Читать книгу Oh, Baby! - Judy Baer - Страница 11

“Be careful, Molly. Dr. Reynolds’s bite is worse than his bark.”

I spun around to see my friend Lissy Franklin hurry past me pushing a med cart. “Tiptoe softly,” Lissy mouthed before turning into one of the birthing rooms on the third floor of the Bradshaw Medical Center.

I took a deep breath and recalled all I’d heard about Dr. Reynolds in the few short weeks he’s been at Bradshaw General. It isn’t pretty, at least not from my professional perspective.

He’s a great ob-gyn physician, no doubt about that. His reputation preceded him from his former position at a large hospital in California. He’s only been practicing medicine in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis-St. Paul for three months and already women are booked weeks in advance to be his patients. I, however, hadn’t had a client who was his patient until today.

He’s cute, too. Gorgeous, actually, with dark hair, impossibly blue eyes and a trim physique that, it’s rumored, comes from running and working out two hours a day. Where a doctor gets time like that, I don’t know, but maybe it helps take the edge off his temper. It’s his personality that gets low points from all the nurses. He demands perfection and settles for nothing less. Felicity, or Lissy as I usually call her, says he can make them cry with a look.

Maybe not all the rumors are true. Fortunately, at least one of my personal experiences with him has belied that opinion.

“I’m so glad you agreed to come to this visit with me,” new mother Tiffany Franks had told me several weeks ago as we sat together in the waiting room of her pediatrician’s office. “I didn’t want to go to the baby’s first doctor visit alone. My husband said he couldn’t take time away from work and no one else was available. I’m still so nervous with the baby.” The baby in question was a solid sleepy lump in my lap, hardly a reason for Tiffany’s anxiety.

A week or two of experience would resolve that. “The doctor will tell you little Max looks great and you will feel a hundred percent better in no time.”

We were examining Max’s chins—all four of them—when a man strode into the office and up to the receptionist’s desk. “Is Dr. Harley in?”

The receptionist looked up at him and her eye-lashes began to flutter like hummingbird wings. “Why…uh…who?”

“Dr. Harley,” the insanely handsome Dr. Reynolds said. “Your boss?”

“Oh, yes.” She blushed. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Do I look like I should?” he snapped impatiently as he opened his hands to show that there was no baby in them.

His legs, however, told a different story. A blond toddler with lemonade curls and sapphire-blue eyes had glommed onto his left leg. She held her teddy bear in one hand and clung to his calf with the other. On his right leg, a little boy proceeded to run a Matchbox car up and down as if his expensive trousers were a vertical racetrack. Two or three other children were creeping closer to get a good look at the man.

“I’ve never seen anything like it!” Tiffany whispered. “He’s like the Pied Piper. The children don’t seem to have any fear of him at all.”

He appeared accustomed to being a human jungle gym.

“I’m Dr. Reynolds,” he told the starstruck receptionist. “We’ll be working closely since I deliver babies and he picks up where I leave off. I need to talk with him.” His words were clipped.

“Of course. I’ll just…” The woman’s voice trailed off. She seemed to have lost track of her job description under his expectant and impatient gaze.

“Now.”

That woke her up. She jumped to her feet and trotted toward the examining rooms.

As she did so, Dr. Reynolds picked up the blond cherub. “Hi, baby girl. How are you?”

The child gurgled gleefully and patted his cheeks with her little palms. “Where’s your mommy?”

A young woman in jeans stood up and came forward.

“She’s beautiful,” he said as he handed her the child.

The woman flushed with pleasure. Dr. Reynolds might have said more, but the little boy with the toy car held his arms out to be picked up.

“He’s a kid magnet,” Tiffany whispered. “They aren’t the least bit afraid of approaching him even though he snapped at the receptionist. Remarkable.”

I’d thought of the incident several times since. Dr. Reynolds has subsequently put a number of Bradshaw employees in their places for minor infractions and he has the personnel tiptoeing on eggshells. What did little kids know about him that the staff didn’t?

As I pondered the question, a nurse’s aide walked by. Her eyes were wide.

I caught her arm. “What’s going on?”

“Dr. Reynolds, that’s what. He just kicked everybody out of the birthing room because they were in the way. He said no one but the baby’s father could stay. The family is up in arms, and he won’t budge. He’s stubborn, that one.”

She looked at me appraisingly. “All I can say is that I’m glad I’m not you. When you come in with one of your clients, he’s going to chew you up and spit you out.”

That’s not a rosy prospect. The kid thing at the pediatrician’s office must have been an anomaly. Too bad.

What is a driven man like that going to do with me, an innocent doula, whose client unfortunately insists her baby be born at this hospital, with this attending physician? Bradford is a private hospital that hasn’t experienced a lot of birthing coaches in the past, and from what I’ve heard of Dr. Reynolds, that pattern won’t be changing anytime soon. I’m not too eager to be the bomb-sniffing dog who is first to go in and check for booby traps.

So far I’ve chalked his negativism toward my profession up to lack of sleep, pressure and the fact that he’s not yet settled into the routine at the hospital, but those justifications are wearing thin.

I walked into my client’s room. Brenda Halbert’s face cleared and her shoulders relaxed, but she still kept her telephone to her ear. She patted her belly, which looked like a gigantic haystack hovering under the bedding.

“You have got to cover for me on the Smyth case. We were supposed to meet today at three, and there’s no way I’ll make it.” She scowled at the response from the other end of the line. “I’m having a baby, not getting my hair done! It’s not as if you can expect me to drop by the hospital and then hurry back to work. Besides, you’ll do a great job. It’s just a deposition, after all, but we can’t take any chances….”

She gestured at me to sit down and mouthed, “I’ll be off in a minute.”

I see more and more women already in the hospital tying up loose ends so they can have a baby without worrying their cell phones might ring during delivery. Well, maybe it’s not that bad, but it is getting ridiculous. More than once in my acquaintance with Brenda, I’ve feared she’d bring a briefcase to the delivery. Then I glanced around the room and spotted a suspicious looking attaché case in the corner. Oh, my.

“There you are, Molly Cassidy.” She greeted me as if I were the one who’d been on the phone. “I don’t want to do this without you, you know.”

The room was sunny and welcoming. The necessary medical equipment for a healthy birth was still stashed away behind closed doors. The room looked more like a comfortable efficiency apartment than the delivery room it would become. Bradshaw is known for its upscale amenities. I vaguely wished my own house looked this good.

“No need to worry about that.” I plumped the pillows behind her back and handed her fresh ice chips. I felt honored to be trusted by a woman who, in her ordinary, everyday life is a highly capable trial attorney. “I’m stuck to you like glue unless you tell me otherwise.”

She smiled beatifically at me and leaned back against the pillows. That lasted for only a moment before she began chuffing and huffing like the Little Engine That Could.

“Another contraction?” I moved closer to put a comforting hand on her arm. “Focus, just focus.”

She glared at the gigantic orange lollipop I’d taped to the wall on the other side of the room, concentrating so deeply on the brightly colored sucker that nothing else mattered but her breath and the baby preparing to be born.

I love my job. Being a professional labor assistant is the greatest occupation in the world. Better even than my former occupation as a preschool teacher, which was a pretty exciting and entertaining job. Talk about never knowing what will happen next! I always kept a change of clothes in my car while I was teaching because I never knew when I was going to be splatter painted, thrown up on or hugged repeatedly by little ones with sticky hands.

As a doula I provide emotional support, loving touch and comfort to a woman in childbirth. It is the best of both worlds. Not only do I get to soothe and cheer for the mom, I am present for the miracle of birth. I’m useful, too. Having a doula present at birth tends to result in shorter labors, fewer complications and less requests by the mother for pain medications.

That’s why it puzzles me that Dr. Reynolds is rumored to be so against doulas and barely tolerates medical midwives. Gossip has it that he came to this post saying he wanted as few people as possible involved with his patients’ births and has so far discouraged clients from hiring the likes of me. Most doctors don’t pay much attention to who is there to support the mothers as long as they aren’t causing trouble. Reynolds, however, appears ready to campaign actively against my profession.

It’s no wonder I’m nervous. In such a state, Lissy’s warning did not help one bit.

He can’t do much about it if a mother requests a doula in her birth plan, but he certainly doesn’t encourage anyone to do so. A birth plan is devised by a mom and her husband to let their preferences for their labor and delivery be known in order to make it the experience they want. It’s not guaranteed to work out exactly as planned—babies choose to come when and where they want and come in very small and very large sizes, both of which may change the birth plan in a heartbeat. Still, it allows the people supporting the parents to know their ideal and to strive for it.

It also makes the new parents feel heard. I insist on having scrambled eggs when I eat breakfast in a café, not over easy, not poached. If I’m that careful to express my needs about something as simple as eggs, surely I should get some input on one of the most momentous days of my life.

My own grandmother thinks it’s ridiculous, but she’s of the “just wake me up when it’s over” school. To each her own.

His “bite is worse than his bark.” That doesn’t bode well for me or my dream of introducing an actual doula-and-parent-education program into Bradshaw General. Obviously his bark is plenty nasty unless one is under four years old. Then he’s putty in your hands.

“Is Dr. Reynolds here?” Brenda wondered impatiently. “I thought he would have been in to check on me by now.” Ever the professional, she had no doubt worked out a schedule of her own. I just hope she hasn’t made any appointments for tomorrow.

“He’s in the building.”

“Don’t you just love him?” she asked as another contraction subsided. “He is so adorable.”

“Adorable?” I’d never heard him described like that. Abhor-able, maybe, or just plain horrible. Never adorable.

“Actually, I’ve never worked with him before. Bradshaw General hasn’t seen as many doulas as some of the other hospitals.” Although Bradshaw is one of the smaller private hospitals in the city, it is also one of the best. “Usually Dr. Reynolds doesn’t recommend doulas to his patients.”

Brenda waved a dismissive hand. “That’s only because he’s so protective of us. He says he doesn’t want anyone around who might disrupt the labor and delivery. My friend Sheila had a baby here last month, and she couldn’t say enough good things about him. He’s a bit of a fanatic about it, but I told him that there’d be no labor and delivery at this hospital for me if I couldn’t have you, so he gave in.”

So that’s how I’d gotten here. It wouldn’t make me any more welcome in Dr. Reynolds’s eyes, I’m afraid. I might as well add to my business card

Molly Cassidy, Certified Doula,

Nuisance, Troublemaker and

Unwelcome Guest.

Oh, well, women have crossed picket lines, gone to the North Pole in dogsleds, climbed Mount Everest and flown into outer space. I can certainly attempt to convince Dr. Reynolds that he is mistaken not to welcome doulas. Of course, heroic things always come at a cost.

Feeling very much like Amelia Earhart leading the way for other women and well aware I might crash and burn for the sake of those who followed, I offered Brenda a massage and hoped this baby would be born so smoothly and quickly that Dr. Reynolds didn’t have time to notice me.

That was, of course, not to be.

At 2:00 p.m. Brenda’s husband, Grant, arrived from the airport. He’d taken the first plane he could catch from Madrid where he’d been shepherding a group of students from a local Spanish immersion school. He came in looking tired but excited.

“Did I make it?”

His wife gave him a don’t-you-ever-speak-to-me-again look and started her choo-choo-train imitation again.

“Just in time. Her contractions are coming close together.”

He flopped onto the chair. “We were scheduled to leave Madrid tomorrow but I was lucky to catch an early plane back.”

His wife was mumbling under her breath. I didn’t tell him that she was muttering things like “should have stayed in Spain” and “you’ll never touch me again.” That’s another wonderful thing about childbirth. It’s energetic, strenuous, exhausting, painful—and completely forgettable once you have a baby in your arms. He would be back in her good graces again when they heard that first beautiful cry.

Within moments of Brenda’s husband’s appearance and her wishing a plague upon his head—which many women seem to do in the last stages of birth—Dr. Reynolds arrived.

He entered so regally and with so much confidence that I almost stood up and saluted.

I’ve always thought a doctor in a tie and lab coat is attractive, and Dr. Reynolds is no exception. In fact, he may be the standard to which other docs should aspire. His tailored trousers were navy, his shirt white, crisply starched. His dark hair has a natural curl but was combed into submission except for a naughty cowlick at the crown of his head. His eyes are a deep, devastating blue and fringed with short black lashes. A charming smile, too. It’s no wonder women drive many miles to his office. The scenery alone is worth the trip.

Then my attention fell on his tie. I blinked twice, thinking my eyes were deceiving me. But no, there was actually a sea of little faces staring back at me.

Brenda noticed, too. “Your tie, it’s…full of babies.”

He glanced down at his chest. “My former nurse made it. She used to give me one for Christmas every year. It’s a collage of pictures of babies I’ve delivered. She had the photos transferred onto fabric.”

Aww… How can I be upset with a man who loves babies enough to wear a tie like that?

“I see things are progressing nicely.”

Brenda stared fixedly at the lollipop and panted heavily. “Nicely for who?” she muttered through gritted teeth. I turned away to hide the grin teasing the corners of my mouth.

Grant reached out to pat his wife’s hand. Her eyes widened. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped. “Only Molly touches me.” It wasn’t so much a statement as a snarl.

I winced as everyone’s attention turned to me. So much for staying in the background and not causing trouble.

Those blue eyes were suddenly cold as the polar ice cap.

“So this is the doula.” Dr. Reynolds’s voice was flat and hostile. He might as well have said, “So this is the virus you’ve been talking about.”

“Ms….” He waited for me to fill in the blank.

Our previous encounters hadn’t even registered with him. Maybe I can dislike a guy secure enough to wear babies on his tie.

“Cassidy, Molly Cassidy. How do you do, Dr. Reynolds. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” He looked at me frostily. “Well, just as long as you stay out of the way.” Then he dismissed me completely despite the fact that Brenda was hanging on to my hand for dear life.

That went swimmingly, I thought, and turned back to Brenda, praying that not only would this birth be smooth and successful, but also that the chilly Dr. Reynolds wouldn’t toss me out on my ear.

“Why is this taking so long?” Brenda whined a half hour later. Everything seemed to have ground to a halt laborwise. “Doesn’t this child have any sense of time?”

“They usually don’t come out with a degree in time management,” Dr. Reynolds said calmly. “Or even a wristwatch.” He’d remained surprisingly close to the labor room, even staying to talk football with Grant and baby names with Brenda.

“Make something happen, will you?” Brenda, like many lawyers, was not accustomed to letting nature takes its course.

“It is happening,” Reynolds said with composure as he studied the printout from the fetal monitor. “Just more slowly than you’d like.” His unruffled presence spoke volumes. Even though he didn’t want me here, I felt better knowing that Brenda was in his hands. He is an approach/avoidance kind of guy—babies on his tie and fire in his eyes.

She cast her gaze around the room and it landed on me. “Then you do something, Molly.”

“I can read to you.”

Brenda’s expression grew peevish. “Sing.”

“You have got to be kidding!” her husband, Grant, bleated, but she stared him down.

Dr. Reynolds turned away and I could see the smirk on his otherwise gorgeous features.

“Show tunes.”

My mouth worked but nothing came out.

“Brenda,” I finally managed, “I don’t know any show tunes.”

“You’re a doula,” Dr. Reynolds interrupted. “I thought you do ‘anything’ for a client.”

“That’s not what I meant….”

They both stared at me. Brenda looked expectant; Reynolds, maddeningly amused.

If I did it, I’d make a fool of myself. If I didn’t, well, Brenda would be unhappy and Reynolds would have more fuel for the fire.

Never let it be said I don’t stand up to a challenge. Unfortunately I’ve never been one to actually memorize all the words to any song except for a couple, and they weren’t show tunes.

“‘The farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell, hi-ho, the dairy-o…’”

Later, Lissy and I recapped the delivery.

“You mean he actually said that? ‘Stay out of the way?’ What did your client think of that?” Lissy slathered peanut butter onto a stack of buttery crackers and ate them one by one.

“She had a lot more to worry about than my feelings. She was the star of the show and performed heroically. Anyone who gives birth to a ten-pound, one-ounce baby boy rocks in my book.”

“Still, ‘Stay out of the way,’ just like that? What a—”

“Don’t say it,” I warned. “Just because Reynolds doesn’t like doulas, it doesn’t mean he isn’t a good doctor. Frankly, after watching him in action, I think he’s a great doctor. He has so much compassion for his patients that it practically oozes out of every pore. He was gentle, kind, patient, encouraging and supportive, all necessary things when a mother is giving birth to a baby the size of my bowling ball.”

“You’re defending him?”

“He didn’t kick me out of the hospital.”

“I’ve heard he’s campaigning with the hospital board to limit the number of people in a birthing room. Everyone reads that to mean that he doesn’t want birthing coaches or anyone but spouses or the very closest family involved.”

“Maybe I showed him that it can be a good thing.” I cleared my throat. “Unless he didn’t like my singing.”

“Your singing? I thought you were at a birth, not the opera.”

“It was totally embarrassing,” I admitted, “but Brenda heard me humming once and told me I had a pretty voice. I never dreamed she’d demand that I sing to her during delivery.”

“No kidding? You sang this baby into the world?”

“If I’d been that baby, I would have hung on to my mother’s rib cage and refused to come out after listening to me for five minutes. My repertoire is limited. My mind went blank, and all I could remember was the theme song from The Brady Bunch, ‘Farmer in the Dell,’ ‘Jesus Loves Me’ and ‘How Great Thou Art.’ Brenda enjoyed it, but Dr. Reynolds’s jaw was twitching by the fourth or fifth time through ‘and the mouse took the cheese.’” I shrugged. “But whatever a client wants, including distraction, she gets.”

“When I have a baby I want you to be my doula,” Lissy said. “And I want you to start learning words to new songs right away. I would not deliver a baby to the theme song from The Brady Bunch. Do something more contemporary, will you? Or show tunes like the soundtrack from Les Mis or Phantom.”

Lissy washed down her peanut butter crackers with milk from my refrigerator and started to dig in my cupboards for candy. She’s as comfortable here as she is in her own home. Lissy and I have known each other for years. We met in an exercise class and bonded because we were the only two that had actually come to exercise and not to meet men. She and I in our ponytails and sweats had stood out in a room full of beautiful women in Danskin with full face makeup and hairdos sprayed so as not to move even during tae bo. After class, while all the others mobbed the instructor, a hunky guy with protruding veins and bulging muscles, to ask questions and to get a closer look, Lissy and I went to the juice bar and drowned our sorrows in chocolate-banana smoothies. We’ve been friends ever since.

Lissy is a nurse at Bradford Medical Center and the one who actually told me what a doula was and suggested that I should become one.

“What do you think makes him that way?” I asked.

“Dr. Reynolds, you mean? I don’t know. It’s his particular hangup, I guess, the nobody-but-medical-people-present-during-birth thing. Too bad you’re on the opposing team. I guess he can be really nice when he wants to be.”

“Tell me about him.” I didn’t really care, but I didn’t want Lissy to go home, either.

Two months ago I broke up with a fellow I’d been dating from church. To be truthful, the relationship was more serious on his side than it was on mine, but I do miss his company. Nights are longer without him to talk to on the phone or drop by.

It was for the best. Hank Marcus has a plan for his life. It includes a wife, which could have been me had I said yes, and a fast track in his business. He’d begged me to marry him and come with him to Mississippi where his company is opening a new plant. That was a huge part of the problem. My life plan does not currently include marriage or Mississippi. Although I miss Hank, I’m not devastated without him, either. When I marry, it will have to be to a man I refuse to live without. And that, I’m learning, may take some time to find. The prospects are dim right now, but I’m so busy it doesn’t really matter.

“I don’t know much about him. No one does. He keeps to himself. He’s well respected in the medical community and when he speaks, people listen. The board is giddy with joy at having him here, of course. His patients love him and the nurses are scared of him because he is so meticulous and exacting. He spends almost no time in small talk with anyone. He leaves immediately after his work is complete and doesn’t ever tell anyone where he is going or what he is doing. I’ve heard he has a child, a little boy. He’s great with kids. I’ve seen him with the brothers and sisters of new babies. I’ve never heard anything about a wife, but who knows? He’s certainly not telling.”

“For not knowing anything about him, you seem to have quite a bit of information,” I observed. I dug into the bag of chocolate chips Lissy brought to the table.

“People talk, I listen.” Then she grew serious. “Listen, Molly, I really think that since you are the first doula ever to darken Dr. Reynolds’s doorstep, so to speak, you should tread very carefully if you want him to give you his stamp of approval. He’s got a lot of influence in this hospital.”

“How did he get so powerful, anyway?”

Lissy looked at me, shocked. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Bradshaw Medical Center. Dr. Everett Bradshaw?”

“Sure. He funded the hospital forty years ago. He was a relatively young man at the time. His picture is hanging in the front lobby where no one can miss it.”

“Exactly. Dr. Reynolds is Clay Bradshaw Reynolds. His grandfather funded this hospital. If it weren’t for the Bradshaw family, this facility wouldn’t exist. When he moved here to be on staff, the buzz was that when he spoke, everyone was to listen.”

My heart sank. He really could put the kibosh on my idea for a fledgling doula program at this hospital.

“He hasn’t been as demanding as everyone expected,” Lissy continued, “but he is fanatical about what happens to what he calls ‘his’ mothers. All I can say is, watch your step.”

His mothers? And all along I’d thought they were my mothers.