A Really Bad Idea Page 22

  As I walk from my office to the hospital with my umbrella shielding me from the sideways rain, I’m reminded of just how many things you can’t control.

  Maybe that’s why having a baby is important to me. It’s something I can achieve on my own without having to rely on fate. Sure, I might need Dr. Abbot’s help, but whether it’s natural, in vitro, or adoption, I know I will become a mother. I can seize control in this world that can be as unpredictable as the fact that, by the time I make it to the front entrance of St. Xavier, the rain has subsided, and a small ray of early evening sun is trying to poke through the clouds.

  “How’s the little patient doing?” I say, chipper although I’m exhausted from a ten-hour shift.

  Mom’s been in the hospital for four days. I’ve been up here on my lunch breaks and every night after work. Her charts haven’t been looking good, but I’ve been advised by my boss and his son to keep her spirits high.

  “I come bearing gifts from the outside world.” I hold out a decaf latte and a white bag with a blueberry scone.

  “You are a godsend. Put it on the table.” She’s lying on her side and taking her time to get up. Her movements are staggered as she pushes her body up the mattress like she weighs a thousand pounds. “I asked your brother to bring me up a sandwich for lunch, and he refused. I tried to explain I’m not here because I have clogged arteries. I want real food.”

  I chuckle as I shrug off my coat and put my wet belongings in the corner. “A heart-healthy diet is to prepare you for surgery, so I made sure the scone is sugar-free, and the latte is skinny.”

  “Is the surgery happening? I’m sick of this place. All they do is take blood and portable chest x-rays.” She gasps for breath. “And I’m having the damnedest time, catching my breath.”

  I don’t have my stethoscope with me, or I’d listen to her lungs myself. “We’ll get it checked out.”

  Mom takes her latte and peels back the plastic top, taking a sip. She moans at the goodness. “That is delicious. Would you like candy?”

  She opens her side table drawer. There’s twice as much in it as there was when she came the first night. Dad is keeping his lady well stocked.

  I lean over, grab a few Riesens, and plop into the wooden chair. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He went to get dinner in the cafeteria.”

  “I wish I had known. I would have joined him.”

  “He’s a funny duck. I wish he’d go home with you and get real sleep. That recliner can’t be comfortable.”

  “I’ve asked a dozen times,” I say with a sigh, unwrapping my caramel. “I’m lucky I got him to visit me at the office today. You’ll be happy to know, I brought him a tray of chicken parmigiana, so he had a home-cooked lunch. He left it in the refrigerator at the office. I thought he would go crazy, being away from you for the thirty minutes he was there.”

  She tries to sit up a little more, so I grab her coffee and give her a hand.

  “When the nurse comes in, I’ll ask if I can have a listen to your back,” I say, noticing the wheezing coming out of her mouth.

  “Oh, you’ll love her. She’s absolutely beautiful and just the sweetest. I think she gets collagen injections in her lips.” Mom takes another sip of her latte and then waits a beat before continuing, “When this is over, I’m thinking of getting my own lips done as a reward.” She runs a finger over her thinning mouth. “This girl is perfect for Christian.”

  I chew the chocolate-flavored caramel and swallow. “Mom, he works on this floor. If he hasn’t made a love connection, then chances are, they’re not interested in each other.” I unwrap another candy.

  “Natasha and Christian dated already. I’m going to get them back together.”

  I pop another candy in my mouth. “I should have figured.”

  “She is just divine. Speak of the devil.” Mom looks toward the door as Natasha saunters into the room.

  “Good evening, Gail,” she says, looking flawless in her pale pink scrubs that highlight her tiny waist.

  I bet she has them tailored. She has a plastered smile on her face as she goes up to the whiteboard and erases the day shift nurse’s name and replaces it with her own.

  “Hi, Natasha.” My words come out muffled because my molars are sticking together from a fresh bite into my Riesen.

  She does a double take when she sees me sitting in the guest chair in the corner. “Meadow. Nice to see you again.”

  Mom perks up. “You two know each other?”

  I nod. “Christian brought Natasha to dinner at the Boathouse.”

  “And we saw each other at the Plaza. We had a”—Natasha pauses, choosing her words wisely—“lovely conversation before Christian whisked her off to the dance floor.”

  “You know what song I never cared for? ‘The Way You Look Tonight.’ So cliché,” I state with a small smile.

  Natasha raises her brows in agreement. “Yeah, good thing they didn’t play it.” If her glare could speak, it would say, Touché.

  “I love that song,” Mom chimes in as Natasha walks to my mom’s bedside and looks at her legs. “My husband and I saw Michael Bublé at Madison Square Garden. Bublé sang that song, and I couldn’t help but drag my husband into the aisle and dance. The spotlight shone on us, and the entire arena applauded. Can you believe that? Thousands of people cheering for us. Bublé even made a joke, saying he’d have to retire now because we were stealing his thunder. That’s not the only joke he told that night. He has a filthy mouth, that one. I loved it!”

  Natasha laughs at the story. “I love his music. Maybe I’ll get to see him when he comes back to town.” She checks the IV line that’s going into my mother. “Your mom is the best patient. Her stories kept the staff laughing all night.” She puts a hand on her shoulder. “Nice slippers. Are those new?”

  I look down and see Mom has a new pair of slippers on her feet.

  “My daughter-in-law, Beth, got them. She’s a shoe blogger, you know.”

  I love how my mom talks to people as if they already know her life story. Although, knowing she was holding a captive audience all night, they probably do.

  Mom turns and explains, “Beth and the boys came up for a visit after school. She said Aiden was sick with worry, and Dylan has been sullen. They needed to see I was okay.”

  Natasha checks Mom’s chart. “A visit from family is the best medicine. How are you feeling today?”

  “Uncomfortable. I feel pressure in my back.” Mom takes a labored breath and adjusts her hip on the bed.

  Natasha’s brows furrow as she takes the stethoscope off her neck and pops it in her ears to listen to my mom’s lungs. She doesn’t look pleased with what she’s hearing.

  “Did you get that night cream I recommended? Meadow refuses to take my advice about a proper skin care regimen,” Mom says as she takes her deep breaths for Natasha.

  “Not yet,” she replies with a scowl.

  “Can I take a listen?” I ask.

  She doesn’t hesitate to offer me the stethoscope.

  I stand and place the chest piece on Mom’s back. The low-pitched wheezing sound is deeper than it was forty-eight hours ago when it seemed to be getting better. That was short-lived progress. This is a significant sign she is in the advanced stage of heart failure.

  I look over to Natasha, who gives me a wary glare. She knows the sound is not ideal and that measures need to be taken. Still, we don’t alarm my mom.

  “I was telling Meadow how I think it would be wonderful if you and Christian gave it a go again.” Mom’s meddling doesn’t seem to refrain, even when it’s not her own children.

  Natasha gives me an inquisitive albeit accusatory look. “I thought he was dating someone else.”

  “Is Christian dating anyone?” Mom looks my way.

  I give the stethoscope back to Natasha and shrug. “Not that I know of. I went with him to the gala because he’s a single man at the moment.”

  “You know, Meadow is seeing someone, but she won’t tell me w
ho it is,” Mom’s declares as Natasha’s eyes widen with interest.

  “Because you’re a nosy hen. Sometimes, it’s nice to keep things from you,” I tease as Natasha and I lay her back down and make her as comfortable as possible.

  She seems to find ease from lying on her side, says it’s easier to breathe, so I prop a pillow behind her back.

  Natasha is finishing up her assessment of Mom as Thomas walks in with Christian right behind him.

  “Two Dr. Gallaghers in one evening!” Mom beams with a haggard breath. “Thomas and I have been friends for thirty years,” Mom tells Natasha. “That’s how Christian and Meadow met. They were just two cuties with crushes on each other. They always seemed to never be single at the same time. Then, he went to college, and then she went to college. Then, he moved to San Francisco, and she married that awful hockey player—”

  “I don’t think Natasha needs to hear the full history,” I state.

  “I find it fascinating,” Natasha says with a forced smile. “Good evening, Dr. Gallagher,” she says to the senior Gallagher and then gives a pointed sneer to Christian. “Dr. Gallagher.”

  If her tone were a hand, it would have just slapped him in the face.

  Christian doesn’t take offense. He gives her a nod and then looks to Mom, as does his father with his hands folded in front of him, stoic.

  “Thomas, I don’t feel better on this medicine you’re giving me,” Mom tells him before he says a word.

  “I want to increase the Lasix from sixty micrograms to eighty. If we can get the fluid down, we can try for another cardioversion to get the arrhythmia in check.”

  I chime in, “She can’t breathe. It labors with every word she says. I don’t think more edema will work.”

  Christian’s mouth twists as he walks up to my mom and gives a listen to her lungs. Natasha assists him, getting my mom back up to a sitting position.

  “When was the last time she had an X-ray?” he asks.

  “Yesterday morning,” Natasha replies.

  “She needs another,” he orders and turns to his father. “We’re gonna have to drain her lung.”

  “Oh Lord have mercy.” Mom deflates into her bed.

  I move close and rub her shoulders. As much as she’s tried to be nonchalant about this hospital stay, I know from the way she’s clenching her eyes that she’s positively frightened. We can all pretend she just needs meds and a simple procedure to make her feel better, but it’s all a ruse. Mom needs heart surgery to repair the leaky valve.

  “Let’s see what the X-ray says first.” Thomas sounds adamant, but Christian doesn’t seem pleased.

  “Can I have a minute with you in the hallway?” he says to his father.

  The two men step outside as I continue to rub Mom’s back. Natasha steps out as well, and I try to be Mom’s strength as she cries into her pillow. When Dad returns, Mom updates him on what the doctors said.

  I need to give my parents a minute to talk and get answers for myself, so I walk out to the hallway. I head toward the circular nurses’ station and see Thomas and Christian talking on the other side. I walk around it and stand in a doorway nearby, a few feet away.

  “Enough is enough,” Christian scolds his father. “I’m taking over.”

  “Let’s give it one more day. If I can get her back in rhythm, then she’ll have more time. I can shock her heart and get her stable.”

  “The valve is deteriorating.”

  “Only because she’s in atrial fibrillation,” Thomas explains. “Let me do another cardioversion—”

  “I’m replacing the valve.”

  “She won’t survive open heart surgery. She’s already been opened up in the past. The scar tissue creates an obstacle, and her heart won’t last on the bypass machine.”

  “She has severe mitral valve regurgitation. Her blood is flowing in the wrong direction, and it’s leaving a large hole in her heart.”

  “Replace the valve, and she’ll run the risk of sepsis.”

  With a hand on his face, Christian looks down like he’s weighing his options. “I’ll perform the transcatheter procedure—the TAVR I’ve been working on.”

  “It’s too new, and you told me yesterday that she could stroke out. Besides, that procedure is for the aorta. We’re talking about a mitral valve here. It’s completely different.”

  Christian places a hand on his hip and points at his father with the other. “We’re not waiting anymore. I’m tapping the lung, and tomorrow, I’m getting a good look at that valve with a nuclear cardiology test. If I can find a pathway, I’m performing the surgery.”

  “Christian.” Thomas looks exasperated. “This isn’t a chance for you to play mad scientist. This is Gail we’re talking about.”

  Christian doesn’t miss a beat. “Exactly.”

  He doesn’t wait for his father as he walks away and back toward Mom’s room. Thomas stands at the desk for a long moment, his hand on the Formica as he shakes his head in dismay, and then walks back in the opposite direction Christian went.

  I knew there was a reason they were postponing Mom’s surgery, but the fact that they’re discussing survival rates like this is staggering. When Mom had heart surgery a few years back, it was pretty cut and dry. She wasn’t sick like this and checked into surgery that morning, as she would a dental cleaning. She was in recovery a few hours later and home in ten days. We were a wreck with worry, but there wasn’t this back and forth, waiting in the hospital for days. That was stressful, to say the least, but this is downright shattering.

  I don’t go back into Mom’s room. Instead, I wait outside the closed door and play with the charm on my necklace, feeling it run up and down along the metal chain.

  The door opens, and Christian comes out of the room, not surprised to see me leaning against the wall.

  He closes the door behind him and takes a spot next to me. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

  “You knew I was eavesdropping?”

  “You’re hard to miss. Not very stealthy.” He grins at his joke and then inhales, his smile leaving. “Your mom is my patient now. I sat with her, held her hand, and explained what will happen.”

  “And that is?”

  “I am going to fix her heart.”

  I let out a half-laugh. “With the radical new procedure that has only been performed how many times?”

  “In the world? Thirty-six. By me? Eight.” His dark eyelashes bow down to mine. “Are you worried?”

  “Yes. Less, knowing you’re the one who’s going to do it. Is it even possible? Do you think she’ll stroke out?”

  He sways his head to the side. “With her fast and irregular heart rate, she’s a high stroke risk whether or not we do the procedure. I’ll look at the scans tomorrow and make a plan for surgery. I wanted to see you later tonight, but I have work to do.”

  “So, you can perform mock procedures to ensure you don’t kill my mother while you attempt to heal her?”

  “That will be my focus tomorrow. Tonight, I need to study her previous surgery.” He runs his hands up my arms, warming me up. “You should go home and sleep.”

  “Fuck that. I’m staying here.”

  “Meadow.” He uses a tone of authority.

  “I’m not leaving. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to become a psychotic family member who won’t let you do your job. I’m being very good, by the way.”

  “Surprisingly.” He raises his hands to my head and taps me on the temples. “Just make sure you talk about what’s going on in that head of yours.”

  “You already know my thoughts.”

  “Just when I think I do, you go and get a new crazy thought.” He kisses my forehead. “I’ve got this. I am the best.”

  “Only because there’s about three of you doing this procedure in the world.”

  “Case in point.” That cocky attitude of his is back in place. “Sweet dreams.”

  I watch as my handsome, smart, cocky doctor walks down the hall. Knowing Mom
is in his hands has me feeling better because he’s right; he is the best. And, even so, I can’t help that gnawing feeling in my gut as I wonder what would happen if he failed. Not only do I not know what I would do without my meddling mother, but I also wonder if Christian could forgive himself.

  With the shake of my head, I walk back into the hospital room and take a seat by the window. Mom has fallen asleep, and Dad is sitting by her side with her hand in his, watching the news. I sit in the guest chair and take her other hand and hold it. My dad gives me a small smile. His eyes are glassy from the concern he’s holding.

  “She’s been like this for a while. I wasn’t allowed to tell you guys. She’d sleep for five hours in the middle of the day. If she knew we had something coming up, she’d stay inactive to save up her energy. She said it was fine, but I knew, and I said nothing,” he explains quietly, careful not to wake her.

  “Don’t blame yourself. There’s no way you could have known it would lead to this.”

  He wearily looks back at me. “Same for you. I know you think you should have had her treated earlier.”

  I sigh heavily. “I can blame myself. I’m the only one in the family who works with hearts for a living.”

  “You can only diagnose a willing patient. I love your mother, but forthcoming when it comes to her health she is not.” His eyes well up with tears he’s holding back.

  “I know, Dad. Just hang in there, okay? I don’t need you getting stressed out and making yourself sick.”

  “I won’t. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “We sit.” I put my free hand out and lay it over Mom’s legs. Dad puts his free hand in mine. “We wait.”

  I stay until Dad kicks me out at eleven. He says he has enough to worry about; he doesn’t need to add my sleeping in a wooden chair to the list. I relent and go home, hailing a cab.