Page 46 of Perfect Chemistry

“Let’s go, people!” he barked at the other medical staff as they began to unload the gurney. As soon as the wheels were on the ground, the doctor was on the gurney and continuing chest compressions while they wheeled my daughter into the hospital.

I was suddenly stopped by a nurse, “This is as far as you go, sir.”

I started to protest, but one of the EMTs from the ambulance interrupted her on my behalf. “This is the father of the child. Come with me, Kai. I will take you to where they are treating Heather.”

The nurse, to her credit, looked embarrassed and saddened. I had rendered chest compressions on my child for a total of thirty minutes. I followed the EMT like a mindless zombie, unable to talk.

“Blood type?” Someone asked.

“Ah, O positive, I think.”

“Says here your wife told the EMT the baby is B negative?”

I didn’t understand. “We’re both O type blood. That’s impossible,” I corrected.

“Well, we’ll type her out just to be certain. It’s rare, but mutations can change a baby’s blood type from that of the parents. What can you tell me about her symptoms before she collapsed?”

I began retelling everything that I had observed over the past year. I told the nurse about the conversations with Jenny, what she had relayed from the pediatrician… I even told them how Jenny stopped me from taking our daughter to the doctor’s on several occasions.

“Sir, I need to ask. Is it possible that your wife could have harmed your child and attempted to cover it up?” the nurse asked.

I opened my mouth and nothing came out. If anyone had asked me before today about Jenny as a mother, I would have immediately defended her. She was always loving, doting, and protective of Heather. Now, however, I was sitting in a hospital wondering if this protected child would even live through the night.

I had no idea how much time had passed. I sat in a windowless corridor outside of the pediatric intensive care unit, across from an emergency operating room. The same EMTs had come and gone from the hospital a couple of times with other patients, but stopped to check on Heather’s progress each time.

As the time grew on, I felt myself becoming more and more bitter. I messaged my parents and asked for the number of a lawyer. I couldn’t tell you what possessed me, but I began proceedings to block Jenny from interfering with our child until she was out of the woods.

I requested an emergency protective order as the father, and had a nurse from the PICU forward all of the records to social services and the state police. The lawyer called back several hours later and informed me that the request had been approved, but I would need to appear in family court in two days to petition the case in person.

I agreed and hung up. The doors opened just then, and the doctor came out. I stood up and watched as he walked toward me. He looked as haggard as I felt at that moment.

“Well, I have good news and bad news,” he started.

My knees buckled, and I dropped back into my seat. He took a seat next to me, and began to explain everything that I didn’t know about my own daughter’s health.

“The good news is that we have her stabilized. Your daughter was born with a genetic defect. I had them pull the records, and saw that you and your wife were informed of this and encouraged to get tested for any other genetic anomalies that could affect her prognosis.”

I shook my head, “I was told everything was normal by the pediatrician.”

This time the doctor furrowed his brows. “That’s impossible. The pediatrician on file confirmed the newborn screening results at the child’s two week appointment, and both parents signed.”

My brain was a fog. “Fuck….” I exhaled. “May I see the test referral and results?” I asked.

The doctor pulled up the information on his tablet and showed me everything. Jenny had been taking Heather to a different pediatrician for her well-baby exams and lab work. I realized it wasn’t my signature as the father on the consent forms. I felt bile coming up the back of my throat, and choked to keep from vomiting.

The doctor ran over to a nurse’s station and grabbed a vomit bag, in which I promptly threw up. Two years. Jenny had kept me in the dark about Heather’s health for two years by having someone else impersonate me.

“I don’t understand, I thought this was treatable,” I murmured, sipping some water that a nurse handed me. “I read about this when she was pregnant, this is completely treatable.”

“It normally is, but the decision was made to pursue… What did she write? Oh, here it is, ‘my husband and I do not believe in the practice of torturing children, and we have decided to pursue holistic measures for our daughter’s treatment.’”

“I would have never agreed to that. This,” I pointed at the doors to the PICU, “this is inhumane treatment of a child.”

At that moment, everything that I had been holding back boiled up, and I sobbed. With my head in my hands, hunched over in a chair, I sobbed for my daughter. I was devastated that her chance at a normal life had been taken away by my wife, Heather’s own mother. I was devastated that Jenny had denied me the right to have any say in our daughter’s well-being.

“How-How bad is it?” I asked when I had composed myself enough.

He looked grim. “That’s the bad news. I’m so sorry. You need to be prepared to say goodbye. If you have any family that you can call, you need to do that.”

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