Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [84]
She sobbed into her hands, which rested on his chest. Ghosh held her, her tears making his shirt damp. He didn't know what to say. He hoped she didn't smell beer. In a moment, she pulled away, and they stood arm in arm, Almaz just behind them, gazing at Shiva.
Why had Hema taken on the naming of the babies? It felt premature. He couldn't get his lips around the names. Were the names negotiable? What if Thomas Stone showed up? And why name the child of a nun and an Englishman after a Hindu god? And for the other twin, also a boy, why Marion? Surely it was temporary, until Stone came to his senses, or the British Embassy or someone made arrangements. Hema was acting as if the kids were hers.
“Did it happen more than once?” he asked.
“Yes! Once more. About thirty minutes later. Just when I was about to turn away. He exhaled … and stopped. I made myself wait. Surely he has to breathe. I held back until I couldn't stand it any longer. When I touched him he started breathing as if hed been waiting for that little push, as if he forgot. I've been here for the last three hours, too scared to even go to the loo. I didn't trust anyone else to watch, and besides I could not quite explain it to them … Thank God Almaz decided to stay to help me with the night feeds. I sent her to get you,” Hema said.
“Go ahead,” he said. “I'll watch them.”
She was back in no time. “What do you think?” she said, leaning against his arm as she dabbed her eyes with a hankie. “Shouldn't you listen to his lungs? He wasn't coughing or struggling.”
Ghosh, finger to chin, his eyes narrowing, studied the child quietly. After a long while he said, “I'll examine him thoroughly when he is awake. But I think I know what it is.”
The way she looked at him made his heart swell. This wasn't the Hema who reacted to everything he said with skepticism. “In fact, I'm sure. Apnea of the premature. It's well described. You see, his brain is still immature, and the respiratory center, which triggers each breath, isn't fully developed. He ‘forgets’ to breathe every now and then.”
“Are you sure it isn't something else?” She wasn't challenging him; like any mother, she wanted certainty from the doctor.
He nodded. “I'm sure. You were lucky. Usually apnea is fatal before anyone recognizes it.”
“Don't say that. Oh God. What can we do, Ghosh?”
He was about to tell her that there was nothing one could do. Nothing at all. If the child was lucky, it might outgrow the apnea in a few weeks. The only choice was to put these preemies on machines that breathed for them till their lungs matured. Even in England and America this was rarely done. At Missing it was out of the question.
She waited for his pronouncement. She had suspended her own breathing.
“Here is what we do,” he said, and she sighed. He was making this up. He didn't know if his plan would work. But he knew he did not have the heart to say there was nothing to be done.
“Get me a chair. One of those from the living room. Also give me some of your anklets and a pair of pliers. And some thread or twine. A clipboard or a notebook if you have one. And tell Almaz to make coffee. The strongest she can make and as much of it as she can make and tell her to fill up the thermos flask.”
This new Hema, the adoptive mother of the twins, rose at once to do his bidding, never asking why or how. He watched her dance away.
“If I knew you were that agreeable Id have asked for a cognac and a foot massage as well,” he muttered to himself.