serious?!”
Hell, Mitch lived in Detroit. Getting over the border would be a hop, skip and a jump away! This was it.
Beaming, he laughed, running a hand over the top of his head.
“Holy shit! That’s great!”
He resisted the urge to hug Ernest - he’d probably get a right cross for his trouble - but he was all but bouncing up and down on the kitchen floor.
“I can’t wait to tell him! I mean...heck, even if neither of us can get over the border, my friend Zach’s a dual citizen - they’re Metis. I don’t think he can be kept out; First Nations and everything.”
Laughing again, almost deliriously, Silvio shook his head.
“Ernest...thank you!”
“Jesus, look at you go,” Ernest muttered, watching Silvio spring up and down on his heels. “Like an energizer bunny with a championship belt.”
Snorting, Silvio said, “God I wish I’d gotten a photo of your face when you found out I wasn’t bullshitting you about that.”
“Lemme know when you learn to box,” Ernest taunted, a subtle smirk tugging at his mouth. “Then maybe I’ll take you seriously.”
Looking affronted, Silvio staggered as if he’d actually been punched.
“Mr. Conagher, as champion I am wounded at your besmirching of the sport.”
Grinning, he gave a little shrug.
“But seriously, if you wanna come catch a show sometime, it’s my treat.” He gave him a crooked smile. “Believe it or not, I missed you. You’re a good guy to have around.”
The tailor looked a bit surprised at that, but the ragged lines of his face softened… just a little.
“Someone’s gotta keep you idiots in one piece.”
“Couldn’t ask for anyone better,” Silvio said. “I’m going to make some dinner here - you wanna hang around? Got stuff for chicken parmesan.”
“Italian.” Ernest sounded pleased. “That’s more like it.”