A Child to Heal Their Hearts. Dianne DrakeЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Going on to eight. Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby. For three hours. Megan had a restless night. She kept waking up, calling for her mommy.” She glanced over at the child, who’d finally gone to sleep after several fussy intervals. “And she was spiking a pretty high fever for a while, which finally broke around four. Poor thing was miserable.”
“Well, there’s a nice shower waiting for you in the guest cabin, if that’ll make you feel any better.”
“If there’s a bed in the shower, that’ll be perfect.”
“I don’t know about you, but I used to have nights when three hours of sleep were a blessing.”
“Back in my residency,” she said, sitting up and stretching. “Which, thankfully, has been over with for a while. And my hospital had a very strict policy with its surgical residents about taking care of ourselves. If we came in and looked the least bit tired or sluggish, we’d get bumped out of the OR and they’d put us on chart duty and paperwork for the entire shift. Once or twice doing that and you learned to get your sleep.”
“You were lucky, then. Where I did my Pediatrics residency, they were so short-staffed we were always tired and sluggish.” He smiled. “Makes for a better story than well rested and perky, doesn’t it?”
Keera laughed. “Want to hear about all the paper cuts I got the first time I had to spend a day on chart duty?”
“Good try,” he said, holding out his hand to pull her out of bed. “But I can top that with the time I worked thirty-six hours straight in the middle of a blizzard, and I was the only pediatrician in the hospital. Didn’t even get a nap in.”
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, then stood, and immediately brushed her hair back from her face. “Yes, but did you get physically wounded, the way I did? Paper cuts can get infected, you know.”
“Do leg cramps, aching feet and a sore back count?”
“Six paper cuts, Reid.”
“And the only food available the whole time was from a vending machine.” He smiled. “Can’t top that, can you?”
“Yuck. Vending machines? Seriously?”
“Nothing but snack cakes and candy bars and potato chips for thirty-six hours.”
“Enough!” she said, holding out her hand to stop him. “You win. I can’t top that because we had a catering service...even though I was barely able to hold a fork to eat my shrimp Louie salad.”
“You just don’t give up, do you?” he asked, leading her to the tiny kitchen in the rear where a fresh pot of coffee was awaiting her.
“Where I come from, giving up came with serious side effects,” she said, pouring a cup for Reid first then one for herself.
“And where would that be?” he asked lightly.
“The streets,” she said, quite surprised how that had slipped out so easily. Normally that was a piece of her life she didn’t put out there for other people to know about. Too often they judged or pitied her. Gave her funny looks or were wary. None of which she wanted. “Growing up was rough. My mother and I had a hard time sometimes,” she said, then took a sip. “I made it through, though, probably because I’m too stubborn to give up.”
“Then I’d say stubborn suits you.”
“Most of the time,” she conceded. “Look, I need that shower you mentioned.”
“Take all the time you need, as long as it’s not longer than an hour. I’ve got clinic this morning after breakfast, and the kids will start lining up in about an hour. So I can watch Megan only until then.”
“Clinic?”
“We do basic checks, vital signs, that sort of thing, just to make sure we’re not wearing them out. Most of the kids are in early remission or recovery, and they’re not always the best judges of how they feel, so we keep a pretty close eye on that.”
“I could do that if you want to stay here for a while and rest, because you look about as strung out as I feel. And as that’s my fault, the least I could do is some of your work.”
“Sounds like an offer I shouldn’t refuse,” he said. “You take the clinic, and I’ll stay here with Megan, get some paperwork done, do a supplies inventory, answer some long-overdue e-mails from parents interested in sending their kids to camp here.”
“Do you have more than one session a year?”
“Actually, we run eight, various ages and stages of recovery.”
“And you personally oversee them all?”
He shook his head. “I oversee the one Emmie attends. Which will probably change in another year or two when she’ll be old enough she doesn’t want Dad hanging around her all the time. For the other sessions I have some of the best medical help in the country come in.” He smiled with pride. “People are generous.”
“I’m impressed.”
He shrugged off the compliment. “Kids need to be kids, no matter what their medical condition. Camp Hope simply facilitates that.”
“And you’re too modest.”
“Not modest. Just grateful something like this worked out in my life. Like I told you, I was a real screw-up before the girls.”
“Then good for the girls for bringing out all the potential in you. Anyway, let me go grab a quick shower then...what, exactly, will I do in clinic?”
“Vitals, a few meds.”
“Anybody on chemo?”
“No, we don’t do chemo here. Our kids have, for the most part, already gone through that stage a time or two. Although giving chemo’s an option for the future because even kids who are that sick need a diversion, which Camp Hope would give them. Right now we just don’t have the facilities for it. Someday, though...maybe a chemotherapy facility. Who knows, maybe even an entire hospital devoted to leukemia.
“Anyway, right now we do follow-up therapy with drugs for nausea, and a couple of our kids are getting prednisone and methotrexate. It’s all basic stuff, pretty much. Each kid has a chart. Medicines are stored away according to the child.” He handed her the key to the medicine storage. “So check their ID with the chart and, well...you’ll figure it out.
“Betsy can come in later and help after her morning sickness has ended for the day. Just let me know if you need her, and I’ll give her a shout.”
“Basic stuff,” she repeated. “I guess I find it difficult to believe you’d leave me alone with your kids. You don’t even know me.”
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