A Matter of the Heart. Patricia Davids

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      Thumbing through the chart, she paid special attention to the laboratory values and medications being given to the two-day-old infant. Satisfied that everything had been done correctly, she closed the binder and moved to the computer in the corner of the desk area reserved for use by physicians. She pulled up the echocardiogram images of her patient.

      She had already studied the scans extensively in her office late last night, but she wanted to make sure that she hadn’t missed anything, so she watched the movie of the child’s beating heart one more time. As always, a profound sense of wonder and awe engulfed her. The human heart was a beautiful thing.

      She quickly focused on gathering the information she would need to repair the child’s flawed heart. Operating on a newborn baby was always hard for her. It brought back too many painful memories. She preferred her patients to be at least six months old, but this child wouldn’t live a week without surgery. It had to be done now.

      The quality of the echocardiogram and tests were excellent, but Nora wouldn’t know what she was actually dealing with until she looked inside the patient’s chest. If there was one thing that she had learned during her years of training, it was that every heart was unique.

      Leaving the desk, Nora walked to room five. Outside, she paused a moment to brace herself. Drawing a deep breath, she pasted a smile on her face, knocked once and then entered.

      Inside, she saw a young couple sitting on the small couch at the back of the room with their arms around each other for support. They both had red-rimmed eyes, either from crying or from lack of sleep or both. They looked shell-shocked and barely out of their teens—far too young to be facing what lay ahead.

      They both rose to their feet, and their hopeful eyes begged her for help she wasn’t sure she could give. For a split second she envied them each having someone to hold on to during the coming hours. She had been in their shoes once with no one to comfort her. The memory of those terrible days haunted her still.

      On the warming bed, a baby girl with thick dark hair lay unnaturally still. A white tube taped to her mouth connected her to a ventilator. IV pumps and monitors took up most of the space around her and beeped softly. Drugs kept her from moving and fighting the very machines that were keeping her alive. Even with the ventilator breathing for her, the child’s lips were dark blue. It wasn’t a good sign.

      Nora nodded at the parents. “I’m Dr. Blake and I’ll be performing your child’s surgery this morning.”

      The father spoke quickly. “You can make her well, can’t you? Doctor Kent, he said you were the best.”

      “As you know, your daughter was born with the blood vessels leading from the heart in the wrong places. Outcomes are usually good with this procedure, but five percent of the children who have this done don’t survive or survive with serious brain damage. You need to be aware of that.”

      Cara’s mother laid a loving hand on her daughter’s small head. “God will be with you and with Cara. He will save her. God can do anything.”

      Nora bit back the comment that rose to her lips. She didn’t share this young mother’s belief in a benevolent God, but she had learned that revealing her philosophy with families frequently increased their anxiety.

      Instead, she said, “I’ll meet with you in the surgical waiting room when the operation is over. It will take several hours, but one of the staff will come out to give you updates during that time.”

      The door to the room opened and the blond nurse looked in. “Mr. and Mrs. Dempsey, would you please step out to the desk? I have some forms for you to sign.”

      As the couple followed the nurse out into the hall, Nora found herself alone with her patient. Looking down at the baby depending on her for so much, she experienced a pang of overwhelming compassion. Reaching out, she stroked the child’s hair with one hand. The tiny curls were soft as silk.

      “If God can do anything, then why am I always fixing His mistakes?” Nora whispered.

      She touched the small oval locket that hung on a gold chain around her neck. There was no answer to her question today. There never had been.

      Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she closed her eyes and regained the composure she would need in surgery. Intense focus, not sympathy, would save this child.

      After leaving the baby’s room, Nora headed to the elevators. At the fifth floor, she stepped out and walked quickly toward the operating suites. She passed the pre-op nurses’ station without pausing, barely noticing the women in green surgical garbs identical to her own standing in a group behind the tall, black granite counter.

      Her mind was already intent on the delicate surgery she would be doing in the next few minutes. She rehearsed each move in detail.

      Step-by-step, she visualized the course of the entire procedure, taking into account the obstacles and challenges the walnut-sized heart of this baby might present. Once the operation was under way, timing would be critical. The child couldn’t afford to have her surgeon wondering what to do next.

      The hallway led her past the family waiting room outside the surgery doors. Nora didn’t bother glancing in. The parents would stay upstairs until the OR and PICU staff moved the baby to the surgery. If all went well, Nora would find Mr. and Mrs. Dempsey in about four hours and tell them their baby was still alive.

       If all went well? It was a big if. There were so many things that could go wrong.

      “Dr. Blake, may I have a word with you, please?”

      Startled by the sound of a deep male voice behind her, Nora spun around. It took her a second to place the tall man with wavy dark brown hair who stepped out of the waiting room. When she did, she scowled.

      Mr. Robert Dale, persistent reporter for the Liberty and Justice newspaper jogged toward her.

      He was a man most women would notice. Dressed in jeans and a blue button-down shirt, he exuded confidence. His long stride and easy grace had her guessing that he was a runner, an activity that she enjoyed as often as her work permitted. His rugged features and deep tan made it clear that he preferred the outdoors over a treadmill. His bright blue eyes were fixed on her now with the intensity of a sprinter sighting the finish line.

      She didn’t intend to become his journalistic prize.

      “I’m on my way to surgery, Mr. Dale. I’m afraid I don’t have time to answer your questions.”

      Not bothering to hide her annoyance, she turned back toward the OR and quickened her pace. The wide, gray metal doors were only a few yards away. He couldn’t follow her in there.

      The man had been practically stalking her in his quest for information about the Ali Tabiz Willis case. The story of a five-year-old war orphan from the Middle East being flown to Texas for life-saving open-heart surgery apparently made a good human interest story. At least, Mr. Dale’s paper seemed to think it did.

      Or maybe they were so interested because the boy’s grandfather was a retired U.S. Army general.

      Either way, Mr. Dale had called her office enough times over the past few days that she had finally instructed her secretary to stop taking his messages. It seemed he couldn’t take a hint.

      A sudden thought struck her—how had he found out that she would be СКАЧАТЬ