Page 35 of We Were Something
Deleting the email and filing the reminder away in my mind with the other list of at-home to-dos I’ve been avoiding, I finish signing off on some administrative paperwork and wrap up a few charts. I pass them over to the nurse manning the admin desk before heading down to the end of the hallway to begin my last set of rounds that will close out my day.
Room after room I visit, reviewing charts, checking in with my young patients, speaking with parents to answer questions about fluids and urine output and medications and side effects. I try to make a habit of sitting on the edge of each kid’s bed so I’m at as close to eye level as possible, using much smaller words and trying to explain things as simply as possible so they can both understand me and not be as afraid.
Midway through, I hit Ivy’s room, and I’m unsurprised to see she has company.
Though Iamsurprised to see who it is.
“How are you, Mrs. Calloway?” I ask, greeting Ivy’s mother, Vivian, with a friendly smile, glancing briefly at Ivy where she currently sleeps peacefully in her bed.
“Fine,” she answers, her voice as stiff as always.
One of the things I find the most fascinating about the entire group of people who come in and out of Ivy’s room is that they’re all wonderful, friendly, kind, and caring people.
And then there are her parents.
Her dad, Calvin, is a business mogul here in town and, from what I hear, one of the most hardheaded, egotistical assholes on the face of the planet. Basically, a grown-up Shandler O’Ryan who thinks he’s better than everyone and that everyone can be bought, though I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him myself since, as far as I know, he’s never come to visit Ivy.
And then there’s Vivian, her mother. I overheard Ivy’s brother Wyatt referring to his mother as ‘plastic’ once, and I doubt there’s a better word out there to describe her.
Utterly emotionless, rigid in every sense of the word. It’s hard to reconcile the woman who visits her daughter and sits woodenly in the corner with her reputation as a warm, gracious hostess.
But then again, I’m not on the receiving end of her warmth and hospitality because I’mthe help, after all.
“Are you planning to be here next week full step-by-step meeting? It’s for everyone involved in the bone marrow transplant.”
Normally, I’d assume Mrs. Calloway was being kept in the loop, but since neither Hannah nor Lucas are related to Vivian herself, I’m not sure how aware she is of the process they will be undertaking in the weeks before the procedure, especially since I seem to be giving information to someone new every time I swing through Ivy’s room.
When Mrs. Calloway nods, I nod as well.
“Good, I’m glad to hear it. Do you have any lingering questions I might be able to answer before I head out for the evening?” I ask as my eyes scan over the chart I’ve pulled down from the wall next to the door.
We’re slowly weaning Ivyoffof the eculizumab she’s been taking for PNH. Once she’s fully off the meds, she’ll begin chemo to prep for her bone marrow transplant. Even though her body had stopped responding to this particular medication, patients risk some serious side effects if they just quit taking it cold turkey, so we’ve had to take a slow and steady approach. Being off all meds also leaves Ivy at severe risk for infections, so I take extra care in reviewing her daily blood workups for any signs of an elevated white cell count, or any other small indicators that could mean something concerning.
I glance at Mrs. Calloway when I realize she hasn’t answered my question, and that’s when I realize she’s crying.
Under the circumstances, it’s normal to see a parent in tears at the hospital bed of their sick child. I deal with crying parents on a near-daily basis. If a child is in long-term care with us on this wing in particular, it means they’re facing something serious and life-threatening that any parent would be foolish not to shed a few tears over.
And yet, in the entire time I’ve known Ivy’s family, not once have I seen Mrs. Calloway with any expression on her face other than the inflexible and somewhat irritated one she was wearing when I walked in a few minutes ago.
I cross the room slowly, taking the chair next to her, opting to give her a few minutes to vocalize whatever fears are crossing her mind at the moment rather than rush her along. But she stays rigid and silent, the only sign of her discomfort or distress the handful of tears that drip in long lines down her face.
“We’re going to be doing everything we can for her,” I tell Mrs. Calloway, wishing I had something more encouraging to say.
My bedside manner is usually better suited to fearful children rather than grieving parents, but as doctors, we have to navigate it all.
“I spoke with Dr. Singh and he’s seen varying levels of success with five patients in his trial already. That’s very encouraging.”
Ivy’s mother is silent for another long moment before she turns her head to look at me.
“What will people think of me if Ivy dies from this?”
I blink. Then blink again.
They teach us how to respond to difficult questions in med school. How to school your features so you don’t give away the fact that someone has asked something inappropriate or unethical or uncomfortable to answer.
But nothing could have prepared me for the type of disgust I feel in this moment as I watch Ivy’s mom grapple with the idea of what her friends will think of her if she’s the mother of a dead child.
I clear my throat and look over at where Ivy naps peacefully, a teenager with so much life left to live, hopefully surrounded by people who love her more than this farce of parental care her mother is putting on, and I have to force myself to answer professionally.
