My Kind of Christmas
Page 31
“Sure,” she said, working it up to the top of her head. “This is so nice of him! How could he have known I’d give anything to watch?”
She laughed and said, “Great instincts, that one. This way.”
While they scrubbed hands and forearms, Denise went over a few guidelines and asked some questions. “Does the O.R. make you nervous, Angie? Because I understand you’ve been through some dramatic surgeries of your own.”
“And so grateful,” she said, running the brush around and over her nails. “Those surgeries saved my life.”
“Do you get light-headed at the sight of blood?”
“I haven’t,” she said.
“No PTSD from your accident?”
“Not the usual kind,” she said with a laugh. “I’m doing pretty well.”
Denise smiled. “Good for you. I wouldn’t have thought otherwise. I’ll put a piece of tape on the floor in the O.R.—that’s your marker. Stay behind the tape. I think you’ll be able to see what’s going on. Maybe not everything. A lot of the doctor’s work is so detailed it seems like magic. And he’ll be wearing loupes—glasses with two and a half times magnification lenses, so he’ll have a much better view.”
“Do you work with Dr. Hernandez often?”
“Pretty regularly. It’s not easy because everyone likes working with him. You’ll see, he’s a prince in the operating room. Very professional. And he’s a gifted surgeon. If I ever needed that kind of work done, he would be my first choice.”
“Flirt,” Dr. Hernandez accused as he walked up to the sink beside them and began his scrub. “When we’re in the O.R., it’s all right to ask questions, Angie. I may not answer immediately or give instruction or long complicated answers, but it’s all right. Denise might also have an answer to a question.”
“Thank you,” she said
When they were gowned and masked, they went into the O.R. Megan was asleep, the nurse anesthetist monitoring her vitals. The O.R. tech who would assist the doctor had his gown and instruments ready. Once he was suited up, he drew a couple of lines on Megan’s face. It began so quickly, Angie was shocked.
“I’ve completely excised the scar down to its base. I’ll raise the flaps on either side. May I have a double hook?” he asked his tech. “In a young healthy patient, we don’t have to worry about ischemia.”
“Ischemia?” Angie quietly asked the nurse.
Dr. Hernandez answered her. “Compromised circulation to the tissue.
“Now the flaps are raised and you can see this allows closure without tension. The key to a good scar is minimizing tension. If it’s tight, the scar will widen.”
He talked a little about what he was doing, but to no one in particular, not in a tone that lectured. She leaned close, wanting to absorb it, wanting to get her hands in there. “5-0 Monocryl, please. Next I’ll close the deep dermis, which will provide strength to the repair. I’ll close the skin with interrupted 6-0 Prolene. I like to take sutures on the face out early. With a good, deep closure we can take the sutures out in five days and Steri-Strip.” Angie was leaning so far over the tape on the floor that a couple of times Denise grabbed the back of her gown and pulled her.
The stitching fascinated her—fast, small loops that he slid under and over the excised scar.
“My aunt Mel suggested you might have to do something to the other side of her face to keep her features proportional....”
“Not on a patient this young with such healthy skin. Perhaps on an older patient with redundant skin, but Megan will be fine with this repair.”
By the time the doctor was finishing, an hour and twenty minutes had passed. Before a bandage could cover it, she dared a closer look at the wound. “Wonderful!” she said under her breath. Megan already looked a world better than she had.
“Flirt,” the doctor said. “Let’s get her to recovery. And, Angie, follow me.”
She wasn’t sure why he wanted her, but she already knew she’d follow him anywhere.
He stripped off the gown, cap and mask and she mimicked. Then he went back to that computer. He indicated a stool beside him and she sat.
“We’ll let her wake up, get a little oriented, then you can go get her mother. Now, what did you think?”
“Denise was right—like magic. Just watching those stitches—how long did it take you to be so fast, so perfect?”
“Years and years of stitching pigskin and other practice fields. All that during residency—med students just float around, studying different medical services—three months here, three months there. But while magic is flattering, did you see what was happening? The separation of the skin from the deep dermis? The lifting of the lid?”
She nodded. It was fabulous.
“I do face lifts, scar repair, reconstruction, a number of things. The most satisfying to me is when I can take a patient from the fear and loneliness of disfigurement to a more normal appearance. Have you ever seen the face of a child who’s had a run-in with a vicious dog?” He shook his head sadly. “To be able to use my skills to help an impoverished child is gratifying. I was glad of the outcome today and hope she is, as well.”
She nodded, mesmerized.
“Dr. Temple tells me you have plans to take a break from med school to do some time in the peace corps,” he said. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
It took her a moment to find her voice. “I want to make a difference. Like Dr. Temple does,” she said, her voice hardly above a whisper.
“Dr. Temple is able to give time to movable hospital organizations that travel places where locals would otherwise not be able to have the life-saving surgery they require. Near and far—from rural U.S. towns without neurosurgeons or facilities to international sites. There’s a community of doctors who like to balance their practices with some pro bono work.”
“How does someone like me volunteer?” she asked.
“One goes through a rather lengthy application process. Many doctors give a year or two to humanitarian efforts ranging from Doctors Without Borders to UNICEF. Some of us have a week here and there to give and are more inclined to privatized efforts. There is a senator’s wife, an R.N., who puts together three or four projects a year and she recruits a number of specialists. We’ve gone as far as India and Africa with her nonprofit traveling hospital. I like to go to my home country—a poor village south of Mexico City.”
“Do these groups need someone like me?” she asked earnestly.
He looked at her levelly, his black eyes intense but his smile gentle. “These groups need doctors, Angelica,” he said very softly, using the Mexican derivative of her name. “If you want to make a difference…”
“You’ve been talking to my mother,” she said, but she smiled.
“Has your mother been harping on you to go back to school?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Think about that option. Dr. Temple brags about you, about your future and your determination. About your potential. It’s just a suggestion. As a med school dropout you’ll never be allowed to run those sutures. And you’ll never be able to afford to give as much as you want to give.”
She bit her lower lip against saying what she wanted to say—that she wished desperately she could be the one to help, to do the most difficult, taxing job, to fix the scarred face of a child who couldn’t otherwise have the help, that she envied his ability to do such intricate work.
“My great-grandmother used to tat. Make lace,” she said.
His grin broadened. “I know what it is to tat. It’s a very delicate pastime. Did you learn it?”
She shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “But I think maybe I will.”
“You’re very young. You have so much time, thank the saints. I didn’t get to medical school until I was twenty-eight—it was an uphill battle.”
“And why did you choose plastic surgery?”
“Because it’s difficult and beautiful. I love the challenge and the outcome. It called to me.” He turned to the computer and logged on. “If I can help with your decision in any way, please call me. For now, go see if Megan is alert. When she is, you can find her mother. One night with the nurse in the hotel, a checkup in the morning to make sure she’s stable, then you can take her home with some postsurgical instructions.”
Even though he seemed distracted by his typing, she said, “Thank you, Dr. Hernandez. You’ve done so much today, for Megan and for me.”
He turned and gave her his attention again. “Keep in touch.”
* * *
After making sure Lorraine had some solid breakfast in her belly, Patrick took her back to the surgical center with a to-go coffee. He excused himself to make a phone call. As he paced up and down the sidewalk between the building and the parking lot, he phoned Marie.
“Well, hey,” she answered. “You’re calling from your cell phone.”
“I’ve got good reception. How are you doing?”
“I’m having a good day today. I did a very brave thing—I made a deposit on a house.”
“A....house?”
“That’s right. Small but very nice, near my parents and brother and in a very good school district on the likely chance I’m still here in a few years. I can’t wait to show it to you, Paddy. I think you’re going to love it.”
“You couldn’t wait for me to get there?”
“I had to jump on it! It’s a foreclosure and came at an excellent price and the repairs are not too extensive. In fact, this is going to sound a little crazy, but getting this house in shape, it gives me something to look forward to.”
As he paced, he ran a hand through his hair. “Damn, I wish you could be just a little more flexible....”
“In what way, Paddy? I have to have a home. I don’t want to live with my parents forever.”
“I had this idea that maybe I could convince you…” Unsure of how to word it, he let his voice trail off.
“Convince me of what?”
“I have to ask you something. Do you ever dream about Jake?”
“Oh, no! You, too?”
“You do?”
“Oh, Paddy, I conjure him, that’s what it is. I miss him. I’m going to miss him for a long time—probably long after I’m over him! So you see him, too?”
“I’m not convinced I conjure him. What does he say to you?”
“It’s all memory stuff. It’s private moments. And sometimes he tells me I’m pretty. The thing that disappoints me and makes me cry and know that it’s my conjuring—he never talks about Daniel and he was gaga for his son. What does he tell you?”
He took a breath. Better to be honest. “To take care of you and Daniel.”
“Aw, how sweet is that! And I know you’ll always be there for me, Paddy.”
“I’ll be there in less than a week. When do you close on that house?”
“Within thirty days. We’re putting a rush on the closing to see if I can get the keys right away. I was hoping that just after Christmas I could get moving on the interior. Listen, I can’t wait to show you, but I completely understand if you want to reconsider spending Christmas here in a little motel down the street from my parents.”
He was quiet for a moment before he said, “I’m looking forward to seeing you, Marie. I miss you.”
“And, Paddy, I miss you, too! I just don’t want to take you away from your family.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he muttered, thinking of Maureen and George.
“Say, how’s it going with that little girl? Did you work out the surgery thing?” Marie asked.
She laughed and said, “Great instincts, that one. This way.”
While they scrubbed hands and forearms, Denise went over a few guidelines and asked some questions. “Does the O.R. make you nervous, Angie? Because I understand you’ve been through some dramatic surgeries of your own.”
“And so grateful,” she said, running the brush around and over her nails. “Those surgeries saved my life.”
“Do you get light-headed at the sight of blood?”
“I haven’t,” she said.
“No PTSD from your accident?”
“Not the usual kind,” she said with a laugh. “I’m doing pretty well.”
Denise smiled. “Good for you. I wouldn’t have thought otherwise. I’ll put a piece of tape on the floor in the O.R.—that’s your marker. Stay behind the tape. I think you’ll be able to see what’s going on. Maybe not everything. A lot of the doctor’s work is so detailed it seems like magic. And he’ll be wearing loupes—glasses with two and a half times magnification lenses, so he’ll have a much better view.”
“Do you work with Dr. Hernandez often?”
“Pretty regularly. It’s not easy because everyone likes working with him. You’ll see, he’s a prince in the operating room. Very professional. And he’s a gifted surgeon. If I ever needed that kind of work done, he would be my first choice.”
“Flirt,” Dr. Hernandez accused as he walked up to the sink beside them and began his scrub. “When we’re in the O.R., it’s all right to ask questions, Angie. I may not answer immediately or give instruction or long complicated answers, but it’s all right. Denise might also have an answer to a question.”
“Thank you,” she said
When they were gowned and masked, they went into the O.R. Megan was asleep, the nurse anesthetist monitoring her vitals. The O.R. tech who would assist the doctor had his gown and instruments ready. Once he was suited up, he drew a couple of lines on Megan’s face. It began so quickly, Angie was shocked.
“I’ve completely excised the scar down to its base. I’ll raise the flaps on either side. May I have a double hook?” he asked his tech. “In a young healthy patient, we don’t have to worry about ischemia.”
“Ischemia?” Angie quietly asked the nurse.
Dr. Hernandez answered her. “Compromised circulation to the tissue.
“Now the flaps are raised and you can see this allows closure without tension. The key to a good scar is minimizing tension. If it’s tight, the scar will widen.”
He talked a little about what he was doing, but to no one in particular, not in a tone that lectured. She leaned close, wanting to absorb it, wanting to get her hands in there. “5-0 Monocryl, please. Next I’ll close the deep dermis, which will provide strength to the repair. I’ll close the skin with interrupted 6-0 Prolene. I like to take sutures on the face out early. With a good, deep closure we can take the sutures out in five days and Steri-Strip.” Angie was leaning so far over the tape on the floor that a couple of times Denise grabbed the back of her gown and pulled her.
The stitching fascinated her—fast, small loops that he slid under and over the excised scar.
“My aunt Mel suggested you might have to do something to the other side of her face to keep her features proportional....”
“Not on a patient this young with such healthy skin. Perhaps on an older patient with redundant skin, but Megan will be fine with this repair.”
By the time the doctor was finishing, an hour and twenty minutes had passed. Before a bandage could cover it, she dared a closer look at the wound. “Wonderful!” she said under her breath. Megan already looked a world better than she had.
“Flirt,” the doctor said. “Let’s get her to recovery. And, Angie, follow me.”
She wasn’t sure why he wanted her, but she already knew she’d follow him anywhere.
He stripped off the gown, cap and mask and she mimicked. Then he went back to that computer. He indicated a stool beside him and she sat.
“We’ll let her wake up, get a little oriented, then you can go get her mother. Now, what did you think?”
“Denise was right—like magic. Just watching those stitches—how long did it take you to be so fast, so perfect?”
“Years and years of stitching pigskin and other practice fields. All that during residency—med students just float around, studying different medical services—three months here, three months there. But while magic is flattering, did you see what was happening? The separation of the skin from the deep dermis? The lifting of the lid?”
She nodded. It was fabulous.
“I do face lifts, scar repair, reconstruction, a number of things. The most satisfying to me is when I can take a patient from the fear and loneliness of disfigurement to a more normal appearance. Have you ever seen the face of a child who’s had a run-in with a vicious dog?” He shook his head sadly. “To be able to use my skills to help an impoverished child is gratifying. I was glad of the outcome today and hope she is, as well.”
She nodded, mesmerized.
“Dr. Temple tells me you have plans to take a break from med school to do some time in the peace corps,” he said. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
It took her a moment to find her voice. “I want to make a difference. Like Dr. Temple does,” she said, her voice hardly above a whisper.
“Dr. Temple is able to give time to movable hospital organizations that travel places where locals would otherwise not be able to have the life-saving surgery they require. Near and far—from rural U.S. towns without neurosurgeons or facilities to international sites. There’s a community of doctors who like to balance their practices with some pro bono work.”
“How does someone like me volunteer?” she asked.
“One goes through a rather lengthy application process. Many doctors give a year or two to humanitarian efforts ranging from Doctors Without Borders to UNICEF. Some of us have a week here and there to give and are more inclined to privatized efforts. There is a senator’s wife, an R.N., who puts together three or four projects a year and she recruits a number of specialists. We’ve gone as far as India and Africa with her nonprofit traveling hospital. I like to go to my home country—a poor village south of Mexico City.”
“Do these groups need someone like me?” she asked earnestly.
He looked at her levelly, his black eyes intense but his smile gentle. “These groups need doctors, Angelica,” he said very softly, using the Mexican derivative of her name. “If you want to make a difference…”
“You’ve been talking to my mother,” she said, but she smiled.
“Has your mother been harping on you to go back to school?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Think about that option. Dr. Temple brags about you, about your future and your determination. About your potential. It’s just a suggestion. As a med school dropout you’ll never be allowed to run those sutures. And you’ll never be able to afford to give as much as you want to give.”
She bit her lower lip against saying what she wanted to say—that she wished desperately she could be the one to help, to do the most difficult, taxing job, to fix the scarred face of a child who couldn’t otherwise have the help, that she envied his ability to do such intricate work.
“My great-grandmother used to tat. Make lace,” she said.
His grin broadened. “I know what it is to tat. It’s a very delicate pastime. Did you learn it?”
She shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “But I think maybe I will.”
“You’re very young. You have so much time, thank the saints. I didn’t get to medical school until I was twenty-eight—it was an uphill battle.”
“And why did you choose plastic surgery?”
“Because it’s difficult and beautiful. I love the challenge and the outcome. It called to me.” He turned to the computer and logged on. “If I can help with your decision in any way, please call me. For now, go see if Megan is alert. When she is, you can find her mother. One night with the nurse in the hotel, a checkup in the morning to make sure she’s stable, then you can take her home with some postsurgical instructions.”
Even though he seemed distracted by his typing, she said, “Thank you, Dr. Hernandez. You’ve done so much today, for Megan and for me.”
He turned and gave her his attention again. “Keep in touch.”
* * *
After making sure Lorraine had some solid breakfast in her belly, Patrick took her back to the surgical center with a to-go coffee. He excused himself to make a phone call. As he paced up and down the sidewalk between the building and the parking lot, he phoned Marie.
“Well, hey,” she answered. “You’re calling from your cell phone.”
“I’ve got good reception. How are you doing?”
“I’m having a good day today. I did a very brave thing—I made a deposit on a house.”
“A....house?”
“That’s right. Small but very nice, near my parents and brother and in a very good school district on the likely chance I’m still here in a few years. I can’t wait to show it to you, Paddy. I think you’re going to love it.”
“You couldn’t wait for me to get there?”
“I had to jump on it! It’s a foreclosure and came at an excellent price and the repairs are not too extensive. In fact, this is going to sound a little crazy, but getting this house in shape, it gives me something to look forward to.”
As he paced, he ran a hand through his hair. “Damn, I wish you could be just a little more flexible....”
“In what way, Paddy? I have to have a home. I don’t want to live with my parents forever.”
“I had this idea that maybe I could convince you…” Unsure of how to word it, he let his voice trail off.
“Convince me of what?”
“I have to ask you something. Do you ever dream about Jake?”
“Oh, no! You, too?”
“You do?”
“Oh, Paddy, I conjure him, that’s what it is. I miss him. I’m going to miss him for a long time—probably long after I’m over him! So you see him, too?”
“I’m not convinced I conjure him. What does he say to you?”
“It’s all memory stuff. It’s private moments. And sometimes he tells me I’m pretty. The thing that disappoints me and makes me cry and know that it’s my conjuring—he never talks about Daniel and he was gaga for his son. What does he tell you?”
He took a breath. Better to be honest. “To take care of you and Daniel.”
“Aw, how sweet is that! And I know you’ll always be there for me, Paddy.”
“I’ll be there in less than a week. When do you close on that house?”
“Within thirty days. We’re putting a rush on the closing to see if I can get the keys right away. I was hoping that just after Christmas I could get moving on the interior. Listen, I can’t wait to show you, but I completely understand if you want to reconsider spending Christmas here in a little motel down the street from my parents.”
He was quiet for a moment before he said, “I’m looking forward to seeing you, Marie. I miss you.”
“And, Paddy, I miss you, too! I just don’t want to take you away from your family.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he muttered, thinking of Maureen and George.
“Say, how’s it going with that little girl? Did you work out the surgery thing?” Marie asked.
