for the unspoken pressure patients and families heaped upon doctors to perform miracles.
Lisbeth fished a pair of glasses out of her pocket, hoping the sturdy brown frames made her appear a little more experienced. “I’m not going to hurt her.”
The mother reluctantly released her hold. Lisbeth used this break in the woman’s defenses to better position herself to complete the exam. She palmed the child’s damp head and gently slid an otoscope tip inside each ear. Abra’s tympanic membranes appeared intact, non-bulging, no sign of infection. Clear rhinorrhea drained from each nostril. Dry mucus membranes in the mouth indicated dehydration.
Lisbeth returned the scope to a wall charger and ran her fingers along both sides of the infant’s chubby little neck. No lymphadenopathy.
“I need to listen to her heart. Let’s remove these strips of cloth.”
The woman shook her head. “Swaddling is her only comfort.”
“But she could be ob—”
“No.” The woman stayed Lisbeth’s hands. “She must remain bound.” The mother’s breaths quickened, and her eyes darted to the door as if she expected trouble to burst in should Lisbeth not comply with her wishes. “It is our way.”
Lisbeth realized she’d set off some kind of fear. Of what, she didn’t know.
Maybe this mother didn’t trust twenty-eight-year-old doctors. But then, who did? Lisbeth wasn’t sure she trusted herself. Maybe this woman didn’t trust that Lisbeth was part white, part Mediterranean. She couldn’t blame her. Since 9/11, the world had gone crazy with suspicion.
“Okay, calm down. I can work around it.”
Lisbeth maneuvered the engraved bell of her stethoscope under the crisscrossed folds of fabric. Abra’s heart raced, but Lisbeth heard no detectable murmurs. Lisbeth rolled the child to her side and pried down the swaddling across her back. Abra screamed louder. Lisbeth did her best to listen for wheezing. Magnified screams but no crackly sounds of pneumonia during the fleeting pauses for inspiration.
“Let’s turn her on her back.”
The child bucked and wailed. Her tiny features screwed into angry wrinkles.
“This kid is wrapped to the hilt. I can’t tell what I’m dealing with,” Lisbeth spit out in English. She paged her attending. Need you to see baby. Rm #1.
“I don’t understand.” The mother waited for an Arabic explanation.
“Never mind.” Lisbeth gently pressed the baby’s belly.
The baby’s tummy felt slightly distended. Hard to distinguish between what was child and what was layered fabric. Lisbeth listened for bowel sounds, but Abra’s piercing screams made it impossible to hear anything except the sizzle of her own rising temper.
Lisbeth checked her pager. No response. Where was her attending? Nelda wouldn’t let her dillydally in here all night, too afraid to make a decision. Lisbeth draped the stethoscope around her neck. “Looks like she has viral gastroenteritis.”
The woman’s face puzzled.
“A stomach bug,” Lisbeth explained. “She appears a little dehydrated from all the vomiting. She just needs fluids. We’ll get an IV started, and she’ll be good as new in no time. Any questions?”
The woman shook her head and scooped Abra into her arms. “Thank you, doctor.”
Doctor? Assembly line worker suited her job description much better.
Lisbeth stepped into the hall. She scribbled an order, signed her name, and added the chart to Nelda’s stack. “Kid’s dehydrated.”
Nelda’s brows gathered to form a hairy caterpillar on her forehead. “Dr. Sutton was supposed to be with that baby. Where is he?”
“Gunshot surgery.” Lisbeth played like she didn’t see Nelda’s displeasure. “Paged my attending, but he never came. If you see Dr. Redding, make sure he signs off on my diagnosis.” She turned and beelined it toward the elevator. “Need a restroom break. Be back in a few.”
“Whoa, little missy!” Nelda shouted. “What about the foot ulcer?”
Her threatening
Lisbeth fished a pair of glasses out of her pocket, hoping the sturdy brown frames made her appear a little more experienced. “I’m not going to hurt her.”
The mother reluctantly released her hold. Lisbeth used this break in the woman’s defenses to better position herself to complete the exam. She palmed the child’s damp head and gently slid an otoscope tip inside each ear. Abra’s tympanic membranes appeared intact, non-bulging, no sign of infection. Clear rhinorrhea drained from each nostril. Dry mucus membranes in the mouth indicated dehydration.
Lisbeth returned the scope to a wall charger and ran her fingers along both sides of the infant’s chubby little neck. No lymphadenopathy.
“I need to listen to her heart. Let’s remove these strips of cloth.”
The woman shook her head. “Swaddling is her only comfort.”
“But she could be ob—”
“No.” The woman stayed Lisbeth’s hands. “She must remain bound.” The mother’s breaths quickened, and her eyes darted to the door as if she expected trouble to burst in should Lisbeth not comply with her wishes. “It is our way.”
Lisbeth realized she’d set off some kind of fear. Of what, she didn’t know.
Maybe this mother didn’t trust twenty-eight-year-old doctors. But then, who did? Lisbeth wasn’t sure she trusted herself. Maybe this woman didn’t trust that Lisbeth was part white, part Mediterranean. She couldn’t blame her. Since 9/11, the world had gone crazy with suspicion.
“Okay, calm down. I can work around it.”
Lisbeth maneuvered the engraved bell of her stethoscope under the crisscrossed folds of fabric. Abra’s heart raced, but Lisbeth heard no detectable murmurs. Lisbeth rolled the child to her side and pried down the swaddling across her back. Abra screamed louder. Lisbeth did her best to listen for wheezing. Magnified screams but no crackly sounds of pneumonia during the fleeting pauses for inspiration.
“Let’s turn her on her back.”
The child bucked and wailed. Her tiny features screwed into angry wrinkles.
“This kid is wrapped to the hilt. I can’t tell what I’m dealing with,” Lisbeth spit out in English. She paged her attending. Need you to see baby. Rm #1.
“I don’t understand.” The mother waited for an Arabic explanation.
“Never mind.” Lisbeth gently pressed the baby’s belly.
The baby’s tummy felt slightly distended. Hard to distinguish between what was child and what was layered fabric. Lisbeth listened for bowel sounds, but Abra’s piercing screams made it impossible to hear anything except the sizzle of her own rising temper.
Lisbeth checked her pager. No response. Where was her attending? Nelda wouldn’t let her dillydally in here all night, too afraid to make a decision. Lisbeth draped the stethoscope around her neck. “Looks like she has viral gastroenteritis.”
The woman’s face puzzled.
“A stomach bug,” Lisbeth explained. “She appears a little dehydrated from all the vomiting. She just needs fluids. We’ll get an IV started, and she’ll be good as new in no time. Any questions?”
The woman shook her head and scooped Abra into her arms. “Thank you, doctor.”
Doctor? Assembly line worker suited her job description much better.
Lisbeth stepped into the hall. She scribbled an order, signed her name, and added the chart to Nelda’s stack. “Kid’s dehydrated.”
Nelda’s brows gathered to form a hairy caterpillar on her forehead. “Dr. Sutton was supposed to be with that baby. Where is he?”
“Gunshot surgery.” Lisbeth played like she didn’t see Nelda’s displeasure. “Paged my attending, but he never came. If you see Dr. Redding, make sure he signs off on my diagnosis.” She turned and beelined it toward the elevator. “Need a restroom break. Be back in a few.”
“Whoa, little missy!” Nelda shouted. “What about the foot ulcer?”
Her threatening
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