“Mine is far too small,” she added with a wicked grin.
Chapter Twenty
It was three-fifteen in the morning in the small labor room, and the intervals between Sophie’s contractions had dramatically shortened. Morgan snapped off the glove she’d worn for the examination.
“Not much longer now, sweetie. This is the last part of your labor and you’re just doing a first-class job. You’re already six centimeters dilated, so we’ll be going to the delivery room real soon now.”
She used a washcloth to tenderly smooth the girl’s sweaty face. The monitor showed the baby was fine, and apart from a slight elevation in Sophie’s blood pressure, things were going exceptionally well.
Life was good, Morgan thought exultantly, snapping off her other glove.
Apart from India’s death just before Christmas, the past few months had been the happiest she’d ever known, although losing her mother had been exceptionally hard for her. Only in the last few days of India’s life had she confessed how much she loved her daughter, and how proud she was of her. Morgan had longed for more time, so they could get to know each other in a way they never had.
Luke had proposed on Christmas Eve, on bended knee, with Tessa and Sophie as tearful witnesses. They’d marry in June, and then they hoped to have a baby of their own as soon as possible.
The girls found it hilarious that Sophie’s child might soon have aunts and uncles younger than himself.
Sophie’s pregnancy had been wonderfully normal, without even the ordinary annoying problems expectant mothers usually had, and her labor was progressing as easily as labor ever did. She began a strong contraction, and Morgan helped her through it, rubbing her back and coaching her breathing.
When it was over, Morgan said, “I’ll get your dad and Jason in here and tell them we’re gonna have a baby real soon.”
She moved toward the door.
“Morgan?” There was something in Sophie’s voice that made Morgan stop and quickly move back to the bed.
“Morgan, my eyes are funny. Everything’s all blurry. And...I can’t...get my breath...”
Before the sentence was complete, Sophie’s eyes rolled back in her head, and to Morgan’s absolute horror, she went into seizure, her swollen body bucking, her limbs thrashing uncontrollably. The monitor that signaled the baby’s heartbeat went suddenly flat.
Eclampsia. The terrible word shot through Morgan’s brain like an electric shock. Sudden elevated blood pressure, followed by convulsive seizures, coma...often fatal for both mother and child.
Fear, stark and vivid, slammed through her. She grabbed a washcloth and forced a wad of it between Sophie’s teeth, and at the same time restrained the girl so she wouldn’t throw herself off the narrow bed.
“Juliet!” Morgan screamed for the nurse and hit the emergency call button, and in seconds the room was overflowing with people.
“Call a code, we’ve got to section her. Let’s get her up to the OR.”
Morgan caught a glimpse of the horror on Luke’s white face, knowing it was a reflection of her own. It seemed unthinkable, but both of them knew they could easily lose Sophie and her baby in the next few minutes.
For an instant, she was immobilized by panic. In the blink of an eye, she saw their happiness, their future, scarred beyond redemption by awful tragedy. And then, between one breath and the next, years of experience clicked in. She was only an obstetrician dealing with a difficult case.
The well-being of the girl on the table was the only thing that mattered.
Her commands were urgent but calm. “Get that portable oxygen in here. Let’s get her on the elevator, load the equipment on the bed. Move it!”
They all went hurtling down the corridor, maneuvering the bed onto the elevator, bodies squeezed against bodies, the air redolent with tension. Jason was ordered to stay behind, but Morgan knew that Luke was close by. The door closed, the elevator began to rise, voices echoed in the cramped space.
“She’s fully dilated, she mustn’t push.” Morgan’s deep voice penetrated the hubbub. “Sophie, can you hear me? Don’t push, please don’t push.”
But Morgan’s frantic command went unheeded. Sophie’s body had relaxed, the seizure over for the moment, but she was only half awake, not responding.
Morgan crouched at the end of the bed, supporting Sophie’s legs on her shoulders.
“Sophie, don’t push.” Juliet, too, was bent over Sophie, frantically repeating the command into her ear, bat Sophie strained and groaned.
“This baby’s crowning. She’s going to deliver....’
Dark, matted swirls of hair and the top of a tiny head became visible, and then Sophie screamed, the sound deafening in the cramped space.
The tiny skull emerged from Sophie’s body, and Morgan supported it. “Sophie, wait. Don’t push now until I say so,” she begged. “Please, honey, don’t push...” Slowly, the head rotated. A shoulder emerged.
Sophie screamed again, the sound dwindling into a moan, and then another convulsion seized her, her entire body alternately thrashing and bearing down uncontrollably.
The elevator jerked to a stop.
A small totally white body, limp and still and streaked with blood, shot into Morgan’s hands. Luke’s grandson, a fine big boy, and he was flat, showing no visible signs of life.
Help me here, please, God...
After an eon, the elevator door sighed open, and everyone exploded into the hall, running hard, bursting through the doors to the OR.
“Call a code 333...” Baby in serious trouble.
The next few seconds were a blur of activity.
Resuscitation was begun. Intertracheal tubes were swiftly put into place to deliver oxygen to the baby and Sophie. A neonatal team worked frantically over the small, still child.
Morgan, desperately tending to Sophie, administered Valium, magnesium sulfate, phenobarbital. Dilantin, to halt the seizures. All the while she felt as if parts of her were also watching the concentrated activity surrounding the child, watching Luke, standing helplessly by while she lost his daughter, his grandson.
Memories of Tessa’s baby stabbed through Morgan’s mind.
Please, not again. We need a miracle here...
Relief hit her like a wave when Sophie sighed and opened her eyes, but then Morgan heard the quiet, desperate note in the voice of the specialist working on her son.
“Apgar 0.” They’d lost the baby.
And then, an instant later, quiet jubilation.
“He’s breathing on his own. He’s pinking up.”
“Apgar 5.”
A small, husky cry sounded, the sweetest music Morgan had ever heard. A jubilant cheer went up from the team of specialists.
“Apgar 9.”
Thank you, angels. Sophie and her son had survived.
Morgan lifted her head and searched for Luke. Through the tears blurring her vision, she looked into his anguished gaze. She grinned behind her mask and lifted both thumbs in the age-old sign for victory.
Dam it all, they’d have their happily ever after, she and this man she loved.
They’d earned it.
Late that evening, Morgan yawned and flexed her aching shoulders as she made her way to the case room where Sophie was still being closely monitored.
Both Morgan and Luke had been in and out of the crowded room every few hours all day, delighted and relieved that things were staying absolutely normal with both mother and son. Jason and his family had also been there much of the day, and Tessa, of course, all of them vying to hold the baby.
Morgan hadn’t yet had a chance to just sit and enjoy him herself, and she was pretty sure Luke hadn’t, either.
After Sophie’s early morning crisis, Morgan had been called to a second delivery, and then one of Luke’s patients also went into labor. After that things were crazy on the maternity floor. Between the two of them, they’d delivered five babies today, as well as Sophie’s son.
Morgan was both exhausted and
exultant over the new lives she’d helped bring into the world. Miracles, all of them, but why did they all have to arrive on this particular day?
Maybe it was the phase of the moon, she mused, yawning again, or perhaps it was just the glorious spring sunshine that made babies decide to come in batches. Whatever it was, she hoped the rush was over, for her sake and for Luke’s.
She opened the door to Sophie’s room. Only the night-light was on, and a doting grandfather sprawled in a chair, cradling a blanket wrapped bundle beside the bed of his sleeping daughter.
“I thought I might find you here,” Morgan whispered, automatically checking the blood pressure cuff attached to Sophie’s arm, pleased with what she saw.
The danger was really over. With a sigh of relief, she looped an arm around Luke’s neck, rested her chin on his thick dark hair and bent over to look at the baby.
The tiny boy wasn’t asleep. His deep blue eyes were wide open, and one curled up leg poked out of the wrappings and rested against Luke’s chest. He looked up at them, his brow furrowed as if he were pondering their place in his new life.
“He’s absolutely beautiful. He’s got your hair.” Morgan stroked the little head with its halo of black silk and held out her arms. “Here, give him to me. You’ve had your turn.”
Luke handed over the fragrant bundle. Morgan’s heart swelled with love for this child whose arrival had been so precarious. “Does he have a name yet?”
“Duncan.”
She studied the little face and nodded. “It suits him. He’s going to be a big, strong man. Drop dead handsome, like his grampa.”
“I suppose I’ll get used to it, but this grampa thing is making me feel elderly.” Luke gently took the baby from Morgan’s arms. “Duncan, let’s take you back to the nursery.”
He bent his head so that his lips were close to her ear. “Then, Doctor, I don’t suppose you’d care to pay a visit to this houseboat I know of and help an old man regain his youth?”
She grinned up at him wickedly. She didn’t feel the least bit tired anymore. “Would that be called a labor of love, Doctor?”
He pressed a kiss to her lips. “Most definitely.”
She pretended to sigh. “Then in the interests of medicine, I suppose I could be persuaded.”
About The Author
My mother, Bertha, and my father, Bob, were both prolific oral story tellers. Bertha told stories of growing up on the Canadian prairies, and Bob told hunting and fishing tales.
I learned to read at five, and the same year, I started school in the one room schoolhouse my father had attended. There were fifteen pupils, most of them my relatives. I was put into Grade Two because I could read all the primers.
I read my way into middle age. I was 46 by the time I wrote my first romance and sold it to Harlequin.
I wrote about 55 romances in the next twenty years. I’d read my way through two marriages, three pregnancies and two divorces, learning by osmosis about plot, character, pacing and what makes a book readable.
I think writers are born with a genetic quirk. They need stories the way other, normal people need oxygen and food. It’s an addiction.
And if they can’t find an intriguing story, they simply write one of their own.
Enjoy a regular diet of Bobby’s writing and get a free copy of her latest novella by visiting her Blog today:
http://bobbyhutchinson.ca/
Bobby’s also on Facebook
BobbyHutchinsonBooks
If you enjoyed The Baby Doctor, try some of Bobby’s other books!
Full Recovery
Follow a Wild Heart
Every Move You Make
How Not To Run A B&B
Grady’s Kids
A Legal Affair
The Baby Doctor Page 19