Читать книгу The Doctor's Blessing - Patricia Davids - Страница 11

Stunned by Amber’s question, Phillip could only stare. She didn’t know? How was that possible? More to the point, once she found out would it kill any chance of a better working relationship? He had opened a can of worms and didn’t know how to shut it. She was waiting for his answer.

“Harold hasn’t told you how the accident happened?” Phillip cringed at the memory.

“He said he foolishly stepped into the path of an oncoming car.”

Phillip stiffened his spine, bracing for the worst possible reaction from Amber. “I was driving that car.”

When the silence lengthened, he expected an angry or horror-filled outburst. He didn’t expect the compassion that slowly filled her eyes.

Encouraged, he forged ahead. “It was the last night of his visit. We’d had an argument. I dropped him off at his hotel. I was angry and waiting impatiently for a chance to pull out into the heavy traffic. When a break came, I gunned it.”

He’d never forgive himself for what happened next. “I should have been paying more attention. I should have seen him, but he rushed out from between two parked cars right in front of me. I couldn’t stop.”

She laid her hand on his arm. “That must have been terrible for you.”

“I thought I killed him.” Phillip relived that terrifying moment, that horrific sound, every time he closed his eyes.

Quietly, Amber said, “Thank you for telling me. I can understand how hard it was for you. I want you to know I don’t blame you. An accident is an accident. Things happen for a reason only God knows.”

Phillip’s pent-up guilt seeped out of his bones, leaving him light-headed with relief. “Now, can we work together without those frosty silences between us?”

He knew he’d made a mistake when her look of compassion changed to annoyance. “I don’t blame you for what happened in Hawaii. I do blame you for making me feel marginalized and ridiculed for my career choice. For brushing aside my years of training and my skills as if they were nothing. I’m proud to be a nurse-midwife.”

Taken aback, he snapped, “Wait a minute. I did not ridicule you. I stated my opinion about home childbirth. An opinion that is shared by the American Medical Association, as I’m sure you know.”

“And so far, not upheld by the courts, as I’m sure you know. Childbirth is not a medical condition. It is a normal, natural part of life.” She started walking again.

Catching up with her, he said, “But it can become a medical emergency in a matter of minutes. I’m sorry we can’t agree on this. However, if we’re going to be working together we need to agree on some other important issues.”

She shot him an exasperated look. “Such as?”

“That my grandfather’s practice is important to him. Both you and I are important to him. He wouldn’t want us at odds with each other.”

He detected a softening in her rigid posture. Finally, she admitted, “That’s true.”

“Right. We can also agree that the clinic needs to run smoothly, that I don’t know where to buy groceries in Hope Springs and I haven’t found a barbershop. Can you help a guy out?”

She did smile at that. “The grocery store is at the corner of Plum and Maple. Take a left at the next block and go three blocks east. The barbershop backs up to our building. Go through the alley to Vine Street. It’ll be on your left. And yes, the clinic needs to run smoothly. Our patients deserve our best.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

It was grudgingly given, but he’d won a small victory. “I also don’t know what labs Mrs. Nissley had done. I couldn’t find her chart.”

“I was checking her hemoglobin A1c. She’s a diabetic. Ask Wilma for any charts you can’t find. She has her own system of filing because so many of our patients have the same names.”

“Why is that?”

“Most Amish are descendants of a small group who came to this country in the seventeen hundreds. It is forbidden to marry outside of their faith so very few new names have come into the mix.”

By now they had reached the clinic. He held open the door and she went in ahead of him. To his surprise he saw they already had a waiting room full of people. Word was getting around that there was a new doctor in town.

It seemed that more one-on-one time with Amber would have to wait. He should have walked more slowly.

She leaned over and said quietly, “Something you should know. The Amish don’t run to the doctor for every little thing. They are usually quite sick when they come to us. When they find a ‘good doctor,’ they send all their family and friends to him.”

“And if I’m not a good doctor, in their opinion?”

“We’ll lose Amish clients very quickly and we’ll be out of business in no time. So, no pressure.”

“Right. No pressure.”

The day passed quickly. True to Amber’s prediction, many of the patients Phillip treated had been putting off seeing a doctor since his grandfather’s departure. Two bad cuts had become serious infections. A young mill worker with a gash on his arm and a high fever had to be sent to the hospital in Millersburg for IV antibiotics.

After that, he saw a young Amish woman who’d come to see Amber for her prenatal visits. After he explained the current situation, his patient got up and left his exam room without a word. In the waiting room, she spoke to a second expectant mother. The two left together. Amber followed them outside and talked with them briefly.

Was she smoothing things over or throwing gasoline on the fire?

His next patient was a three-year-old Amish girl with a severe cough. The shy toddler was also a dwarf, and she wanted nothing to do with him. She kept pushing his stethoscope away each time he tried to listen to her chest.

Mrs. Lapp, her worried mother, apologized. Amber moved forward to help restrain the child. “Doctor, Helen doesn’t speak English yet. She won’t learn it until she goes to school. The Amish speak Pennsylvania Deitsh at home, a German dialect.”

Glancing up at her, he said, “I thought it was Dutch.”

“It’s commonly called Pennsylvania Dutch but that’s an Americanization of the term Deitsh,” Amber replied.

He said, “Don’t hold her down, it will only frighten her. What we need is a little help from Doctor Dog.”

Reaching into a drawer on the exam table, he withdrew a hand puppet, a fuzzy brown dog with floppy ears, a white lab coat and a miniature stethoscope around his neck. Looking down at the toy, Phillip said, “Dr. Dog, I’d like you to meet Helen Lapp.”

“Hello, Helen,” the puppet chirped in a falsetto voice as he waved one stubby arm.

Phillip heard Amber giggle behind him. Helen sat up with a hesitant smile on her face.

The puppet scratched his head with his paw. “What’s wrong with you, Helen? Are you sick?”

Helen’s mother translated for her. The girl nodded, never taking her eyes off the toy.

Swinging the puppet around to face himself, Phillip asked in his puppet voice, “Aren’t you going to make her better, Dr. White?”

“I’m trying but Helen is afraid of me.”

“She is?” Turning to face the little girl, Dr. Dog asked, “Are you afraid of Dr. White?”

Her mother asked her the question in Pennsylvania Dutch. Helen glared at Phillip and nodded.

Dr. Dog rubbed his nose. “But you aren’t scared of me, are you?”

When her mother stopped speaking, Helen shook her head. Reaching out tentatively, she patted the dog’s head then giggled. Her laughter quickly became a harsh cough.

Dr. Dog asked, “Can I listen to your chest?”

Helen leaned back against her mother but didn’t object. Using Dr. Dog to grasp his stethoscope, Phillip listened to the child. When he was done with the exam, Dr. Dog thanked Helen, shook hands with her and her mother, then returned to his drawer. Helen continued to watch the drawer as if he might pop out again.

As Phillip wrote out a prescription for Helen, Amber leaned close. “Very clever.”

More pleased than he should have been by that simple compliment, he continued with his work. Helen had him deeply concerned.

Turning to her mother, he handed her the prescription and said, “I hear a loud murmur in Helen’s heart, a noise that shouldn’t be there. I’d like for her to see a specialist.”

The woman stared at the note in her hand. “Will this medicine make her better?”

“I believe so, but she needs to see a heart doctor. I’ll have Amber make an appointment. I believe Helen’s heart condition is making her cough worse.”

The mother nodded. Relieved, he looked to Amber. She said, “I’ll take care of it.”

He saw several more townspeople after that with assorted coughs and colds. Then two young Amish brothers came in with poison ivy from head to toe. Their mother explained her usual home remedy had failed to help.

He asked for her recipe and jotted it down. He then ordered a steroid shot for each of the boys. Afterward, he gave their mother a prescription for an ointment to be used twice a day, but encouraged her to continue her own treatment as well.

When they left, Amber remained in the room.

“Yes?” He kept writing on the chart without looking up.

“Why didn’t you have her discontinue her home remedy? It clearly isn’t working.”

“There was nothing in it that would interfere with the medication I prescribed. It should even give the boys some added relief. Mostly, it will make her feel better to be doing something for them.” He snapped the chart shut. “What’s next?”

His final patient of the day turned out to be an Amish woman with a badly swollen wrist.

Amber stood by the counter as Phillip pulled his chair up beside the young Mrs. Nissley. Her first name was Martha. She held her arm cradled across her stomach.

Phillip said, “May I see your wrist, please?”

Taking it gently, he palpated it, feeling for any obvious breaks. “Tell me what happened.”

“The dog scared my Milch cow, and she kicked. She missed the dog but hit me.”

He winced. “Sounds painful.”

“Ja. That it is.”

He admired her stoicism. “You’re the first cow-kick victim I’ve treated in my career. In spite of that, the only way to be certain it isn’t broken is to get an X-ray. Are you related to Edna Nissley?”

“Which Edna Nissley?”

He struggled to find a description since they dressed alike and seemed so similar. “She’s an older lady. Short, kind of stout. Oh, she drives a gray horse.”

“That is my husband’s uncle’s wife. The other Edna Nissley is the wife of my husband’s cousin William. Little Edna Nissley is the daughter of my husband’s youngest brother, Daniel.”

“Okay.” A confusing family history if he’d ever heard one. He glanced at Amber. “I’ll need AP and Lateral X-rays of the left wrist. Mrs. Nissley, is there any chance you may be pregnant?”

“Nee. At least, I don’t think so.”

He looked at Amber. “Make sure she wears a lead apron just in case.”

“Of course.”

Ten minutes later he had the films in hand. Putting them up on the light box, he indicated the wrist bones for his patient to see.

“I don’t detect a break. What you have is a bad sprain and some nasty bruising. I’ll wrap it with an elastic bandage to compress the swelling. Rest it and ice it. I want you to keep the arm elevated. Is there a problem with doing any of those things?”

“Can I milk the cow?”

He tried not to smile. “If you can do it with one hand or with your toes.”

She grinned. “I have children and a helpful husband.”

“Good. Here’s a prescription for some pain medication if you need it. See me again if it isn’t better by the end of the week.”

When Mrs. Nissley left he saw the waiting room was finally empty. A glance at his watch told him it was nearly four in the afternoon. More tired than he cared to admit, Phillip retreated to his grandfather’s office and sank gratefully into Harold’s padded, brown leather chair. If his seventy-five-year-old grandfather kept this kind of pace, he was hardier than Phillip gave him credit for.

After only five minutes of downtime, a knock sounded at his door. Sighing, he called out, “Yes?”

Amber poked her head in. “I have a ham sandwich. Would you like to share?”

His stomach rumbled at the mention of food, reminding him he’d had nothing but one cup of coffee since he’d left the house that morning. “I’d love a sandwich. Thank you.”

She entered and whisked a plate from behind her back. “I thought you might say that.”

He took her offering and made a place for the paper dinnerware on his desk. “Why don’t you and Wilma join me?”

“Wilma has gone home.”

“Then will you join me?” He held his breath as he waited for her reply.

Amber hesitated. It was one thing to work with Phillip. It was a whole other thing to share a meal with him.

He said, “Don’t tell me you’ve never joined Harold for a late lunch.”

“Of course I have.”

“Then what’s the problem? Afraid I’ll bite or afraid you won’t be able to resist stabbing me with a knife?”

“All I have is a plastic fork, so you’re safe on that score.”

“Good.” He lifted the upper slice of bread and peered inside. “You didn’t lace this with an overdose of digoxin, did you?”

“And slow your heart until it stopped?” She snapped her fingers. “Wish I’d thought of it. Then Dr. Dog could take over. Thanks for the idea.”

Grinning, Amber left the room and returned to the break room to get her half of the sandwich. It seemed Dr. Phillip had a sense of humor. It was one more point in his favor. The most impressive thing about him, good looks aside, was how he dealt with patients.

During the long, exhausting day he had listened to them. He discussed his plans of care in simple terms. And he was great with children. She liked that about him.

He could be a good replacement for Harold. If only she could change his mind about her midwife services.

Looking heavenward, she said, “Please, Lord, heal Harold and send him back to us quickly. In the meantime, give me the right words to help Phillip see the need the Amish have for my work.”

With her plate in hand, she returned to his office. She saw he’d been busy clearing off another spot on the opposite side of the desk. She pulled over a chair and sat down. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath then silently said a blessing over her meal.

“Sitting down feels good, doesn’t it?” Phillip asked.

She nodded. “You can say that again.”

“Is the clinic normally this busy?”

“We serve a large rural area besides the town. Today was busier than usual but not by much.”

He took a big bite of his sandwich. “This is good,” he mumbled with his mouth full.

“I picked it up at the café this morning.”

“Okay, I have to know. Why is it called the Shoofly Pie Café?”

“You’ve never heard of shoofly pie?”

“No.”

“Wait here.” Rising, Amber returned to the break room and pulled a small box from the bottom shelf. Returning to Phillip’s office, she set it in front of him with a pair of plastic forks.

He popped the last bite of sandwich into his mouth and cautiously raised the lid of the box. Swallowing, he said, “It looks like a wedge of coffee cake.”

“It’s similar. No dessert in the world says ‘Amish’ like shoofly pie. It’s made with molasses, which some people say gave it the name because they had to shoo the flies away from it. It’s a traditional Pennsylvania Dutch recipe but it’s served in many places across the South.”

“Interesting.”

“Try some.” She pushed it closer.

He shook his head.

“Are you a culinary chicken, Dr. Phillip?”

“It must be loaded with calories. I don’t indulge in risky behaviors.”

“That from a man who surfs the North Shore of Oahu?”

His eyes brightened. “You follow surfing?”

“A little.” And only since Harold told her it was his grandson’s favorite sport.

Phillip sat back and closed his eyes. “The North Shore is perfection. You should see the waves that come in there. Towering blue-green walls of water curling over and crashing with such a roar. The sandy shore is a pale strip between the blue sea and lush tropical palms. It’s like no place else on earth.”

“I’d like to see the ocean someday,” she said wistfully.

His eyes shot open in disbelief. “You’ve never been to the seashore?”

“I once saw Lake Erie.”

“Sorry, that doesn’t count. What makes you stick so close to these cornfields?” He picked up the fork and tried a sample of pie.

“I was born and raised in Ohio.”

“That’s no excuse.” He pointed to the box with his fork. “This is good stuff.”

“Told you. I was raised on a farm in an Amish community about fifty miles from here. My mother grew up Amish but didn’t join the church because she fell in love with my father, who wasn’t Amish. They owned a dairy farm. That means work three hundred sixty-five days a year. I don’t think I traveled more than thirty miles from our farm until I was in college.”

“What made you go into midwifery?”

“I always wanted to be a nurse. I liked the idea of helping sick people. Becoming a CNM wasn’t my first choice. I was led to become a nurse-midwife by my older sister, Esther. You would have liked her.”

Thoughts of Esther, always laughing, always smiling, brought a catch to Amber’s voice. He noticed.

“Did something happen to her?” he asked gently.

“Unlike mother, Esther longed to join the Amish church. She did when she was eighteen. After that, she married the farmer who lived across the road from us.”

“Sounds like you had a close-knit family.”

“Yes, we did. Esther had her first child at home with an Amish midwife. Everything was fine. Things went terribly wrong with her second baby. The midwife hesitated getting Esther to a hospital for fear of repercussions. By the time they did get help, it was too late. Esther and her baby died.”

“I don’t understand. How would that make you want to become a midwife?”

“Because a CNM has the skills, training and equipment to deal with emergencies. There are a lot of good lay midwives out there, but as a CNM I don’t have to be afraid to take a patient to the hospital for fear of being arrested for practicing medicine without a license. I can save the lives of women like my sister who want to give birth at home because they truly believe it is the way God intended.”

“Had your sister been in the hospital to start with, things might have turned out differently.”

He didn’t get it. She shouldn’t have expected him to. “Maybe, or maybe God allowed Esther to show me my true vocation among her people.”

Amber helped herself to the small bite of pie he’d left. “My turn to ask a question.”

“Why won’t I allow you to do home deliveries? I don’t believe it’s safe.”

She leaned forward earnestly. “But it is. Home births with a qualified attendant are safe for healthy, low-risk women. Countries where there are large numbers of home births have fewer complications and fewer deaths than here in the United States. How do you explain that if home births aren’t safe?”

“The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists do not support programs that advocate home birth. They don’t support individuals who provide home births.”

“Is that for safety reasons or financial ones? I’m taking money out of their pockets if my patients deliver at home.”

“You think the majority of doctors in the ACOG put money before the safety of patients? I doubt it. We could argue this point until we’re both blue in the face. I’m not changing my mind.”

Frustrated, Amber threw up her hands and shook her head. “This isn’t a whim or a craze. This has been their way of life for hundreds of years. At least listen to some of the Amish women who want home births. Hear their side of the story. This is important to them.”

All trace of humor vanished from his face. “What part of no don’t you understand, Miss Bradley?”

They glared at each other, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Suddenly, Amber heard the front door of the clinic open. A boy’s voice yelled, “Doktor, doktor, komm shnell!”

She leapt to her feet. “He says come quick.”