Chapter 7
SEVEN
MELISSA
I get Liam and Claire set up with videos on the iPad, then treat myself to a chocolate-dipped granola bar and a box of orange juice.
As I’m debating whether to eat a second granola bar, my phone pings with an email from my mother.
She and Dad are loving Venice; apparently the canals smell like rotting fish, but everything else is wonderful.
I still haven’t told my parents about Claire’s appendicitis. I considered emailing yesterday, but since the surgery went well, I decided against it. If they knew, they’d probably try to come home early, and since Claire’s getting better, there’s no need to ruin their trip.
As promised, Claire gets regular food for dinner, and although it doesn’t look much more appealing than the jello, she eats it all.
I take Liam down to the cafeteria and buy him a sandwich, and when we get back, the nurse is giving Claire a dose of IV antibiotics.
Claire’s playing a game on the iPad, so I sit down with Liam and open a book.
Half an hour later, Claire tells me she feels sick. There’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead and her cheeks are flushed.
I move to her bedside. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Does your tummy hurt?”
Claire shakes her head. “No, but I feel like throwing up. And dizzy.”
“Okay, sweetheart.” I glance around the room, searching for a cardboard basin like they had in the ER, but I don’t see anything. I push the call bell for the nurse, and five minutes later, she appears. There must have been a shift change, because I don’t recognize this one.
“Hi, I’m Karli,” she says cheerfully. She looks like she’s a few years younger than me, with bleached blonde hair and heavy black eyeliner. “I’ll be your nurse for the night.”
“Hi Karli,” I begin. “Claire started feeling sick, just now. She’s having nausea and some dizziness, and–”
“I’m going to stop you there,” Karli says, in a voice that manages to be perky and condescending at the same time. “Your daughter’s nine years old, so I think we should let her speak for herself.” She turns to Claire with a big smile. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“I don’t feel good,” Claire says in a small voice.
“But what feels wrong?” Karli persists.
“I don’t know,” Claire says miserably, looking to me for help. She must really feel awful, because she’s normally a very articulate kid.
“She said she feels like throwing up and she’s dizzy,” I tell Karli again.
Karli keeps her focus on Claire and barely looks at me. “Are you feeling anxious, honey? Lots of kids feel anxious in the hospital, but there’s no reason to. We’re going to take care of you.”
“I don’t think this is anxiety,” I tell Karli, trying to keep my tone polite but firm. “She was fine all day, until dinnertime, really. I think it’s something else.”
“It’s pretty common for kids to be anxious at night,” Karli says calmly. “Mothers too.”
And something in me snaps. Karli has a lot of nerve, dismissing Claire’s symptoms as anxiety without even considering other possibilities.
I’ve never liked conflict. I’m the woman who stays quiet when someone cuts in front of her in line, and eats an overcooked restaurant meal instead of sending it back to the kitchen. Troy was always telling me I needed to learn to advocate for myself.
But this isn’t about me, this is about Claire. Even though I’m not always good at advocating for myself, I’m sure as hell going to advocate for her.
“You need to call the doctor, Karli,” I say firmly. “Something’s wrong, and Claire needs to be assessed.”
Karli raises an eyebrow. “The doctors saw your daughter this morning, Mrs. Thompson. Dr. Carlton and his resident were both here, I read the notes.”
“It’s Ms. Lawrence,” I correct her. “And Claire was well this morning. She didn’t start to feel sick until this evening. So the doctor needs to come again. Dr. Carlton would want to know she’s not feeling well.” Unlike Karli, Luke actually cares about his patients.
“Dr. Carlton’s not on call tonight,” Karli explains. “And the doctor on call will be busy. I can’t call him unless there’s an emergency.”
“So call Dr. Carlton.”
“I couldn’t call him even if I wanted to,” Karli says, with smirk of satisfaction. “As I’ve explained, Ms. Lawrence, he’s not on call. Even if I tried, switchboard wouldn’t put me through.”
“He would want to know,” I insist. “There must be a way to contact him.”
“Well, if you can figure out how, go for it,” she retorts. “Otherwise, one of the doctors will be by in the morning.” She turns back to Claire, confident that she’s put me in my place. “If you need help in the night, just push the call button, honey.”
What a joke. It’s clear we’re not going to get any help from Karli, unless we’re looking for condescension with a side of attitude.
I really wish Troy hadn’t left, as I doubt Karli would try to gaslight him this way.
And if she did, Troy wouldn’t stop with her; he’d talk to the charge nurse, or bully the switchboard operator into calling a doctor.
He’d threaten lawsuits. Hell, he’d find a way to reach the CEO of the damn hospital if no one else would listen to him.
I consider calling Troy and asking him to make some calls, but that seems like the coward’s way out.
I’m the one here with Claire, and if Troy could do it, so can I.
Maybe I should try to find a different nurse.
With the exception of Karli, all the nurses have been lovely, so maybe someone else will listen to me.
And then I remember Karli’s retort, when I told her there must be a way to contact Dr. Carlton.
If you can figure out how, go for it.
I don’t have Luke’s cell number, but I know his parents’ old landline number off by heart.
If they still have the same landline, maybe I can convince them to give me Luke’s number.
They probably don’t think well of me, but they’re decent people, and I’m sure they’ll give me his number if I explain about Claire.
I glance at Claire. Maybe it’s my imagination, but she looks worse than she did a few minutes ago. I don’t know what’s happening, but my gut tells me it’s bad, and I have to do something.
I walk to the far side of the room, hoping Claire won’t hear the conversation, and dial Luke’s parents’ number.
After the fourth ring, someone picks up. “Hello?”
I recognize the voice, with its hint of an English accent. Luke’s mom moved to Canada from London as a teenager.
“Hi, Mrs. Carlton,” I say quickly. “It’s Melissa Lawrence. I don’t know if you remember me, but I was friends with Luke in high school, and—”
“My memory’s not as poor as that, Melissa,” she interrupts briskly. “You were Luke’s girlfriend for years. I know who you are.”
“Right. I’m really sorry to bother you, Mrs. Carlton, but it’s about my daughter.
Luke operated on her yesterday, and she’s still in the hospital.
She’s not doing well tonight, but the nurse is refusing to call a doctor.
” I stop and take a shaky breath. “I hate to ask, but I’m really worried, and I wondered if there’s any chance you could give me Luke’s number.
Or if you don’t want to do that, maybe you could call him—”
“He’s right here, Melissa,” she interrupts again. “We were just having dinner. Let me get him for you.”
And a moment later, Luke’s on the phone. “What’s wrong, Melissa?”
“Claire started feeling sick shortly after dinner. She’s dizzy and nauseated, and I’m worried, Luke. The nurse tonight is a bitch, and she refused to call the doctor on call.”
“Fuck,” he says softly. “Okay, Melissa. I’m on my way in. I’m twenty minutes out, but I’ll see if I can get the surgeon on call there sooner. Give me your cell number and I’ll text you mine, so you can call me if things get worse.”
I almost collapse with relief. Luke’s taking this seriously. He’s coming in.
“Melissa? What’s your number?”
I pull myself together and rattle off my number, and Luke promises to get here as soon as he can. After I hit the button to end the call, I walk back to sit on the edge of Claire’s bed.
“Good news, Claire. I spoke to Dr. Carlton, and he’s coming in to see you.”
She manages a smile. “That’s good.”
I smooth a lock of hair from her forehead and take her hand. “We’ll get you feeling better soon.”
“Yeah,” she says softly.
In all my years as a mother, I’ve never felt so powerless. I wish I had some health care training, but all I can offer is platitudes and handholding.
I look down at Claire’s hand, tucked into mine, and blink. There’s a red rash on her arm, and I’m pretty sure it’s new.
“It looks like you have a rash, sweetheart,” I tell Claire. “Have you noticed?”
“What?” she asks.
“The rash on your arm,” I say, and Claire looks down in surprise. “Can we check to see if it’s anywhere else?”
“Sure.”
I gently pull down the sheet and look under her hospital gown, and see the same red spots across her chest and belly. I remember the dose of antibiotics she got less than an hour ago, and all of a sudden, it makes sense. She’s probably having an allergic reaction.
I pick up my phone to tell Luke about this development, and sure enough, he’s texted me his number. But before I can place the call, a man in scrubs strides into the room with Karli on his heels.
“I’m Dr. Atwell,” the man says crisply. He’s about Luke’s age, tall and dark, and he’s wearing the expression of a busy man who doesn’t suffer fools.
But as he approaches Claire, his face gentles. “You must be Claire. Dr. Carlton told me you weren’t feeling well, and asked me to check on you.”
“Thank you,” Claire says politely.
“I think she might be having an allergic reaction,” I tell him. “She had a dose of antibiotics an hour ago, and now she has a rash on her chest, stomach, and arms.”
Dr. Atwell looks at Claire’s arms and nods. “You were absolutely right to be concerned. Ms. Lawrence, right?”
“You didn’t tell me about the rash,” Karli puts in defensively. “If you’d told me—”
Dr. Atwell shuts her up with a scathing look. “What are her most recent vital signs, Karli?”
“Uh, I’d have to check the chart,” she mumbles.
“You didn’t check them when she said she wasn’t feeling well?”
“Uh, no. I’m sorry.” Karli’s earlier bravado has deserted her, and she looks like she could burst into tears.
“No problem, Karli,” Dr. Atwell says calmly, although the look on his face makes it clear that he isn’t impressed. “Why don’t you go grab the vitals machine?”
Karli scuttles out of the room to grab the machine, and Dr. Atwell turns back to me. “Has Claire ever had an allergic reaction before?”
“No. And the antibiotics were started yesterday, and she seemed fine until about an hour ago.”
“It’s not a classic presentation, but it happens sometimes,” Dr. Atwell explains. “The initial doses prime the immune system, and you get a reaction after a day or two. Can I look at your tummy, Claire?”
Claire nods, and Dr. Atwell gently examines her. “Everything seems okay there,” he says with a reassuring smile. “I think you’re right that this is an allergic reaction.”
Karli returns with the vital signs machine, and Dr. Atwell takes it from her with a nod. “Thanks. Next I need you to bring me the crash cart.”
“Crash cart?” I ask anxiously as Karli hurries out. Even I recognize that term; on TV, it’s what the doctors ask for when a patient is, well, crashing. I take Claire’s hand again, and squeeze it tight.
But Dr. Atwell shrugs, as though it’s no big deal. “It’ll keep Karli busy,” he says with a wink.
He looks a little more concerned when he takes Claire’s blood pressure, which is apparently lower than it should be.
“All right, Claire,” he says, as Karli pushes the crash cart into the room. “I’m going to give you a medication called epinephrine, which is the same drug that’s in an Epi-Pen. It’ll be a needle in your thigh, and it should make you feel better. Okay?”
“Okay,” Claire says bravely.
Dr. Atwell takes a vial of medication from the cart and draws it up into a syringe. “Okay, Mom, you’re on,” he tells me. “Claire’s going to squeeze your hand.”
“You think this is anaphylaxis,” I murmur, as he injects the epinephrine into Claire’s thigh.
“Yeah,” he admits, as he puts the used needle in the sharps bin on the side of the crash cart. “But the good news is, it’s treatable.” He smiles at Claire. “You should start to feel better soon.”
I look at Karli, who looks as shaken as I feel. This could very easily have turned out differently. If I hadn’t called Luke, and if he hadn’t called Dr. Atwell . . .
But that line of thought won’t lead anywhere good, and I try not to let myself go there.
Luke rushes in then, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. He’s still got his car keys in his hand, as though he was too distracted to put them in his pocket. When he sees the crash cart, he looks at Claire in alarm.
“Relax, Carlton,” Dr. Atwell says calmly. “We think Claire had an anaphylactic reaction to the antibiotics. The crash cart was just a faster way to get the epinephrine. We gave the first dose a few minutes ago, and we’re about ready to check her blood pressure again.”
Luke quickly snaps into clinical mode. “Right. Should we run IV fluids? There should be saline in the crash cart.”
“Of course,” Dr. Atwell says, bending down to grab a bag of saline. “Good thing you joined us, Luke.”
I couldn’t agree more. Although Dr. Atwell is clearly very competent, he’s not Luke.