When all the soiled paper towels have been thrown away, Janet heads for the door. “Dr. Soukup will be right in.” I beam. I love meeting new doctors.
Rocking the sobbing baby, I say, “We’re going to get you some medicine, sweet pea. It’ll make your tummy all better.” Adam continues to cry, but his face is dry. He’s dehydrated. I hug him tighter.
A while later, Dr. Soukup knocks and enters. She’s a put-together woman with streaks of gray hair and a warm-but-no-nonsense bedside manner—my favorite breed of doctor. Maybe we’ll become friends. I can meet her at the hospital on her lunch break, and she can show me the newest pharmaceuticals. Then I remember Adam and I won’t be staying in Deadwick long. Too bad. I’ll have to find a Dr. Soukup in our new town.
Reading from her computer screen, Dr. Soukup summarizes the symptoms I explained to Janet. I nod, eager to get to a treatment.
Dr. Soukup studies me over her stylish tortoiseshell glasses. “And where is Adam’s mother?”
I can’t very well say, You know, I haven’t seen or heard from her in thirty-two hours, so I’m not quite sure. Wherever my daughter is, she deserves what she got.
“At a work conference,” I say. “I’m watching Adam for the week.”
Dr. Soukup shakes her head. “A work conference the week before Christmas? Companies these days have no heart.”
I nod in agreement. “She works such long hours, it’s like I’ve become his primary caretaker. I try to do the best I can. I mean, I’m a certified nursing assistant, so I like to think I know what I’m doing. But on days like today, I feel so inadequate.”
Dr. Soukup pats me on the shoulder. “Not to worry, Patty. You’re doing a terrific job.”
The old familiar warmth starts in my chest and spreads across my body like an electric blanket. Her approval, her encouragement—I try to remember her words verbatim so I can store and use them in the months to come.
“I’d like to start with small doses of an oral electrolyte solution to rehydrate Adam,” Dr. Soukup says. “See how there are no tears when he cries? That’s a sign of dehydration.”
“But, Doctor,” I say, “based on how much he’s vomiting and for how long, this is more serious than your average stomach bug, wouldn’t you say? What about all the diarrhea?”
“It’s only been eight hours,” Dr. Soukup says. “Generally we don’t start to worry unless it’s been more than twelve. Do you have Pedialyte at home? You should wait to give it to him thirty to sixty minutes after he vomits.”
I came all this way for some stinking Pedialyte? I don’t think so.
“I think it might be pyloric stenosis,” I say, fretting.
Dr. Soukup looks surprised. “Is he vomiting after feeding?”
“Yes,” I say. “He’s vomiting all the time.” Which would include after feeding.
Dr. Soukup presses Adam’s stomach. “Usually with pyloric stenosis, we feel an olive-shaped lump in the abdomen—the enlarged pyloric muscle. I’m not feeling that here.”
Dr. Soukup is about to leave, but I need her to stay. I don’t want this visit to be over yet. I want a prescription, a real treatment—not some over-the-counter strawberry liquid that college ne’er-do-wells drink when they’re hungover. But my brain isn’t moving fast enough; my encyclopedic knowledge of medical conditions is dusty, out of practice. I can’t think of another illness.
“Let me grab a bottle of Pedialyte. We’ll give Adam a first dose here, okay? I’ll be right back.” Dr. Soukup is out the door before I can protest. A kind but efficient treatment of patients—she’s a professional, all right.
While she’s gone, I think through my options. I could tell her he swallowed a piece of a small toy. She would ask why I hadn’t mentioned this to begin with, but I could feign shame, say I didn’t want her to think I was a bad grandmother. If the toy piece was big enough, she might be worried about letting him pass it on his own. She might suggest surgery.
I’m hit with déjà vu: rushing Rose Gold to the hospital, our endless waiting—for the doctor, for the treatment, for her to get better. Even the way Adam is vomiting reminds me of Rose Gold.
With my daughter missing, an extended hospital stay isn’t a good idea. Complicating the situation is the opposite of what we need. I want Adam to stop throwing up so I can focus on next steps. Maybe I should give him the Pedialyte and hope for the best.
I check my watch. What’s taking so long? Did the doctor forget where the hospital’s drugs are kept? I open the door and poke my head into the hallway. I turn to my left and right: nothing. I take a few steps outside and peer around the corner.
At the end of the corridor stand Dr. Soukup and Tom. He’s gesticulating like a lunatic. They’re too far away for me to hear what he’s saying, but it can’t be good. Why does this yahoo have to butt into my business every chance he gets? No one asked you to play the hero, Tom Behan.
He turns his head and spots me. Before I can duck back around the corner, Dr. Soukup turns and sees me too. They both stare. I go back to room sixteen. Dread has replaced the warmth brought on by Dr. Soukup’s praise. But I can’t leave now.
A minute or two later, Dr. Soukup returns with a bottle of Pedialyte in hand. I search for evidence she’s turned against me: a lack of eye contact, crossed arms, a clipped tone when she speaks. But she carries on in the same courteous manner as before.
“You know, Patty, I think you might be right,” she says, unscrewing the bottle’s cap and pouring a tiny amount of liquid onto a spoon. “Given how violent Adam’s vomiting is, I think we should keep him here a bit longer. To be safe.” She gives Adam the rehydration solution.
An involuntary shiver of anticipation runs through me at the idea of an extended hospital stay. Some folks like camping or going to the beach. Me? I’ve always liked a nice, long hospital visit. But not today. Not now. I’m too terrified to even think of enjoying myself.
“How long?” I ask. Tom is trying to trap me here.
“At least a few hours. Maybe overnight,” Dr. Soukup says, watching Adam. “We want to run a few tests. Rule out anything more serious.” She gazes at me over those elegant glasses. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”
“Of course not,” I say, swallowing hard.
I can’t decide if the throbbing in my chest is elation or panic.
26
Rose Gold
March 2017
I waved to Robert the security guard as I left Gadget World and headed for the parking lot. It was a warm day for early March. Soon it would be spring, my favorite season. In spring, everyone appreciated the things they took for granted in summer. It was a time for fresh starts, new plans. I’d done a lot of thinking since Mary Stone’s visit three months ago.