Trapped (10 page)

Chapter Seventeen

“Don’t go,” Mike said
, grabbing for Lisa as she rolled out of bed at five in the morning.

She bent back
, and kissed him. “I’ve got to get home to shower and change. I’m due at seven this morning at NICU.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever shower again,” he said. “I want your smell with me always.”

“You’d better rethink that one, sweetie,” she said, heading for the door. She stopped, and turned back to face him. “I love you, Mike Cooper. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“I miss you
, already,” he said, letting his head sink into his soft pillow.

Phoebe was asleep when Lisa arrived back at the apartment.

Lisa pulled off her clothes
, and then took a long, hot shower, reliving the night before, and again finding herself aroused.

As she stood before the mirror, Phoebe came in
, squinting in the bright fluorescent light of the bathroom.

“You finally got to it,” she said. “It’s about time. Tell me all about it.”

The lighthearted query, so typical of Phoebe, upset Lisa as an invasion of her privacy, but then she remembered who was asking. “Listen, Phoebe, I’m uncomfortable…”

“Easy, girl.
I don’t need a blow for blow, pardon the expression. Tell me what you want me to know. I just want you to be happy, and I want to share in it, as well.”

“I’m such a jerk,” Lisa said. “Last night was the best night of my life. It was fantastic. He’s fantastic—I’m in love.”

Phoebe embraced Lisa, and said, “I’m so happy for you. You deserve this.”

“I feel so lucky. I could barely get away from him this morning.”

“So, can he leap tall buildings with a single bound?”

“I don’t know about that, but he’s definitely not faster than a speeding bullet, if you know what I mean.”

Phoebe laughed. “You’re finally getting the New York attitude, kiddo. There’s hope for you, yet.”

Lisa drove to work, smiling all the way. The smile remained on her face throughout the morning report. In her dreamy state, she didn’t notice the nurses staring, but when she finally did, they all burst out in laughter. “Gotcha,” Sharon Bridges said, smiling. “Mike’s a great guy. Now he’s a lucky one, too.”

When Mike arrived to make morning rounds, the nurses greeted him warmly, too warmly, he thought, as they smiled knowingly at each other.

“Where’s Lisa?”
He asked.

“Lisa
—Lisa who?” Sharon joked.

“All right, you guys. Have your fun.”

“She’s on break in the lounge. You remember where that is, don’t you?”

Mike shook his head
, and walked to the back of the NICU.

When he entered the lounge, Lisa was sitting with a nurse and an aid.
Suddenly, Lisa stood. “Good morning, Dr. Cooper.”

“Not you
, too,” he said, laughing. “You’ve been hanging around with these nut cases too long.”

He kissed her on the cheek, and then said, “I’ll start rounds. I’ll
check on your patients when you’re finished with your break. I’ve got to get moving. I have a busy day.”

“And a busy night ahead
, too,” she whispered in his ear.

Mike smiled
, and left the room.

One afternoon, about six weeks later, Mike’s secretary said, “I have the county hospital for you, Mike.”

He pushed the button on the
speaker phone. “Mike, it’s Rebecca Levy at county. We have a case for you.”

“Hey
, Rebecca, how’s it going?”

“To tell you the truth
, Mike, I can’t wait to finish my training and get out of this hell hole.” She paused, and then continued. “I hear you’re out of circulation.”

“
For a month or so now, and I love it.”

“Good luck, Mike. You’re a good guy
, and I wish you the best.”

“What do you have?”

“Our NICU is full, and I have a thirty-week preemie to send to Brier. Baby girl Sanchez came into the world yesterday, and so for, so good. Her parents are undocumented, but not to worry, the county will foot the bill.”

“How’s the baby?”

“Mild respiratory distress, but otherwise, okay. I don’t anticipate other than the usual in her care.”

“Send her over. I’ll tell the unit to get ready.”

The transport team with a nurse and respiratory tech wheeled the incubator into Brier’s NICU. A small Hispanic woman followed in a wheelchair.

“This is Maria Sanchez,” the nurse said to Mike.

“
Mucho gusto
, Doctor,” she said, reaching for Mike’s hand.

“
Mucho gusto
,” Mike replied. “That’s about a quarter of my Spanish vocabulary, but we have many Spanish-speaking people at Brier.”

“She has a little English,” said the nurse.

“
Un poquito
,” said Maria.

Mike introduced Sharon Bridges
, who’d be caring for the baby.

“
Mucho gusto
,” Maria said with a timid smile.

“Get her squared away, Sharon,” Mike said. “I’m going to review the baby’s records. Get some fresh lab tests and a portable chest x-ray by protocol.”

When Mike finished looking through the chart, he asked the ward clerk, Lucy Rivera, to translate. “Ask her if she’s named the baby.”

“
Si, se llama
, Ella.”

“
Ella?” Mike asked.

After a brief speedy conversation, Lucy said, “She wanted an American name.”

Mike went on to have Lucy tell Maria about the baby’s prematurity, the low birth weight, and the mild respiratory distress. He finished by reassuring her that everything was likely to go well.

When Lucy finished, Maria grabbed Mike’s hand
, and kissed it.

Mike felt embarrassed, but smiled.

Mike told Lisa about the baby that night as they sipped wine before dinner. “She’s tiny, but perfectly formed, and really cute for
a preemie. You’ll get to see her tomorrow.”

“It’s such a thrill for me to see these tiny ones. She’s going to do okay?”

“You never know for sure, but I think so.”

They’d ordered in pizza for dinner, but it was cold by the time
that they returned hungrily to the family room. Lisa reheated the pizza. Mike pulled two icy cold beers from the refrigerator, and they sat watching television.

“Let’s watch a
Medium
rerun
,
” Lisa said. “I love that show.”

“That’s the one where she can see and talk with ghosts, and has dreams that foretell future events?”

“Yes. It’s great, and you know, there really are people like that in the world.”

“Right,” he snorted, “
and you believe in the tooth fairy, too.”

She punched Mike playfully in the arm. “Don’t be such a putz—that’s the right word, isn’t it?”

“Are you sure that you want to call the love of your life a putz? I think you’ve been hanging around Phoebe too long.”

“All those things you dismiss
, such as spirituality, Tarot, Astrology, have persisted for thousands of years because there’s an element of truth to each of them. Sure, most of it is crap, but don’t you think that they all would have disappeared if they were baseless?”

“I think that humans
try to find the easy way out, and would rather blame fate or whatever, than accept responsibility for their lives. If you want to go for some of this stuff for its entertainment value, great, but don’t think it’s real.”

“Mark my words,
sweetie. Someday you’ll come to understand that there’s more to the world that what you can see, touch, and smell.”

“And don’t forget taste,” Mike said
, kissing her lips.

Chapter Eighteen

“They want to what?” Asked Mike Cooper, as he sat before the desk of Bruce Bryant, the CEO of Brier Hospital.

“Hear me out, Mike, before you have a stroke.”

“I’m not allowing a TV crew into the NICU. Think of the disruption, the risk of infection, and the violation of privacy.”

“Whether we like it or not, a hospital is a business
, and one component of any successful business is to protect and expand its market share. That’s what this is all about.”

“We don’t need to advertise. We get our referrals through professional channels from physicians who respect our work.”

“What’s our occupancy?”

“About 80 percent, but at times we’re closer to 90 to 92 percent.”

“We don’t have to reinvent the wheel, Mike. We’re a referral center, and, like Mayo or Ochsner, we all benefit by marketing. I’ll show you the data.”

“Find some other way.”

“We have the same objectives, Michael. Success breeds success. That means more space, better equipment, better staffing, and more participation in prestigious studies.” Bruce pulled a folder from his desk. “This is your contract, Dr. Cooper. Part of your obligation is to help Brier Hospital promote our NICU.”

Mike laughed. “It’s Dr. Cooper, is it? You’re threatening me with the terms of my contract?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We all take on obligations when we sign a contract. Mine says that we should, within reason, do what will improve our hospital, and the patients it serves.”

“Did your marketing people give you that line? I think I heard it on a promo
, somewhere. Look, Bruce, we’ll cooperate, but I won’t put us, or our patients, at risk. If they want to film through the viewing windows at times that we think are appropriate, then we can talk. If not, then we have a problem.”

Bryant rose and extended his hand. “I’ll get back
to you, Mike.”

Three weeks later, in the anteroom of the NICU, Mike sat with Sam Patterson, the twenty-seven year old hyperkinetic producer.

While Mike understood the pressure to succeed, he didn’t get the single-mindedness of these media people
; a herd willing to trample anything in their way.

“Please
, Doc,” Sam said, “shooting through those windows is like having sex while wearing a condom.”

“Sam, if any member of your crew steps into the NICU, he or she won’t have to worry about having sex
, anymore.”

“Mike, you better take this,” said the charge nurse
, handing him the phone.

Mike listened, shook his head,
and then said, “Send her up.”

“What is it?”
Asked Sam as he ran his tongue over his lower lip.

“Set up outside, take your pictures, and Sam
—this is the last of it.”

Mike turned to the charge nurse and said, “Who’s up for a sick one?”

“Lisa. Is that okay, Mike?”

“Of course.” He caught Lisa’s eye
, and gestured that she should join him.

“What’s up, Mike?” she asked.

“They delivered a woman right off the street with—no prenatal care. She just delivered a 34-week baby with hydrops.”

“Hydrox?” Sam asked.

Mike shook his head, and then turned to Sam. “Listen closely. This is all I have to say for now, and when that baby gets here, I don’t want to hear another word.”

Sam nodded.

“Hydrops is part of what we call hemolytic disease of the newborn, and it’s due to a blood mismatch between the mother and her baby. It’s mostly due to the Rh factor, where the mother’s body attacks the baby’s red blood cells. We rarely see it, anymore because, given half a chance, we can prevent it.”

The elevator door pinged open. A nurse and respiratory tech pushed the incubator out
, and into the NICU.

Mike pointed for Sam to leave.

They moved the incubator with the large blue tag, labeled, ‘Baby Boy Johnson’, to the level three areas, for the sickest babies. After attaching the power cords, the monitoring devices and the oxygen, Mike took his first look, and felt sick. The tiny baby’s yellow face had the shape of a Buddha. It was almost perfectly round, due to fluid swelling. White tape surrounded the skull below the nose, and held the small tube into the baby’s trachea. All extremities, as well as the abdomen were similarly bloated by accumulated water.

“Get me the umbilical tray,” Mike said to Sharon Bridges
. “We’ll use the umbilical vein for an IV line, and we can use it for the exchange transfusions.”

Mike sweated under the radiant warmer. He finished inserting the plastic catheter into the baby’s umbilical vein
, when he felt the heat of the camera flood lights over his left shoulder.

What the fuck!

He tied the last suture in place to anchor the catheter, removed his hands from the incubator, and turned to face the camera.

Enraged, he lifted the
cameraman and camera into the air, rushed them through the doorway, and then threw both against the wall. The camera crashed against the floor with an expensive crack.

“What are you doing?” Sam screamed, pushing his way toward Mike.

Mike stretched his enormous hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. “Come closer, and you may live to regret it. You fucking bastards don’t give a damn about who you hurt! I’m holding you and your station responsible for any contamination of the NICU and for any infection that baby gets. Get out, or I’ll have security throw you out.”

As they left, Michael said, “Get your checkbook ready, it's gonna cost you big to disinfect the NICU.”

When Mike returned to the NICU, his pulse was still bounding with anger. He changed his gown, washed his hands, splashed cold water into his face, took a deep breath, and returned to the incubator.

Sharon stared at Mike. Her face was that of Leonardo
da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.

“What?”

Sharon smiled. “You let him off easy. I would have killed the son-of-a-bitch!”

They performed several exchange transfusions, replacing the baby’s damaged red cells with fresh, donated blood.

By the next morning
, the baby was yam-yellow, and flaccid. Signs of brain damage increased hourly until noon, when ‘Baby Boy Johnson’ took his last breath.