If Marigold is showing signs of improving, I don’t want this to be a setback.”
“There is one other thing to consider,” Dr. Tyson said. “Mr. and Mrs. Kemp, I’m sure you recall the information you passed to me about the experimental drug the physician at Walter Reed has had some good results with.”
“Yes,” my mother said. “The military research doctor our son reached out to.”
“Right.”
“You said the drug wasn’t right for Marigold’s situation,” my father said.
“There was a… reconsideration. And the window to administer the drug was narrow, so I made a decision to give it to Marigold.”
Ah, she was covering for Dr. Jarvis.
“Without consulting us?” my mother demanded.
“I, um, left a message on your home phone to please call me as soon as possible,” Dr. Tyson said.
Ooh, good one, Dr. Tyson, to turn their disinterest back on them, even if it was a fabrication.
“When I didn’t hear back,” she continued in a rush, “I had to made a unilateral decision I thought was in the best interest of my patient. And since you were the ones to bring Dr. Oscar and his experiment to our attention, I assumed you would approve.”
“When was this?” my father asked.
“Two weeks ago.”
“And this is the first we’ve heard of it?” Sidney asked, sounding litigious.
“There was some miscommunication between me and Dr. Jarvis. I only just became aware that you weren’t informed. My sincere apologies.”
“So the drug is the reason Marigold moved her fingers?” my father asked.
“We believe so,” Dr. Tyson said.
“I knew it would work,” my mother said. “My son Alex is brilliant.”
“ Our son,” my dad corrected.
Oh, good grief.
“Yes, well,” Dr. Tyson said, “what I’m trying to say is the drug was administered before we knew about the fetus.”
“Will it cause problems for the baby?” Sidney asked.
“We don’t know. The drug hasn’t been tested on a pregnant comatose patient.”
“But it’s a drug for neural stimulation,” my dad said. “So for all you know, it could be good for the baby.”
“That’s possible,” Dr. Tyson admitted. “But typically a fetus develops best in an unadulterated environment.”
“What’s the window for terminating the pregnancy?” my mother asked.
“Twenty weeks, so there’s still time. You need to prepare yourselves for a range of outcomes regarding both Marigold and the fetus. If you like, I can recommend a therapist who will help you reach a decision that’s best for your family.”
“That won’t be necessary,” my mother said briskly. “We’ve never needed a therapist to help us make family decisions before, and we’re not going to start now.”
Right, I thought. Why ruin a winning streak?
“We’ll get back to you,” my mother said, “as soon as we decide the best course of action. Meanwhile, I want your personal assurance that this information will be kept completely confidential.”
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Tyson said evenly, “I don’t have a Facebook account.”
September 4, Sunday
WHEN THE THIRD SET of church bells rang, I realized Detective Jack Terry had forsaken me today.
I hope it’s for something fun, like tickets to a Braves game or fishing, versus something gruesome, like a murder. Or maybe he’d decided to spend the day with a woman who walked and talked. He seemed to have a surplus of ambulatory females to choose from.
Okay, so it’s just us. I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you about the father of my fetus. I’m chagrined to tell you, it’s none other than the engaged Duncan who’s destined for a five-tier-pink-grapefruit-cake wedding in two short months.
Here’s the way things went down:
When Duncan returned from his tour in the Peace Corps, we got together for old times’ sake and tossed back a few too many brews—he because he was happy to see American beer again, me because I was happy to see him again. We picked up right where
“There is one other thing to consider,” Dr. Tyson said. “Mr. and Mrs. Kemp, I’m sure you recall the information you passed to me about the experimental drug the physician at Walter Reed has had some good results with.”
“Yes,” my mother said. “The military research doctor our son reached out to.”
“Right.”
“You said the drug wasn’t right for Marigold’s situation,” my father said.
“There was a… reconsideration. And the window to administer the drug was narrow, so I made a decision to give it to Marigold.”
Ah, she was covering for Dr. Jarvis.
“Without consulting us?” my mother demanded.
“I, um, left a message on your home phone to please call me as soon as possible,” Dr. Tyson said.
Ooh, good one, Dr. Tyson, to turn their disinterest back on them, even if it was a fabrication.
“When I didn’t hear back,” she continued in a rush, “I had to made a unilateral decision I thought was in the best interest of my patient. And since you were the ones to bring Dr. Oscar and his experiment to our attention, I assumed you would approve.”
“When was this?” my father asked.
“Two weeks ago.”
“And this is the first we’ve heard of it?” Sidney asked, sounding litigious.
“There was some miscommunication between me and Dr. Jarvis. I only just became aware that you weren’t informed. My sincere apologies.”
“So the drug is the reason Marigold moved her fingers?” my father asked.
“We believe so,” Dr. Tyson said.
“I knew it would work,” my mother said. “My son Alex is brilliant.”
“ Our son,” my dad corrected.
Oh, good grief.
“Yes, well,” Dr. Tyson said, “what I’m trying to say is the drug was administered before we knew about the fetus.”
“Will it cause problems for the baby?” Sidney asked.
“We don’t know. The drug hasn’t been tested on a pregnant comatose patient.”
“But it’s a drug for neural stimulation,” my dad said. “So for all you know, it could be good for the baby.”
“That’s possible,” Dr. Tyson admitted. “But typically a fetus develops best in an unadulterated environment.”
“What’s the window for terminating the pregnancy?” my mother asked.
“Twenty weeks, so there’s still time. You need to prepare yourselves for a range of outcomes regarding both Marigold and the fetus. If you like, I can recommend a therapist who will help you reach a decision that’s best for your family.”
“That won’t be necessary,” my mother said briskly. “We’ve never needed a therapist to help us make family decisions before, and we’re not going to start now.”
Right, I thought. Why ruin a winning streak?
“We’ll get back to you,” my mother said, “as soon as we decide the best course of action. Meanwhile, I want your personal assurance that this information will be kept completely confidential.”
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Tyson said evenly, “I don’t have a Facebook account.”
September 4, Sunday
WHEN THE THIRD SET of church bells rang, I realized Detective Jack Terry had forsaken me today.
I hope it’s for something fun, like tickets to a Braves game or fishing, versus something gruesome, like a murder. Or maybe he’d decided to spend the day with a woman who walked and talked. He seemed to have a surplus of ambulatory females to choose from.
Okay, so it’s just us. I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you about the father of my fetus. I’m chagrined to tell you, it’s none other than the engaged Duncan who’s destined for a five-tier-pink-grapefruit-cake wedding in two short months.
Here’s the way things went down:
When Duncan returned from his tour in the Peace Corps, we got together for old times’ sake and tossed back a few too many brews—he because he was happy to see American beer again, me because I was happy to see him again. We picked up right where
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