Children Are Precious
Larry Chiaramonte
January 2006
January 2006
"No he can still hear, be careful. He is not dead. He is dying." I replied.
"My wife is falling apart," he said.
"She needs to make the boy more comfortable. She needs you," I replied.
"I can handle a court confrontation but not this- my sons death" he replied.
"Your wife needs you" I said.
"Sorry I just can not handle this" he turned and left.
I walk back to the room the woman was awake. The boy was now asleep in his bed. She hugged her daughter. "My husband?" she asked
"He had to leave," I said.
"Can we talk?" she said as she motioned her sitter and daughter outside.
As soon as they left she took my hand and began to cry. "This is so hard. I try to be a good mother but I can never be good enough. I need someone to depend on." she looked at me long and hard. There was a hint of an invitation.
Mrs. Garvey was an attractive woman. For a second I was tempted until I realized that she was so vulnerable that she would be receptive to the advances of any doctor now. A comment from one of the staff psychiatrists flickered through my mind. "Someday you will meet a distressed woman who will be susceptible to a doctor’s sexual advances. Remember you are a doctor first and a man second."
I needed to be professional. "I understand how difficult this is for you. Your husband is denying his feelings. You must feel very alone. There is help."
She looked at me slowly cried and nodded her head yes. Starred at me as if to say please save me.
"Your husband, your daughter they will need you after this is over." I said.
"My husband, he can be damned. He is not here for me now, when I need him." She almost shouted.
"Your daughter?" I asked.
"Yes, I cannot let my husband raise her without me," she said.
"Have you thought of suicide? If you have you must have some professional grief consoling. We have a staff psychiatrist. Grief is common problem here even for young doctors. He has helped me. You and your husband can both go." I said.
"He is too macho to admit his feelings," she replied.
"Well you can start. Remember your daughter." I said.
A flicker of a smile crossed her lips, she squeezed my hand in thanks."
I feel better I will be back after some sleep at home this afternoon" she then left.
As if he did not want to up set his mother the boy convulsed as soon as she left.
I tried to treat the convulsion to no avail. The boy died. I pushed off my grief by filling out the forms required at a child’s death. Looking at the encoded research protocol I found that the boy’s treatment consisted of three placebos. The children who had received the active cancer drugs were doing much better. Research required cold judgments. I felt like a victim and killer at the same time. How was I going to inform the parents of the child’s death? I could not let the grief stricken mother dive back to the hospital alone. I called the father. He was almost relived that it was over. "Remember your wife needs you," I said.
Thirty minutes later they arrived. The woman cried into her husband’s chest. He had his arm around her. She was stiff to his touch as if the comforting was too late. She had suffered alone too long. The husband made the arrangements for the boy in a professional manner. I took the both of them aside. I told them that grief, guilt and anger would enter their relationship in the days, weeks and months to come. Their marriage would be stressed. Grief consulting could
help.The husband became defensive.
"You are a pediatrician not a psychiatrist. That is ok for my wife. Women are into that touchy feely stuff. We men, especially trail lawyers need to suck it up and go on. I thank you for your concern." He said.
A year later, the next April as I was shopping I heard "Doctor Ferranti."
I turned and saw Mary Garvey with her daughter.
"How are you?" I asked.
"Getting better," she said.
"I wish I could have done more for your son." I replied.
She reached for my hand "You did what you could for him. You saved my life."
"Your husband?" I asked.
She shook her head. "He began drinking. He would not go for consulting. He got suspended from the bar. He showed up in court drunk once too often. He is in rehab. We are separated. I just need some distance. It is too much like my childhood. Therapy is helping. We need time. He might turn it around. He needs to do it on his own. Like I had to face my sons death on my own."
"It happens. A child’s death stresses everyone to their inner being. I wish you both well." I said as I turned to walk way.
I had forgotten about the child who died thirty years ago until now.
"Quack, Quack!" The boy in remission was standing before me flapping his arms. "Triple therapy" I thought. The pain of thirty years ago was paying off in those wonderful words "Quack, Quack!" and the flapping of the boy’s arms. They were signs of his normal health.
I said to the mother. "I will pray for you and your son. Thanks, you made an old doctors day." I walked away whistling.
I always smile now when I hear a duck.
"Quack. Quack."
It is the sound of music to my hungry ears.
This is not Larry Chiaramonte's first time writing.
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