“Okay. Are the nebs helping?”
Ginny grimaces. “Somewhat, but her mom said they haven’t been as effective lately. Dr. Giustino is coming in as well to do a consult.”
Good. Her respirologist is always welcome on our ward. Because while our staff can manage a lot, Teagan’s cystic fibrosis is advanced, and when she’s here, she needs attention from the experts.
“Dr. Donnelly, hi, I didn’t expect you until later.”
I look up to see Heidi standing across the counter from me, a slight smile on her face. I give her a brusque nod, partly because of pain and partly because I can’t get distracted right now.
“We’ve got a VIP patient on the ward. Do you remember Teagan Narusaka?”
Heidi’s face falls. “Yes. Of course, I do. Is she in with an exacerbation?”
“Lung infection brought on by a cold virus, from the sounds of it. I was just getting the update on her admission record from Ginny.”
We both turn our attention back to the head nurse. While she finishes her report, I gently move and stretch my back, realizing gratefully that the meds are starting to have an effect on my back pain. Enough so that when I go to stand, intent on starting my assessment of Teagan, I’m not quite as stiff as I was before.
But either I’m still walking funny, or Heidi is exceptionally perceptive.
“Are you alright, Max?” She keeps her voice pitched low with her question.
“Yeah, just tweaked my lower back at the gym. I’m fine, let’s focus on the patient.” I know it’s a brush-off, but I saw her lift her hand, as if she were going to touch my arm. And I can’t lose focus on the priority, which is the girl waiting for us in a hospital bed.
As we walk into the room, the nurse is just helping Teagan hook up her specialty vest that will provide a specific type of massaging and rhythmic thumping to her chest, in an effort to try and clear the fluid buildup in her lungs, so we get the chance to hear Teagan’s cough firsthand.
“That’s good, T, clear it all out,” I say encouragingly, pasting a smile on my face just before I cover up with a mask and a gown. A pump of hand sanitizer follows, and only then do I approach her bed.
Teagan looks up at me from the bed, and I take in her flushed skin and hollow eyes. She is definitely not feeling well.
“Hey Dr. D,” she rasps before turning to Heidi. “Heidi, hey, I remember you.”
“Actually, Heidi here is nowDoctorMorgan,” I interject. “She’s a resident working with me for a while.”
“You can still call me Heidi, Teagan,” the woman in question interrupts, reaching a hand to lay across Teagan’s. “We’ve got enough history with me being your nurse, no need to mess it up now with formal titles.”
“A doctor? Well done, Heidi, that’s impressive,” Teagan’s mom, Maya, a lovely woman we all have come to know well, pipes up.
Heidi dismisses the compliment with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Thank you. And as lovely as it is to see you both again, I wish it were under better circumstances. Can you tell us some more about how things have been the last few weeks? Ginny mentioned you had a cold for a day or so, but then it worsened?”
Maya nods and fills us in on the last week. As is to be expected, the initial infection was a simple viral cold, likely passed on at school. Kids like Teagan struggle to live life as normally as possible, and for T, that means still going to school when she can. She’s always been good about wearing a mask, but that’s not a foolproof barrier.
“You did all the right things,” I reassure Maya when she finishes, because I know she’s beating herself up for the inescapable fact that her daughter is yet again in a hospital bed. My own mother has confessed to me how Morag used to be filled with guilt when Callum got sick. That parental guilt is so common with genetic disorders. I know my words don’t even chip away at it, but I’ll do what I can to alleviate it every chance possible.
Heidi and I finish our physical assessment and discuss the treatment plan, even though it’s a familiar routine for Teagan and Maya. Insertion of a central line for antibiotics, nebulizer treatments, aggressive hydration, feeding via an NG tube if needed, chest physio, and movement.
As we’re finishing up, Teagan starts another coughing fit. I go to her side, sitting gently on the bed and supporting her frail body as it’s racked with coughs. Heidi comes to the other side and holds the collection tray underneath, so all Teagan has to do is spit any sputum out. Our eyes meet over our patient’s head, and I know the worry I feel is reflected back at me.
When her frail body eventually sags back against the pillows, Teagan opens her eyes. The familiar strength I’ve come to respect in my young patient is still there, but it’s layered with fatigue.
“Okay Dr. D, let’s see them.”
I smile, knowing this question was coming.
“See what?” Heidi asks, confused.
“His socks,” Teagan replies, a twinkle slowly coming into her eyes. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?” She turns to Heidi and grins. “His socks are the best. But they never match.”
Heidi tilts her head at me, but I see the open curiosity. Standing up, I lift first one pant leg and then the other, revealing just as Teagan predicted, two mismatched but equally ridiculous socks. One with corgis on it, the other slices of pizza.
