The sore throat started my last day in Paris. I swallowed a second time; it felt thick and uncomfortable but more “cold,” not “throat infection.” Leaving the hotel room, I pulled on my just-in-case mask for the sake of my driver and jet crew.

Settled on the plane, I sipped a ginger tea with honey, and felt decent enough. Yet once home, I felt the virus sitting in my throat and then the distinctive referred ache in my upper teeth suggesting my sinuses had begun to swell.

I texted Mervyn, who was now officially in my employ, and explained I had an upper respiratory infection, which enemas usually helped me kick faster. Could he please do the honors?

I’d put my mask on; Mervyn also arrived masked, pulled out his medical kit, and asked me what had been going on. As I told the tale he nodded sympathetically, took my temperature with a forehead thermometer, looked in my ears, and palpated my neck nodes gently, which hurt below and at the corners of my jaw. Mervyn said nothing but gave a quick nod of acknowledgment at each location where he’d felt me flinch.

“Mask off, please?” Mervyn looked at my throat and then, awkwardly for me, up my nostrils. He pressed hard over my maxillary sinuses and I winced.

“All set. You can put your mask back on, thanks.” He exchanged his scope for a stethoscope and listened to my lungs carefully, front and back, navigating under my nightgown and requesting deep breaths. Then he asked to examine my abdomen.

“Any issues or pain here?” I shook my head and he helped drape me, then began palpation, which did feel a little sore as he pressed my right side. “Little tender there?”

It was my turn to give a small nod, and then he had me sit up again.

“You have my permission to take it easy for a while, Sandrine. This is a respiratory infection, upper and lower. You have a low-grade fever, swollen nodes, sinus and throat inflammation, and some consolidation in your right lung. Seems like a nasty virus to me.”

He winked over his mask. “If I kept an RN on staff who was glad to do it, I’d have him check in on me for a bit, say, morning and evening.”

“This wasn’t in our contract,” I ventured. “I really don’t want to take advantage.”

“I’m here, and paid for, and you’re just on the edge of a couple secondary bacterial infections. I’d feel better if I did. Humor me?”

“Thank you.”

“Time to get you comfortable for your enema,” he said, tucking a warm compress on my right side and a soft pad underneath me. He returned with my enema can and Higginson. “I made the water a hair warmer because of your fever. We don’t want you to have spasms from your body perceiving this as too cold.”

I thanked him again. He was so thoughtful.

“Roll left?” he asked, pulling on a glove.

Already I felt my muscles contract in anticipatory pleasure, wondering how much Mervyn noticed, and I could feel myself blush thinking that he had instantly and correctly read every other sign during his physical exam.

I heard him open the container of warmed lubricant. He ran a hand reassuringly up my thigh, then lifted my right buttock. “Bear down?” he asked, sliding a slippery finger deep into me.

Softly, involuntarily, embarrassingly, I moaned as his finger slipped fully home and his hand pressed against my anus.

Mervyn froze, and leaned forward to better see my face. “Is this painful?”

“Um, no, not at all, no,” I blundered, sure he felt me tense around his finger from nerves and pleasure.

Mervyn’s finger remained in place and I felt his other hand rest comfortingly on the small of my back. “Deep breath in?”

As I inhaled he gently lubricated my rectum, then withdrew his finger. “Doing okay? Ready for water?”

Soon warm water was running in, with Mervyn pausing to sweep it deeper into my colon with firm, comfortable strokes. “Turn right?” he requested, managing the can and Higginson around me.

“Let’s fill but not stretch your cecum. I want you to retain this for as long as you’re able, at least 10 minutes if you can.”

Lying on my right side, which distributed the water deeper, I felt the Higginson pump me full, but not uncomfortably full.

“You okay? How’s that tender spot?”

“Pretty good. It aches a little.”

Mervyn withdrew the nozzle and asked to massage me.

“Please,” I said, soon feeling one hand supporting my back and the other slide to my right lower quadrant. He massaged very gently and then I felt a wave of nausea as something shifted in my belly. I swallowed hard.

“Deep breath, Sandrine. You were a little blocked there, and we moved it. You should feel more comfortable in just a moment, but we need you to retain this. Just breathe and relax.”

I concentrated on my breathing and soon did feel comfortable again.

Mervyn checked his watch to time ten minutes, and, while gently rubbing my lower back, asked questions about Paris to distract me. I eased into the conversation and the comfort of his touch. Mervyn knew Paris, and art, and was able to converse nimbly while comforting me through some small cramps, applying soft counterpressure to my abdomen and back while discussing Rodin’s sculptures.

“Turn on your back?” he said, offering an arm. Soon he was sweeping water in the direction of peristalsis.

“Has it been ten minutes?” I asked.

He paused his massage. “Eighteen, not including your fill time,” he chuckled, looking at his watch. “That should have you more hydrated and feeling a bit better.”

The ache over my teeth had notched back.

“You’ll need to expel soon. Take a long steamy shower after for those sinuses and that lung, okay? Nurse’s orders. I’ll wait outside for a bit.”

I returned to bed feeling peaceful and exhausted; Mervyn checked in on me, then washed my gear in the next room. “Text me when you wake up so we can see how you are doing, okay?”

Drifting comfortably, I thanked him, and soon the door clicked as he let himself out.