Rescued By The Single Dad Doc. Marion Lennox
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his nightmare, her voice as incisive, as firm as Roscoe’s. ‘From a broken window. No other injury, but severe blood loss. I suspect there’ll still be glass in there. His name’s Kit and he’s asking for Tom.’
‘Kit.’ His voice sounded as if it came from a long way away. Kit was struggling to look at him, struggling to focus. ‘T-Tom…’ he managed—and then his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness.
Kit!
It was Roscoe who took over. For those first appalling seconds—and it must only have been seconds—Tom froze, but Roscoe’s voice boomed across the entrance, calling back into the Emergency ward behind. ‘Trolley,’ he boomed. ‘IV. Blood loss, people. Move.’
And then as Barry, their elderly hospital orderly, came scuttling out with the trolley, and Jenny, their second most senior nurse, appeared with the crash cart, Tom recovered enough to scoop Kit out of the car.
Somehow Tom’s years of training kicked in. Triage. Look past the obvious. Get the facts and get them fast.
The woman had been wedged between Kit and the driver’s door. She looked almost as gory as the child. Thirtyish. Jeans. Long shirt, bloodstained. A smear of blood on her face.
‘Are you hurt yourself?’ he managed.
‘No,’ she snapped, hauling herself out of the car. ‘Just the child.’
Jenny had the crash cart beside him. With this amount of blood loss, cardiac arrest was a terrifying possibility.
‘I’m a doctor,’ the woman said. ‘Rachel Tilding. Who’s senior here?’
She was asking because he wasn’t acting like a doctor. Roscoe, Barry, Jenny all looked in control. Not him.
He made a huge effort and hauled himself back into his professional self. Terror was still there but it was on the backburner, waiting to surface when there was time.
‘IV,’ he managed, laying Kit on the trolley. The little boy’s hand had been roughly put in a sling to hold it high.
A doctor…
What had she done to Kit?
‘It’s only his hand.’ She was out of the car now, moving swiftly around to the trolley. ‘He smashed my window with a cricket ball, then reached in to try and get it.’
Only his hand…but this amount of blood?
‘Straight to Theatre?’ Roscoe demanded.
‘Yes,’ she snapped back at Roscoe. ‘I’ll help if there’s no one else. I don’t know about parents. I didn’t have time to find out. Just this Tom…’
‘I’m Tom,’ he said heavily. ‘I’m his stepfather. He’s my responsibility.’
‘Stepfather…’ She glanced at him in stupefaction. ‘What sort of a…?’ And then she collected herself. ‘No matter. Kit needs a doctor, now.’
‘I’m a doctor. Tom Lavery.’
‘What the…you’re working as a doctor and employing that…that…’
She obviously couldn’t find a word to describe Christine. Neither could he. Maybe there wasn’t one, but he and Christine were obviously grouped together. Dr Tilding’s look said Tom’s position in the hierarchy of life on earth was somewhere below pond scum.
‘Never mind,’ she snapped. ‘You can give me all the excuses in the world after we’ve seen to Kit’s hand. Let’s get him to Theatre. Now.’
AND THEN THINGS reassembled themselves. Sort of. This was a small country hospital but it was geared for emergencies, and many emergencies involved rapid blood loss.
Kit had lost so much that cardiac arrest was still a real possibility. Treatment of his hand—apart from stemming the bleeding—had to wait until that threat was past.
And in Rachel he had a godsend. She was an angry godsend, judgemental and furious, but she was a doctor.
Maybe he could have coped alone—maybe—but he was acting on autopilot. A part of his brain seemed to have frozen. The sight of one little boy, unconscious, a child he’d learned to love, had knocked him sideways.
It was an insidious thing, this love. It had crept up and caught him unawares, and loving came with strings. He couldn’t care for these kids—and love them—without his heart being wrenched, over and over again.
It was lurching now, sickeningly, and after that one incredulous look, that one outburst of anger, Rachel had subtly taken control.
As he went to put in the IV line his hand shook, and she took the equipment from him. ‘Get the monitors working,’ she told him. ‘I’ll take over here.’
The cardiac monitors… He needed to set them up. He did, with speed. A shaking hand could manage pads and monitors.
‘Pain relief and anaesthetic,’ she said. ‘Do you have an anaesthetist?’
‘There’s only me,’ he told her.
‘Two of us, then,’ she said curtly. ‘Or one and a half if you’re emotionally involved. But I’m trusting you have a good nursing staff.’
‘The best,’ Roscoe growled, and she nodded acknowledgement. This was no time for false modesty and she obviously accepted it.
And then Kit’s eyes flickered open again, fighting to focus. Falling on Rachel first. Terror came flooding back, and Rachel saw.
‘Hey, we found your Tom,’ she told him. ‘And here he is.’ Her anger and her judgement had obviously been set aside with the need for reassurance. She edged aside so the little boy could see him. ‘Kit, we’re going to fix your hand. The bleeding’s made you feel funny, and I know it hurts, but we’re giving you something that’ll make you feel better really fast. Tom’s just going to test your fingers. Will you do what he tells you?’
And she stepped back, turning to the instrument tray, setting the scene so Kit could only see Tom.
She was impelling him to steady. She was pushing him to do what he had to do.
He had to focus and somehow he did.
Appallingly, he was still seeing terror as well as pain in the little boy’s eyes. Legacy of his ghastly grandparents?
‘Hey, Kit, you’re here now, with me,’ he said as they rolled the trolley into Theatre. He touched the little boy’s face, willing the fear to disappear. ‘You’ve cut your hand but we’ll fix it. I know it hurts, but we’ll stop it hurting really soon.’
‘I broke… You’re not mad…?’
‘Dr Rachel tells me you broke her window,’ he managed. ‘I broke four windows when I was your age. I used to tell my mum and dad the cat did it. They didn’t believe me but they weren’t mad and neither am I. Accidents happen. Kit, can you tell me what you feel when I touch your fingers? Can you press back when I press? Here? Here?’
He was now in professional mode—sort of—but the lurch in his stomach wasn’t going away.
And the information he gained from Kit as they settled him into Theatre wasn’t helping.
He was checking for damage to the tendons that ran through the palm and attached to the finger bones. Secondly, for nerve damage, which could result in permanent loss of function or sensation. Tom was applying gentle pressure to the tips of Kit’s fingers, asking him to push back.
The responses weren’t good.
And Rachel got it. She was focusing on the IV, on getting pain relief on board, but she was listening