| |
Dr. Bhakta is one of the only specialists from Natalie’s NICU days I know by both name and sight. And no, that’s not because I have favorable memories of him. He’s short, probably Indian judging by his accent. I’m not sure. Is Bhakta an Indian name? I wouldn’t know one way or the other.
Most of the specialists I met in the NICU were all business, but Bhakta has the exact opposite problem. He’s like Robin Williams in Patch Adams, except he’s not trying to be funny on purpose. He’s just a goof without even intending to be. And not in the comedian way, either, more like the clumsy-big-brother-you’re-embarrassed-for way.
It was Dr. Bhakta who first taught me the difference between brain dead and vegetative. So maybe that’s a hint about why I don’t like him.
He’s smiling now, and I don’t know how much of my phone conversation with Jake he overheard. Oh, well. I should know better than to expect any degree of privacy at a place like Children’s.
He reaches out his hand. “Good to see you again.”
I seriously doubt he remembers me from our previous encounters, but maybe I’m wrong. I assume that since he works at a hospital as busy as this he’s got a caseload in the hundreds. I’m just another face to him, and Natalie’s just another chart.
“I read your daughter’s EEG,” he’s telling me without sitting down. “The good news is she wasn’t having a seizure.” He’s looking at my baby in her crib and not at me.
“That’s good,” I reply. “So what was all that she was doing with her feet?”
“That was probably a seizure.”
“I thought you just said ...”
“I said she wasn’t having a seizure when we ran the tests. The EEGs can’t tell us what happened in the past, just what’s happening at the moment. And at the moment she was hooked up to the machine, she was not having any seizure activity.”
I could have told him that and saved the tech an hour’s worth of work.
“So that means ...”
He still hasn’t made eye contact with me. “That means your daughter probably had a seizure, most likely as a result of her fever, but her brain activity is fine now.”
Again, he’s not telling me anything I couldn’t have assumed on my own. “What about medicine or something? Do we have to up her seizure meds?” I hate the way the meds keep her so sedated. I swear that’s at least partly why she always seems so out of it, not because of the brain damage itself.
I’m relieved when Bhakta tells me he’s not comfortable giving her a higher dose at this point. “Don’t want to suppress her system any more than necessary, especially not while she’s having these breathing problems.” He glances at her monitor. “O2s are looking good?”
I’m not entirely sure if it’s a question or a statement.
“Any other concerns we should discuss?” he asks.
I’m sure I could come up with a dozen if I had time to organize my thoughts, but everything’s racing through my mind at once. “I guess not.”
“Well, I know we talked about you signing the DNR last time she was admitted. I think you’re doing the right thing.”
I’m assuming he hasn’t talked with Riza Lopez and her linebacker bodyguard yet, but maybe that sort of stuff is automated. Maybe it goes out to all the doctors at once when a parent signs one of those papers. But I recall how adamant he was back in Natalie’s NICU days that the DNR was in her best interest given how much brain damage she’d already sustained. I get the feeling he’s complimenting me for sticking to my guns and agreeing to let my child die if this illness gets bad enough.
I’m not about to correct his assumptions. What business is it of his? It doesn’t matter if Natalie has a DNR on file at Children’s or not because she’s not going to get that sick. She’s already improved quite a bit since we arrived. All this back and forth about it is a big waste of time.
“If you need anything, the nurses know how to get in touch with me.”
Without waiting for a goodbye, Bhakta’s gone. I feel relieved. Why would I trust my daughter’s medical care to anyone who automatically assumes she’s better off dead than alive?
I know canceling the DNR was the right thing to do. I really need to stop second-guessing myself now.
It’s late. Who knows how many more nurses will be in and out tonight to interrupt my rest? At least Natalie is oblivious to it all. That’s one blessing. I grab a blanket and cover myself up in the oversized couch chair.
If I’m lucky, I’ll catch a few hours of sleep.