Christmas at Jimmie's Children's Unit Read online

  ‘I’m more afraid that having given permission if something does happen you’ll blame yourself,’ she said. ‘You’re already doing that, aren’t you? Somehow you’ve convinced yourself this is all your fault, but congenital abnormalities can happen anywhere, any time.’

  She stood up and moved closer to Mrs Stamford, putting her arms around her and holding her as the woman wept and wept.

  ‘This is the damn problem with only having units like this in the capital cities,’ Kate ranted to Angus a little later, the signed permission form in her hand. ‘The patient, and usually the mother, are whisked away and end up miles from family support. She’s got no-one, that woman, until her husband gets here. I know we can’t have units like this in every hospital in Australia, but there should be a better way of doing things.’

  Angus gave her shoulder a comforting pat, the physical effect of which jolted her out of her worry over Mrs Stamford’s isolation, especially as she’d written her colleague down as a man who remained detached—too detached, she’d thought, for comforting pats!

  ‘She’s got the baby,’ he reminded her, and Kate looked up at him.

  ‘You mean…?’

  ‘You’ve already achieved one miracle this morning,’ Angus told her, ‘so why not go for two. Go back in there and ask her if she’d like to go with him as he’s wheeled to Theatre. We can get a wheelchair and she could touch him, hold his hand. Although if she doesn’t want to bond with him in case he doesn’t live—’

  ‘She thinks she doesn’t want to bond with him.’ Kate interrupted his objection, excited now by the idea. ‘But maybe she’s changed her mind about that, as well.’

  She’d sounded positive about it, but deep inside she had her doubts, even wondered if it was wise to push Mrs Stamford this little bit more. But Angus seemed to think it was a good idea and he was looking far happier now than he had been earlier, so the least Kate could do was try.

  She returned to the room where Mrs Stamford was lying back against the pillows, her eyes closed and only a little more colour in her face than when Kate had first seen her.

  ‘We’ll be taking him to Theatre very soon, and I wondered if we arranged a wheelchair for you and a wardsman to push it, you’d like to come up to the PICU and go as far as the theatre with him.’

  Mrs Stamford’s eyelids lifted and dark brown eyes stared fiercely at Kate.

  ‘What are you? Some kind of avenging angel, determined to push me further and further?’

  ‘I just wondered,’ Kate said lamely, ‘seeing as you’re here on your own until your husband arrives and he, the baby, is on his own, as well. Maybe you could support each other.’

  Oh, boy! Wrong thing to say! Mrs Stamford was in tears again, flooding tears and great gulping sobs.

  Kate held her again, and it was only because she was holding her, she heard the whispered instructions.

  ‘Get the bloody wheelchair, but I want a nurse not a wardsman wheeling me. Men don’t understand.’

  Uh-oh! Was it Mr Stamford, not Mrs Stamford, who’d found it hard to accept a less-than-perfect child? Had she consulted him—phoned him—before she signed the permission-to-operate paper?

  And while Kate could have argued that some men were far more understanding and supportive than some women, she held her tongue. She gave Mrs Stamford a final hug and darted off, not wanting to give the woman time to change her mind. She arranged the transportation, then raced back up to the floor above, knowing she had to be there to intubate Baby Stamford and prepare him for his lifesaving op.

  ‘So tiny, the veins.’

  She didn’t have to glance up to know it was Angus hovering beside her in the treatment room as she put a peripheral line into the baby’s foot, already having secured one in his jugular and administered the first mild sedative.

  ‘So tiny we need to work out better ways of doing this—smaller, more flexible catheters. You’d think it would be easy but I’ve been working with technicians from one of the manufacturing companies for over a year now, and we’re no further advanced. Too fine and they block, or twist or kink—it’s so frustrating!’

  Angus studied the back of her head—a coloured scarf now hiding the bright hair—as she concentrated fully on her task.

  She’d been working with techies to improve catheters? Kate Armstrong was full of surprises, not least of which had been the way she’d talked Mrs Stamford out of her indignation and allowed the woman’s natural maternal instincts to come out.

  The redhead’s body brushed against his as she straightened up and his body went into immediate response mode. Not good where Kate Armstrong was concerned. She wanted kids—well, grandkids, which meant, as she’d pointed out, having kids first.

  She was not for him!

  Even though the ‘grandmother’ thing intrigued him! Not to mention whatever lay behind it…

  Was it because of the familiar noises in the operating theatre, the sizzle of the bovie as it cut and cauterised tiny vessels, the bleeps of the monitors as they kept Kate up-to-date on Baby Stamford’s condition, the subdued chatter of the staff, the music playing in the background, that Angus felt so at home? Although this was not only his first operation at Jimmie’s but the first time he’d worked with any of the team.

  Oliver Rankin was assisting. He was quiet, neat and efficient, although Angus rather thought he was casting glances in Kate’s direction a little too often. Clare Jackson was operating the bypass machine, waiting for the order to use it to take over the work of Baby Stamford’s tiny heart. Clare Jackson might not want children, Angus thought, standing back so Oliver could lift the pericardium away from Baby Stamford’s heart.

  The thought startled him, and he shut it down immediately, dismayed to find himself, for the first time in years, thinking of something other than the operation while in Theatre. He prided himself on his total concentration on the job, and although he often joined in the general chat and jokes, his mind never strayed far from the tiny patient on the table.

  She was far better looking, beautiful, in fact—Clare Jackson—so why was he, too, glancing up at Kate from time to time.

  Because she’s the anaesthetist, of course, and she’s the one who knows how the baby’s doing, down there, all but hidden with the cage to protect his head and wrappings covering all his little body except his chest.

  ‘Blood gases fine,’ the woman he was trying to block from his mind said. ‘Heartbeats 130 a minute.’

  With the little heart fully exposed, Angus inserted cannulas into the aorta and an atrial vein; Oliver attached the tubes that would put Baby Stamford on bypass—the tubes connecting to the machine which would oxygenate his blood and pump it through his body.

  ‘Pressure’s up,’ Kate said, reassuring everyone, although Clare was now controlling what happened to the baby’s blood pressure.

  ‘Check blood gases and start cooling him.’ Angus gave the order, one hundred percent of his attention back on his patient, the information coming in from Kate and Clare clicking computerlike into his brain, his mind whirling as he worked, total concentration on what he was doing but thinking ahead, always anticipating any problem, at the same time.

  ‘Why do we cool them?’ the circulating nurse asked, her voice suggesting she’d often wondered but for some reason had never wanted to ask.

  ‘It cuts down the risk of organ damage when the flow of blood to the brain and other major organs stops—when we stop the heart to do the repair.’

  Oliver explained, while Angus inserted a tiny tube into the aorta, where it was rising out of the heart. Through this he’d put the poison that would stop the heart beating and, once that went in, it was a matter of timing every second of the operation.

  Kate watched him at work, waiting patiently until all the blood drained from Baby Stamford’s heart, then switching the coronary arteries so neatly and quickly she didn’t realise they were done until he stood and stretched.

  Once straightened, he looked across at her, and she nodded and held
up a thumb, but there’d been something in his dark eyes that had suggested he was looking at her, not at the anaesthetist. Ridiculous, of course, but she shivered in spite of herself, then turned all of her attention back to the patient on the table and the machines that told her what was happening.

  Less than an hour later the baby’s heart was beating on its own, the little hole in his heart repaired, the arteries switched so they would now do the jobs they were intended to do. And though Angus had left a pacemaker in Baby Stamford’s chest to keep his heart rate stable, and various drainage tubes and measuring devices were still attached to him, he was doing well.

  Kate had to smile as she accompanied her tiny comatose patient to the intensive-care room. He would be her responsibility until he regained consciousness, although Clare was in charge of the machine that was keeping him breathing.

  ‘Getting him off the ventilator is the next hurdle,’ Clare, who was walking beside Kate, said.

  ‘Only if he needs it for a long time, but he’s come through very well—all his blood values were good,’ Kate replied, and Clare smiled.

  ‘You’re a glass-half-full person, right?’ she said.

  Was she?

  ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ Kate admitted honestly.

  ‘Never thought about what?’ a deep voice asked, and she turned to see Angus had joined them in the small room.

  ‘Whether I’m a pessimist or an optimist,’ she said, thinking of the times when sadness and loss had threatened to overwhelm her and whether that was pessimism.

  ‘Oh, definitely an optimist, I’d say,’ Angus told her, almost smiling, almost teasing. ‘What else would you call a woman who organised childcare for children she doesn’t yet have?’

  ‘You what?’ Clare demanded, but Kate silenced Angus with a ‘don’t you dare’ look.

  Bad enough she’d admitted her grandmother obsession to one person without the entire hospital knowing it.

  ‘What about you, Angus,’ she asked to divert the conversation. ‘Are you a glass-half-full or a glass-halfempty person?’

  He studied her for a moment.

  ‘You know, I’ve never thought about it. Definitely half full as far as patients are concerned. I could never do an operation if I doubted I’d be improving a child’s quality of life.’

  ‘You’ve children yourself?’ Clare asked, and Kate felt a surge of something that couldn’t possibly be jealousy flood through her veins at the other woman’s interest.

  ‘One, Hamish—he’s four,’ Angus answered, while Kate wondered why Alex couldn’t have found a less beautiful perfusionist.

  ‘Probably ready for a little sister or brother,’ Clare suggested, and though Kate knew this was just idle talk as they all watched the monitors that told them Baby Stamford was doing well, she resented the other woman’s interest. Although Clare probably didn’t know Angus was a widower.

  ‘Not for Hamish, I’m afraid,’ Angus replied. ‘He’s going to be an only child for life.’

  Poor kid, Kate thought, but before she could point out the disadvantages—the haunting loneliness she’d felt as an only child—Clare was talking again, talking and smiling.

  Flirting?

  ‘Good for you!’ she said. ‘I’m one of four and the number of times I’ve wished I was an only child! You’ve no idea. Having to share toys, wearing hand-me-downs—not that we lived on bread and jam or the hand-me-downs were rags, but I think I was born to be an only child.’

  Selfish! Kate muttered to herself, but there was something so open and honest about Clare that she found herself looking past the beauty to the woman within.

  And liking her!

  Damn!

  Double damn if Angus were to fall for her, and why wouldn’t he?

  Not that it was any of Kate’s business who he fell for, so why was she still thinking about Clare, thinking perhaps she was attached—surely she was attached; how could someone so beautiful be unattached?

  ‘Look, there’s no point in all three of us being here. Why don’t you two grab a coffee break—in fact, it’s past lunchtime. The canteen is good, and cheaper than the coffee shop on the ground floor. You know where to go?’

  Was she pushing them together? Angus wondered. Then knew it was only because, for some indefinable reason, he was attracted to Kate Armstrong that he’d even consider she might be doing such a thing. This was work—two colleagues sharing lunch. He had to get his mind off Kate Armstrong and, having decided that, lunch with the beautiful Clare might be just what he needed.

  Kate watched them depart, telling herself it was for the best, particularly now she’d heard Angus being so adamant about not producing siblings for Hamish. Given that fact, Angus McDowell was definitely not the man for her.

  Not that he’d shown the slightest sign of wanting to be, so why she’d been idly fantasising about him she had no idea!

  No idea apart from the attraction that had startled her body into life when she’d first met him. Her body, that was usually biddable and dependable and had rarely felt anything more than a lukewarm interest in any man since Brian and even he hadn’t provoked much physical reaction.

  Enough of attraction; she’d think about something else. Like why was Angus so definite about not wanting more children? Perhaps it was another way of saying he’d never marry again?

  Get your mind back on work!

  She checked Baby Stamford, wishing he had a name, then was surprised to hear the whirr of a wheelchair coming towards her. Mrs Stamford, pushed by a man who definitely wasn’t a wardsman.

  ‘They said he’d come through very well.’ Mrs Stamford’s voice was back in accusatory mode, daring Kate to argue this piece of good news.

  ‘He’s a little champion,’ she assured the still-pale woman, then she held out her hand to the man. ‘I’m Kate Armstrong, the anaesthetist. I’ll be keeping an eye on him for the next few hours.’

  ‘Pete Stamford,’ the man responded, shaking Kate’s hand, although all his attention was on his baby son who was so dwarfed by wires and tubes it was hard to see much of him. ‘You keep a personal eye on him? Not just watch monitors?’

  ‘I like to be here most of the time,’ Kate told him, and was surprised when the man’s face darkened.

  ‘Then it’s obvious to me he’s not out of the woods yet,’ he said, his muted voice still managing to convey anger.

  ‘He’s been through a huge ordeal for such a tiny baby,’ Kate said gently. ‘Being on bypass takes a lot out of them, and we stop his heart while the switch happens, poor wee mite, but there’s no cause for anxiety. I stay because I like to watch until I’m certain he’s over the effect of the anaesthetic and sleeping naturally. I can’t always do it, because I’ve usually other ops scheduled, so today it’s a bit of a treat for me.’

  Pete Stamford eyed her with great suspicion and Kate was glad he hadn’t come when all three of the specialists had been in the room. Then he would have been truly alarmed.

  And she was even gladder—or should that be more glad, she wondered—when she realised that Mrs Stamford had wheeled herself closer to the cot, put her hand through the vent and was softly stroking her baby’s arm, talking quietly to him at the same time.

  Kate felt her heart turn over at the sight, then realised Baby Stamford’s father was also looking at his wife, while tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Unable to resist offering comfort, Kate put her arm around his shoulders and he turned to her and sobbed, his chin resting on her head.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, more or less to both of them. ‘You’ve been through such an ordeal and it isn’t over yet, but the worst part is behind him, so maybe, little champ that he is, he deserves a name.’

  To Kate’s surprise, Pete straightened. He stepped towards his wife, taking her hand as they both chorused, ‘Bob.’

  Bob?

  They were going to call the baby Bob?

  What about Jack and Tom and Sam, simple syllable names that were in vogue right now? What kind
of a name for a baby was Bob?

  It was Mrs Stamford who eventually explained.

  ‘We had a dog once, a border collie, who was the most faithful animal God ever put on earth. Even when he was dying of some terrible liver disease, he would drag himself to the doorway to greet Pete every night, and every morning he’d bring in the paper and drop it at my feet, right up to the day he died. He had more strength and courage than any human we’ve ever known, so it seems right to name this little fellow after him.’

  Now Mrs Stamford was crying, too, and Kate quietly backed out of the room, wanting to leave the pair of them to comfort each other—and to get to know their little son.

  Bob!

  Angus returned as she was standing by the main monitors in the PICU. He peered into the room where the couple were, then turned to Kate, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘They’re okay,’ she told him. ‘They’ve called him Bob.’

  ‘Bob?’ Angus repeated. ‘Ah, after a grandfather no doubt.’

  ‘After their old dog,’ Kate corrected, then she laughed at the expression on Angus’s face. ‘Thinking how it would be to have a child called McTavish?’ she teased, and although he smiled, once again the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘I meant it when I said earlier there’d be no more children in my family,’ he said, and Kate sensed he was telling her something else.

  Telling her he, too, felt an attraction between them but it couldn’t be?

  She was not sure, but her body seemed to take it that way, disappointment forming a heavy lump in her chest.

  Chapter Three

  ‘HIS name’s Pete—Mr Stamford, that is,’ she said to Angus, anxious to get him out of her company. ‘I’m sure he’d appreciate meeting you and talking to you about the op and Bob’s expected progress.’

  Her tongue stumbled over ‘Bob,’ and Angus smiled at her, restarting all the sensations she didn’t want to feel. Surely if she ignored them they’d go away, and for all the fancy she’d had earlier, she doubted Angus would be attracted to her. Especially not with a beauty like Clare around.