The Nurse's Pregnancy Miracle. Ann McIntosh
made for nipping.
One glance from his intent blue eyes, reminiscent of the most gorgeous of Florida skies, could make the coldest heart quicken—even hers. But, while Nychelle admired his looks, she viewed him with suspicion—as she now did most, if not all, men.
Pushing all those thoughts aside, she said to the young woman, “Hi, I’m Nychelle. Tell me what’s going on.”
She took the other woman’s wrist firmly between her fingers, finding a strong but rapid pulse, and noting the patient’s pallor and the perspiration dotting her hairline despite the clamminess of her skin.
“I... I’m pregnant. I just realized a day ago. I was going to see my doctor after I got home.”
A visitor to the area, then, with perfect but accented English. Wide brown eyes, gleaming with tears, looked beseechingly into Nychelle’s, as though hoping for an instant end to fear and pain. Then she doubled over with a little shriek, arms crossed protectively over her abdomen.
Hugging her, the man beside her interjected, “She did a home test, but we knew she was not far along. When my wife saw a little blood and was worried, my tio told us to come here—”
The young woman turned toward her husband and unleashed a spate of angry, rapid-fire words. Working in Florida, Nychelle had made sure to keep up with her Spanish, but now she caught only the occasional familiar-sounding word. Something about a boat trip, his uncle, and losing her baby, in what Nychelle assumed was Portuguese.
“No, no. Don’t worry about any of that now.” Sympathetic but firm, the doctor’s voice cut through the young woman’s tirade and drew the couple’s attention. “I’m Dr. Warmington. Come with me and let’s find out what’s happening, okay?”
Nychelle was watching the patient and saw the moment when, even through her pain, the woman registered how handsome the doctor was. The young woman’s eyes widened and her lips parted on a silent Oh.
Under different circumstances it would have made Nychelle want to giggle, but they were already moving, the patient supported by her husband on one side, the doctor on the other, through Reception toward the examination rooms.
Nychelle simultaneously held doors open and pulled up the young woman’s information on her tablet, in preparation for handing it to Dr. Warmington on arrival at their destination.
Not a miscarriage. Please, not a miscarriage.
The thought caught her by surprise, made her stomach clench and roll, and as she began helping Mrs. Cardozo undress, she realized her hands were shaky.
Steady. Steady.
She was projecting. She knew she was. Imagining herself in Mrs. Cardozo’s position, feeling the other woman’s emotions as if they were her own, instead of putting her mind where it needed to be—on the equipment Dr. Warmington would need, the tests he’d want her to run.
It was the first time in her career she’d ever felt this way while in the midst of an emergency. Usually if she fell apart it was afterward, when she was alone and could release her emotions in private.
Taking a deep breath, and then another, she forced back all the fears building in her mind, and by the time she’d helped Mrs. Cardozo onto the examination table she’d gotten herself together.
“We’re ready for you, Dr. Warmington.”
Habitual efficiency took over then, and the well-remembered routine of working with a doctor kicked in—although since qualifying as an Advanced Practice Registered Nurse she usually worked alone, or with her own nurse assistant.
Yet her emotions seemed perilously close to the surface, and it was only Dr. Warmington’s soothing presence that kept her on an even keel. On the few occasions she’d witnessed him with patients before she’d been impressed by his professional demeanor, but this was different. Even though his understanding and reassurance were aimed at the patient, Nychelle found herself reacting to it too, letting it wash over her in calming waves.
“I can confirm you’re pregnant.”
Nychelle noted that he spoke to Mrs. Cardozo, rather than to her husband the way some other male physicians would be inclined to—another point in the doctor’s favor.
“But,” he continued, “I can see no apparent reason for the symptoms you’re experiencing.”
He glanced at Mr. Cardozo for a moment, and Nychelle thought his gaze briefly dropped to where the young couple’s fingers were tightly intertwined.
“It could be something as simple as dehydration, or a complication that will only become apparent with further testing, so I recommend you go to Broward Medical and have an obstetrician take a look at you there. While we have our own specialists here, at the hospital they’d be able to deal with any eventuality.”
As he gave them the information for the hospital, Nychelle slipped into the adjoining office to call ahead and make arrangements. The entire situation had taken maybe thirty minutes, but she felt as though it had been an emotionally grueling marathon. She didn’t even realize her eyes were damp until she reached up to swipe at a tear.
Hanging up the phone, she stiffened her spine and turned to find Dr. Warmington watching her from the doorway. Perhaps it was the set of his lips, or the way he seemed to be watching her, with a hint of the gentleness he’d lavished on Mrs. Cardozo, but whatever it was made Nychelle’s heart rate escalate and warmth bloom in her chest.
Once more thankful for the cocoa-toned skin that made her blushes unnoticeable, she said the first thing that came to her mind. “You speak Portuguese?”
He laughed quietly as he stepped into his office and moved toward the desk. “I’m lucky to have an ear for languages. I speak a few and understand a few more.”
“Lucky indeed.”
She should go. Although another nurse practitioner would have seen the patient she’d left waiting in the reception area, the day’s schedule was full. No doubt there was another patient for her to see. And she had details to iron out regarding the free child wellness clinic she was helping coordinate, scheduled for the coming weekend. Yet she lingered, watching as Dr. Warmington sat down and pulled his chair up to the desk.
“I’m pretty good with Spanish,” she said, after a moment, “but never got past that. Out of curiosity, what was Mrs. Cardozo saying to her husband?”
When he looked up, Nychelle’s breath caught in her throat. For an infinitesimal moment she read excruciating hurt in his eyes, but then he blinked and it was gone.
“They’re here from Sao Paulo, visiting his uncle, and when she realized she was pregnant she didn’t want to go on the boat trip they’d planned. But her husband talked her into it. She was saying if she lost the baby she’d never forgive him.”
He was still looking at her, seemingly waiting for her to reply, and suddenly—desperately—she wanted to say the right thing; wished she knew what the right response was. Wished she could smile and soothe the hurt she was sure she’d seen in his eyes.
“Well,” she said slowly. “That was patently unfair, but pregnant women—especially those expecting their first child—aren’t always known for their rationality.”
She risked a little smile, and was relieved and unreasonably happy when those stern lips relaxed into an answering tilt: not quite a smile, but enough.
“Hormones running rampant, as you men are quick to point out.”
That brought a wider smile, and Nychelle laughed quietly, before turning away from the magnetic pull of his grin.
“I won’t tell anyone you said something so blatantly sexist, Nurse Cory. It’ll be our secret.”
The laughter in his voice lightened her mood more, even as the rich baritone trickled like liquid sin down her spine. Suddenly she was glad she didn’t have to work with him too often.