A sonogram in the middle of Megan’s second trimester had shown that their daughter, Isabella, had a combination of heart problems, including a faulty ventricle. Less than a week ago, at thirty-six weeks of gestation, the doctors in their hometown recognized that Isabella’s heart was starting to fail, so they delivered her by emergency C-section. Once testing confirmed that her heart was dangerously malformed, Isabella had been transported here. For the past several days, the PICU staff had worked to stabilize her. She’d been on a ventilator, sedated, with tubes carrying medicine into her bloodstream. Tomorrow Sebastian and his team would operate.
“The environment in utero is very supportive of babies with congenital heart defects,” Sebastian said. This situation was so upsetting and foreign to parents that they didn’t always grasp the information they were receiving. Prior to surgery, he met with parents for as long as was needed to make sure he had their informed consent and that they understood the options and risks. “The environment outside the uterus is much less kind. We’ve been giving Isabella prostaglandins, which have helped us replicate the benefits she was receiving before birth. However, the benefits they provide won’t fix anything, and they only last so long. Which is why we’re moving forward with surgery.”
Megan’s skin was pale, her eyes grim.
“I wish that we could repair Isabella’s heart through surgery, but we can’t,” Sebastian continued. “The best we can do tomorrow is put temporary fixes in place that will hopefully keep her heart functioning until a donor heart can be found, and we can perform a heart transplant.”
“Okay,” Timothy said.
“I’ll seat a band around her pulmonary artery, ligate her duct, and install a pacemaker.” Sebastian slid a diagram from his desk drawer and explained the procedures.
They listened, their posture tight with desperation. Sebastian knew that whatever part of their focus was here with him, the larger part was with their baby in the PICU.
Timothy looked like he could’ve played on the defensive line of his high school football team. He had a sandy brown beard and kind eyes.
Megan wore a maternity shirt that reminded Sebastian that she’d given birth just a few days before. As terrible as she must be feeling emotionally, she couldn’t be feeling great physically, either. Her blond hair was short in back, but her bangs were long and swept to the side around an earnest face.
Markie had already informed him that Timothy and Megan had been waiting and praying through infertility for four years. They’d gone through two in vitro fertilization treatments and been ecstatic when they’d conceived Isabella, their first baby.
The baby they’d waited and prayed for would soon be wheeled into the operating room to have her chest opened.
“If you were us, would you opt for your child to have this surgery?” Megan asked. She searched his face for guarantees.
Sometimes, this question wasn’t easy to answer. Sometimes parents faced two choices with evenly matched advantages and disadvantages. This was not one of those times. This surgery was Isabella’s only hope. “Absolutely.”
“Do you think she’ll make it through?” Megan asked.
“I think she will make it through, yes.”
“We’re Christians,” she said. “And we believe that God is still in the business of doing miracles.”
Sebastian nodded.
“He did a miracle for you once,” she said. “Right?”
“Right.” Clearly, they’d researched him and learned about the earthquake.
“Are you a believer?”
“Yes.” Sebastian didn’t elaborate, though he wanted to remind them that God didn’t often provide miracles on cue. In fact, only occasionally did He answer prayers for critically ill humans by healing them here on earth.
“It’s clear to us that God chose you to be Isabella’s doctor.” Megan glanced at Timothy, then back at Sebastian.
“We’d like to move forward with the surgery,” Timothy said.
“The two of us, our family, and our church will all be praying for Isabella and for you, Dr. Grant. We’re trusting the Lord to bring her through the surgery and, eventually, to give her a whole new heart.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the northeast corner of the United States of America, Leah was engaged in a game of smashball with Dylan. The two of them played barefoot on a wide strip of grass situated between their trailer’s spot in the RV park and the dusky blue of Moosehead Lake, Maine.
Had they been keeping score, Dylan would have been beating her one hundred to zero. Happily, they were working as a team, their objective to keep the ball going back and forth between them.
She’d been unable to afford some of the more expensive items and activities Dylan had wanted on this trip. But at $10.95, the price of smashball had been right, so she’d purchashed the two wooden paddles and rubber ball in Bar Harbor a week ago.
They’d hiked in Vermont. Gone canoeing in New Hampshire. Followed a walking tour map of Boston.
Without the pressure of schoolwork, friend dynamics, and football, Dylan had been more communicative. Another bonus—Leah hadn’t had as many reasons to worry about him because he was usually within her line of sight.
The Airstream had turned out to be more difficult to tow than anticipated. Twice she’d needed the help of a passerby to navigate her way through gas stations. Once—horror of horrors—she’d been forced to back the trailer up. Also, she now knew more about emptying the trailer’s sewage tank than she’d ever wanted to know.
Overall, though, the trip had been everything she’d hoped.
She hit the ball back to Dylan too softly. He made a comical dive forward and popped the ball into the air. Hampered by amusement and poor athletic reflexes, she couldn’t get her paddle under it in time. The ball plunked to the earth.
She set her hands on her knees and laughed.
“You’re tragic at this,” he pointed out helpfully.
“I know. I’m tragic at every sport I’ve ever attempted. Take pity.”
“No pity.”
She fed the ball to him. He hit it straight back to her. Her return shot sprang up, and he had to do an acrobatic leap to knock it back. Her next shot went wide right.
He lunged and got his paddle on it. “Aim toward me!”
“I’m trying!” She hit another sky ball. He leapt into the air again but this time missed. He gave her a mock glare.
“You’re breathing hard,” she observed. “Is it taxing to play a team game with me?”
“The best athlete in the world isn’t in good enough shape to play a team game with you, Leah.” He served the ball to her again.
Thwap, thwap, thwap.
“Do trips like this make you miss Mom and Dad?” she asked over the sound of the ball. Leah brought their parents up from time to time so he’d know he could talk to her about either of them whenever he wanted to.
“No. I don’t even remember Dad.”
“Mom, then? It’s been a long time since we’ve seen her. It’s okay, you know. To miss her. That won’t hurt my feelings.”
“It’ll be fine when she comes for her next visit. But I don’t miss her.”