Lisa knew something was wrong when Mike returned from his discussion with Donald Mayfield. “What’s wrong?”
“Mr. Mayfield is a difficult, demanding father, and a malpractice attorney, to boot. This is a high-risk baby, so we need to be especially careful.”
Lisa looked at him and felt his agitation. She smiled and said, “You want us to be especially careful—not our usual level of carefulness?”
“Touché,” he responded, clutching his chest. “You’re right, of course. I promised myself that this would be just another case, but it’s like trying to ignore that man with a gun at my head—impossible.”
He stood, preparing to leave the unit. “Anyway, our usual best is pretty damn good, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Doctor. I’ll call you if anything develops.”
Harvey called shortly after Mike returned to his office. “How’s the baby doing?”
“We deal with babies like this every day, but fortunately not with the likes of Donald Mayfield. The baby just got to the unit, and he’s making suggestions and demanding consultants.”
“Stay focused, Mike. Don’t let him get to you.”
It’s a miracle, Mike thought as he returned to the NICU the next morning.
He felt a pang of apprehension when he approached Lisa. “Long time, no see,” he said as he kissed her on the cheek. “How’s baby Mayfield?”
“They named him Tanner, and he’s doing great.”
“Tanner?”
“Some kind of family name, I think.”
Mike studied the vital sign sheet, the lab data, and examined the baby carefully. “You’re right. He looks good.”
The ward clerk turned to Mike, and said, “Dr. Russo on line two.”
“How’s it going Mike?”
“The baby’s doing better than expected. Maybe the fates are with us on this one.”
“The Mayfields are coming down to see their son.”
“Well, Harvey, this news should please them.”
“Don’t take anything for granted with them, Mike.”
Mike had completed examining his last preemie, when the Mayfields entered the NICU. Marla smiled and waved. Donald looked at Mike and flexed his finger again.
There’s another digital gesture I’d like to employ in return, Mike thought, but instead, he went to meet them.
“Your son is doing well. I examined him and reviewed all his tests, and I’m pleased.”
“Can we see him?” Marla asked.
“Of course.”
“Have either Dr. Greenfield or Andrews been in to see my son?” Donald asked.
“No. They’re both out of town at a research meeting. If you have other names, I’ll call and make arrangements.”
Mayfield said nothing.
Lisa made room for them at the side of the incubator.
“He’s so tiny,” Marla said. “I can barely see him through all the tubes and wires.”
“That’s normal for a baby born so early. He’s doing well.”
Donald moved beside Marla, looked at his son, and then stepped back. “What the hell’s going on here?” He yelled.
Mike and Lisa looked at each other in shock.
“What are you talking about?” Mike asked.
“What’s the matter with you people? Can’t you see that the baby’s having seizures?”
“What are you talking about? We’ve seen no seizure activity,” Mike said.
“I know convulsions when I see them,” Donald said.
“What’s wrong with my baby? Do something, please!” Marla begged.
“You’re getting your wife upset for nothing, Mr. Mayfield. The baby’s fine,” Mike said.
“He’s shaking—why aren’t you treating him? I want a neurologist, and another neonatologist, or there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“Please take this outside,” Lisa said. “You’re disturbing the babies.”
“Like hell, I will,” Donald said. “You people must be blind.”
Mike suddenly understood, and felt relieved. “Your son’s jittery, that’s all.”
“Jittery?” Marla asked.
“Lots of babies, especially preemies, have tremors, which we call jitteriness. It’s normal, and it’s nothing for you to be concerned about.”
“Jittery? Is that a technical term? What a load of crap that is,” Donald said.
“First of all, keep your voice down. You’re disturbing the unit. If you don’t, I’ll call security and have you removed.”
“That would be the stupidest thing you could do, Dr. Cooper.”
Mike counted to twenty in silence. He took Marla by the arm and brought her to the side of the incubator.
“Watch what I’m doing,” he said as he turned the baby’s head toward them and lifted his eyelids. “Look at his eyes. If he was having seizures, you’d see the jerky motion there.” He then grasped the baby’s leg and moved it gently. Instantly, the tremors stopped.
Mike looked at Marla, then at Donald. “He’s jittery. That’s it. It’s normal. He’s fine.”
“I want a neurologist and an electroencephalogram, damn it.” Donald screamed.
“Don, take it easy,” Marla said. “Dr. Cooper knows what he’s doing.”
Donald shook his head and tried to approach the incubator. Mike put himself in Donald’s path, placed his huge hand against his chest, and said, “Lisa, call security. Mr. Mayfield will be leaving.”
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Donald cried. “When I get finished with you, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
“That’s fine,” Mike said. “I think we need to work on our people skills, Don. In the meanwhile, get out.”
Mike called Brier’s risk management department, explained what had happened, and told them to get ready for a lawsuit.
Later that day, Harvey called. “You had yourself a good day today, Doctor,” he said, laughing.
“It wasn’t funny, Harvey. That guy is obnoxious.”
“Marla wants to see you.”
“About what?”
“Don’t know. She asked to speak with you.”
When Mike entered Marla’s room, he felt relieved that she was alone.
“How’s Tanner?”
“He’s great.”
“I’d like to apologize for Donald’s behavior. He’s been under a lot of stress, but it was inexcusable.”
“Can I be frank with you, Marla?”
“Of course.”
“Your husband is an unpleasant man.”
“Unpleasant man?” She smiled.
“Okay, he’s a prick.”
“That’s about right. Trust me, he’s not always like this. The same way you have a certain gut reaction to a malpractice attorney, he distrusts physicians.”
“That may be so, Marla. I pray to avoid attorneys like your husband in the future, however, I doubt if you can avoid physicians forever.”
“Point well-taken. When you see him again, accept his courtesy as an apology. That’s the most you’ll get out of him.”
“I’ll take it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lisa and Mike continued to make love frequently, but the element of urgency for purposes of procreation proved distracting.
They had just crawled into bed after another busy day. Mike slipped his arm under Lisa’s back, and placed his head against her chest.
“Going to bed has become like stepping onto the stage for a performance,” he said.
“I know.”
“I make love to you, sweetie,” Mike said, “because I want to, not because I have to. I’m not complaining, and it’s always great, but this is different.”
“I know. I hate the term, and I know it doesn’t apply to us, but I feel like you’re servicing me.”
“Ouch! I never thought of that word. For me, it’s more a breach of the natural way we come together. It’s like trying to design a sunset, rather than simply luxuriating in its beauty.”
Mike knew Harvey Russo
as a friend, a colleague, and a mentor. Lisa loved Harvey as the father she never had.
It was impossible not to like Harvey. He stood five foot eight inches and was slight of build. His pot belly protruded over his belt, and gyrated as he laughed, which was often. He loved his work, loved the women he treated, and the babies he helped bring into the world.
He had married Teresa Roberti, a social worker at Brier Hospital. They had two children, Roberta and Peter, now twenty-four, and twenty-one respectively.
Their early years of their marriage had passed in a flash, as Harvey worked hard to develop the practice, while trying to maintain a semblance of normal family life.
Harvey and Teresa loved each other deeply, his practice grew, and the kids thrived, so they were ill-prepared for the adversity that followed.
Teresa had gone to a Brier Hospital Saturday seminar on breast cancer, its diagnosis and treatment. When Jordan Goodman, a local cancer specialist asked for volunteers for breast examination, Teresa raised her hand, “I’ll do it.”
“Relax, Teri,” he said as he examined each breast, and then moved her arms over her head to repeat the examination.
With her arms extended, Goodman hesitated over the lateral aspect of her right breast.
“What is it?” She whispered, suddenly feeling chilled.
When he said, “See me after we finish here,” she knew—it was breast cancer.
While everyone knew Teresa as loving, self-assured, and always on an even keel, few knew her one vulnerability—her health.
Teresa’s health had never been an issue, thank God. Harvey thought. A hint of a medical problem, a twinge, a headache, or a slight stomachache, had her reeling. How’s she going to deal with cancer?
While Harvey prepared for the worst, Teresa surprised him with a focused determination to get well. It kept her fear at bay through six months of terror: surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy, and then five years of watchful waiting, until they could relax.
Harvey and Teresa felt as much in love as the day he had proposed. Adversity brought them closer, and led Harvey to a new level of appreciation for the woman he loved.
Then, there was Harvey and Teresa’s kids, or, at least, Roberta.
Peter and Roberta went to school at USC in LA. They’d expelled Roberta three times, and for now, she took classes at Diablo Valley Community College. She’d been in and out of drug rehabilitation, and they had recently kicked her out of a six-month residential program. She’d slept with her counselor, and shared his methamphetamine.
“You’re wasting time and money on Robby, Dad,” Pete said. “You can’t help someone who refuses help.”
“Are we supposed to write her off?” Teresa asked. “We can’t do that.”
The most embarrassing episode occurred when DEA agents entered Harvey’s office, and, in front of a room filled with pregnant women, presented a search warrant.
“Where do you keep your triplicate prescriptions for controlled drugs, Doctor?” The agent had asked.
“They’re in the lower locked drawer of my desk,” Harvey said.
“May I have the key, Sir?” He asked.
“Of course.”
The agent pulled the pack of triplicates, studied them, and said, “There’s a series of numbered prescriptions missing, fifty, to be specific. Who has access to your office, doctor?”
Roberta—it’s got to be Robby, he thought.
After work, Harvey’s partners, Kirby Dornan, and Neville McDermott asked to meet in Harvey’s office.
“I know,” Harvey cried. “I apologize. I’ll make sure it never happens again.”
“Harvey,” Kirby said, “the police raided our office—right before our patients’ eyes. It's embarrassing—no, it mortifying. It can never happen again.”
Harvey paled. “Your right. How do you think I feel? Roberta’s my daughter.”
Neville’s face softened. “We love you, Harvey. We owe everything to you, but this is too much. Kirby and I discussed this and we agree; Roberta is persona-non-grata in this office from now on.”
Harvey looked up at his partners and nodded his acceptance.
At the one-year mark, Lisa and Mike underwent detailed medical examinations. His sperm count and motility were normal, as was her hormonal profile and pelvic anatomy.
“About 10 percent of couples wind up with infertility of unknown cause. You guys are in that category,” Harvey Russo said.
“Where do we go from here?” Lisa asked.
“We can try intrauterine insemination, ovulation induction, and, worse case, in vitro fertilization (IVF). None of it is easy. You must prepare yourself for failure, unpleasant side effects, and maybe of most importance, the stress on each of you personally, and on your marriage. You guys are a great couple. Don’t try doing it all on your own. We can assist you, so if you need help, let me know.”
As they were preparing to leave Harvey’s office, Lisa asked, “How’s Roberta…I think of her often.”
“No good.”
Lisa took Harvey’s hand. “If there’s anything I can do…anything…”
“Thanks, Lisa. I appreciate that, but that too great an imposition.”
“Let me be the judge of that.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Roberta said as she pulled up a chair next to Lisa in the NICU visitors’ lounge.
Roberta wore a short pleated skirt and a faded silk blouse. Her hair was a short bob, and she had several red sores on her forehead and cheeks.
“I’m not sure, either, but Harvey asked me to speak with you.”
“About what?”
Listen, Roberta, you’re a beautiful and intelligent young woman…
“Was almost good looking,” she interrupted, “but look at me now—my face—my teeth.”
“Harvey has the resources to help with those issues, but if you think talking with me is a waste of time, just go. Don’t insult my intelligence by claiming that you have no idea why Harvey asked me to sit with you.”
“You have special powers beyond the myriad shrinks and social workers I have spoken to before? They were a total waste of my time.”
“I have no idea if I can help you; the only expertise I have is as a psychiatric patient with a troubled past.”
Roberta stared at Lisa. “Drugs, alcohol, behavior problems, or abuse? I’m not big into sob stories.”
“Your altruism overwhelms me, Roberta. Offense may be your best defense, but it's shallow and it demeans both of us.”
Roberta paled. “Sometimes, I don’t believe what comes out of my mouth.”
“You and everyone else.”
“Psychiatrists helped you?”
“Yes. Individual, and eventually, group therapy.” Lisa paused. “I chose the wrong parents. My father was a mean drunk and an abuser, and my mother was a professional victim and an enabler.”
Roberta hung her head down, and then looked up into Lisa’s eyes. “Drug addiction is a whole nother thing.” She paused. “Especially meth. It takes strength and fortitude to beat it, and unfortunately, I have neither.”
“I didn’t do it alone, and you won’t have to, either.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“My ass is as sore as a boil,” Lisa said. “Those shots are killing me. I can’t even sit comfortably.”
“Hang on a bit longer, sweetie.”
More painful for Mike were Lisa’s emotional mood swings. One minute depressed and withdrawn, the next hyperactive, almost manic. They knew that it was the effects of the hormones superimposed on frustration, the physical discomfort, and the disruption on their intimacy.
When Mike arrived home late, the house was silent. He sniffed the air—nothing was cooking.
“Lisa, sweetie, where are you?”
The door to their bedroom was ajar, but the lights were off. Mike went to the bed. Lisa’s form was under the blanket. Her knees were drawn into the fetal position. He sat beside her and flipped the switch on the bedside lamp.
; Daisy lay next to Lisa with her chin on her leg. She looked up, and wagged her tail.
“Lisa, are you okay?”
Lisa’s back faced him, and when she didn’t answer, he turned her gently by the shoulders. Slowly she opened her reddened eyes. Tears ran over her cheeks.
“Lisa. What’s wrong?”
Suddenly, she sat upright, and embraced him, sobbing. “I’m not myself,” she said. “I can’t deal with this—I feel so helpless, so out of control.”
Daisy, upset at Lisa’s distress, licked her face.
“It’s the hormones. It won’t be too much longer.”
“Don’t tell me what I already know, Michael. I’d like you to know how this feels for a change,” she lashed out.
Her anger startled him, although he understood its origins. “If you want to forget about this whole thing, it’s okay by me. I want our life to be as it was, and I want you back. How did I become the villain, here?”
Lisa blew her nose, and then held his face between her hands. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m out of my mind. Don’t pay attention to me.”
“I love you, sweetie. We’ll get through this.” Mike paused, “I didn’t believe Harvey when he talked about the marital stress of IVF, but now I see that it was an understatement.”
They repeated the ultrasound, and the monitoring of Lisa’s ovaries. Then, when they were ready, they harvested the eggs, fertilized eight, and implanted three. They counted the days until the first lab tests.
“You’re pregnant,” said Gordon Hoss, the IVF physician.
“I’m so excited,” Lisa exclaimed.
“We need to monitor your hormone levels. They need to climb, and climb quickly, if you’re to carry these babies.”
“Let’s not celebrate too soon,” Mike said. “I don’t want to tempt the fates, or set us up for disappointment.”
“Now, who’s the one being superstitious? I’m having Phoebe and Jason over tomorrow night for a celebration.”
Lisa lay across Mike’s lap as they waited for their guests. “Have you thought of any names?”
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