"I can't believe how tiny she is," Gil murmured, his attention transfixed by the miniature human being in the incubator in front of him.
"She's so perfect though," replied Jenni softly, "look at her eyelashes!" Gil looked, mulling over the words of the consultant, Alice Kelvin. Heart surgery would be needed soon, but waiting as long as possible was the plan of action in order to allow as much development as possible. And there was development; eyeing the monitors, Gil saw the slight improvement in respiration Shawna had mentioned. Alice had spoken favorably of repairing the valve, but needed more tests to confirm whether or not it would be possible.
"Why wasn't this picked up on a scan before she was born?" Gil asked Shawna.
"It's not always visible," replied the doctor, "medicine has come a long way in recent years, but it's not perfect. You may have found out in the last few weeks, if the accident hadn't happened and your wife was able to carry her full term, but I can't say that for sure."
"Come on," said Jenni, taking charge of his chair. "I predict you have another twenty minutes max in you before you need another nap, and we need to go see Sara." He sighed and nodded; sitting upright was both exhausting, and nauseating.
"Thank you," he told Shawna.
"My pleasure," she replied with a small smile.
"If anything changes," he began.
"We'll let you know right away," was the promise.
…
Sara was back in room three-eleven again, post-surgery. It was warm, quiet and dim as Gil sat beside the bed, Sara's hand resting in his. Gauze and bandaging covered the right side of her head where the impact with the window had occurred. His eyes strayed to the machinery, feeling a sickening sense of déjà vu. A neck brace, one far more bulky and imposing than the one they had him wearing when out of bed, kept her head perfectly aligned.
A ventilator hissed rhythmically, its harsh, cold plastic tube snaking down her throat to provide the gentle rise and fall of her chest underneath the blankets. Her leg, the focus of the day's drama, was bandaged, splinted and braced to a degree that he wouldn't have though possible; by comparison, her other leg looked tiny, as though wasting away under the blankets.
He could not see the other wounds he had heard so much about; the emergency abdominal surgery, the shoulder injury, or the blunt trauma to the chest, which had necessitated the return of the ventilator. Bruising to the lungs, the respiratory therapists had said, which they just had to wait out. In the meantime, rest, breathing support and suctioning any goo out of her airway was the way forward. Staring at her, Gil didn't want to wait. He wanted to climb in bed with her and slip his arms around her warm, gentle body. He wanted to rewind back to her birthday and get lost in her all over again, never getting up to take her to work.
He caressed the side of her face, smoothing a thumb lightly over her eyebrow and raising her fingers to his lips, but she didn't move, or open her eyes and smile at him. What he wouldn't give at that moment, for one of her sunny grins, or sly smirks. But it didn't come. Patience, he told himself. You heard what they said, she is on the mend. He glanced at the card above the bed, the one that held allergy information, double checking to make sure Propofol had now been added.
It made him sick to think it, but he wasn't sure if he was glad he hadn't been there when she'd crashed. He'd seen the damage the desert had done first hand, and that had nearly left him in pieces. As carefully as he could, biting his lip as his ribs screamed their protest, he leaned forward and let his head rest on the mattress, pressing his face against her shoulder; wanting just to feel the warmth of her skin and her heartbeat under his touch.
…
"You've overreached yourself," Jenni gently informed him as slid sideways, almost tumbling out of the bed before she had managed to get him back in it. With practiced ease she held him by the shoulders as he vomited a mess of watery blue and green Jell-O onto the floor, his chest heaving with the effort. His head spun ferociously as he gave up any hope of regaining his focus and screwed his eyes tightly shut.
His ribs were on fire; that was the only way to describe the level of pain that had overtaken the persistent aching he had been forcing back all afternoon, intent on the more important task of assuring himself that his two ladies were being well cared for. The twisting motion of toppling sideways was putting pressure in his arm too; a massive wave of agony radiated from the damaged joint, obliterating any other sensation in the area and causing him to gasp for breath and he spat out the last remnants of his lunch.
"It's ok," soothed Jenni, "Let's get you settled," she braced him as gently as possible, ready to lift and slide him back onto the mattress properly. "Ready?" she asked, her hold firm, yet careful. He nodded, his breathing coming in elevated gasps. "One, two, three," she counted off; she lifted, he pushed with his good hand and legs, and he slithered back into the middle of the bed. Exhausted, his good arm gave up and he thumped back against the pillows. The impact, although mild, was enough to push his pain receptors over the edge, and he slipped almost instantly into unconsciousness.
Jenni sighed as cleaned him up, sponging away the mess and swapping the blankets for clean ones. His IV's reattached, she added a slightly higher dose of pain medication the doctor had approved, after noting Gil was most likely lying about his tolerance levels in his efforts to see his wife and daughter. She also checked and added to the fluids he was receiving, if he kept vomiting dehydration was going to be an issue. He was also due for another dose of antibiotics; checking off items on his chart she hummed cheerfully to herself.
Checking the time she figured he would probably sleep through the night now, and added the small amount of sedative that his physician had recommended, wanting him to sleep as much as possible given the amount of activity Gil was pushing himself through during the day. With a soft good night and promise to be back in the morning, she signed him over to Joan when the night shift started and headed over to the Ortho unit to collect Lena; they had a casserole in the fridge and a paper to submit to a medical journal.
…
Alice Kelvin sat at a desk gazing intently at a monitor as the late afternoon sun cast a gentle light through the window to her side. It was a nice contrast to the harsh florescent hospital lighting. Lips pursed in concentration Alice scribbled a series of notes while the right and left hands of her surgical team looked on, surveying the abnormal heart movements before them.
"It looks possible," said Luke, sitting back in his chair at last, rubbing his eyes. Vanessa nodded, despite the fact that a small frown was nestled in her brows.
"That image is really small," she commented. "How old is the patient?" Alice sighed.
"Three days," she replied.
"Is that all?" groaned Luke.
"Post thirty-one weeks gestation," finished Alice. Vanessa gasped, horrified. That was frightfully young for open heart surgery.
"Obviously I want to wait as long as possible; she's got all the usual preemie issues, and the parents are both in ICU, but we need to be prepared in case it becomes urgent," Alice changed the screen over to another page and pointed with her finger. "The backward blood flow is fifty percent; it's been holding steady, but with the IRDS they're having a hard time getting her oxygen saturation levels to stay where they need to."
"So be prepared," said Luke, his eyes narrowed with thought. Alice nodded.
"Go home, sleep, and look after yourselves. I'd like to at least get a month of growth, but I don't think that will be the case."
…
Gil woke as Joan was finishing his morning routine. He groaned, a hand moving to his head, covering his eyes as light met his pupils, causing an increase in the drum beat behind his temples. A straw met his lips.
"Sip," commanded the imperious voice from his most recent nightmare. He did as he was told, screwing his eyes as tightly shut as possible under his hand in an effort to beat back to pain. He felt pressure on the back of his other hand as something was injected into his IV port, but he refused to look, concentrating on making the water stay in his stomach.
After a while the pain subsided and he was able to crack his eyelids open a little. Joan was there, changing his dressings. He promptly shut his eyes again and breathed slowly and deeply, trying to relax muscles that were stiff and sore from inactivity. Childishly he hoped that she would disappear before he looked again. He peeked through one eye; she stood there, waiting, with a hand on her hip.
"Good morning," she intoned, her frown as severe as ever.
"Hello," he managed. She sighed and handed him the cup with a straw.
"If you can keep some breakfast down for an hour then we'll take a trip up to the NICU," she said, in what might have been an attempt at kindness, but was tempered by a look of disapproval. Gil nodded carefully; hoping sheer force of will would beat back the nausea. Joan picked up his chart and rattled off a stream of morning questions he was becoming all too accustomed to. Only when she left did he breathe a sigh of relief and resettle himself as comfortably as possible.
…
Hospital routine was boring, he decided as he lay in bed, drowsy and uncomfortable. People came and went systematically, checking this and that, adding medications or changing dressings and bedding, questioning him, prodding him, poking him, stealing his bodily fluids. He drifted hazily, his mind still not one hundred percent clear of the post concussive fog, and prone to confusion when he tired. Joan had followed through on her promise to take him to see his daughter. Thirty minutes sat next to the incubator, murmuring softly and drinking in the sight of the tiny little girl had exhausted him. His bones felt as weak as warming candle wax, his mind as clear as a fish tank with a broken filter.
His shoulder nagged constantly, in between bouts of raging fire and pounding drums when the pain killers dwindled. Thistle had stopped by, examined the wounds and the swelling, said something he vaguely remembered as promising, and then swept out again, summoned to another emergency. He yawned and fidgeted, trying to find a comfortable spot, when his normally favored position was curled on his injured side with Sara pressed to his chest.
He was on the cusp of slumber when two men entered the room, shrouded in expensive suits and an air of importance. He blinked sleepily at them, observing their purposeful, authoritative walk and the elegant leather file carried by the shorter of the two.
"Doctor Grissom?" asked the taller, a slender man with sparse blonde hair, gray eyes and a pointed chin.
"Yes," replied Gil, blinking sluggishly.
"My name is Colin Kleenar, I'm the Managing Director of Human Resources for KappPuttKoorper Pharmaceuticals. This is my colleague, Gareth Bicker, counsel for KPK."
The shorter man nodded in greeting. Kleenar continued, "We're here today to talk to you about Nicholas Lockheed."
"Who?" Griss rubbed his eyes with his good hand, and then reached out for his cup of water, arm trembling with exhaustion. Bicker handed it to him, and then unzipped his expensive binder, pulling out a sheet of paper.
"Nicholas Lockheed was hired as a driver for KPK Pharmaceuticals six months ago. On September 16th he was returning from a delivery to the student medical center at Dartmouth University campus when he was involved in an auto collision with your vehicle."
"He was drunk," Gil mumbled, swallowing another mouthful of water and wishing his head would clear.
"Indeed he was," continued Bicker, "police reports show his blood alcohol level was three and a half times the legal limit. KPK has since discovered that Mr. Lockheed has a long history of substance abuse issues and corresponding legal infractions."
"You hired him," commented Gil, struggling to stay awake.
"Yes," acknowledged Kleenar, with a slight inclination of his head. "It has come to our attention that the recruiter who hired Mr. Lockheed is in fact a close personal friend of Mr. Lockheed, and expunged his record in order to secure the driving position. The recruiter in question has since been released from their position at KPK."
"We're here today to discuss with you, in the light of damaged caused by Mr. Lockheed's actions, your intentions with regards to the future, and the offer of restitution on behalf of KPK Pharmaceuticals."
Gil sipped slowly, not quite believing this was happening to him.
"You want to pay me off, so I don't sue," he said flatly.
"We are here to discuss KPK taking responsibility of any medical costs associated with your family and the accident in question, and making a generous financial donation in return for your agreement to abstain from legal action," corrected Kleenar smoothly.
Grissom swallowed, his head spinning alarmingly as he tried to keep down the orange Jell-O Joan had presented him with before she left. He was trying desperately to come up with an answer when Jenni walked in to check on him. She stopped, green eyes hardening with ire as she took in the appearance of her patients' two visitors.
"Who are you?" she demanded, hand on her hip in defiance. Kleenar introduced himself and Bicker, and then started to explain that they were there on behalf of KPK.
"Stop right there," ordered Jenni, furious. "I know exactly what you're doing here. This man has a head injury, this is an Intensive Care Ward and you do not have the right to be back here talking to him. There are two people on the visitors list, and neither of you fit the description." She stepped up to the bed and surveyed Gil, taking in his clammy skin and half closed eyes, the confused set of his eyebrows and the tightly drawn lines of pain decorating his face.
"Where's my wallet?" Gil asked her, his voice weak with pain and exhaustion. Jenni bent and fished a plastic bag of personal belongings from the cabinet next to the bed. Gil flipped open the worn flap and dug behind his driver's license for a business card he had stashed there years ago. Disliking Kleenar the most, he handed it to Bicker.
"Please contact my attorney and address your concerns to him," he requested, his tone inflected with finality. The men nodded, said something that Gil didn't hear and then left. Jenni helped him sit forward slightly and held a basin while he heaved, one hand gently rubbing his back.
"You need to sleep," she said softly. He nodded, rinsing his mouth and held up seven fingers before she could ask him to gauge his pain level.
"I spoke to Doctor Blackman a little while ago; they're going to ease off Sara's sedation in a while. She'll start to wake up this evening. We'll go up and see her," she promised, helping him settle comfortably and tucking the blankets more securely in place. Before leaving him to his nap she turned the lights to the lowest level to ease sensory disturbances and refilled the water cup, making sure it was in reach. He was receiving fluids intravenously, as well as nutrition, but the sooner he started keeping himself hydrated orally the better.
…
By midafternoon Gil was able to drink some clear broth and keep it down, along with yet more Jell-O; yellow this time. He was starting to wonder if the hospital kitchens were staffed by young children. His head clearing somewhat, he went back to sleep more peacefully than before and woke near seven pm feeling more energetic and comfortable than he had since arriving.
"You look a lot better," grinned Jenni as she walked through the door.
"I feel better," he acknowledged, moving his bad arm carefully to test it. It hurt, but not as badly as it had done earlier in the day.
"How many fingers?" asked the nurse. Gil held up five, confidently and very happy with that improvement.
"Ok, how about the nausea?"
"Slight, but manageable," he said.
"Good, but don't be surprised if it comes back as you get tired." He nodded with understanding and resignation.
"Well, I think we're all clear to head over and see Sara," Jenni smiled at the look of combined relief, delight and impatience that spread over his features. "But first, I have something for you. Shawna and Rachel thought you might like these." From a pocket of her scrubs she pulled a small white envelope and handed it to him. It was unsealed and he easily managed to one-handedly removed three Polaroid photographs of his baby girl.
As he marveled over the images, Jenni set about disconnecting all his monitors and tubes and getting the chair ready. She had managed to borrow one that would allow him to sit leaning back slightly, to take some pressure off the broken ribs and shoulder, and hopefully draw out the amount of time he would be able to tolerate sitting up.
He was still gazing at the pictures when they arrived at room three-eleven, and when Jenni parked the chair next to the bed, he carefully placed them on the blankets and leaned forward, taking Sara's hand in his. Her eyes were moving underneath her eyelids and his heart clenched; she was having a nightmare. Transferring her hand to a careful hold in his injured one, her reached forward and pressed his palm to her cheek, speaking quietly to her, soothing her as he had so many times before.
She responded to his touch like she always did, and for a fleeting moment he thought they may have been back in their own bed at home on an ordinary day. But then the ventilator hissed and the display on the unit above the bed lit up, the harsh light reminding him of exactly where he was.
Slowly, almost excruciatingly slowly, Sara began to wake up under his touch, the last remnants of the sedatives clearing from her consciousness. He knew she was aware he was there long before she opened her eyes. Her cheek pressed slightly tighter against his palm as she sought the comfort of his presence. He leaned over as much as he could, murmuring a grateful thanks when Jenni used pillows under his hips and chest to support him and take away some of the strain.
Sara opened her eyes slowly, looking directly up at him as her vision focused and her level of awareness adjusted. Tears brimmed, hot and salty, in her brown gaze, blurring his anxious face before tumbling down her temples to land in tiny droplets on the blue cotton blankets. She could feel the difference; she knew the baby was gone. She was lying on her back and there was no pressure on her spine, there was no warm weight in her belly and no questing hands and feet, exploring her from the inside.
He knew immediately what she was thinking and he shook his head.
"She's not gone," he whispered to her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "We have a daughter Sara, look!" He held up the photograph he had already chosen as his favorite, making sure she could see every last detail. "She's tiny, and early, but she's here and she's ours."
...
...
Whew... so it took a while, but that last chapter was exhausting with all the medical detail in there. Hope you enjoyed this one, Sara's finally awake and I promise baby girl will get her name in the next chapter. For those who are curious, her name has already come up in the story thus far, and not where you may think. As always, thanks for reading and please leave a review, your comments mean so much to me. Cheers, Got Tea?