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What God Knew (The Almond Tree Series) (Volume 3)

By June Foster

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Michael straightened the name tag on his lab jacket identifying him as a neonatal team member at El Camino General and tapped on the hospital room door. He opened his mouth to announce his presence but snapped it shut. Dave Reyes, father of the preemie baby girl, bent over his wife's bed. Closed eyes and clasped hands relayed the message. The couple was praying.
Only one thing to do. Stand quietly inside the threshold and wait. Prayer. We needed more of that.
"And, Lord, we ask you to allow little Abby to develop and grow strong. We know You cherish this new life, and we offer her up to You. Even her name means Joy to the Father. Her mother and I pray that our daughter will bring You joy all the days of her life. In Jesus' Name."
Mrs. Reyes opened tear-filled eyes and whisked the moisture from her cheek.
"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Reyes." Michael stepped closer to the bed. "How are you today?" He trained his gaze on the pretty blonde still clutching the hand of her dark-haired husband.
"We're doing well, thank you. And please call us Betty Ann and Dave," Mrs. Reyes said.
Dave left his wife's side and walked toward Michael with an extended hand. "Thanks for coming in, Dr. Clark. We're both anxious to hear about our daughter."
Though Michael had treated cases of preemies who were born as early as twenty-six weeks, little Abby stood a better chance of survival at thirty-two weeks. "Your baby has indications of jaundice, but we're treating her with phototherapy. She'll be fed with a feeding tube for a while, but I'd encourage you to supply breast milk if you're planning to nurse her."
Betty Ann nodded. "Yes, I definitely want to provide her milk."
"Excellent. At present we're keeping her in an incubator. The good news is there are no signs of apnea and bradycardia. I anticipate you'll be able to take her home in about four weeks." Though Michael felt confident that this child would thrive, he never viewed any case as routine. Every child was unique, God's precious gift to parents.
"Thank you, Lord." Dave glanced at the ceiling and back to Michael.
"Dr. Clark, when will we be able to see her?" Betty Ann wiped another tear from her eye.
Michael smiled. "As soon as you feel up to making the trip to the NIC unit. I'm sure you'll be encouraged by our caring staff."
Betty Ann turned to Dave and squeezed his arm. "I'd like to go this afternoon."
Casting a loving glance at his wife, Dave patted her hand. "We'll go over there together." He looked up to Michael. "Doctor, we've placed our baby in God's hands, and we're praying for you and the entire staff in the NIC unit."
"That's the best thing you can do." Dave sounded like Michael's mother, telling others how prayer works. Since early childhood, he'd listened to her Bible stories and constant prayers. Though, as a doctor, he trusted in science and modern medicine, Michael believed God's power transcended any healing a medical professional might offer. "Well, nice chatting with you both." He handed his card to Dave. "Here's my private cell number if you need to call me. Please feel free."
"Thank you, Doctor. We appreciate your availability and medical care for our baby girl." Dave cleared his throat, as if stifling an emotion.
"You're welcome." Michael gripped Abby Reyes' records in his hand and walked out the door and into the hall. He blinked his eyes, relishing the image of Dave and Betty Ann Reyes talking to God. A rare sight in the hospital as too many people ignored Him these days.

*****

Tammy Crawford bent over the elderly man not wanting to believe the signs of eminent death: thinning of the skin and a pale face. His eyes fluttered open a moment, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a weak smile.
"Hello, Pumpkin." He coughed in an attempt to catch his breath.
She sat in the bedside chair and grasped his hand, already showing the bluish color of cyanosis caused by low oxygen saturation. "You know, my grandpa used to call me that. He said my red hair reminded him of a Halloween pumpkin." She attempted a smile in return.
Wrinkles etched lines on his kindly face, and liver spots dotted his skin. White hair protruded in disheveled clumps.
At the head of the bed, the EKG machine beeped, indicating a change in blood pressure. Tammy glanced at the reading. Sixty-eight over forty-five. No doubt the inevitable would happen. Probably within moments. Mr. Gruening's ischemic heart disease, complicated by hypertension, contributed to his condition, but she didn't want him to die.
He squeezed her hand. "Pumpkin, the Lord is calling me home pretty soon. An angel's coming to take me to Jesus."
Dread and fear filled Tammy. Sure she'd seen other patients die, but this was somehow different. "Please, sir, just hang on." She swallowed the threatening tears. "You can make it."
He closed his eyes and opened them again. "Jesus is waiting for me in my eternal home."
Mr. Gruening's thoughts of a better place were nice for those nearing the end. She didn't want to take that away from him in his final moments. Too bad there was no truth in them. She needed to be practical. Bodies only decayed after a person died.
The patient coughed, his breathing patterns erratic. With one last breath, he let out a long sigh and closed his eyelids.
Tammy glanced at the monitor once again. The machine flat lined. Mr. Gruening had slipped away. Dampness trailed to her chin before she even realized a tear had released. The most difficult part of her job as a geriatrics nurse was death. A slight smile sat on his face, which displayed a look of utter peace. She pulled the sheet over his head and whispered. "Good-bye, sir. I truly hope you are with Jesus." If only that were true. Rising from her seat by the side of his bed, she gulped down the tears. The memory of her grandfather's death years ago stabbed her heart once again—her grandpa, the only person who loved Tammy for who she was, not always trying to change her like her sister and parents.
Stifling the heartache, she took his chart and noted the exact time of his passing. Then she left the room. The next step—contacting the geriatrics doctor on duty to verify the death.

*****

Tammy pushed open the glass door of the main doctor's lounge angry with herself for allowing the unprofessional emotion to escape. At least she hadn't let her feelings show when the attending doctor examined the patient and confirmed the time of death on the chart. To do so would expose vulnerability. She couldn't permit him to perceive her as incompetent. The only way to prove her self-worth was through hard work and excellence in performance.
Gripping her fists into tight balls, she headed toward the counter where the coffee pot sat. If Mr. Gruening had taken better care of himself, maybe he'd still be alive. If only he'd adhered to proper diet and exercise. If he'd learned at an early age that overeating and a sedentary lifestyle greatly affected his physical condition, then he wouldn't have had as many medical problems.
The paper cups from the cabinet would do. She reached for one as the same pesky heaviness she'd endured at Grandpa's funeral, invaded her. Gritting her teeth, she poured the hot liquid.
Once again she looked away, trying to push the pain of loss from her. Heat swarmed over her hand that held the cup in place. She yelped, nearly dropping the pot. Setting it on the counter, she grabbed a paper towel, wiped her hand and mopped up spilled coffee.
"May I do that for you?" A smooth masculine voice offered.
When she turned around, a doctor whose warm, brown complexion matched the richness of his tone stood in front of her. "Thanks."
He laughed. "I guess the only bright spot about burning your hand is you're in a hospital with plenty of doctors." He filled her cup with hot coffee, steam rising from the liquid. "Would you like cream?"
"No, thanks." Tammy took in the name on his ID tag: Dr. Michael Clark, Neonatal Pediatrician. "It's never easy to lose someone I've cared for on the floor, but a dear man, one of my favorite patients, just died."
"Sit down a minute and join me while you drink your coffee." He pointed to the comfortable couch along the wall. "I think that's one of the toughest things required of medical personnel. We're expected to be objective about every case, but it's hard to ignore our own human emotions. Whether a preemie or an elderly person, it never gets easier." His gaze dropped to her nametag. "Tammy Crawford. I'm Michael Clark."
Tammy sank down on the leather couch and took a sip of the hot liquid, careful not to spill it. Letting out a long breath, she allowed her gaze to take in the man she'd found so handsome. Long lashes surrounded deep brown eyes. His dark hair was cut short to his head. Closely shaven cheeks and skin the color of a caramel latte intrigued her. "So you're in the neonatal unit."
"Yeah, I'm one of several on the team. We have a professional and efficient group of nurse practitioners, RN's, and doctors." He tilted his head as his gaze fixed on her. "Are you feeling better?"
His compassion made her want to shed tears again. "Yeah, thanks. One thing that didn't help. The patient reminded me of my grandfather. I lost him when I was ten, and then my mom died last year." She gave herself a mental kick. Why was she telling this man her life story, something she usually didn't do?
Michael frowned. "That's hard. I'm sorry. When I lose a baby, at least I have the assurance that he or she is with the Lord."
Some people believed that one goes to live with God when they die. But she'd never been able to embrace the stories from the Bible she'd learned in Sunday school as a child.
Once again, Dr. Clark's comforting smile almost evoked the emotion she'd held at bay. If she hung around any longer, she might be consumed by troublesome tears. She stood and tossed her paper coffee cup in the garbage. "Guess I better go. Nice to meet you, Michael."
He gazed at her with dreamy brown eyes and smiled. "Same here, Tammy."
As she headed out the door, Mr. Gruening's words bore into her heart, and she couldn't erase the image of his face from her thoughts. "I'm going home."
Where was Mr. Gruening right now? Had he merely ceased to exist or had he passed on to the same place Michael said his babies go?
 

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