by Alana Terry
Riza sinks into the swivel chair the doctors use and crosses one ankle over the other. “We’re here to talk to you about your daughter.”
I start to wonder if the only criterion you need to meet to become a hospital chaplain is the keen ability to state the obvious. I glance at Dr. Fletcher, who is standing behind her like a looming volcano about to erupt. He clasps his massive hands behind his back, obviously waiting for Riza to take the lead.
She looks at Natalie in her crib. “How’s she doing?”
Natalie still has sharpie marks on her head where the tech prepped her for the EEG reading. “All right.” She’s not moving her feet around anymore. Whatever seizure or weird activity was going on earlier, it’s over now, thank God.
“I guess she had a pretty high fever.” Riza still hasn’t told me a single thing I don’t know.
I nod, wondering how long this interview’s going to take. I haven’t had dinner yet, even though it’s almost eight.
Riza frowns and looks at a note. “So, it looks like she’s having a hard time keeping her oxygen levels up.”
I nod again, glad that I’m not getting billed for this visit or consultation or whatever this meeting is. Maybe Dr. Fletcher has something helpful to add. “Did you get results yet for the EEG?” I ask.
He leans over, and he and Riza both pout at her little notebook. “EEG?” she repeats.
“Yeah. There was someone in here just a little bit ago. Hooked her up to the EEG?” I wonder if I’ve gotten my acronyms wrong. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. “You know, brain scan stuff. Is that why you’re here?”
Their eyes widen as if I’ve just enlightened them with the secrets of the universe. “No,” Dr. Fletcher answers. “I’m not the doctor assigned to your daughter’s case. I’m here because ... well, this is more of a visit to see how you’re doing.”
Something in my stomach clenches shut. What if he’s not a medical doctor at all? What if he’s a social worker or something, here with CPS? What if they know about what I did in Spokane when I went to the women’s clinic there? What if they’re about to arrest me for attempted murder? What if they’re going to steal my daughter from me until I can prove to some court that I’m fit to parent her? What if Patricia ...
“There’s nothing to worry about.” Riza’s taken the conversational reins one more time, and her partner morphs into the background as easily as anyone that large can blend in anywhere. “We’re here because the last time your daughter was at Children’s, you and your partner signed a DNR form stating that you didn’t want her placed on a ventilator.” She leans forward in her chair. She must be real into the whole active-listening thing. It’s like she’s the poster child for open communication. “We’re just here to check if those are still your current wishes as far as your daughter’s future is concerned.”
I’m usually pretty good at reading a variety of different folks, but I’m having a hard time figuring these two out. Does Riza want to intimidate me into redacting the DNR the hospital has on file? Is that why she brought the gigantic doctor here as some kind of heavyweight backup? Or is it the other way around? Does she know that I talked to Natalie’s pediatrician and canceled the DNR? Is she trying to change my mind? I figure the doctor must be here to intimidate me into doing whatever Riza thinks I should. The problem is I don’t know what her angle is. Not yet.
“We’re not trying to get you upset,” Riza begins, “but this is a sensitive subject, and we just want to make sure there’s a plan in place now so you don’t have to make a major decision like this in the middle of an emergency.” She says the last word apologetically, as if she’s terrified of reminding me my daughter could stop breathing any minute.
Trust me, woman, I’m not that fragile. I already know.
I glance at Dr. Fletcher. He’s big enough to play that guy Bear in the Armageddon movie, and I’m beginning to doubt he’s a medical doctor at all. So what is he, then? A psychologist? Some shrink here to tell me what decisions I’m supposed to make for my baby’s future?
I’ll pass, thank you very much.
“What have your daughter’s doctors said so far about her condition since she’s been here?” he asks.
“Not a lot,” I answer. “She’s doing better. Her O2 levels are mostly in the nineties now. She’s been on steroids.” I’m trying to prove to them my daughter is ok. This isn’t a conversation I need to have right now. Natalie’s the most stable she’s been in twenty-four hours, and she’s only going to get better. Whether I do or don’t cancel the DNR shouldn’t make any difference here, because she’s not going to need the ventilator one way or the other.
“Tell me about her neuro-development,” Riza prompts. “You said she recently had an EEG?”
I nod and glance at my daughter. She looks so peaceful now. If it weren’t for the oxygen cannula taped to her face and the sharpie marks all over her head, you might not know anything was wrong with her.
“The nurse was a little worried when she started pumping her legs. It only lasted a few minutes.”
Riza glances at Dr. Fletcher. I wonder why I feel like I’ve just betrayed my daughter.
“Well, we certainly hope you get back a good report from the neurologist.” She’s back to smiling again. Smiling like a cobra before it strikes. “And we don’t anticipate it coming down to drastic measures, but have you decided if you’d like the hospital to keep the DNR we have on file or make changes to it?”
I still get the feeling there’s a certain answer I’m expected to give, that if I make a mistake I’ll fail some sort of test. “I talked with her pediatrician this week,” I begin tentatively. Neither one of them looks upset when I offer this information, so I venture out a little further. “At this point, what I told her was we’d like to cancel the DNR and just see what happens.”
“And did you make that change in writing?” Riza asks.
“No. She said she’d make a note in the file. Was I supposed to do anything else?”
Riza shakes her head, and Dr. Reynold’s stoic face appears a bit softer than it was a minute ago. Maybe I gave them the answer they wanted to hear after all.
Riza taps her pen against her folder. “You did absolutely perfectly. And are you still in favor of cancelling the DNR? Would you be willing to sign a form for us so we have that on file?”
I feel like something’s missing. This is a conversation about whether I’m going to let my daughter die or not. Is three minutes as long as it really takes? Is it as simple as signing a piece of paper or not signing?
“I guess.”
Dr. Fletcher must detect the hesitation in my voice. “If you need more time ...” he begins before I cut him off.
“No, I’ll sign. I really don’t expect her to need anything like this anyway ...”
“Of course not,” the two of them both affirm with vigorous head shaking all around.
“So I guess I’m ready.” I still can’t figure out why I feel so uncertain. This isn’t like me. I’m the one who wanted to cancel the DNR in the first place. This was my plan a week ago before I even knew Natalie and I would end up in Seattle again.
“And your partner?” Riza asks. “Have you had this discussion with him?”
“Oh, yeah.” It’s so easy to lie. “He agrees, too. We want to give Natalie a chance to mature a little bit, you know, see how she progresses.” The words sound so morbid coming out of my mouth. Like going to the dog pound and saying, I’ll take this one. If it doesn’t work out, I can always bring him back, right? And everybody knows but nobody’s willing to talk about what happens to the unlucky pup who gets returned.
Riza pulls a piece of paper out of some fancy folder she’s carrying, I scribble my name, and it’s as simple as that. I still don’t know who Dr. Fletcher is or why the chaplain thought to bring him along, but there’s a lot about hospital politics I’ll never fully understand.
Riza stands up. I still can’t tell if she’s disappointed in me or not. Her Goliath of a partne
r follows her out the door without another word, and I wonder if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life. My daughter is officially off the DNR list at Children’s. It’s a good thing. I know it is.
So why do I feel like I just signed my daughter’s death sentence instead of the other way around?
CHAPTER 65
“Hello?” I don’t want to talk to Jake, but this is the third time he’s called me since Natalie’s EEG. I can’t go on ignoring him forever.
“It’s me.” He always starts his phone conversations the same way. As if my caller ID was suddenly broken and I didn’t have a clue who I might be talking to. “How’s she doing?”
I guess I should be grateful he’s so concerned about our daughter. But asking how I’m doing would be a nice change every so often.
“She’s all right.” I don’t have the energy to tell him everything about the seizure or whatever that was. I’m not sure why the neuro guy hasn’t come yet to give me his report. Do they just expect me to wait all night while they take their sweet time?
“How are her oxygen levels?”
I glance at the monitor. “Ninety-one right now. They’ve been doing pretty good most of the day.”
“She still getting those steroids?” There’s worry in his voice. I should have never mentioned the nebulizer drugs.
“Yeah, they’re what’s making her so much better.”
I can tell he’s unconvinced even though all he says is, “That’s good. How much longer do they think she’ll be there?”
“No clue.” Does he expect me to read minds all of a sudden? Have a crystal ball to tell me the future? “You know how it is. They keep you in the dark until the last minute.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Am I being too negative? I can hardly remember when we talked last. Hadn’t we been fighting about something?
That’s right. His mom.
I don’t say anything either. It’s his problem if he called me just to listen to a bunch of dead space.
I hear a buzzer in the background. “You at work?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
Figures. He waited to call me until he was out of the house. Out of Patricia’s earshot. I swear, that boy’s going to spend the rest of his life either hiding from Mommy or obeying her every single whim.
Silence again. Remind me what I ever saw in him?
“Listen, I’m umm ...”
I roll my eyes, ready to endure the apology he’s about to spew out.
“I’m really sorry my mom was so ... Well, I know you’re probably still upset and all ...”
I don’t bother telling him I’d forgotten all about Patricia until just a few seconds ago.
“Anyway, sorry.”
What are you supposed to say to that? The best I can do is something like, “Yeah, ok.”
His voice grows hopeful. “So, umm, listen. I was thinking that if you’re gonna be there a while, if you think it’s gonna be more than a day or two, I might come on over. If, you know, if that’s all right with you.”
“She’s you’re daughter, too.” What does he think? That I’m going to forbid him from coming? That I’m a tyrant who needs to give him permission before he can visit his own child?
“What about work?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been thinking. Maybe, you know ...” He’s hemming and hawing so pathetically I want to shake him by the shoulders. “Maybe we should try to find a place in the city. You know, just look around a little bit.”
I can’t believe he’s actually talking about leaving the trailer. About leaving Orchard Grove. Am I in that Family Man Christmas movie? Am I Nicholas Cage being given a chance to imagine my life in some other dimension?
“How are you going to get out here?” I don’t want him to get too far ahead of himself. One thing at a time. He can’t seriously be planning to drive the Pontiac ...
“You know, I was thinking ...” His voice is so nervous I know what he’s going to say before he says it. The gist of it, at least. “My mom’s planning to fly out to visit Abby over Christmas, and the tickets are a lot cheaper out of Seattle, so ...”
I roll my eyes, waiting for him to get to the actual point.
“So, I think what we’re hoping to do is my mom can rent a car, we’ll drive to Seattle together, and I’ll drop her off at the airport and come see you two.”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Fine?”
I roll my eyes. Is he seriously about to nag me to death for not having more enthusiasm in my voice? Does he have any idea what I’ve lived through the past twenty-four hours? Does he have any idea how it feels to be woken up by a nurse who’s covering you with a lead blanket so you don’t get radiation poisoning while they X-ray your sick daughter’s lungs? Or having to sit in a room across from some silent, WWF champion lookalike who either does or doesn’t want you to sign a DNR form but won’t tell you which he thinks you should do?
“Good,” I correct myself without bothering to mask my annoyance. “That sounds good.”
“Listen.” His voice is all huffy, like he’s the one gearing up for an argument now. “I know you and my mom had some issues, and she asked me to apologize to you. If this is going to constantly be some big thing ...”
“It’s fine.” I shouldn’t interrupt. I just don’t have the stomach to listen to all this whining. Not tonight. “I’m glad you found a way to come out here without having to worry about the car.”
I hear him sigh on the other end of the line. “And what about the other thing? What about staying in Seattle? They have good doctors there. We can make sure Natalie gets set up ...”
“Let’s talk about that once you get here,” I say. Maybe it’s that chaplain Riza’s visit that’s gotten to me. I just can’t stand the thought of revolving all our future plans around a girl who may or may not be alive when I wake up Christmas morning.
“Ok.” He pauses again before asking, “You sure you’re not mad about anything?”
I remember how happy we were, that tiny shred of bliss we experienced right before Natalie was medevaced. Was that just yesterday? It couldn’t be.
I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “No, I’m not mad. Just tired.”
“Long day, huh?” There’s a hint of softness in his voice. He wants to end the conversation on a positive note.
Fine by me. “Yeah. You could say that.”
“Well, sleep well tonight, ok? And tell my baby girl I miss her.”
“I will.” Maybe having Jake out here won’t be so bad after all.
“Ok.” He’s stalling. Like he doesn’t know how to end a stupid phone call. Then again, I’m not making the move to wrap things up either. “Well ...” Another pause. I swear I can picture him blushing on the other end. “Love you, ok?”
It’s an annoying way to talk to your wife, but it’s nice to hear nevertheless. “Love you, too.” Now I’m the idiot blushing, but that’s because the pediatric neurologist is standing at the door, impatient.
I end the call and watch him strut in like a juvenile court judge getting ready to deliver his verdict.
CHAPTER 66
Dr. Bhakta is one of the only specialists from Natalie’s NICU days I know by both name and sight. And no, that’s not because I have favorable memories of him. He’s short, probably Indian judging by his accent. I’m not sure. Is Bhakta an Indian name? I wouldn’t know one way or the other.
Most of the specialists I met in the NICU were all business, but Bhakta has the exact opposite problem. He’s like Robin Williams in Patch Adams, except he’s not trying to be funny on purpose. He’s just a goof without even intending to be. And not in the comedian way, either, more like the clumsy-big-brother-you’re-embarrassed-for way.
It was Dr. Bhakta who first taught me the difference between brain dead and vegetative. So maybe that’s a hint about why I don’t like him.
He’s smiling now, and I don’t know how much of my phone conversation with Jake he overheard. Oh, well. I should know bett
er than to expect any degree of privacy at a place like Children’s.
He reaches out his hand. “Good to see you again.”
I seriously doubt he remembers me from our previous encounters, but maybe I’m wrong. I assume that since he works at a hospital as busy as this he’s got a caseload in the hundreds. I’m just another face to him, and Natalie’s just another chart.
“I read your daughter’s EEG,” he’s telling me without sitting down. “The good news is she wasn’t having a seizure.” He’s looking at my baby in her crib and not at me.
“That’s good,” I reply. “So what was all that she was doing with her feet?”
“That was probably a seizure.”
“I thought you just said ...”
“I said she wasn’t having a seizure when we ran the tests. The EEGs can’t tell us what happened in the past, just what’s happening at the moment. And at the moment she was hooked up to the machine, she was not having any seizure activity.”
I could have told him that and saved the tech an hour’s worth of work.
“So that means ...”
He still hasn’t made eye contact with me. “That means your daughter probably had a seizure, most likely as a result of her fever, but her brain activity is fine now.”
Again, he’s not telling me anything I couldn’t have assumed on my own. “What about medicine or something? Do we have to up her seizure meds?” I hate the way the meds keep her so sedated. I swear that’s at least partly why she always seems so out of it, not because of the brain damage itself.
I’m relieved when Bhakta tells me he’s not comfortable giving her a higher dose at this point. “Don’t want to suppress her system any more than necessary, especially not while she’s having these breathing problems.” He glances at her monitor. “O2s are looking good?”
