The Doctor's Blessing. Patricia Davids
“I’d love a sandwich. Thank you.”
She entered and whisked a plate from behind her back. “I thought you might say that.”
He took her offering and made a place for the paper dinnerware on his desk. “Why don’t you and Wilma join me?”
“Wilma has gone home.”
“Then will you join me?” He held his breath as he waited for her reply.
Amber hesitated. It was one thing to work with Phillip. It was a whole other thing to share a meal with him.
He said, “Don’t tell me you’ve never joined Harold for a late lunch.”
“Of course I have.”
“Then what’s the problem? Afraid I’ll bite or afraid you won’t be able to resist stabbing me with a knife?”
“All I have is a plastic fork, so you’re safe on that score.”
“Good.” He lifted the upper slice of bread and peered inside. “You didn’t lace this with an overdose of digoxin, did you?”
“And slow your heart until it stopped?” She snapped her fingers. “Wish I’d thought of it. Then Dr. Dog could take over. Thanks for the idea.”
Grinning, Amber left the room and returned to the break room to get her half of the sandwich. It seemed Dr. Phillip had a sense of humor. It was one more point in his favor. The most impressive thing about him, good looks aside, was how he dealt with patients.
During the long, exhausting day he had listened to them. He discussed his plans of care in simple terms. And he was great with children. She liked that about him.
He could be a good replacement for Harold. If only she could change his mind about her midwife services.
Looking heavenward, she said, “Please, Lord, heal Harold and send him back to us quickly. In the meantime, give me the right words to help Phillip see the need the Amish have for my work.”
With her plate in hand, she returned to his office. She saw he’d been busy clearing off another spot on the opposite side of the desk. She pulled over a chair and sat down. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath then silently said a blessing over her meal.
“Sitting down feels good, doesn’t it?” Phillip asked.
She nodded. “You can say that again.”
“Is the clinic normally this busy?”
“We serve a large rural area besides the town. Today was busier than usual but not by much.”
He took a big bite of his sandwich. “This is good,” he mumbled with his mouth full.
“I picked it up at the café this morning.”
“Okay, I have to know. Why is it called the Shoofly Pie Café?”
“You’ve never heard of shoofly pie?”
“No.”
“Wait here.” Rising, Amber returned to the break room and pulled a small box from the bottom shelf. Returning to Phillip’s office, she set it in front of him with a pair of plastic forks.
He popped the last bite of sandwich into his mouth and cautiously raised the lid of the box. Swallowing, he said, “It looks like a wedge of coffee cake.”
“It’s similar. No dessert in the world says ‘Amish’ like shoofly pie. It’s made with molasses, which some people say gave it the name because they had to shoo the flies away from it. It’s a traditional Pennsylvania Dutch recipe but it’s served in many places across the South.”
“Interesting.”
“Try some.” She pushed it closer.
He shook his head.
“Are you a culinary chicken, Dr. Phillip?”
“It must be loaded with calories. I don’t indulge in risky behaviors.”
“That from a man who surfs the North Shore of Oahu?”
His eyes brightened. “You follow surfing?”
“A little.” And only since Harold told her it was his grandson’s favorite sport.
Phillip sat back and closed his eyes. “The North Shore is perfection. You should see the waves that come in there. Towering blue-green walls of water curling over and crashing with such a roar. The sandy shore is a pale strip between the blue sea and lush tropical palms. It’s like no place else on earth.”
“I’d like to see the ocean someday,” she said wistfully.
His eyes shot open in disbelief. “You’ve never been to the seashore?”
“I once saw Lake Erie.”
“Sorry, that doesn’t count. What makes you stick so close to these cornfields?” He picked up the fork and tried a sample of pie.
“I was born and raised in Ohio.”
“That’s no excuse.” He pointed to the box with his fork. “This is good stuff.”
“Told you. I was raised on a farm in an Amish community about fifty miles from here. My mother grew up Amish but didn’t join the church because she fell in love with my father, who wasn’t Amish. They owned a dairy farm. That means work three hundred sixty-five days a year. I don’t think I traveled more than thirty miles from our farm until I was in college.”
“What made you go into midwifery?”
“I always wanted to be a nurse. I liked the idea of helping sick people. Becoming a CNM wasn’t my first choice. I was led to become a nurse-midwife by my older sister, Esther. You would have liked her.”
Thoughts of Esther, always laughing, always smiling, brought a catch to Amber’s voice. He noticed.
“Did something happen to her?” he asked gently.
“Unlike mother, Esther longed to join the Amish church. She did when she was eighteen. After that, she married the farmer who lived across the road from us.”
“Sounds like you had a close-knit family.”
“Yes, we did. Esther had her first child at home with an Amish midwife. Everything was fine. Things went terribly wrong with her second baby. The midwife hesitated getting Esther to a hospital for fear of repercussions. By the time they did get help, it was too late. Esther and her baby died.”
“I don’t understand. How would that make you want to become a midwife?”
“Because a CNM has the skills, training and equipment to deal with emergencies. There are a lot of good lay midwives out there, but as a CNM I don’t have to be afraid to take a patient to the hospital for fear of being arrested for practicing medicine without a license. I can save the lives of women like my sister who want to give birth at home because they truly believe it is the way God intended.”
“Had your sister been in the hospital to start with, things might have turned out differently.”
He didn’t get it. She shouldn’t have expected him to. “Maybe, or maybe God allowed Esther to show me my true vocation among her people.”
Amber helped herself to the small bite of pie he’d left. “My turn to ask a question.”
“Why won’t I allow you to do home deliveries? I don’t believe it’s safe.”
She leaned forward earnestly. “But it is. Home births with a qualified attendant are safe for healthy, low-risk women. Countries where there are large numbers of home births have fewer complications and fewer deaths than here in the United States. How do you explain that if home births aren’t safe?”
“The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists do not support programs that advocate home birth. They don’t