The Color of Hope (The Color of Heaven Series) (17 page)

Normally, I would have stayed home, drank plenty of fluids, and lay on the couch until I felt better, but this was different. I was an expectant mother, so I decided to call my doctor.

He fit me in for an appointment before noon. I took a cab to his clinic and sat in the corner of the waiting room to avoid coughing or sneezing on the other patients.

At last a nurse called my name, and I shuffled miserably into an exam room. After keeping me waiting a little longer, Dr. Weldon finally walked in, closed the door, and told me to hop up on the table.

“I’m twenty-two weeks pregnant,” I told him. “Hopping just isn’t in the cards.”

He laughed and held the step stool for me while I positioned myself on the crinkly white paper.

“Open wide and say ah.” He inserted a tongue depressor into my mouth. “Yes, there’s definitely some redness there.” Then he listened to my heart and took my blood pressure. He told me everything looked good, so he stuck a thermometer in my mouth and sat down at his desk to jot down some notes.

The thermometer beeped. He stood up and pulled it out of my mouth.

“Do I have a fever?” I asked.

“Yes, but only a slight one. Nothing to worry about.”

“It won’t affect the baby?”

“No, but if you’re uncomfortable, you can take Tylenol. I suspect you’ll feel better in a few days, but come back in if you don’t, or if your symptoms get worse.”

“So I should just stay home and rest?” I confirmed as I set one foot on the stool and slid off the table to the floor.

“Yes. Drink plenty of fluids, and you can rinse your throat with warm salt water. That might help.”

Relieved to hear this was nothing serious, but still feeling like a bag of wet sand, I went home.

Unfortunately, my symptoms didn’t improve after a few days. The cold moved into my chest, and I was forced to call the doctor again when I coughed so hard I was sure I’d cracked a rib.

“
N
OPE
,” D
R
. W
ELDON
said as he examined me. “Ribs are fine. You might have pulled a muscle though.” He asked me to turn to the side and lift my shirt so he could listen to my lungs. “Deep breaths please. Very good.” He moved his stethoscope from one spot to another on my back. “Another deep breath please.”

It wasn’t easy to inhale without coughing.

“I definitely hear some wheezing in there. Now let’s have a listen to your baby.” He bent forward slightly and placed the scope over my belly. “Very good. Everything sounds fine.” After removing the ear buds, he hooked the scope around his neck. “You can lower your shirt now.”

I tugged it down and faced forward. Dr. Weldon returned to his desk and consulted my file. “Are you a smoker Miss Carmichael?”

“Not anymore,” I replied. “I quit about a year ago.”

“Good for you.”

He wrote that in the file, then swiveled in his chair to face me. “I know it’s unpleasant,” he said, “but these things usually take care of themselves after a week or two. I could prescribe Salbutamol – a Ventolin puffer – that might give you some relief. It’s safe to use during pregnancy, but only helps fifty percent of people with symptoms like yours. We can give it a try though.”

I thought about it. “If this is going to get better on its own anyway, I’d rather not use anything.”

He nodded. “Then it looks like you’re just going to have to tough it out.”

“I can do that,” I assured him. “As long as it’s okay for the baby.”

“The baby will be fine. Just make sure you’re eating and drinking well.”

I moved to pick up my purse from the chair. “What about work? Is it okay for me to go back?”

“That’s up to you. You’re not contagious, if that’s your concern.”

“It is, but I’m glad to hear everything’s okay. Thanks.” I left his office and flagged down a cab.

Dr. Weldon was right. My cough improved after about a week, and I was able to return to work.

My illness had sapped me of energy, however, because I couldn’t climb the stairs in my apartment building without needing to stop halfway up and catch my breath. I assumed it was simply pregnancy fatigue and the added weight I was carrying. Since I hadn’t been getting much exercise – not since I came down with the sore throat – I resolved to go to an aerobics class for expectant mothers as soon as I felt up to it.

Later that week, I woke in the middle of the night because I had difficulty breathing.

Was this normal? I wondered as I propped myself up on a few pillows. Maybe the baby was pushing on my lungs.

I managed to go back to sleep, but when I woke the next morning, I felt more fatigued than I had the day before. Even the simple act of getting dressed exhausted me. I had to sit down on the edge of the bed for a few minutes to recover.

When I arrived at work and reached my desk, I noticed my legs and ankles were more puffy than usual, which was typical for pregnant women, so I wasn’t too concerned at the time. Ida came out to the reception area to tell me about a client who was coming in that morning to get something signed, and he was in a hurry.

“You look a little gray,” she said.

“I feel worse than gray,” I replied. “I can’t believe how tired I am. Were you this tired when you were pregnant?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I remember sleeping for hours in the afternoons.”

Her assurance eased my mind, and I did my best to put in a hard day’s work. I finished all the tasks that were handed to me, which turned out to be a good thing, because something unexpected happened that night.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that was to be my last day working for the firm of Perkins and McPhee. I never set foot in that building again.

S
OMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT
, while propped up against a pile of pillows in bed, I dreamed of the father I hadn’t seen in almost twenty years. He hugged me so tightly, I couldn’t breathe. My rib cage felt like it was constricting, but he wouldn’t listen when I asked him to stop squeezing and let go.

I woke up fighting to suck air into my lungs. My head spun and my heart raced with panic. I was wheezing again.
Did I have pneumonia?

It was the middle of the night, and I couldn’t call my doctor, so I called a cab instead and managed to pull on a T-shirt and a loose pair of sweatpants. Somehow I made it down the stairs on my own.

“Take me to the hospital please,” I said to the cab driver as I got in.

He glanced down at my belly. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You’re not going to have that baby now, are you?”

“I hope not,” I said. “I’m barely six months.” Still working hard to take air into my lungs, I held my hands up in front of my face because my fingertips were tingling.

“Hurry,” I pleaded, because I feared I might pass out.

Looking back on it, I probably should have called an ambulance, but it wasn’t the first bad decision I’d ever made.

The cab driver hit the gas and sped off. He swerved wildly around corners, and I was forced to hang on to avoid being tossed across the seat.

When we pulled into the hospital parking lot, he drove me to the outpatients’ entrance. “Twelve dollars,” he said, turning around to face.

Still feeling terribly short of breath and aware of the perspiration on my face, I flipped open my wallet and gave him a twenty. “Keep the change.” I couldn’t wait any longer.

I opened the door and stepped out of the cab, but only made it as far as the information desk before everything started to swirl. My vision blurred and the world in front of my eyes turned cloudy white.

Then my knees buckled, and down I went, straight to the floor.

I have no idea how long I was unconscious, but I recall seeing my mother walk toward me on that fluffy cloud that surrounded me in front of the information desk. It was not my birth mother I saw. The person coming toward me was my adoptive mother. She held out her hands and smiled.

Then I dreamed I was floating around the hospital waiting area, feeling sorry for all the sick and injured people who had to wait to see a doctor, while I was lifted onto a gurney and fast-tracked to the trauma room.

A team of nurses ran in.

“What do you need?” one of the nurses said to the doctor.

“Get the crash cart,” he replied.

I
WOKE TO
the rapid whirly sound of my baby’s heartbeat on a fetal monitor. Such a lovely sound. It reminded me of a skipping rope, whipping fast through the air but never hitting the ground. Around and around it went.

I didn’t understand where I was until I opened my eyes and discovered the oxygen mask over my face. An IV tube was taped to the back of my hand. Turning my head on the pillow, I looked up at a bag of clear fluid dripping into the IV tube.
I hope that’s okay for the baby
.

I felt groggy, and my chest hurt, but the sound of my baby’s steady heartbeat on the monitor was a great comfort. That meant she was okay. But what was I doing here?

As I felt around for a button to call a nurse, I wondered if I hadn’t eaten enough when I was sick. Maybe I was dehydrated or malnourished.

I found the button and pressed it with my thumb. A nurse came running in. “You’re awake.” She checked the tape on the heart monitor. “You gave us quite a scare.”

I spoke into the oxygen mask. It muffled my voice. “Did I?”

“Yes.” Her eyes met mine. “Is there someone we can call? A family member?”

I looked around the room and struggled to make sense of this. I honestly had no idea what was going on.

“Is this the ER?” I asked. “What happened to me?”

The nurse continued to check all the monitors. “You’re in the intensive care unit. I’ll get the doctor. He’ll be able to answer your questions.”

She left me alone, and I waited for what seemed an eternity, but it was probably only about ten minutes.

Finally a doctor walked in. He was an older, heavyset man with thinning hair and rimless glasses. He picked up the chart at the foot of my bed and glanced at it briefly.

His eyes lifted. “Hello Nadia,” he said. He inclined his head at me. “Welcome back.”

“Was I gone somewhere?”

“Yes, you were.” He moved around the bed to read the tape on the heart monitor. “But we were able to bring you back.”

Confused and feeling a little woozy, I stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

“You were in cardiac arrest when you came in,” he said, “and we’re trying to figure out why, so I’d like to ask you some questions.”

My eyes widened, and the heart monitor next to the bed began to beep faster. I tried to sit up.

“You need to stay calm,” he told me, pushing my shoulders back so I lay against the pillow. “You’re not helping yourself, or your baby, by getting all worked up.”

“Is my baby okay?” I asked.

“Your baby’s fine,” he replied. “We had you back in less than a minute, and obstetrics is involved. They’re keeping a close eye on your case.” He picked up the chart again. “Now let’s see what we can figure out.” He lowered his head and peered at me over the tops of his glasses. “Do you have a history of heart trouble?”

“No.” Then I stammered as I remembered. “Wait, I was born with a hole in my heart,” I told him, “but it closed up when I was three or four. It’s never been a problem since. I’ve had it checked.”