“Umm. Hey, I’m Jules…” Damn, I already said that. I stuck out my hand feigning cool, calm, and collected. “I’m the assistant nurse manager of the PICU. You must be Dad. Great to meet you.”
He squinted ever so slightly before rising from the small bedside chair, which wasn’t actually that small but looked like dollhouse furniture next to his towering frame.
Swallowing my hand with his own, he eyeballed his watch. Awkward.
“Listen. I get that you’re new, everyone has to start somewhere, but Finn has an extensive history and I’d appreciate if someone could fill you in. I don’t have the time.”
You don’t have the time?
And how did he know I was new?
Wait, did he just dismiss me? Oh no. This man had to be shitting me.
I thought not.
I felt my face flush. I hated how my cheeks always betrayed me.
I worked damn hard for this title, and with four years of experience, I was as seasoned as they come. I might’ve been new to this institution, but I was far from new.
Right before I had a chance to set intimidating Surfer Dad straight (with a professionalized version of my internal rant, of course) a petite blond came in like a whirlwind, freezing the tension. She dropped her purse alongside the bed and plopped down.
“Hey. I stopped by room two, but I didn’t see my Curly Cue. It’s busy in here already this morning. How you feeling, sweetie?”
Finn barely looked up, he was totally engrossed in his game, typical little kid.
“Where are we? Did my boy have to get another prick yet?” She gave her husband a knowing look before bouncing to me with eyebrows raised. She kept talking. “He’s been running a fever off and on since yesterday afternoon. Hit 104 this morning, I got worried. Last dose of children’s Tylenol was about two and a half hours ago.” She touched his forehead. “He seems good now.”
I sensed her relief. Finn still looked a little sluggish and weak, but it had to be a huge improvement. High fevers were no joke.
“This is the third fever in three weeks. I’ve had it with this,” Dad clipped.
“You definitely made the right decision to bring him in. Fever in any little guy leads right to dehydration and that can be very dangerous. He’s got IV fluids running, and he seems to be perking up a little.” I snapped back into nurse mode. This guy wasn’t going to rattle me with his insolence. “I’ll check with the ER staff and see where they are on his work-up, but first let me ask a few questions, get his history, so if he winds up needing to stay, we’ll be ahead of the game.”
Dad crossed his arms across his broad chest, settled into his stance and matter-of-factly stated, “He’s getting admitted.”
“Admitted?” Color drained from his wife’s face as she continued to rapid-fire questions. “Why does he need to be admitted? Oh God, were his labs abnormal? Did he spike again?”
Before I could calm her down, not that I knew the answers to any of her questions yet, the curtain rustled behind me. Dad lifted his chin and said, “Jill. Good.”
The Disney resident, who now had a name, joined us with a huge smile for our little friend and began. “Good news is chest X-ray is clear, labs are pending, but three fevers in the last month with an unidentified source needs investigating. We’re taking no chances here.” She shook her fingers through Finn’s fine hair reassuringly, but the little guy was beyond consumed and content ignoring the adults conferring around him. “We’re going to pan culture him, blood, stool, urine, and I hate to say it, but CSF this time too. We’re considering broad spectrum antibiotics during the interim as well.”
“CSF, as in he needs a spinal tap. Oh Guy!” Mom cried, as panic plagued her features, not that I could blame her. No parent wants their child to be held down while a twenty-gauge needle punctures their spinal canal. Though it was a little surprising how clinically versed both parents seemed to be.
Dad’s tense stance didn’t change when he unfolded one arm to bring her in for a half hug. It wasn’t overly affectionate; it felt forced and … distant. I suddenly felt sorry for her.
“We’re going to do what needs to be done,” he said with finality in his tone.
“Okay, let’s get him settled upstairs first and then we’ll proceed.” Jill looked at me to cue the transfer.
Dad may have been stoic and resolute, a little too much so (who was I to judge), but Mom radiated nervous energy. To lessen her blow, and to clarify my own confusion, I accepted the chart from Jill’s outstretched hand and asked, “Do you want to hold off on moving him right now? Finn seems comfortable, and we can run all those tests from here. And while we’re waiting, his Tylenol should be wearing off. We’ll have a better sense of whether he’s going to spike a fever again. And I know on good authority that the balloon artist is scheduled to come down here in a half hour. He was finishing up in the PICU before I came down.”
Finn peeked up and showed off his ridiculously precious dimples. Yep, balloon artist trumped iPads every time.
I was in no way overstepping my bounds. It was completely unorthodox to go straight to a PICU admission. FUO (fever of unknown origin) was always worked up in the ER.
Dad rolled his eyes. Seriously, he rolled his eyes, while Jill bit her lip. Whatever. He already disliked me. My only concern was Finn and being his advocate.
“Um...” Jill’s brain looked to be working overtime. “You’re right, Jules, we’d usually do that. But Finn’s got a pretty extensive history. Dr. Guillroy is his private pediatrician and he definitely wants him admitted, at least overnight. He’ll be much more comfortable in a private room. Peds floor is full, so he’s bumped to the PICU. Dr. Hunter is most comfortable with that too.”
Dr. Guy Hunter, as in MD Hunter, as in scowling Dad. Crap. No wonder he wasn’t feeling like going through his son’s history with the new assistant nurse manager, who just second-guessed his son’s plan of care without knowing his medical history. But then again, he didn’t have to be such a … no, I wasn’t going to say it. That thought was a little harsh. Besides, who was I to judge?
Before I had a chance to remove my foot from my mouth, Finn chimed in cheering, “Bawoons, bawoons.” He hopefully tugged at his father (aka Dr. Hunter), who in turn morphed his eye roll into daggers of steel. At me. Whoops.
Jill squatted to Finn’s level. “Hey, buddy. I noticed Italian ice is on the menu today. I’m sure we can have some waiting for you in your new room with a comfy bed.”
Nice save, had to give it to her.
Disappointment scrunched Finn’s brows beneath his thick glasses. “Bawoons.”
Double whoops.
Jill forged on, sing-songing, “I’m pretty sure I saw your favorite flavor on the list.”
“Yemon?” Finn’s humongous cheese relaxed the room. God, he was seriously the sweetest little boy.
Note to self—sweets trumped balloons trumped iPad for my new patient. Too bad my dad wasn’t here to whip up his famous batch of water ice. It was legendary back in the neighborhood, and I highly doubted the hospital cafeteria had anything on Alonzo Chiappetti.
“You bet.” Jill smiled, unable to hide her adoration for the little charmer.
My back pocket vibrated in succession, and since this seemed like an ideal time to step out, I announced, “I’m going to get started on the orders and get things rolling then.” Dr. Hunter was definitely not going to miss my presence.
Moving toward the desk, I eyed the only free computer and made my way over. While I waited for my log in to load, I checked my phone. I’m going to freaking kill her.
Caring even less about cell phone etiquette this time, I didn’t even attempt to lower my volume when Mercedes answered on the second ring. “Please tell me you’re joking, because my day already sucks, and if I have to sedate Mom to stop her from having a heart attack, I’m really going to be pissed.”
“It’s going to be awesome, right!”
“Are you on drugs?” I bit out, even though I knew there was zero ch
ance she’d get involved with drugs. I needed to drive home how ludicrous she was being. “No, it is not awesome and you are not getting a tattoo!”
“If you don’t want to lend me the money, that’s all you had to say. You don’t have to be such a…” She stuttered because my sister would never call me a bitch. She was a lot of things, but disrespectful was not one of them.
So I helped her out and said, “Such a what, Mercedes … a bitch?” That last word I might have whispered.
“You know I would never say that, Jules.” Told you, I knew my sister. “But why can’t you just back me on this? I’ve thought a lot about it and I really want it. You didn’t act like this when Selena got her tat! And besides, it’s not like I’d get a huge one or anything. It’s going to be quarter-sized, on the inside of my wrist.” Oh God, where people could see it. She might as well ink it on her forehead.
I took in a deep breath and changed my approach. Yelling didn’t work with Mercedes—my parents unintentionally numbed her to it. “Honey, listen to me. It’s not about the money, and you know I have your back, always. I’m all about you needing to express yourself. I supported you when you took the whole ombré hair thing to the extreme, and I talked Mom and Dad off the ledge when you came home with a nose ring. But tattoos are permanent. You can’t just erase them. Lasers can only do so much.”
“Gosh, did you lecture Selena about the limitations of laser removal when she got hers?”
“Mercedes, she was twenty-seven when she got hers, no one can see it, and it’s her kids’ names, not a freaking car emblem!” So much for not yelling. But come on, who gets the Mercedes insignia inked onto their wrist? So what if it was her name? It was dumb. Really dumb. My sister may have been a little lost and screaming to find herself, but she was so not dumb.
She huffed into the phone and I could practically hear her resolve crumbling. Thatta girl. “Fine, we’ll talk about it later,” she scoffed. “How does sushi sound for dinner?”
Definitely not my first choice, but what did I care? I mustered up some fake enthusiasm and said, “Sounds delicious! Can’t wait!”
Crisis averted (at least temporarily), I disconnected and finished writing transfer orders. The day had to get better, right?
I walked back into the small room on the tail end of Jill asking, “You have cases today?”
Dr. Hunter answered immediately. “I do. In about fifteen.”
Cases, as in surgical cases. Well, that was fan-freakin-fabulous. Worse than an arrogant parent was an arrogant parent in medicine. Even worse than that, was an arrogant parent who donned a surgical cap all day. And we were already on the wrong foot.
Jill rose to full height, and continued on. “Why don’t you go? He’s stable. We’ll get him all settled upstairs. They’ll wait on the tap until you’re out.”
Instead of acknowledging Jill’s show of support, Dr. Hunter looked toward his wife. “Maya, you good? I should be done by two. Meet you upstairs, and then you can run get Max. I need you back though, I have a lap chole at four.”
“Yeah, of course. I can even call Darla. I’m sure she’d watch Max—that way I can stay with Finn overnight if you want?”
If you want … did she seriously just ask to stay with her own son? I had to smolder my urge to shake some sense into her. Didn’t she realize how precious these moments were, how much her little boy needed his mama, his protector? Obviously my hold on passing judgment was slipping.
Dr. Hunter bit the inside of his cheek and stared at his watch again, as if he were mapping out a military defense strategy. While he was lost in thought, his wife appeared oblivious, waiting for his response. So peculiar, there was definitely a disconnect here.
In an attempt to ascertain a thorough social history, I spied his ring-less fourth finger. All right, maybe I was a smidge nosy. It was a family trait, not one I was particularly proud of, but you can’t fight genetics. I tried and knew it was futile.
He was a surgeon, so it wouldn’t be unheard of to not wear a wedding band, always scrubbing and all. But she was ring-less as well. So maybe they weren’t married. Which meant I probably needed to take back the whole shaking-mama thing.
Maybe she was a super involved girlfriend. Granted, it looked like he robbed the cradle (again, not that I was judging).
Jules Marie, it’s none of your-a business!
Hearing my mother’s voice in my head always snapped me back to reality. And since I clearly had no read on this family dynamic, I was going to mind my business. Every family had their own thing (obviously mine did too). But in the end, all that mattered was Finn looked well cared for.
Dr. Hunter pinched his nose and shook his overgrown locks slightly. Just when I thought he was about to cave and thank Maya for volunteering herself, he said, “I have to go. Maya, can I speak with you in the hall?”
He took two steps closer to the gurney, massaged his son’s scalp, and his octave lowered. “Stay tough, bud. Who loves ya to the moon and back?” Never lifting a lid from his tablet, the little boy curled his fragile hand around his dad’s finger, holding him in place.
It was the first real father/son interaction since I tapped on that glass. My heart lurched a little, and I suddenly felt guilty for all the wicked thoughts I’d just had. He was still socially challenged, but with one glance at the scene before me, there was no doubt how Dr. Hunter felt about his son. It reminded me of my time as a student in the NICU at Presby when I witnessed my first “graduation.”
His large finger.
His tiny hand.
The day I learned I needed to be close but not that close.
The day I learned that my heart wasn’t strong enough.
Jill must have read my expression because she waited until they left the room before she lowered her voice so Finn couldn’t hear. “He’s not usually such an ass. He’s normally pretty chill, keeps to himself a lot. General surgeon, single dad, sad situation. Think everything with Finn lately is taking its toll. Has to be stressful. Finn was a twenty-four weeker, cerebral palsy, survived the NICU long haul. Been in and out of the ER a bunch lately.”
She was doing what doctors do, giving me the bullets. I wasn’t sure what possessed me or why I cared, but I had to. “The mom?”
“Not really sure, but not in the picture. She didn’t deliver here. He was born at Presby.”
Nuh-uh.
What were the chances?
Couldn’t be.
Right?
I stopped short at the door to Finn’s PICU room and ripped the drenched cap from my head. Intensive Care Unit. Add any letter you wanted before it—it all meant the same thing. Sick. Really sick.
Memories of my boy in the NICU flooded my mind and churned my gut. It was months of fixating on his tiny chest and praying his heart would keep a steady beat, while ventilators breathed air into his underdeveloped lungs. There was no end in sight, just the next twenty-four hours and the next inevitable complication. And they were inevitable … intraventricular hemorrhage, apnea spells, necrotizing enterocolitis. It was terrifying. Exhausting. Downright hell. But Finn came out on top, and the days of holding my breath willing his lungs to never stop were behind us. I slammed the door on that chapter of my life.
Like all survivors with my boy’s history, there would always be the possibility of the “next complication,” but all in all, Finn had been pretty lucky. Until recently.
Six ER visits in the past six months.
Now three fevers in three weeks.
I racked my brain to figure out what had changed. As far as I could tell, nothing. Same food. Same bedtime. Same sitter. Same friends. I hadn’t even risked putting him in nursery school yet. He was making huge strides lately. Walking with his new braces like a champ and almost ready for big boy underwear.
He turned three a few months ago and it has all gone downhill.
I should have canceled my damn lap chole. My mind was so far from gallbladders it wasn’t funny. It was elective and could have waited. Good thing my
surgical PA excelled using the laparoscope, because I spent the better half of the case mulling the long list of diagnoses associated with fever of unknown origin.
My nerves were fried. I felt shaky, and the pit in my stomach was sickening. I hated feeling helpless. I hated that I didn’t recognize myself. I hated that I just went off half-cocked on an undeserving total stranger. I embarrassed that nurse to the point she blushed, enough that I had to look away. That was never me.
Bottom line, I hated that my boy was sick again. Hearing him cry while they poked and prodded him punched me in the chest. Now he needed a tap. Maybe it was better I did the case; the hour and a half gave me a chance to catch my breath. Life dealt what it dealt and I could deal. It’s what I did. But my boy, he shouldn’t have to. What I wouldn’t give to trade spots with him. I was all Finn had; he needed me to keep my shit together.
The sliding door to the glass-encased cubicle was ajar. I didn’t usually eavesdrop, but Maya’s voice cracked before I opened the curtain. “He’s just been through so much already, it kills me. I love him and his sister to pieces.”
I knew when I was on edge, and I knew my mood couldn’t handle an emotional woman right now. And who was she talking to?
My boy giggled—loved that sound. There was nothing better. I almost forgot Maya was busy spilling my goddamned soap opera saga.
A saccharine voice took over. “It’s obvious you’re a huge part of their lives, and how much you care about them. I imagine two little ones and the demands of being a surgeon could be a struggle. Dr. Hunter lucked out finding a nanny that’s in nursing school, especially when it comes to Finn.” It was the ER nurse, the new chick.
“I’m actually his cousin. Well, their mom’s cousin, actually. Maxine looks just like her.”
“Is that Finn’s sister? What a sweet name. How old is she? Does their mom live nearby?”
“Four.” I interrupted the jog down memory lane, answering her first question and ignoring the second. I’d had enough. “She’s in nursery school.”
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