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Attending Physician
Attending Physician Read online
Attending Physician
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Attending Physician is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental—if you believe in that
sort of thing.
© 2017 Susan Corso writing as
Vivienne Hartt Quinn
All rights reserved.
Distributed by Smashwords
ISBN 978-1-937233-38-9
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Chapter 1
“C’mon, Rosie. You can do it. Breathe.”
Rosie huffed out clouds of frustration until it passed. I reclaimed my aching, as good as numb hand and reached forward to brush her sweat-soaked chestnut bangs off her forehead. She glanced and sent me a small smile.
Taken by yet another wave, we repeated the drill. We’d been at it for hours.
“Breathe, baby girl. I know you can do this.”
Labor can be an on-again, off-again thing and this little guy was playing molto fast and loose with his arrival time. Sometimes he wanted to be here gangbusters; others, not so much. It was driving his parents round the twist. I, representing mother in the room, was simply required to be present to whatever happened.
Rosie and Jase were lovely people, both yoga teachers in their early thirties, who had been friends for a long time before one day something shifted and they fell truly, madly, deeply and still were. This child of theirs, a boy, was made in pure love, and they wanted him to get here already. Truth be told, so did I.
We were in a birthing room in a wonderful suburban hospital near Boston, and had been for what, at that point, felt like lifetimes. It hadn’t been, but it had been close to two whole days. We’d seen two nursing shifts twice. That seemed like a long time to be in labor.
Panting, she grimaced my way. Rosie had been in active, and inactive, labor for over forty hours—a whole work week, I thought to myself somewhat deliriously.
She relinquished my battered hand, and drew a ragged breath. “I am going to kill him. Kill him dead if he ever, ever suggests having sex again.”
Another contraction forced her exhale. Good thing her husband, Jase, had stepped out for a breather. Although, I’d heard that other about-to-be-new-moms had also made this particular Lysistratan threat.
Ziesl, the nurse in the room, chuckled. “You say that now, Rosie, but wait till you want another one.” She finished recording vitals in her iPad and laughingly sashayed out the door in her Hunny Jar yellow Winnie-the-Pooh scrubs, waving away Rosie’s ever more colorful language.
“Oh, no,” swore Rosie, “he’s on his own if he wants another one.” She sounded like the North Wind as she panted into the excruciating pain. “He can,” whoosh, “bloody well,” whoosh, “do this part,” whoosh, “himself,” whoosh, “next time!”
I kept my silence, knowing full well that Rosie wanted two children, and this was her first. Do the math, precious, I thought.
I said to Rosie, “Baby girl, godmother has to pee.”
“Now?” she said plaintively.
“At least twice every twelve hours,” I said asking permission.
“Go if you must,” she granted regally, smiling in apology for her bad humor. I didn’t blame her.
Washing my hands in the tiny loo attached to Rosie’s room, I prayed that my mangled right hand would hold out until her son was born.
The circles under my eyes drew my attention. Less circles, more like Bloomingdale’s Big Brown Bags. I appeared much the worse for wear, and I wasn’t used to that. I was accustomed to being the prettiest girl in the room—even at my age. Wise, wide-set green eyes stared unblinkingly at me right above those Bags. My lipstick was perfect. How could it not be? It wouldn’t dare. I’m a femme.
Femme lipstick is always perfect unless some Tall, Dark and Handsome butch kisses it off. A wave of longing rippled through my womb.
My ever-reminding conscience weighed in. Verity!
Hmm? I quirked a silent eyebrow.
Now is NOT the time!
“Of course not,” I murmured. It hadn’t been `the time’ for eleven years. But when will it be `the time?’
Rosie screeched. “Godmother!”
I was back on duty.
Chapter 2
After a particularly grueling contraction, Jase mouthed, “Go check in with the doc.”
I slipped out of the room, turned smartly left, and found my nose buried in some teal blue scrubs. They smelled wonderful—cinnamon-y and crisp apple-y. “I’m sorry,” I fluffed.
“No, I’m sorry,” returned a rich female bariton
e from somewhere above my head.
Flustered, I stepped away, and looked up into warm blue eyes smiling down at me over a dazzling grin.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Um, yes,” I said, rubbing my nose, “tired. You’re the doc taking care of Rosie, right?”
She nodded.
“Jase sent me to talk to you.”
“And you are ...?” she asked.
“I’m the woman whose hand Rosie has been mangling for over forty hours.” I showed her the evidence.
“Oh,” she said. “Indeed.”
Obviously she hadn’t noticed, but I definitely noticed her. Or, rather, my body noticed her. She was a cool, lanky 6’1” easily. Gorgeous. Utterly comfortable with her height—she stood tall.
“And you are?” she repeated.
“Dr. Verity Spencer,” I supplied.
“Dr. Spencer,” she answered automatically, “I’m Dr. Raven Lange.”
We shook hands like we had met at a cocktail party for work except that I winced. Hand-shaking was definitely off the table for the foreseeable future. Regardless of the pain, shaking hands with Dr. Raven Lange was familiar and yet unsettling, and at the same time, ... intimate. She held on to my hand with both her hands for a little longer than she ought; hers were big and warm and capable.
“Dr. Lange,” I stifled a yawn, “excuse me, it’s been a long haul.”
“I can relate,” she responded. “This is my second eighteen-hour shift.”
I raised my eyebrows at her.
“I started at a deficit, too. Someone I know is teething.”
“Bless your heart,” I said. “I think Jase wants to know—outside of Rosie’s earshot—what you think we ought to do.”
“You’re Rosie’s ... mother?” she asked.
It was complicated. I was not technically Rosie’s mother, but I may as well have been. We’d prepared a story for exactly this circumstance.
“No, I’m Rosie’s godmother. Her mother is ...,” I paused and contemplated her face again gauging how open to be, then my exhaustion commandeered my tongue, “a piece of work. She wasn’t invited to the birth. In fact, she was uninvited.”
“Whoa,” whistled the gorgeous Dr. Lange. My brain definitely clocked her as TDH.
“Yes. There’s more, but another time,” I added. “Is the baby in trouble? Do we need to prepare Rosie for a Caesarian? How much longer could this go on?” I built a head of steam, my worry outpacing my sense.
“Dr. Spencer, hold on a sec.” She spoke with authority. “Have you been with her this entire time?” I nodded. “Do you need some caffeine?”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” I smiled so tired that tears began to sparkle in my eyes.
“Come with me,” she invited, pivoting so we both faced the same direction and placing her warm hand in the small of my back. Then, for an n-sec, I was on a dinner date in a posh restaurant in Cambridge.
No, not a date, dear, said my helpful conscience.
As we passed the central nursing station, she made some sort of signal to Zeisl, then leaned down to speak. “I’m taking you to our secret stash.”
I giggled.
She yanked open yet another heavy door, and as it closed, the hospital sounds went away. I was aware of the scaffolding of the building but someone had taken a small space and put in it the comforts of home. Two recliners, a television with a remote, cable. A table with an electric kettle, some real tea, and a small fridge that, with any luck, held hazelnut cream for the good Earl Grey tea on the top of the table.
She didn’t even ask. She sat me in one of the teal recliners—teal must be the official color of the OB ward—and busied herself making a huge mug of steaming Earl Grey. Once it sat steeping, she opened the mini-fridge. “You have your choice, doc, half and half or hazelnut cream.”
Her long folded legs squatted in front of the fridge; we were eye level. “Do you have to ask?” I said.
She grinned at me. “No, ma’am,” she said, “I don’t.” I watched her grab the hazelnut without hesitation. She doused the tea liberally, stirred, and handed me the mug with the handle facing left.
I stared blankly at it, and then realized what she’d done. “How did you know, Dr. Lange?”
“You wear a watch on your right wrist.”
“You must have a special lefty in your life,” I said. “Most people would never have clocked such a thing.”
“I did,” she said answering the implicit question, “once upon a time.”
“No more?”
“No,” she leveled at me, “no more.” I had the feeling I was supposed to glean something from this but was too tired to know what.
I sipped my tea in silence feeling the caffeine brighten my brain. Later, much later, Dr. Lange told me she’d been studying me the whole time. I think she said, “...taking you in.”
“Have you ever had a baby?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said softly. This was fraught territory for me.
“How long was your labor?”
“Eight hours. So classic textbook that the doctor in charge asked me if I was sure I’d never had a baby before. I was in the middle of a contraction when I told him, `Not in this lifetime. Now, go away, I’m getting ready to push.’”
Dr. Lange laughed. “Some of them go that way. Some of them go the way Rosie’s labor is going.”
“On-again, off-again?” I asked.
“Well, yeah, but that’s not what I meant. I meant to intone the OB mantra.”
Mantras I knew. “Which is?”
“Babies have their own timing.”
“Oh, that they do,” I concurred. “I’m worried about this guy, but I can’t tell if I’m worried for him, or Rosie’s exhaustion, or Jase’s impatience, or all of the above.”
“All of the above,” she soothed. What a great voice. “Dr. Spencer, we have monitors on Rosie and the baby. Nurses will take her blood pressure every quarter hour to cover the possibility of a dangerous spike. At the first indication of distress for either of them, we’ll do a Caesarian.”
I scrutinized her eyes—you should know, the windows of the soul—to make sure she was being completely forthright. Not a speck of guile in them. And, God, they were gorgeous. Deep Maine lake blue on a summer’s day framed by slight joy lines. Under shapely black eyebrows, and a mop of Black Irish curls which would have spilled over her collar had she been wearing one. Briefly, my left hand twitched to be tangled with her tangles.
Verity! squealed my conscience.
“Dr. Lange, thanks for your candor. How long will you be on today?”
She reached over and touched my forearm, “Until Rosie has her baby boy.”
“No matter how long that takes?”
“No matter how long, I promise.”
I breathed out relief. “Thank you, Dr. L ....”
“Most of the nurses here call me Dr. Raven,” she hinted.
“Thank you, Dr. Raven,” I said sending a poor Xerox of a femme sparkle her way.
“Let me walk you over. Take the mug. I’ll come get it later.”
I rose, somewhat renewed, if for no other reason than that someone had paid attention to me. That warm hand on the small of my back seemed to hold a promise; either that, or I wished it did.
Chapter 3
“That was a long pee, godmama,” observed Rosie as Dr. Raven opened the door and we came into the room together.
“I ran into Dr. L ... Raven, and she very kindly,” whereupon I curtseyed to her, “made me a cup of Earl Grey tea.” The good doc had a bit of a flush on her face. Truth? Adorable.
Rosie eyed us, saying nothing. She knew my story, and she always urged me to go out, meet someone, live a little.
I babbled on. A brook has nothing on me. “I cornered her and peppered her with questions, Rosie. The doc didn’t stand a chance. I think she made me tea so I’d chill.”
“It’s true, Rosie. I had to defend myself,” protested Dr. Raven. “Just to get her to take a breat
h.”
Rosie snickered. “Oh yeah, I know her question mode, believe me.” Rosie addressed me, “Did you get your answers, godmama?”
“I did,” I said primly, “and a cup of Earl Grey tea with hazelnut cream as well!”
Everyone laughed. Then Rosie sighed. “I think he’s backing off again, doc.”
Dr. Raven went into full-on physician mode, checking Rosie’s dilation, and various monitors. “Your godmother was worried and she wanted some answers. I want to deliver them to you myself rather than make her be the messenger.” She was awash in my palpable gratitude.
She sat on the chair by the side of the bed. “We have monitors on both you and the baby. We’re checking your pressure every quarter hour. The minute either of you shows any distress, we’ll discuss the option of a Caesarian.”
A beat went by wherein we heard only monitors beeping, and then Rosie let out a wail of a “Noooo.”
Dr. Lange didn’t miss a beat. “No? Why?”
“Because ... because ... because ....”
I filled in the blank, “...that would be failure?”
We let the word hang in the room.
“Well, yeah,” said Rosie, gulping her tears.
Jase, the practical one, asked, “Do we finish with a beautiful baby boy to take home after a Caesarian?”
Dr. Lange replied, “You do.”
“Then how, exactly, is a Caesarian a failure?” asked Jase.
“Because ... because ... because ....” Rosie ground her gears for some serious tears.
“It isn’t.” Dr. Lange overrode Rosie strongly enough that it stopped her tantrum.
“It isn’t?” asked Rosie.
“No, it isn’t,” she repeated. “The longest labor I ever attended was sixty hours because the mother refused a Caesarian and we almost lost her and her daughter. I won’t let that happen to you or your baby boy, Rosie. If, and I mean if, there’s distress, we’ll talk it through.”
No one could have argued with her. She was definitive, an impeccable authority, and in charge. I breathed again—comforted. Oh, did I need that in my life.