Instead, his thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. “I prayed it was.” His eyes closed slowly, and when they opened, his expression had changed. “There’s something else we need to talk about, Isabel. I wish it could wait, but it can’t.”
8
KICK
Before I could tell Isabel about the phone call I’d just taken, the doctor who’d seen her in the triage area walked into the room.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Tired, but otherwise, okay. The pain is gone,” Isabel answered.
“I’ve reviewed your ultrasound, and the good news is your baby looks healthy. The heartbeat is strong, and the measurements are appropriate for your dates.”
“Then, why was there bleeding?” I asked.
“It’s called a threatened miscarriage. It’s more common than people realize, especially in the first trimester.” She turned to Isabel. “Have you been under significant stress lately?”
A laugh almost escaped me.Stress?Running from her father. Hiding a pregnancy. Starting a new job. Then me showing up and refusing to leave?
“A little,” she said so softly I could barely hear her.
“And physical exertion? Your chart says you work in the vineyard?”
“I just started. I’ve been doing pruning, mostly.”
The doctor nodded. “That needs to stop. At least for now. I’m putting you on modified bed rest for at least two weeks. That means no strenuous activity, no lifting anything heavy, no being on your feet for extended periods. Light walking around your home is fine, but that’s it.”
“But my job?—”
“You can request time off from a job, but growing a human being is nonnegotiable.” She was firm but not unkind. “Is there someone who can stay with you? You shouldn’t be alone, especially for the next few days while we monitor the situation.”
Before she could answer, I did. “I’ll be with her.”
She turned to look at me, and I held her gaze steadily, daring her to argue.
I breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t.
“Good.” The doctor made a note in her chart. “I want you to follow up with your OB within the week.”
Isabel’s brow furrowed, and she worried the inside of her cheek. “I, um, just moved here…”
“Not a problem. We can give you a referral. In the meantime, watch for heavy bleeding—soaking through a pad in an hour—severe cramping, or fever. Any of those, you come straight back to the ER.”
“Okay,” she and I responded at the same time.
“Given how positive the ultrasound looked, I’ll let you go home in an hour as long as you promise to rest, hydrate, and try to minimize stress.” She almost smiled at that last one, as if she knew how impossible it sounded. “Your baby is a fighter. Give them the best chance by taking care of yourself.”
When she left, the silence returned.
“You said there’s something we need to talk about?”
Given the doctor’s warning about stress, I hated to bring it up, but she had to know. I stroked the back of her hand. “It’s about your insurance.”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t have any, do I?”
“None that the admissions people could verify. But I don’t want you to worry. There’s an easy solution, whether short- or long-term.”
“I won’t go home. I can’t.”
