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I don’t want to know what a chaplain is doing in my daughter’s hospital room. Is this standard procedure? Do they just go around from room to room checking up on people? And why the bodyguard dude?
She looks nice enough. Filipina if I had to guess. Probably weighs half of what I did when I was full-term with Natalie, but her smile is genuine. It’s the doctor I don’t trust. Dr. Fletcher is six-foot-six if he’s an inch. He’s the size of a football player, and his hands are so big he could rest my baby in one palm. He’s got rich, dark skin that makes my hodgepodge complexion pale in comparison. I study the two of them. They look so mismatched, and for a second I wonder if that’s what Jake and I look like to others when they see us.
Riza sinks into the swivel chair the doctors use and crosses one ankle over the other. “We’re here to talk to you about your daughter.”
I start to wonder if the only criterion you need to meet to become a hospital chaplain is the keen ability to state the obvious. I glance at Dr. Fletcher, who is standing behind her like a looming volcano about to erupt. He clasps his massive hands behind his back, obviously waiting for Riza to take the lead.
She looks at Natalie in her crib. “How’s she doing?”
Natalie still has sharpie marks on her head where the tech prepped her for the EEG reading. “All right.” She’s not moving her feet around anymore. Whatever seizure or weird activity was going on earlier, it’s over now, thank God.
“I guess she had a pretty high fever.” Riza still hasn’t told me a single thing I don’t know.
I nod, wondering how long this interview’s going to take. I haven’t had dinner yet, even though it’s almost eight.
Riza frowns and looks at a note. “So, it looks like she’s having a hard time keeping her oxygen levels up.”
I nod again, glad that I’m not getting billed for this visit or consultation or whatever this meeting is. Maybe Dr. Fletcher has something helpful to add. “Did you get results yet for the EEG?” I ask.
He leans over, and he and Riza both pout at her little notebook. “EEG?” she repeats.
“Yeah. There was someone in here just a little bit ago. Hooked her up to the EEG?” I wonder if I’ve gotten my acronyms wrong. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. “You know, brain scan stuff. Is that why you’re here?”
Their eyes widen as if I’ve just enlightened them with the secrets of the universe. “No,” Dr. Fletcher answers. “I’m not the doctor assigned to your daughter’s case. I’m here because ... well, this is more of a visit to see how you’re doing.”
Something in my stomach clenches shut. What if he’s not a medical doctor at all? What if he’s a social worker or something, here with CPS? What if they know about what I did in Spokane when I went to the women’s clinic there? What if they’re about to arrest me for attempted murder? What if they’re going to steal my daughter from me until I can prove to some court that I’m fit to parent her? What if Patricia ...
“There’s nothing to worry about.” Riza’s taken the conversational reins one more time, and her partner morphs into the background as easily as anyone that large can blend in anywhere. “We’re here because the last time your daughter was at Children’s, you and your partner signed a DNR form stating that you didn’t want her placed on a ventilator.” She leans forward in her chair. She must be real into the whole active-listening thing. It’s like she’s the poster child for open communication. “We’re just here to check if those are still your current wishes as far as your daughter’s future is concerned.”
I’m usually pretty good at reading a variety of different folks, but I’m having a hard time figuring these two out. Does Riza want to intimidate me into redacting the DNR the hospital has on file? Is that why she brought the gigantic doctor here as some kind of heavyweight backup? Or is it the other way around? Does she know that I talked to Natalie’s pediatrician and canceled the DNR? Is she trying to change my mind? I figure the doctor must be here to intimidate me into doing whatever Riza thinks I should. The problem is I don’t know what her angle is. Not yet.
“We’re not trying to get you upset,” Riza begins, “but this is a sensitive subject, and we just want to make sure there’s a plan in place now so you don’t have to make a major decision like this in the middle of an emergency.” She says the last word apologetically, as if she’s terrified of reminding me my daughter could stop breathing any minute.
Trust me, woman, I’m not that fragile. I already know.
I glance at Dr. Fletcher. He’s big enough to play that guy Bear in the Armageddon movie, and I’m beginning to doubt he’s a medical doctor at all. So what is he, then? A psychologist? Some shrink here to tell me what decisions I’m supposed to make for my baby’s future?
I’ll pass, thank you very much.
“What have your daughter’s doctors said so far about her condition since she’s been here?” he asks.
“Not a lot,” I answer. “She’s doing better. Her O2 levels are mostly in the nineties now. She’s been on steroids.” I’m trying to prove to them my daughter is ok. This isn’t a conversation I need to have right now. Natalie’s the most stable she’s been in twenty-four hours, and she’s only going to get better. Whether I do or don’t cancel the DNR shouldn’t make any difference here, because she’s not going to need the ventilator one way or the other.
“Tell me about her neuro-development,” Riza prompts. “You said she recently had an EEG?”
I nod and glance at my daughter. She looks so peaceful now. If it weren’t for the oxygen cannula taped to her face and the sharpie marks all over her head, you might not know anything was wrong with her.
“The nurse was a little worried when she started pumping her legs. It only lasted a few minutes.”
Riza glances at Dr. Fletcher. I wonder why I feel like I’ve just betrayed my daughter.
“Well, we certainly hope you get back a good report from the neurologist.” She’s back to smiling again. Smiling like a cobra before it strikes. “And we don’t anticipate it coming down to drastic measures, but have you decided if you’d like the hospital to keep the DNR we have on file or make changes to it?”
I still get the feeling there’s a certain answer I’m expected to give, that if I make a mistake I’ll fail some sort of test. “I talked with her pediatrician this week,” I begin tentatively. Neither one of them looks upset when I offer this information, so I venture out a little further. “At this point, what I told her was we’d like to cancel the DNR and just see what happens.”
“And did you make that change in writing?” Riza asks.
“No. She said she’d make a note in the file. Was I supposed to do anything else?”
Riza shakes her head, and Dr. Reynold’s stoic face appears a bit softer than it was a minute ago. Maybe I gave them the answer they wanted to hear after all.
Riza taps her pen against her folder. “You did absolutely perfectly. And are you still in favor of cancelling the DNR? Would you be willing to sign a form for us so we have that on file?”
I feel like something’s missing. This is a conversation about whether I’m going to let my daughter die or not. Is three minutes as long as it really takes? Is it as simple as signing a piece of paper or not signing?
“I guess.”
Dr. Fletcher must detect the hesitation in my voice. “If you need more time ...” he begins before I cut him off.
“No, I’ll sign. I really don’t expect her to need anything like this anyway ...”
“Of course not,” the two of them both affirm with vigorous head shaking all around.
“So I guess I’m ready.” I still can’t figure out why I feel so uncertain. This isn’t like me. I’m the one who wanted to cancel the DNR in the first place. This was my plan a week ago before I even knew Natalie and I would end up in Seattle again.
“And your partner?” Riza asks. “Have you had this discussion with him?”
“Oh, yeah.” It’s so easy to lie. “He agrees, too. We want to give Natalie a chance to mature a little bit, you know, see how she progresses.” The words sound so morbid coming out of my mouth. Like going to the dog pound and saying, I’ll take this one. If it doesn’t work out, I can always bring him back, right? And everybody knows but nobody’s willing to talk about what happens to the unlucky pup who gets returned.
Riza pulls a piece of paper out of some fancy folder she’s carrying, I scribble my name, and it’s as simple as that. I still don’t know who Dr. Fletcher is or why the chaplain thought to bring him along, but there’s a lot about hospital politics I’ll never fully understand.
Riza stands up. I still can’t tell if she’s disappointed in me or not. Her Goliath of a partner follows her out the door without another word, and I wonder if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life. My daughter is officially off the DNR list at Children’s. It’s a good thing. I know it is.
So why do I feel like I just signed my daughter’s death sentence instead of the other way around?