His Secret Love-Child

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SHE was good.

There was no doubting Dr Gina Lopez’s skill. Cal could only watch and wonder.

Not that there was much time for wondering. To operate on a child so young, to insert catheters into such a tiny heart, putting pressure on the faulty valve—that was something that in an adult heart would be tricky but in this pint-sized scrap of humanity seemed impossible.

Emily, the anaesthetist, was at the limits of her capability as well. This procedure should be done by an anaesthetist specialising in paediatrics, but Emily was all they had. She was sweating as she worked, as she monitored the tiny heartbeat, treading the fine line of not enough anaesthetic, or too much and straining this little body past more than it could bear.

Jill, the director of nursing and their most skilled Theatre nurse, was assisting Emily. She was sweating as well.

It was Cal who assisted Gina.

He watched her fingers every step of the way, trying to figure what she was doing, trying to anticipate so there was no delay between her need for a piece of equipment and the time she had it. He was organising, swabbing, waiting for the pauses in her finger movements to reach forward and clear the way for her. Holding things steady. Watching the monitor when she couldn’t, guiding her with his voice, and holding catheters steady when she had to focus on the monitor herself.

Grace, their second nurse, was behind him, and she was anticipating as hard as he was.

There was so much need here. Something about this tiny wrinkled newborn had touched them all.

They needed him to live.

They willed him to live.

All that stood between him and death was Gina.

They were lucky that she was here, Cal thought grimly as he helped her painstakingly introduce her catheters from the groin, monitoring herself every inch of the way. No matter why she’d returned after all these years—she’d been in the right place at the right time and this baby could live because of it.

Maybe.

‘He’s bleeding too much,’ she muttered into the stillness, motioning with her eyes to the catheter entry site. ‘There has to be an underlying problem.’

‘Haemophilia?’ Cal asked, and she shook her head.

‘I don’t think so. It’d be worse. But it’s not right. The cord bled too much and we’re having trouble here. I want tests. A clotting profile, please, including full blood examination, bleeding time and factor eight levels. Fast.’

‘What are we looking for?’

‘I don’t have time to think. You think. Something.’

He went back to sorting tubing, his mind moving into over-drive. Sifting the facts. She was right. The bleeding was far more severe than it should be. They were fighting to maintain blood pressure.