- -
- 100%
- +
“Stabilized at the moment. She had some bleeding from her lungs. We’ve managed to control it for now.”
“Thank God.” Relief caused Mick’s tired muscles to betray him, and he sank into one of the blue tweed chairs in the room.
“If it doesn’t reoccur—she has a chance.”
Mick looked up. “You don’t sound very sure of that.”
“Her condition is critical. It’s best not to hold out false hopes.”
“Can I see her?”
“For a few minutes,” the young doctor conceded.
In the unit, Mick paused outside Caitlin’s door. What was he doing here? Why was he getting involved?
Because she didn’t have anyone else.
Stepping up to her bed, he leaned down and whispered, “Don’t worry, Sleeping Beauty. I’ll see that they take good care of you, and of Beth. You aren’t alone. God is with you.”
He pressed her hand but got no response. He studied her quiet, pale face. He had called her Sleeping Beauty, and the name seemed to fit. Her heart-shaped face with its prominent cheekbones and expressive flyaway eyebrows coupled with her short hair gave her an almost elfin appearance. What was it about her that drew him so? Was it only because she was alone that he felt this intense desire to take care of her? Somehow, he knew it was more than that.
Crossing to the door, he glanced back. Caitlin’s chest rose and fell slightly in time with the soft hiss of the ventilator. One breath. One breath.
“Rest easy. I’ll watch over little Beth for you.”
As soon as he said the words a deep sense of satisfaction filled him. This was right. This was what he was meant to do.
After leaving Caitlin, he went to see her baby. Beth lay on her side snuggled in a soft cloth nest covered with tiny red and blue hearts. The ventilator tubing and IV lines were neatly organized now, but a daunting array of machines surrounded her bed. Glancing around the unit he saw a number of other parents who like himself had been drawn here in the middle of the night. Most of them stood by beds looking uncertain, their faces a curious mixture of hope and fear, pride and pity.
He pulled up a stool and sat beside Beth. His heart went out to her. She was so little and so alone in the world.
One of her hands moved up to curl around the tube in her mouth, and her brow furrowed in a frown. Gently, he uncurled her fingers and gave her his thumb to grip instead. “You’re not really alone,” he whispered. “You’ve got the good Lord and me on your side.”
For the longest time, he stared at her tiny face. Each feature so perfect and so new. That she lived at all was nothing short of amazing.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
The words mirrored his own thoughts so closely that he wasn’t sure he’d really heard them. He glanced up and saw a woman seated in a rocker holding a baby on the other side of Beth’s bed. She looked old to be a new mother. Her short, dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples and crow’s-feet gathered at the corners of her eyes, but she was dressed in a hospital gown beneath a yellow print robe.
“I’m sorry. Did you say something?” he asked feeling bemused, or maybe just sleep deprived.
“I said, it’s amazing. They’re so perfectly formed even at such an early age.”
He nodded. “Yes. I never knew.” His throat closed and tears pricked at his eyes. He struggled to regain control and after a moment, he pointed with his chin. “Is yours a boy or a girl?”
Her smile held an odd, sad quality. “I have a little boy.” She lifted the blanket so he could see the baby’s face. The features of a child with Down syndrome were unmistakable.
“He has a lot of hair,” Mick said, trying to find something kind to say.
She ran her fingers through the baby’s long hair. “Yes, he does. It’s so very soft,” she said almost to herself.
The baby began to fuss. She snuggled him closer and patted him until he hushed. She looked at Mick and smiled. “I wanted to thank you for the lovely saying on your daughter’s bed.”
Mick glanced at the foot of Beth’s bed. His Irish blessing had been written in green ink and surrounded by little green shamrocks drawn on a plain white card and taped to the clear Plexiglas panel. “It’s something my mother says.”
“It helped me so much.”
Smiling gently, he said, “I’m glad.”
She tucked her son’s hand back inside the blanket. “When I first saw my son—first realized what was wrong with him, I thought it would have been better if he had gone to be with the angels—” Her voice cracked. She blinked back tears when she looked at Mick. “Isn’t that terrible?”
Mick found himself at a loss as to how to answer her, but the nurse had come back to the bedside. She dropped an arm around the woman and gave her a quick hug.
“No, it isn’t terrible. We can’t help the way we feel. Disappointment, fear, sadness—they’re all feelings that catch us by surprise when something goes wrong.”
“I do love him, you know. It’s just that we’ve waited so long for a child. I’m almost forty. He was going to be our only one,” her voice trailed into silence.
A moment later she patted the nurse’s arm. “You’ve all been wonderful. Thank you. And you.” She looked at Mick. “Your mother’s saying pointed out to me that God knows what He’s doing. My son wasn’t meant to be an angel in heaven. He was meant to be an angel here on Earth, like your little girl.”
Gazing at Beth’s frail form, surrounded by everything modern medicine offered, he could only pray the woman was right.
“You look like death warmed over.”
Mick closed the door of his locker and cast Woody an exasperated glance. “Thanks. I could say the same about you.”
Towering a head taller than Mick, Woody Mills, a Kansas farm boy turned Chicago firefighter and a close friend, grinned. He pulled his cowboy hat off and ran a hand through a blond crew cut that closely resembled the stubble of the wheat fields he’d left behind. “Tough night?”
Mick nodded. “I never made it to bed.”
He wasn’t looking forward to staying up another twenty-four hours. Maybe they’d have a quiet shift, and he could grab a few hours in the sack.
“Woody!” They both turned at the sound of the shout. Their watch commander, Captain Mitchell, appeared in the open doorway. “Ziggy needs help in the kitchen. Give him a hand.”
Mick groaned, and Woody laughed. “That’s right, Mick’O. It’s Ziggy’s week to cook. So guess what we’re having?”
Mick leaned his head against the locker. “Spaghetti. Why can’t he cook something—anything—else? He knows I hate spaghetti.”
“Then it’ll be a good week to go on a diet. Besides, the rest of us like it, so you lose.” Still chuckling, Woody left the room.
The gong sounded suddenly and Mick raced for his gear along with the other men. He never found the time that day for a nap or for a plate of spaghetti. Two structure fires kept the company out for most of his shift. It was late the following morning when he found the time to call the hospital to check on Caitlin and the baby.
Caitlin’s condition was unchanged, but the news about Beth was less encouraging. She was requiring higher oxygen and higher ventilator pressures, and she’d developed a heart murmur.
“Her murmur is due to a PDA,” Dr. Wright explained to Mick over the phone. “It’s a condition that often occurs in very premature infants. Before a baby is born very little blood goes to the lungs. As the blood is pumped out of the heart, it passes through a small opening called the ductus arteriosus and goes back to the placenta for oxygen. After a baby is born, this artery closes naturally, and blood flows to the lungs. But in many premature infants, it doesn’t close and that’s a problem. We can treat her with medication, but if that fails, she’ll need surgery.”
“Isn’t surgery risky for such a small baby?”
“PDA ligation is a routine procedure, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It may close after the drug is given. I’m optimistic but this is one of the complications I mentioned. I’ll keep you informed. Also, our social worker needs to talk to you about signing paternity papers.”
It was the perfect opening to admit that he wasn’t Beth’s father. Only, he didn’t take it.
Inside the odd darkness, Caitlin drifted all alone. Sometimes it was as dark as midnight, other times it grew vaguely light, like the morning sky before the sun rose, but never light enough to let her see her surroundings. Voices spoke to her, telling her to open her eyes or move her fingers. She tried, but nothing happened. When the voices stopped, she was alone again.
It was pleasant here. No pain, no hunger, no cold; none of the things she’d come to expect in life. The urge to remain here was overwhelming, but she couldn’t stay. She had to find her baby. Once she found her baby she’d never be alone ever again. She would always have someone to love and be loved by in return.
At times, a man’s voice came. Deep and low, mellow as the notes of a song, it pulled Caitlin away from the darkness. He spoke to her now, and she knew he was watching over her little girl. Her baby wasn’t lost at all.
The voice told her all kinds of things—how much the baby weighed and how cute she was. Sometimes the voice spoke about people Caitlin didn’t know, but that didn’t matter. Sometimes, he spoke about God, and how much God loved her. He spoke about having faith in the face of terrible things. His voice was like a rope that she held on to in the darkness. If she didn’t let go, she could follow the sound and find her way out.
Now his voice was saying goodbye and she hated knowing that he was going away. She felt safe when he was near.
Something soft and warm touched her cheek gently. The fog grew light and pale around her. She opened her eyes and the image of a man with deep auburn hair and a kind face swam into focus for an instant, then the fog closed over her again.
“She opened her eyes!” Excited, Mick stared at Caitlin and prayed he hadn’t imagined it.
“What did you say?” The nurse, who’d just entered the room, looked at him in surprise.
“She opened her eyes! She looked at me.”
It’d been five days since Caitlin had slipped into a coma, and for the last two days Mick had divided his waking hours between sitting with Beth, whose condition was slowly worsening, and sitting with Caitlin. This was the first sign of any spontaneous movement from her.
“Caitlin, open your eyes,” the nurse coaxed. Nothing.
Mick leaned close to Caitlin’s ear. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty. I know you’re in there. Give me a sign.”
Again nothing. The nurse pinched the skin on the back of Caitlin’s hand, then lifted her eyelid. Turning to him the nurse asked, “What were you doing when she moved?”
A flush heated Mick’s face. “I was getting ready to leave, and I kissed her cheek,” he admitted, feeling foolish.
Giving him a sad smile, the nurse touched his arm. “Sometimes we see the things we want to see, even if they’re not really there. How is her baby doing?”
Mick glanced at Caitlin’s still form and motioned with his head. The nurse followed him from the room. Once outside, he raked a hand through his hair and said, “Beth isn’t good. Her heart hasn’t responded to the medication they’ve given her. It looks like she’ll need surgery.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you Mr. O’Callaghan?” Mick turned to see an over-weight man with thin gray hair standing in the hall. His ill-fitting, dark blue jacket hung open displaying a wrinkled white shirt stained with a dribble of coffee. He held a scuffed black briefcase in one hand.
“Yes, I’m O’Callaghan,” Mick answered.
“I’m glad I finally caught up with you. I’m Lloyd Winston, the social worker for the NICU.”
“What can I do for you?”
Mr. Winston glanced at the nurse, then said, “Why don’t you come to my office. We can speak in private there.”
Mick held out a hand. “Lead the way.”
“Have you got a minute to help me change this bed?”
“Sure.”
Caitlin heard voices clearly this time—they were right beside her. Cool hands touched her body. She struggled to open her eyes, and for a moment, the blurred forms of two women came into view. Abruptly, they pulled her onto her side, and the movement sent waves of dizziness and pain crashing through her.
“Isn’t she the saddest case?”
“No kidding.”
“I heard the baby might not make it.”
“I heard that, too. Hand me the lotion.”
One of them smeared cold liquid across Caitlin’s back. Were they talking about her baby? She fought to concentrate.
“My cousin had a little boy that was born prematurely. He’s five now, but he’s blind and deaf. She feeds him through a tube in his stomach, and he takes round-the-clock care.”
“That’s awful.”
“It’s awful to see my cousin tied her whole life to a child who’s so damaged that he can’t even smile at her. At five, he’s hard to move and lift to change his diapers. Think what it’s going to be like when he’s twenty-five.”
My baby’s not damaged. She’s perfect. Caitlin wanted to shout at them. She wanted to cover her ears with her hands, but her arms were deadweights.
From the moment she suspected she was pregnant, she had wanted a little girl. Her daughter was going to grow up to run and laugh and give her mother a dozen hugs a day. They would have each other forever. Caitlin would never leave her baby hungry, or hurting, or scared and alone in the dark the way she had been treated as a child.
Without warning, Caitlin was rolled to her other side. Her joints and muscles cried out in protest and nausea churned in her stomach. She moaned, but no sound escaped her. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.
“It’s time for her to stay on her left side. Can you help me change the sheets on that patient in room eight?”
The sound of their voices faded away, and Caitlin was alone again, but she was glad they were gone. She didn’t want to hear about a child who was deaf and blind. She had to find her own baby.
She concentrated on opening her eyes. Bit by bit, her eyelids lifted and a room came into focus. There was dark blue tiled floor and wallpaper with lines of deep blue flowers running up a pale blue background. It was a room she’d never seen before. She tried, but she simply couldn’t keep her eyes open and the room faded away.
Lloyd Winston’s office turned out to be on the same floor as the NICU, and the office was as untidy as the man himself. His desk and file cabinets were piled high with books, forms and folders. Empty foam cups overflowed from the trash can. He cleared off a portion of the desk by moving its contents to a stack on the floor, then sat down. Mick took a seat and waited for him to speak.
Flipping open his briefcase, Winston pulled out a file. “I understand you haven’t signed the paternity papers for your daughter. Do you realize that until you do, you’re not legally the baby’s parent?”
“I understand that,” Mick answered. “The situation with Caitlin and myself is a bit—well—unusual.” Mick watched the man’s confusion grow as he explained how he and Caitlin had met. When he finished, Winston leaned back and pressed his fingertips together over his ample paunch.
“You’d like me to believe that after meeting you for the first time, out of the blue, a woman, who may or may not think she’s dying, names you as her baby’s father?” His tone held more than a hint of disbelief.
“That’s what happened.”
Winston leaned forward and stared at Mick intently. “I know that taking on the responsibility of caring for a critically ill infant can be very daunting. It’s understandable that you’re reluctant to admit to being the child’s father.”
Mick leveled his gaze at the overstuffed social worker. “I’m a firefighter. Walking into a burning building is daunting. Trust me. Beth is not my biological child.”
The man’s eyes widened at Mick’s tone. “I see. This certainly complicates things. Dr. Wright tells me the child needs surgery. I’ll have to get a court order to make her a ward of the state right away.”
Mick frowned. “She has a mother. She doesn’t need to be made a ward of the state.”
“Ms. Williams’s condition prevents her from giving consent for any procedure, and I understand her recovery is doubtful. Since she’s incapacitated and you are not any relation to the child, the state must assume care.”
“For how long?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How long will Beth be a ward of the state?”
“Until we can locate a relative. Which we might have done by now if you had come forward with the truth sooner.”
“What if you can’t locate anyone?”
“If we don’t, she’ll remain a ward of the state and go into foster care when she leaves here.”
A knock sounded at the door, and a nurse from the NICU looked in. “Mr. O’Callaghan, you’re wanted in the unit.”
Mick shoved out of his chair. “Is something wrong with Beth?” Fear sent his heart hammering wildly.
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “Please come with me.”
Chapter Four
Mick rushed into the NICU. A crowd surrounded Beth’s bed. The monitor above it alarmed as the blip of her heart rate barely moved across the screen. He stopped a nurse hurrying past him, glad to see it was Sandra Carter. “What’s wrong?”
“Doctor, the father is here,” she said.
“Good.” The man in green scrubs looked at Mick. “X-rays show your daughter has suffered a collapsed lung and the air trapped inside her chest is putting pressure on her heart.”
Sick with fear and powerless to help, Mick couldn’t take his eyes off Beth’s pale, gray color. She wasn’t moving.
Someone touched his shoulder. Glancing over, he saw Lloyd Winston standing beside him. “They’ll do everything they can,” he said gently.
“Prep her, then we’ll get a chest tube in,” the doctor barked orders before turning to Mick. “I understand you have some medical background. Do you know what we’re doing?”
Mick nodded. “You’re going to put a tube in her chest and suck the air out so her lung can reexpand. Will she be all right?”
“I believe so.” Dr. Myers opened a small plastic pack and pulled out a surgical gown. Quickly, he donned it as Sandra poured dark brown liquid antiseptic over the skin on Beth’s chest. “Have X-ray standing by, and give her a dose of fentanyl for the pain,” he instructed.
“Yes, Doctor. Her oxygen saturation is forty.”
“Gloves! Where are my gloves?” he snapped.
“Right here.” Another nurse peeled open a package. He pulled them on.
Beside Mick, Lloyd Winston spoke. “You don’t have to watch this. We can wait outside,” he offered.
“No, I’m fine,” Mick answered. How long had her heart rate and oxygen levels been this low? Five minutes? Longer? How much time did she have left before she suffered brain damage? Was it already too late?
As the doctor worked, Mick’s gaze stayed glued to the monitor. After what seemed like an eternity, Beth’s heart rate climbed to eighty, then one hundred. Slowly, the color of her skin changed from gray, to mottled blue then to a pale pink. One little leg kicked feebly under the drape, and Mick sagged with relief. “Thank You, Lord.”
Sandra glanced at Mick and frowned. “Hey, we don’t do adults in here. Someone get Dad a chair.”
“I’m all right.” Mike tried to wave aside her concern.
“No, you’re not. You’re white as a sheet. Lloyd, take him out to the waiting room.”
“I want to stay,” Mick protested. What if her other lung collapsed? She could die, he knew it.
“I know you want to stay,” Sandra said, “but this isn’t something you need to watch. She’s not feeling the pain, I promise you that.”
“You’ll come and get me if…things get worse.” Mick stared into her eyes. She nodded and he knew she understood what he was asking.
In the waiting area, he paced back and forth. Ten steps across, ten steps back. The same blue tweed chairs as in the adult ICU sat against the walls. It seemed that all he did anymore was wait—with fear grinding in his gut while doctors and nurses tried to save first Caitlin, and now Beth again.
Please, Lord, let Beth be okay. She’s so little. Hold her in Your hands and keep her safe.
Lloyd sat and watched Mick. “Can I get you something?”
“If you have a prayer to spare for her, that wouldn’t come amiss.”
“Certainly. I have one for her and one for you, as well. I’ve seen a lot a babies get chest tubes. It isn’t as serious as you think.”
Mick knew better. It was deadly serious, but he couldn’t find the words to tell a stranger that he feared Beth might die. Some of what he was feeling must have shown on his face.
“It’s okay to be scared,” Lloyd Winston said.
Mick sank into a chair beside the social worker. “I know. How do you deal with this kind of pain every day?”
“You said you’re a firefighter? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen some bad things yourself.”
Dropping his head to stare at his clenched hands, Mick nodded. He’d seen his share of terrible things—things a man couldn’t unsee. There were days when he wanted to quit. If not for the Lord’s grace, he might have.
“I expect it’s the same for both of us,” Winston continued. “We got into our lines of work to make a difference. We stay because, not every day, but some days we do make a difference in people’s lives.”
Mick nodded, surprised at how well the man understood him. He’d made a snap judgment about Lloyd Winston, thinking the man was an overworked bureaucrat who didn’t care. He was wrong. It was evident that Lloyd cared a lot.
Mick’s smile faded. “What will happen if Beth doesn’t make it? If she dies—what will happen?”
“Usually, the body remains here until the family chooses a mortuary, but in this case, she’ll be taken to the city morgue. If no one claims the body after three or four months they’ll bury her. The city provides plots for unclaimed bodies.”
“What’ll happen if she lives, but her mother doesn’t?”
“As I said, she’ll be placed in foster care.”
“No.” Mick heard the word, but almost didn’t believe he had said it. Was he really considering such a deception?
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Winston stared at him.
“Beth isn’t going into foster care. I know her mother wouldn’t want that.” Is this what You want, Lord?
Was he losing his mind? Saying that Beth was his child was a lie. But Mick couldn’t hand her over to strangers—whether she lived or died. Wasn’t this what Caitlin wanted? For him to take care of her child if she couldn’t? He was adopting Beth with her mother’s blessing. His troubled conscience grew quiet.
“I’ll sign the paternity papers.”
Winston left and returned a few minutes later. Mick took the form and stared at the blank line on the bottom. Signing it would give the child of a stranger his name. Legally, Beth would become his responsibility forever. It would be up to him to make a home for her, to see that she got to school on time for the first day of kindergarten, to see that she had the money to go to college. He’d become responsible for medical bills that could leave him in debt until he was an old man. If she died today, he would plan her funeral.
Was this right? Was it truly what God wanted of him? If he didn’t do this, could he live with himself? Could he walk away and go on with his life knowing he had let Caitlin down? He knew that he couldn’t.
I’m sorry for this lie, Lord, but I believe in my heart that this is what You are asking of me. Please help me to do the right thing. Bending forward, he scrawled his name on the line.
“Mick, you can come in now.” Sandra stood in the doorway.
He leaped to his feet. “Is she okay?”
“She’s stable. Come and see for yourself.”
He followed her into the nursery. A clear tube stained with droplets of blood protruded from Beth’s right side and led to a plastic box below her bed. In its chambers, a column of water bubbled freely.
“It looks weird,” Sandra said, “but it doesn’t hurt her.”
Beth was alive, that was all that mattered to Mick.