A Simple Charity (20 page)

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Zed turned to Caleb. “It’s not just about asking people for charity. It’s about pulling the community together. Folks feel good inside when they do for others.”

Moving the lantern to cast light on the cavernous space, Fanny felt the possibilities in this building. “It reminds me of the Bible
passage. ‘Ask and you shall receive. Seek and you shall find.’ I think this is one time when the Almighty would want us to ask around.”

The lines in Caleb’s brow smoothed as his worry gave way to resolve. “All right, then. We’ll see if anyone wants to pitch in.”

With that decided, they talked about the floor plan of the building and the possible finishes. Fanny knew there wasn’t money for tile, but she hoped they could afford a nice vinyl floor, durable and easy to clean. Tomorrow she would talk with Lois Mast, the bishop’s wife, and put the word out about the things they needed for the center.

While Zed continued to talk with Caleb, Fanny tested the new floor, placing one foot in front of the other. Not a single creak or soft spot! Excitement fluttered in her chest when she imagined this renovation completed and occupied by mothers in labor. God willing, her own daughters would be here someday, giving birth to their own babies. Emma might even be here within the next year! What a blessing this birth center would be. It was really going to happen, and all because of Zed.

She kept her gaze on the floor to keep herself from staring at him in wonder. He was more than a handyman; he had a talent for building dreams and soothing the heart. Gott had blessed them in so many ways when He’d sent Zed here, and day by day she was growing attached to him. He was a good friend, almost like family. Too bad folks in the community didn’t understand their relationship. Fanny knew if she spent too much time talking to him after church or at a fund-raiser, people would gossip. Ya, those older single women like Dorcas watched Zed like a hawk.

This was a time to seek gelassenheit, the resignation to bend to Gott’s will. A good Amish person needed to surrender inside and be content with calm, simple ways.

Geh lessa
, Zed had reminded her.

Breathing in the smell of newly cut wood, she thanked Gott for the joy in her heart and the secret friend she had found in Zed.

17

D
ressed in blue scrubs and a mask, Meg sat silently in the Pittsburgh hospital’s operating room and tried to channel love and strength through Terri Fanelli’s icy hand as she gave it another squeeze. It was the last day of November, a bleak day all around.

“I didn’t want this,” Terri sobbed, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Meg leaned closer to the young mother and nodded with sympathy, though she didn’t speak. She believed Dr. Walters’s threat that he would throw her out of his OR if she uttered one more word, and at this point, she figured Terri was better off with a silent companion here during her cesarean than no friend at all.

Four months ago, Terri and her husband, Blake, had come to Meg with a very specific birth plan. When her first child was born, the attending physician had insisted that Terri undergo an emergency C-section, and this time, for their second birth, the couple wanted to avoid a cesarean.

“They call me a VBAC at the doctor’s office. As if I don’t even
have a name. I’m just a problem to them because I don’t want a C-section,” Terri had told Meg when she had first met with the couple. “I don’t want the drugs or the incision. I don’t want to be incapacitated for days. I want our baby’s birth to be a beautiful experience for all of us.”

Although many doctors would have insisted on a scheduled C-section for Terri, Dr. Taylor had reviewed her records and given his approval for her to try a home delivery with Meg as midwife.

“Of course, there are risks,” Meg had told the couple. She had wanted them to know the facts and possibilities. But Terri and Blake had done their research, and they were passionate about making the birth process as natural as possible this time.

Most of Terri’s pregnancy had gone well. She’d been two weeks away from her due date when she went into labor while her husband was away on a business trip.

When Meg had arrived at Terri’s house, there had been a mood of joy and celebration that included Terri’s mother and young daughter.

“Mom’s going to take care of Patsy, and Blake is getting on the next flight out of Denver,” Terri had told Meg. “Do you think you can convince this baby to stay put until her daddy gets back in town?”

“I have many skills, but that’s not one of them,” Meg said with a smile.

There was no stalling the delivery, and unfortunately, as Terri’s labor progressed, complications arose that made it necessary to transport her to the hospital. “I don’t think you’re going to need a C-section,” Meg had assured the young mother. “But we want to access the other technology that’s available—for your safety and the baby’s.”

Although Terri had been disappointed, she had agreed. They had made the quick trip to the hospital, where the skilled maternity
nurses had helped Meg get Terri settled in with everything she needed. Dr. Taylor was on his way, and Meg sent him a text with an updated status for their patient.

For two hours, Terri’s room was a sea of calm in the storm of the busy Pittsburgh hospital. And then, Dr. Walters had penetrated the safe harbor, strutting into the room like an angry peacock.

“Where’s her doctor?” he had demanded.

“Dr. Taylor is on his way. But I’m a licensed midwife.”

Walters scowled at her as if her credentials and experience were a ludicrous insult. “As chief resident on the floor, I am now responsible for this woman. Where’s her chart?”

“Everything is under control,” Meg had said, keeping her voice low. She didn’t want to disturb Terri, who was breathing through a contraction.

But Dr. Walters didn’t care. He demanded the notes, which Meg offered to let him review out in the hall. That seemed to infuriate him all the more. Then, when he saw that they were doing a vaginal delivery after cesarean, the doctor pushed past Meg and, without a word of introduction, began to examine Terri.

“What’s going on?” Terri cried, peering at the doctor through eyes puffy with exhaustion.

“Dr. Walters, please. Dr. Taylor is on his way, and until he arrives, we’re monitoring mother’s and baby’s heartbeats. It’s under control.”

“Under whose control?” The edges of the doctor’s mouth turned down in a sneer. “Aren’t you the midwife who lost her license?”

She opened her mouth to tell him that she had been cleared of all charges, that her license had never been revoked, simply suspended. That she was damned good at what she did. But any response right now would take precious peace and attention away from the laboring mother.

“This woman needs a C-section now,” he insisted. He peeled off his gloves and crossed to the door. “Get her to the OR stat.”

“Wait.” Meg held up her hands, keeping calm but firm. “That’s not what she wants, and I’m—”

“You are not a physician with privileges here,” Walters interrupted. “And patients do not call the shots in this hospital.”

“But patients have rights, and I’ve been working with Terri throughout her pregnancy.”

The doctor made a note on Terri’s chart and strode out the door.

Meg followed him. “Dr. Walters, please. We can give Terri what she wants … what she deserves … without risk to her or her baby.”

“There are always risks,” he insisted. “It’s my job to minimize them.”

“But—”

“Why are you out here arguing with me when you should be with your patient? Go. Be a midwife. I’ll even let you in my OR if you promise to keep quiet.”

Meg fought him politely, and when that didn’t work she asserted herself, stepping out of her comfort zone. But the doctor wouldn’t budge.

Regrouping with Terri, Meg put in a desperate call to Dr. Taylor, who had scrubbed in for an emergency procedure across town. She tried to talk to another doctor in his practice and looked for support from the maternity nurses in the ward, but no one dared to cross Dr. Walters’s path. As one nurse put it, “When Walters is on duty, we walk on eggshells around here. One wrong step and you’re out.”

When the aids came to wheel Terri into the OR, Meg had exhausted every resource. She and Terri were both crying, but Meg dashed away her tears, determined to remain calm and provide support to her patient, her friend.

“I’m so cold,” Terri whimpered. She was shivering, maybe even a little bit in shock.

Fortunately the anesthesiologist, a silver-haired woman whose
kind eyes shone over her mask, seemed sympathetic. She leaned over Terri and took her temperature with the wand. “It’s almost over, honey,” she whispered. “You’ll forget all this and put it behind you.”

That’s the problem
, Meg thought. A forced cesarean was a trauma that was best dismissed, unlike the natural birth experience that could empower a mother. Western medicine had a long way to go to embrace the art of birth.

Later, when Meg was alone in her apartment, she stepped into a hot shower and bawled like a baby. She cried for Terri, who had been robbed of a beautiful experience. She cried for Terri’s baby daughter, whose mother would not be allowed to hold her for the first forty-eight hours because she was on a morphine drip to alleviate the pain from her incisions. She cried for every mother giving birth at that hospital, being pushed through like widgets on a factory conveyor belt. There was a better way, and she knew it. Why wouldn’t the hospital administrators respect the organic stages and patterns of human birth?

And she cried for herself … her own failures and disappointments. Her time with Jack had underlined the fact that she was alone here in Pittsburgh, alone and often lonely. How had her daily schedule devolved into a string of battles with hospital administrators? Right now she felt miles away from her purpose in life.

When she stepped out of the shower and bundled up in a towel, her cell phone was buzzing on the bathroom counter. It was a text message from Jack, who knew what she was going through.

No one is strong enough to bear her burdens alone. Lean on me. I’m off tomorrow and I got vacation time. Should I head your way?

With a calming breath, she texted back:
Yes, please
.

His answer made her smile.
Look out, Pittsburgh
.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” Dr. Taylor said when she met him in his office the next day to go over the chart notes for Terri Fanelli’s case. “You know I would have done everything possible to respect the Fanellis’ birth plan.”

“I know that.” Too antsy to sit, she paced in front of Larry Taylor’s desk. Jack had counseled her over the phone, helping her to sort through the conflict calmly. Although she still had issues with Dr. Walters and his beaten staff, she felt no malice toward Larry Taylor. “You’re not to blame, Larry. It’s the administration at the hospital, stuck in the Stone Age.” She paused, circling the doctor’s desk and peering through the slatted blinds. “Actually, the Stone Age would be an improvement over their maternity practices. At least women were free to squat, and no one was cutting them open and pumping drugs into their veins.”