Page 11 of Quinton's Quest

“Thank you.” I headed toward the waiting room.

A petite, tanned-skin woman sat with a baby on her lap and three boys—all the same size—sitting in chairs. Lined up like that, they appeared terrified. And about six years old, if I had to guess.

Melodie’s age.

Right. But I couldn’t focus on that now.

“Mrs. Chavez?”

She nodded and was clearly about to try to rise.

I gestured for her to stay where she was. I picked up a chair and carried it so I could be across from her. Finally, once seated, I met her gaze. “I have some good news.”

She exhaled, and her eyes watered.

“First, Juan is in recovery. He made it through the surgery.”

She nodded.

“He had a faulty heart valve, and that’s why he was feeling so tired all the time. Normally I wouldn’t say it’s a good thing for someone to pass out at work, but that brought him here and a really sharp ER doctor diagnosed the issue.”

She nodded again.

In truth, I hadn’t asked if she understood English. I figured if she needed help, someone from the hospital would have locateda translator for her. So I continued. “But this was open heart surgery. He’s going to be in the hospital for several days and then he’ll need total rest for a while.”

“We have no money.” She whispered the words. “Of course, he’ll rest. But—” She swallowed.

I could offer no solutions or make any promises. Canada’s employment insurance program offered sick benefits—but I didn’t know if Juan qualified for any of that. Still, I had to try. “I’ve asked if someone can come down to speak to you. If there are any forms that need to be filled out, I’ll do them. Okay? Whatever I can do to help. But I can’t stress this enough—he needs time to recover.”

She nodded furiously. “Yes. Yes. I understand.” She blinked again. “When can I see him?”

“He’ll be in recovery for some time, and then he’ll be moved. At that point, you might be able to see him. But it should really only be you.”

She eyed her children. “I understand.”

“Dr. Rodgers?” Sheila approached me with a young man who barely appeared to be out of high school.

“Yes?”

“This is Ricardo. He’s the social worker on call. He can help…with many things.”

Hopefully that included navigating our country’s social safety netandwatching triplet boys while their mother visited their seriously ill father.

I exhaled and then rose. I nodded to Ricardo. “Whatever you need from me, okay?”

“Of course.” He smiled and even I felt a moment of relief. Hopefully, he’d be able to do something. Anything. He nodded to me and gestured to my seat.

I nodded. Just before I left, though, I turned back to Mrs. Chavez. “If there’s anything you need, just have a nurse call me. I’ll be checking on Juan repeatedly over the next few hours.”

Again, her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Thank you. Truly.” She sniffed. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Take care of Juan and your family. That’s all I can ask.” Which, I reflected as I left, was a huge ask.

Still, when I checked on Juan, and found him still sedated, I did a quick check on my list of consultations for the next day or so. Nothing too onerous. Nothing that would distract me or detract from my time for Juan.

I rounded the corner back to recovery to find Sheila leaning against the wall, with her phone. And what? Texting? Posting to social media? I saw red. “What are you doing?”

She looked up, startled. “Dr. Rodgers? Is something wrong?”