The Best Medicine

by Anne Marie Rodgers

  THE Best

  Medicine

  THE Best

  Medicine

  ANNE MARIE RODGERS

  Stories from Hope Haven is a trademark of Guideposts.

  Copyright © 2010 by Guideposts. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to Guideposts, ATTN: Rights & Permissions Department, 16 E. 34th St., New York, NY 10016.

  The characters, events and medical situations in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or occurrences is coincidental.

  www.guideposts.com

  (800) 932-2145

  Guideposts Books & Inspirational Media

  Cover design and illustration by Lookout Design, Inc.

  Interior design by Lorie Pagnozzi

  Typeset by Aptara

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  In loving memory of Lynn Rishell Henthorn.

  You were a Spirit-filled beacon of light during your brief life.

  How brilliantly you must shine now!

  My flesh and my heart may fail,

  but God is the strength of my heart

  and my portion forever.

  ∼Psalm 73:26 (NIV)

  The Best Medicine by Anne Marie Rodgers

  Chasing the Wind by Patricia H. Rushford

  Hope for Tomorrow by Patti Berg

  Strength in Numbers by Charlotte Carter

  A Simple Act of Kindness by Pam Hanson & Barbara Andrews

  The Heart of the Matter by Leslie Gould

  Well Wishes by Anne Marie Rodgers

  Measure of Faith by Patricia H. Rushford

  Cherished Memories by Patti Berg

  Christmas Miracles by Charlotte Carter

  The Healing Touch by Pam Hanson & Barbara Andrews

  Lean on Me by Leslie Gould

  Special Blessings by Anne Marie Rodgers

  With Open Arms by Patricia H. Rushford

  In This Together by Patti Berg

  New Beginnings by Charlotte Carter

  Acknowledgments

  With deepest thanks to Jacqueline Y. Duffey, RN, BSN, for her assistance with information regarding hospital practices and for saving me from being clueless about the nursing profession.

  Chapter One

  AND FINISH WITH A DEEP, CLEANSING BREATH.” Candace Crenshaw demonstrated, inhaling deeply and then slowly releasing her breath as thirty faces watched her with intense concentration. “It's important to remember to fill your lungs at the beginning and end of each contraction. This will provide both you and your baby with additional oxygen.”

  As a registered nurse who worked in the Birthing Unit at Hope Haven Hospital, Candace taught a Labor and Delivery class every week. The first meeting of her latest session was being held on a Thursday evening in the hospital's conference room. Tables had been pushed to the sides of the room to accommodate fifteen pregnant women and their labor coaches.

  Candace continued. “I’m going to send around a handout reviewing the first two breathing patterns. Please take some time to practice them for a few minutes each day in the upcoming week. Now, ladies, we are going to take a five-minute break. Afterward, I’d like you to unroll your mats and sit down. Labor coaches, you’ll be moving behind them.”

  Immediately, there was a low buzz of conversation. Several women made a beeline for the door, no doubt heading for the restroom. Candace smiled as she stepped away from the podium where her notes lay. She picked up the attendance roster and began moving around the room trying to match names with faces. She would be seeing many of these ladies over the next few months when they delivered their babies, and she liked to be able to greet them by name when the time came and they arrived in the Birthing Unit.

  “Hello, Candace! Do you remember me?”

  Candace looked up from the roster. A small woman with short dark hair stood before her. She looked familiar. Candace did a mental scan, trying to place a name with the face. “Robin King! Is that you?” Candace moved toward the woman with her arms out, and the two women exchanged a warm hug. Then Candace pulled back to look at Robin more closely. “You’re all grown up. How are you?”

  “I’m great,” the young woman said, beaming. “It's Robin Overing now, though. This is my husband, Andrew. Honey, this is Candace Fuller—ah, Candace Crenshaw. She was my babysitter way back when.”

  “We lived in the same neighborhood,” Candace told Andrew as she shook his hand. He was a pleasant-looking man who appeared to be in his midtwenties. “It's nice to meet you.”

  “My pleasure,” Andrew said. “I imagine I’ll mean that even more sincerely when Robin goes into labor, and we’ll need your help to get this baby born.”

  They all laughed.

  “Your hair is shorter,” Robin said, studying Candace. “I remember you always had it in a ponytail, and I bugged my mother incessantly to let me grow mine long like yours.” She turned to Andrew. “Candace was my idol. I loved it when she came to babysit.”

  Candace chuckled, lifting a hand to touch the wavy brown hair that brushed her jaw. Hard to believe it was once so long. “How many years has it been since we last saw each other?”

  “At least ten. I was in high school when you came back to town with your husband. You were pregnant.”

  “Brooke is eleven now,” Candace said.

  Robin was still smiling. “It's so wonderful to reconnect! How's your mom? Where is she living now? I’ve tried to talk my folks into moving into something smaller and easier to take care of, but so far, they refuse to consider it.”

  “My mother lives with us now,” Candace told her. She cleared her throat. “I don't know if you heard, but my husband passed away very unexpectedly. Mom has been my rock since his death.”

  “My mom told me.” Robin put a hand on Candace's arm, her eyes welling with tears. “I was so sorry to hear about his passing. I can't imagine how you kept on going.”

  Candace forced a smile, refusing to let the lump in her throat prevent her from speaking. “It wasn’t—still isn’t—easy,” she admitted, swallowing. “But I have the children, and they need me.” There was a moment of awkward silence. Candace filled it by asking, “When are you due?”

  “August twenty-ninth,” Robin told her. “We can't wait. Neither can my parents. This is their first grandchild.” Her smile dimmed for a moment, and her eyes had a faraway look. But then she blinked and grinned.

  “Oh, I bet your mother is over the moon,” Candace said, wondering whether she had just imagined Robin's fleeting expression. “Please tell your folks I said hello.” Glancing at her watch, she said, “I'd better mingle a bit more before our break ends. It's so great to see you again, Robin; and it was lovely meeting you, Andrew.”

  The young man nodded. “Likewise,” he said with a smile.

  The following afternoon, Candace finished work promptly at three. As she walked to her car, she realized she was smiling.

  The sun was shining, and it had been a good day. She was even getting off work on time—and wasn't that a minor miracle? She had assisted with the birth of twins only a short while ago, but the labor had gone unbelievably well. The mother hadn't even needed a cesarean section. The babies were healthy and both parents were ecstatic. Candace herself was brimming with a rare sense of euphoria. So many multiple births were fraught with problems that it was a good day when one went really well.

  Humming a folk rock tune by her favorite contemporary Christian band, Candace started her car and drove south to Rishell Elementary Sc
hool where her eleven-year-old daughter, Brooke, was a fifth-grader. She’d barely had time to park when she heard the last bell ring. Moments later, Brooke came walking toward the car.

  The child's shoulders were slumped, and her head was down. Candace's heart sank. It had been such a good day, but it didn't look as though Brooke could say the same.

  “Hi, honey,” Candace called through the open passenger window. “How was school today?”

  Brooke looked up. There were tears streaming down her face, and she began to run. She's such a little thing, Candace thought, her heart aching as she watched her unhappy child approach. Like Candace had been while growing up, Brooke was small for her age. But Candace didn't think she had ever been as thin as Brooke.

  Brooke opened the car door and plopped down into the passenger seat, then flung herself into her mother's open arms.

  “What's wrong, sweetheart?” Candace asked.

  Brooke just shook her head, her face buried against her mother. Elementary school kids could be cruel, and the last thing Brooke needed was to be teased. “Bad day, honey?”

  Brooke nodded. Her head was bowed and her long, blonde curls hid her face. But Candace knew her daughter was still crying as tears fell to her denim skirt.

  Candace waited a moment, but Brooke didn't speak. A rush of fear shot through Candace. Calm down, she thought. Just because she isn't talking right now doesn't mean she’ll again revert to not talking at all. But it was difficult to ignore. After Dean's death, Brooke hadn't spoken for two months, despite counseling and all the patience and attention Candace had been able to muster during those awful days. Still Candace got a jittery feeling in the pit of her stomach when there was even a hint that Brooke might be headed back to one of those episodes.

  “I’m sorry you’re unhappy,” she told her daughter. Brooke would speak when she was ready, Candace reassured herself. “If there's anything I can do, I’ll be happy to help.”

  “C-Carla's cat d-died,” Brooke stuttered. She began to sob. “His name was Mr. Whiskers. I used to pet him when I slept over.”

  “Carla's kitty died? What happened?” Though Candace was relieved to hear her daughter speak, she hid her dismay. Brooke couldn't even watch nature programs where predators hunted smaller game. Since her father's passing, death was a very difficult topic for her.

  “He was seventeen years old, and he didn't wake up this morning,” Brooke told her. “Carla didn't come to school until after lunch, but she told me about him after school.”

  Candace took one hand off the steering wheel and gently patted her daughter's knee. “It's hard to lose a pet, especially when you’ve had one as long as Carla had Mr. Whiskers. Seventeen is pretty old for a kitty.”

  “That's what she said.” Brooke swiped tears off her cheek. “Mom, why do you think God let Daddy die before he was old? Why did He let Mr. Whiskers live so long?”

  Oh boy. Candace wished she could ask Brooke's counselor for advice. “I don't know if that's how we should think of it,” she told her daughter, shoving the fact that she’d had similar thoughts to the back of her mind. “Bad things happen in life sometimes. God helps us get through those times.”

  Brooke was silent, and Candace wondered what her daughter was thinking. But she forced herself not to pepper her child with questions. Don't push it, she reminded herself, thinking of what Brooke's counselor had said. “Would you like to send Carla a card?” she asked.

  Slowly, Brooke nodded. “When we get home, will you help me make one?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can we use your special stamps and embossing powder and watercolors?”

  Candace smiled, as she registered the returning normalcy in Brooke's cajoling tone. “We’ll pull out all the stops. I think I might even have a stamp that says With Sympathy.”

  “You also have three kitty stamps,” Brooke reminded her.

  “It’ll be the prettiest card Carla has ever seen.” She glanced over and winked at her daughter.

  With a final sniff and swipe of her nose, Brooke sat back in her seat and smiled.

  The weekend passed uneventfully as Brooke was preoccupied with making the card. On Monday, Candace went to the staff lounge and got her packed lunch from her locker. She then walked to her mailbox and pulled out several in-house notices and one sealed envelope with the hospital's return address and logo in the corner. It's not payday, she thought, wondering what the letter could be. As she opened the envelope, she noticed that there appeared to be one in every staff mail cubby.

  She withdrew the letter as she walked toward the lounge door. Moments later, however, she sank into a chair and reread the short statement with a feeling of shock.

  As you know, Hope Haven Hospital has been facing ongoing serious financial difficulties for several years. Unfortunately, this budget crisis has significantly worsened during the recent economic downturn. Pending an unforeseen source of funds, the board of directors has reluctantly agreed upon a plan to close the hospital by the end of the year….”

  She read the letter for a third time, trying to absorb the words. Her chest grew tight. What would she do? What would the community do?

  A nurse came into the lounge then, and Candace rose, quickly stuffing the letter into its envelope. She couldn't stand to see other people's faces as they received the bad news. She left the lounge and headed downstairs to the first floor, retreating to the small courtyard outside the chapel for her lunch break.

  As she barged through the door, she halted, squinting against the bright noonday light. The north-central Illinois weather was sunny and mild in May. A brilliantly plumaged cardinal warbled a musical solo in the scrawny paperbark maple tree that shaded the weather-beaten picnic tables.

  The front lawn and entrance to Hope Haven Hospital were beautifully landscaped with perennials and flowering shrubs, but it appeared that little thought had been given to the cramped picnic area where members of the staff ate lunch on pleasant days like this one. Loose gray stone covered the ground beneath the three picnic tables and single wooden bench, while a waist-high privet hedge divided the space from the adjacent visitor parking lot.

  The sky was a beautiful blue, and the warmth of the sun, a pleasant bonus. Unfortunately, it couldn't melt the icy dread that had formed in Candace's stomach.

  Just then, the door opened, and a tall, slim woman wearing blue scrubs stepped outside. “Hello,” she said. She attempted to smile, but it faded before it had fully formed. “Did you get this yet?” she asked, holding up her copy of the letter.

  Candace nodded. “Just now.”

  “This is just terrible.” The woman looked vaguely familiar, although Candace didn't know her name.

  A light breeze stirred tendrils of Candace's brown, chin-length bob; and she reached up to tuck a strand behind her ear. She wasn't exactly in the mood for company, but good manners won out. “I’m Candace Crenshaw. Would you like to join me?”

  “Thank you. I’m Elena Rodriguez from Intensive Care.” Elena looked about a decade older than Candace's thirty-seven years. Although she currently had a grim expression, there were laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Her thick dark hair was pulled back with a sturdy clip, and there didn't appear to be a hint of silver in it. “You’re in the Birthing Unit, right?”

  Candace managed a weak smile and nodded.

  Elena glanced down at the letter again. “I can't believe the hospital might close. I’ve been here for sixteen years, and I thought I’d work here until I retired.”

  “I know what you mean. I’ve been here for ten.”

  Just then, the door opened again and a tall man with dark hair touched with gray, also wearing scrubs, surveyed the courtyard. He smiled pleasantly at the two women and nodded, though his smile quickly faded as his thoughts seemed to return to the letter he clutched in his hand. Elena said, “Hello, James. Would you like to join us?”

  “Thanks, Elena.” James settled himself at their picnic table.

  “Candace Crenshaw, this is J
ames Bell.”

  As Candace reached over to offer her hand to James, she asked, “I’ve seen you around the hospital before, but I’m afraid I’m not very observant. What department are you in?”

  “I’m a nurse in General Surgery,” James told her. “Been there for almost twenty years now.”

  Just then, the door flew open with enough force to send it banging against the wall. A slender, older nurse started outside, letter in hand. She stopped short when she saw the three already seated in the courtyard.

  “Hello, Anabelle,” Elena said. “Come, join us.”

  The other woman shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said with a distressed expression. “I didn't mean to bother you.”

  “It's all right,” Elena assured her. “Do you know Candace and James?”

  James waved Anabelle over. “Anabelle and I go to the same church. We’ve known each other for years.”

  Anabelle managed a smile. “It's true,” she said. “But I refuse to say exactly how many years.”

  Everyone chuckled, though the laughter died quickly.

  Candace extended a hand. “I’m Candace Crenshaw from the Birthing Unit.”

  “Anabelle Scott,” the older woman said. “From Cardiac Care.”

  “Please join us,” Candace said, patting the bench beside her.

  Anabelle shook her head again. “My lunch break is just about over. I need to get back. But when I went to the staff lounge to pick up my mail, I found this,” she said, shaking the letter. “It made me so upset that I had to come out here and calm myself down before I went back to work.”

  “I felt the same way,” Candace told her.

  James added, “This means local people would have to travel greater distances, especially for emergency care.”

  Anabelle paced back and forth over the gravel. “This is terrible. This would affect the entire community.”