Chapter Three
Gabriel
“Alright, Tommy, it’s your turn. Hop on up.”
“Dr. Lyon, can I have my sticker now?” Timmy sweetly asked.
Smiling, I walked over to the wall cabinet and opened it. Grabbing a pack of stickers, I kneeled before him and said, “You can have one.”
As I watched Timmy’s small hands sift through the colorful assortment, I felt the familiar pulse of anxiety that always surfaced when I thought about his heart murmur. The sticker ritual was a small comfort, a momentary distraction from the underlying worry gnawing at the back of my mind. I knew all too well how the fragility of childhood could turn a routine checkup into an emotional tightrope walk for parents.
Timmy was a cute kid. Shy too, unlike his brother Tommy, who was a little shit as he yelled, “Iron Man is mine!”
Their dynamic reminded me of the many times I’d watched my daughter—her sensitivity hidden beneath bursts of mischief. The contrast between siblings always struck me: one quiet and hesitant, the other demanding attention. It made me think about the unpredictable ways children expressed their vulnerability, and how easily I could miss the signs if I didn’t pay attention.
“I have plenty of stickers, Tommy.”
“But I don’t want the same one as he does.”
Ignoring Timmy’s brother, I leaned closer to the sweet kid. “Pick whichever one you want, Tim.” My voice softened, hoping to offer him a little reassurance. As Timmy’s eyes lit up and he selected the Hulk sticker, I leaned forward and whispered, “The Hulk is my favorite, too.”
For just a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, and I saw the magic that simple kindness could spark. That glimmer reminded me of my own daughter’s quiet moments. How a gentle word could soothe her storms.
Timmy beamed up at me, holding his sticker as if it were the golden ticket to Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. After giving both boys a clean bill of health, I walked them and their mother out toward the front desk, laying their charts on the counter where the office manager sat. I caught Patricia’s anxious glance, and for a split second, I saw myself. Years ago, waiting for news about my daughter’s persistent cough. The memory tugged at me, a reminder of the heavy weight parents carried, always bracing for the next bit of news, good or bad.
Opening Timmy’s folder, I made some last-minute notes when the boys’ mother, Patricia McDaniel, asked, “How’s Timmy’s heart murmur?” Her voice was steady, but the concern in her eyes was unmistakable.
“Sounded good to me, but let’s get a second opinion,” I muttered, closing his chart. I turned to our office manager, Winnifred Potter. “Winnie, can you schedule Timmy for his yearly echocardiogram and make sure Dr. Carter is available to do the reading, so Mrs. McDaniel doesn’t have to wait for the results?”
“Sure thing, Dr. Lyon.”
Leaving the chart on Winnie’s desk, I waved to the boys and headed for the break room. I needed coffee badly. The moment I stepped inside, the familiar aroma enveloped me. A comfort,but one that didn’t banish the constant undercurrent of concern. Pediatric care was a perpetual balancing act between optimism and vigilance. I thought about Timmy’s eager face, Patricia’s worried tone, and my daughter’s resilience; about how every parent, myself included, lived on the edge of hope and fear.
As I poured myself a cup, the break room became my sanctuary, a rare pause in the relentless rhythm of clinic life. I let my mind wander, not just to the morning’s appointments, but to my daughter. I wondered if she was settling in with her new nanny, or if the change would trigger another bout of sleepless nights. The last nanny had left abruptly, and my daughter had clung to me for days, her trust shaken, her routine upended. That memory lingered. A reminder that even when physically healthy, children’s hearts were vulnerable in ways we didn’t always see or measure.
The door creaked open, and Winnifred stepped in, her ever-present clipboard in hand. “Dr. Lyon, I’ve scheduled Timmy’s echocardiogram for next Thursday. Dr. Carter confirmed he can do the reading immediately after.” Her efficiency was reassuring, grounding me in the present, even as my mind tugged between the clinic and home.
“Thanks, Winnie. You’re a lifesaver.” I tried to smile, summoning gratitude over worry.
“Oh, and you better take that coffee to go. The soccer team just pulled up.”
I groaned, hung my head, and forced a smile.
My respite was over; duty called.
Downing my coffee, I gathered myself, letting the energy and warmth fuel me as I walked back to the reception area, ready to greet Mr. Johns and the New Haven Little League Soccer team.
All eighteen of them.
As the boys filed into the waiting room, their excited chatter filled the air, a stark contrast to the quiet seriousness of Timmy’searlier appointment. Mr. Johns, their coach, greeted me with a firm handshake. “Dr. Lyon, thanks for squeezing us in today.”
“It’s no problem at all, Mr. Johns. Let’s get these young athletes checked out and back out on the field where they belong.”
The next couple of hours flew by in a whirlwind of energy and enthusiasm. Each child brought a unique personality to the room, making the day both exhausting and rewarding. I listened to lungs, checked knees, and examined ankles, ensuring that each player was fit and ready for the upcoming season.
Despite the chaos, my thoughts kept drifting back to my little girl. I wondered how she was faring with her new nanny, and if she was missing me more than she let on. I remembered her first day of preschool. The way she clung to my leg, big eyes pleading for reassurance.
Change was never easy, not for her, not for me, and I felt a twinge of guilt for not staying to show the new nanny around, but the clinic had been calling. All I could do was hope that my daughter’s wild spirit was being met with patience and kindness, and that, somehow, she knew I was thinking of her even when I was far away.
