by Alana Terry
I’m not entirely sure if it’s a question or a statement.
“Any other concerns we should discuss?” he asks.
I’m sure I could come up with a dozen if I had time to organize my thoughts, but everything’s racing through my mind at once. “I guess not.”
“Well, I know we talked about you signing the DNR last time she was admitted. I think you’re doing the right thing.”
I’m assuming he hasn’t talked with Riza Lopez and her linebacker bodyguard yet, but maybe that sort of stuff is automated. Maybe it goes out to all the doctors at once when a parent signs one of those papers. But I recall how adamant he was back in Natalie’s NICU days that the DNR was in her best interest given how much brain damage she’d already sustained. I get the feeling he’s complimenting me for sticking to my guns and agreeing to let my child die if this illness gets bad enough.
I’m not about to correct his assumptions. What business is it of his? It doesn’t matter if Natalie has a DNR on file at Children’s or not because she’s not going to get that sick. She’s already improved quite a bit since we arrived. All this back and forth about it is a big waste of time.
“If you need anything, the nurses know how to get in touch with me.”
Without waiting for a goodbye, Bhakta’s gone. I feel relieved. Why would I trust my daughter’s medical care to anyone who automatically assumes she’s better off dead than alive?
I know canceling the DNR was the right thing to do. I really need to stop second-guessing myself now.
It’s late. Who knows how many more nurses will be in and out tonight to interrupt my rest? At least Natalie is oblivious to it all. That’s one blessing. I grab a blanket and cover myself up in the oversized couch chair.
If I’m lucky, I’ll catch a few hours of sleep.
CHAPTER 67
“How’s your daughter doing?”
I’m sitting in the cafeteria with Eliot. It’s been another long day, and it’s already past nine. Eliot just got off work, and we’re sharing a late dinner.
“I thought she was getting better, but it looks like she’s had some setbacks.”
He frowns. I can’t believe this put-together, handsome MD is Smelly Elly, the boy I tormented so badly back in Massachusetts. “What’s going on?” he asks with more compassion in his voice than I’ve heard from anyone other than Dr. Bell back in Orchard Grove.
“Well, she had something like a seizure last night. It stopped by the time they got her hooked up to the EEGs, but she was doing that foot pedaling thing and stuff. The doctors think it was from the fever.”
He nods. It’s nice talking to someone from a medical background who isn’t officially Natalie’s doctor. “How’s her temperature been?”
“They got it as low as 101 yesterday, but it’s been climbing up since then. It’s been around 103 most of the day. Not too bad, but ...” My voice trails off. Eliot’s a doctor. He can fill in the blanks.
“So it’s pneumonia she’s got?” he asks.
“Not exactly.” I try to remember the word the nurse used. “They said it’s something a little different, roaming something ... adenectomy ...”
“Roving atelectasis?”
I nod, thankful I no longer have to flounder. “That’s it. I don’t even know what it is. I just know it’s different than pneumonia.”
“In a way.” He goes off into some long explanation but stops when he realizes I’m completely lost. “Basically, it means her lung function is compromised.”
“Yeah. I got that part.”
He sighs. “You’ve been through so much. I’m sure you’re ready for a break by now.”
I don’t tell him what I’m really thinking. That I won’t get a break from taking care of Natalie until she’s dead. This is my life from now on. I can see it so clearly, for as long as she lives. Hospital stays. Ambulance rides. Medevac jets. Freaking out over every single fever, every single drop in O2. Could I use a break? God knows I need one. But since that’s not going to happen as long as my child’s still breathing, I guess I’m resigned to this kind of existence. Some women are soccer moms. Others have kids with special needs.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I say. It’s kind of late to be having dinner, but here we are, me with my burger and fries and Eliot with his huge no-cheese Caesar salad.
Eliot’s always had a nice smile. Soft eyes. I think that might be why I was so hard on him when we were kids. He took everything to heart, which made him such an easy victim. He refuses to let me apologize to him anymore, but I still feel bad for what I put him through. “What do you want to know?”
I grin. “Any girls?” My smile vanishes when I watch the pain darken his entire countenance. Good one, Tiff. “Or, you know, pets or anything?” I add.
He shakes his head slowly. “I was engaged a few years ago. You might remember her, actually. Amy Matthews? She was a grade behind me in school.”
The name means nothing to me, but I see how vulnerable he looks and wish to God I hadn’t brought this up. “I’m not sure if I knew her.”
“You’d remember her if you did. She was ...” He’s staring at his half-eaten salad. Why did I open my big mouth? “She was studying to teach kindergarten when she ...” He takes a sip of his bottled water. “She came down with ovarian cancer. Had spread too far by the time they caught it.”
I should have known. There was something quiet, something sad about Eliot I noticed from the moment we bumped into each other in that cafeteria line. I thought it had to do with all the drama he went through as a foster kid. How could I have been so blind? I need to take lessons from Sandy or something. She’s always so kind and comforting, and here I am sticking my foot in my mouth five minutes into our conversation. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He’s smiling again, but it’s like I can feel the heaviness weighing down on his shoulders.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next. Am I supposed to ask him what happened? Ask if she ever recovered, even though the answer’s already pretty obvious? I can’t just change the subject. How rude would that be?
“So did she ... I mean, is she ...” My face is hot from self-loathing.
“She passed away. Three years ago Christmas Day.”
“Christmas Day?” What were you thinking, God? Eliot’s not the type of guy to deserve any of this.
“Yeah.” He lets out a sad chuckle. “She wanted to make it to New Year’s Eve. Wanted to watch the ball drop ...”
“Is that why you went into oncology?”
My question seems to surprise him, like he was so lost in his memories he’d forgotten what we were talking about.
“Oncology?” he repeats, like he’s testing the word out for the first time. “Yeah, you could say that. Before she died, she wanted me to promise her I’d keep up with my studies. Wanted me to help others like her.”
I can’t imagine how hard it would be work your butt off at a job where you’re dealing with folks sick and dying from the same disease that killed your fiancée. Why did I ever bring up such a depressing subject?
“I think another reason I went into the field is because I saw how much of her life was stripped away at the end. The chemo. Everything like that. I found myself asking if it was really worth it. She was in so much pain. And all that did was extend her suffering a few more months.” He sighs. “There’s so many things wrong with today’s medical field. I just wonder ...”
His voice trails off. I’ve lost my appetite.
“She loved kids,” he’s saying, and I’m smart enough to let him talk and let go of whatever’s on his chest. “That’s why she chose kindergarten. She’d just gotten her first classroom of her own when she got diagnosed. Had to quit. Doctors told her she couldn’t be around all those germs. Sometimes I wonder ...” He takes a noisy gulp from his glass jar full of lemon-infused water. “I know it was the right call. Medically, I mean. But sometimes I think if she’d been able to stay in the classroom, she might have stayed heal
thier. Or at least happier. Had more to live for, you know?”
“She had you,” I remind him even though it sounds cheesy.
Eliot doesn’t respond. Something beeps in his pocket. He pulls out a pager. “I’ve got to go.”
“Everything ok?”
“Yeah, just a patient I’ve been ...” He mumbles the rest of his sentence and snatches up his tray. “Nice talking with you.”
“You, too.” I can tell he’s in a hurry, but I feel like it would be cruel to let the conversation end like this. I grab his wrist. Gently. Just enough to get his attention. “I’m really sorry.”
He smiles. His eyes are so kind and deep I could get lost in them for weeks. “Thank you,” he says. As I watch him leave, I wonder how many of Natalie’s doctors and nurses have horribly tragic stories like his in their pasts. And I wonder if I’ll be stuck here at Children’s long enough to learn each and every one.
CHAPTER 68
“Did you press your button?” Tonight’s nurse is middle-aged. Somewhat cross. Her hot pink scrubs are two or three sizes too small. That woman is trying way too hard.
“Yeah. She’s acting a little strange.”
It’s not the feet pedaling this time. There’s something else going on. Hot Pink leans over my baby’s crib, and I catch a strong whiff of Listerine. She’s not a smoker, is she? There’s no way a hospital like Children’s would allow a peds nurse to take regular cigarette breaks. I’m just being paranoid.
“It’s her legs,” I say. “She’s been bending them like that for the past five minutes or so.”
Hot Pink glances at the monitor. Natalie’s oxygen levels are around 86. Not great, but not terrible. I’ve seen worse.
“Let me check her temperature.”
I move out of the way so the nurse can do her thing. She frowns at the thermometer. 103.9. It’s creeping up again.
“Is she going to be ok?” I ask.
“We’ll have to wait and see.”
It’s not the encouraging sort of response I was hoping for.
By midnight, I’ve got two nurses standing over Natalie’s bedside. There’s Hot Pink and now the charge nurse, a skinny twenty-something who’s far too perky for this hour of the night.
“I think we better call the doctor in,” says Skinny as she flits from one side of Natalie’s crib to the other.
“What’s going on?” I ask. It’s a simple question, really. One someone should have answered nearly an hour ago.
Skinny is all smiles and all movement. “I’ll have the doctor come in and have a little chat with you.” She reaches out and turns up my daughter’s oxygen flow before flitting out the room.
Hot Pink doesn’t move. I think just watching the bouncy charge nurse has left us both exhausted.
I should text Jake. He might still be awake, and even if he isn’t, he’d want to know what’s going on. The problem is I don’t know what’s going on. Natalie’s legs are pulling towards her each time she lets out her breath, but it’s not that weird seizure thing she was doing earlier. Her color’s gray, and her O2 levels have dropped another three points since I first pushed that red call button.
Something’s wrong. I just don’t know what.
The nurse leads the doctor in. It’s not Bhakta or any of the other specialists, just the PICU doc. They change them by the week. Something like seven days straight living and sleeping at the hospital, then four weeks off. I don’t know. Sounds kind of cush if you ask me.
This week, Natalie’s doctor is short, bald, and remarkably nondescript. I could pass him in the cafeteria tomorrow morning and forget I ever met him.
“What’s going on?” he asks sleepily. He’s not grumpy, but you can tell his brain still hasn’t decided if it’s time to fully engage or not.
Skinny chatters away like she’s just downed two quad shot caramel macchiatos. It’s a little more techno-babble than I’m used to, but I understand that the tugging in my daughter’s legs has got everyone concerned.
“What’s her O2 at?” the doctor asks as he checks the dial himself.
More medical-speak, and then he tells Skinny to give Natalie a steroid treatment early and leaves. He completely ignores Hot Pink and me.
“So what’s going on?” I ask.
Hot Pink’s not making attempts to be anyone’s BFF tonight. “It’s her lungs. She’s working too hard.”
“What does that mean?” Too hard? What is she trying to say?
Hot Pink isn’t meeting my eyes. I can smell the Listerine on her breath from here, but right now I don’t care if she smokes cigarettes or shoots heroine in the staff bathroom. I just want her to tell me what she knows. Will my daughter be ok? Do we need to give her new medicine?
“It means that if your daughter continues having problems breathing like this, she’ll probably have to go back on the ventilator.”
CHAPTER 69
It’s like I’m on one of those stupid pirate ship rides at a cheap carnival, and I’m ready to get off. I can’t take this incessant back and forth, back and forth a minute longer. One second my daughter’s fine. She’s improving. Her fever’s down. The next minute some middle-aged chain-smoking nurse who’s nearly bursting out of her scrubs is telling me it’s time to think about the ventilator again.
I’m holding Natalie. The charge nurse, Miss Skinny, said if I keep her against my chest and focus on taking deep breaths myself, it can help. Don’t ask me how. The problem’s in my daughter’s lungs, not mine. This is New Age bunk if you ask me, but I’m not about to leave my daughter alone in that oversized crib. Not when she’s this sick.
Now that she’s against me, I can feel how hard her little body’s working. She’s so hot I’m in a sweat a minute after I start holding her. I can hear the rasping, wheezing sound in her lungs and can’t believe I ever teased anybody, especially someone as kind and sensitive as Eliot Jamison, for having a hard time breathing. I hate to admit I was ever that cruel and heartless. It’s fine if God wants to punish me, but can’t he find a way to do it without destroying my daughter? Or are we all the way back to David and Bathsheba again?
The doctor’s been in and out. Hot Pink and Skinny, too. And when they’re not in the room, they’re right across the hall at the nurses’ station where they can keep an eye on Natalie’s monitors and see us through the glass door. Nobody’s said the word ventilator again since my ominous conversation with Hot Pink. I try to tell myself that she’s just a floor worker. Out of everyone involved in this case, she’s the one with the least seniority.
Natalie can’t go back on the ventilator. Man, how much trauma can anyone expect one four-month-old baby to endure? It’s bad enough she’s got all these IVs and everything else. And now they want to shove a tube down her throat ... I can’t take it anymore. I know there’s no way I’m about to sit back and let my child die, but I literally can’t handle reliving what we went through in the NICU. I just can’t. Doesn’t God see that? What’s that whole thing about God doesn’t give us any more than we can handle? He can’t expect Natalie to have to endure another round on the ventilator. I’ve never even been on the machine and feel like I’m suffocating just thinking about it.
All God’s got to do is reach down and heal whatever infection she’s developed in her lungs. That’s all. He did it in Bible days all the time. What’s the big deal about a repeat performance now?
I think about Eliot Jamison, about his fiancée who loved kids. Loved him. He could be a dad by now. I can just picture how comfortable and happy he’d look with little miniature Smelly Ellies climbing on his lap and shoulders. God should have healed his girlfriend. Given them a perfect future together. Her teaching kindergarten, him bringing home the big bucks as a hot-shot doctor.
Why is life so unfair?
I hear Sandy’s voice in my head, so loving. So reassuring. Of course life’s not fair. But God is good. I can’t argue with her, especially since she’s currently just an echo in my mind. But if God is so good, why is my daughter bending her legs
trying to force air out of her lungs? You’re not supposed to have to think about your breathing unless you’re a yoga addict or synchronized swimmer or someone like that. What baby should work this hard just to exhale?
I’m no medical expert, but I know my daughter can’t keep this up. She’s covered in sweat. Everything about her body screams exhaustion. She’s expending way too much energy, and her oxygen levels keep dropping. She’s in the low eighties now. I haven’t seen her above 82 in almost an hour. You can’t live like that forever.
We need a miracle.
The doctor’s back in. He’s frowning at me. Great. I know what’s about to come out of his mouth even before he opens it.
“We’re going to try to get this fever to break, but if things don’t improve, we’ve got to put her back on the ventilator.”
CHAPTER 70
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I should hang up now. I know I should. It’s after 1:30. Nobody calls anybody at this time of night.
“Hello?” Her voice is groggy. I should just tell her it’s the wrong number. Apologize and hang up.
“Dr. Bell?” My throat is dry and chalky.
“Who’s this?”
It’s my last chance to end the call and salvage my remaining dignity. “It’s Tiff Franklin. Natalie’s mom.”
I hear rustling in the background. Did I get her out of bed? “Is everything ok?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. We’re here at Children’s ...” I’m fumbling over every sentence. I need to start over. “I’m sorry to bother you. I just ...” I bite my lip so my voice won’t crack. “It’s just that they want to put Natalie on the ventilator, and I ...”
Great. I’m calling my daughter’s pediatrician in the middle of the night, and I can’t get out a single word.