Читать книгу Dynamite Doc or Christmas Dad? - Marion Lennox, Marion Lennox - Страница 11

A SORE leg and a head cold?

Much more.

Marge was lying on crumpled bedclothes, gasping for breath. Even from the doorway Jess could see signs of cyanosis, the blue tinge from lack of oxygen.

Ben was right behind her, and he saw the signs as she had.

Marge’s nightgown was buttoned tight to her throat. He strode forward and ripped the buttons open, easing constriction in an instant. He put his hands under her arms and lifted.

Jess dived to shove pillows behind her. They were getting pressure off her chest any way they knew how.

A pug growled from the end of the bed and Sally gasped and grabbed her and hauled her away.

The little dog whined in fright.

Sally sobbed.

Dianne was crowding into the room as well, with Dusty and the research workers behind her.

Marge was still conscious. Her breath was coming in short, harsh gasps, as if every breath was agony.

As Jess pushed the pillows more solidly behind her she coughed, and a splash of crimson stained the bedclothes in front of her.

‘Her leg,’ Jess said urgently to Ben. ‘A kick from the wallaby last week. Massage yesterday to alleviate the pain.’

And with that thought they both knew what they were dealing with. This had to be a pulmonary embolism. A blood clot in the leg, breaking up, moving to the lung. All the symptoms were there—the pain on breathing, the shortness of breath, the lack of oxygen marked by the bluish tinge. A bruise on the leg, a massage yesterday stirring it up … it made horrible sense.

They needed to call for transfer to a major hospital. They needed to clear the room. They needed to move fast. But just for this moment Ben took time for reassurance. Panic would make this much worse. He took Marge’s hands in his and he forced her terrified gaze to focus on him.

‘Marge, it’s okay, we know what’s happening and we know what to do about it,’ he said, firmly and strongly, and everyone in the room seemed to pause. Marge’s harsh breathing was still dreadful, but her eyes fixed on Ben’s, a terrified, wounded thing searching desperately for help.

‘Sally said you hurt your leg last week,’ Ben said, almost conversationally. ‘A fragment of clotted blood will have broken away and made its way to your lung. That’s what I think is happening. It’s causing problems with your breathing; it’s stopping your lungs inflating fully. That’s what’s hurting, your deflated lung. What we need is to get the pain under control so it doesn’t hurt so much to breathe, and to give you oxygen so you won’t have to breathe so often or so deeply. If I can find those things we’ll do it here to make you comfortable. Meanwhile, we’ll call for a transfer and get you to the mainland hospital, because that’s where they can give you blood thinners that’ll stop any more clots forming and causing more trouble. But it’s okay. We’ll take care of you.’

The doorway was crowded. Everyone was listening. Ben’s voice was deep and calm, dispersing panic.

Marge’s breathing was still short and sharp and dreadful but some of the terror faded. If Ben could persuade her to relax …