Chapter Six: Chloe

“As a father, do I love my daughters less than I love my sons? No. If I am guilty of any imbalance, it is in favor of my girls. I have said that when a man gets old he had better have daughters about him. They are so kind and good and thoughtful. I think I can say that my sons are able and wise. My daughters are clever and kind. And “my cup runneth over” (Ps. 23:5) because of this.”
-Gordon B. Hinckley

I had not mourned for concern over my baby, but for the pain I knew Stephanie was facing. That doesn’t mean that I never gave in to panic that I might be called to face the same trial. I shared Stephanie’s story with a friend of mine in Chicago who replied, “The same thing happened to my sister.” Nathan was doing autopsies at a hospital during those last weeks while we waited for Chloe’s birth and one day I asked him what had been the cause of death in the one he had done that day. He answered, “Thirty-ninth week gestation inter-uterine fetal demise.” I had to think that through for a minute, but I got it. He should have lied. I even mentioned it to my doctor who told me she was 34 weeks pregnant her last year of residency when she had to tell a patient at thirty-nine weeks that she had lost her baby.

Needless to say, I did a lot of kick counts in those weeks. I remember telling the Lord that I knew how richly I was blessed and I had no right to ask for any more, but if I carried this baby to thirty-nine weeks, I might go crazy. Again, I was blessed with exactly what I asked for.

I often wonder why my life has been so easy and so rich. I ask myself if there is some horrible trial I will be called to face in the future. Certainly Heavenly Father has the right to expect me to be faithful through anything. I feel like I am the poster child for the unprofitable servant. It doesn’t matter how good things get, there are always more blessings and happiness just around the corner. The more I learn and grow, the more I want to start paying back my growing debt. But, inevitably, some little inconvenience comes my way and I handle it all wrong. I can never deserve what I’ve been given, but I take comfort in knowing that no one else could either. The difference is that I am probably the most blessed person in the world.

Chloe was perfect, as they all were. Nate, who had been very vocal about wanting all boys, immediately adored his beautiful little girl. Ryan and Sean set in quite comfortably to their new roles as big brothers. One day, Ry even walked over and touched her head while he said, “I have to take care of her.”

Of course, the birth of my daughter couldn’t be completely without disaster. Both the pediatrician that saw Chloe in the hospital and the obstetrician that saw me asked who would be my baby’s doctor. I told them she would be going to the same lady that saw my boys, the one who I had been told about when Ryan was in the emergency room a year before. I assumed that wouldn’t be a problem.

The day I was supposed to be discharged, the nurse told me I would need to make an appointment with the doctor for Chloe’s one week check up. I had been largely alone in the hospital this time. None of my family was close enough to come and Nate had to take care of the kids and do school. The ward members helped and so did some of our friends that we had met through the school. But I was largely bored. So, I wandered into the reception area and asked if they had a listing of doctors that were part of their medical group, so I could find the phone number for the lady who had been seeing Ryan and Sean.

She wasn’t listed. So, I asked for a phone book and looked up the name of her practice. I was able to find that. I went back into my room to call. The receptionist who answered the phone at the doctor’s office told me she had changed back to her maiden name, which is why she wasn’t listed. It struck me as odd that she wouldn’t inform her patients, but I didn’t have to wonder long why she never contacted us.

When I asked about an appointment for my baby the receptionist put me on hold for quite a while before coming back and saying, curtly, “I’m afraid the doctor will not be accepting any new patients with Medicaid.”

I was confused. Was a new baby in an existing family considered a “new patient?” But the receptionist made it quite clear that I no longer had a doctor for my baby. I choked back tears and embarrassment long enough to walk back to the desk and ask, in a whisper, where I could find a doctor for Chloe. They gave me unwanted pitying looks and told me to call the referral hotline.

The operator on the hotline told me there was absolutely no one who would take Medicaid and suggested that I go to the state health clinic. I thanked her in a shaky voice, hung up the phone, pulled my knees to my chest and bawled. My precious baby was so small. I didn’t want to take her to that place. I pictured myself in the crowded waiting room, trying to coral my two boys during the three hour wait before every appointment. Like all newborns, she would need a lot of appointments. Most of the other patients would be there to treat sickness. Would I possibly be able to leave without any of my children contracting something?

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciated all of the health care we got, considering our financial circumstances. I always made an extra effort to express to the doctors, or-more often-nurse practitioners, how much it meant to us that they took the time to care for my kids. I had even written a letter to the immunization clinic a year before to say how wonderful the people there were. But Chloe was so little and fragile. She would need so many appointments. And I was in an unstable emotional state anyway.

I did the only thing that came to my mind. I called my husband. Poor, sweet Nate. He had taken a Saturday job cleaning swimming pools to try and make ends meet. He was working and a lady from the ward was watching my boys. As part of the job, he carried a cell phone at all times. When he answered the phone I was barely able to talk.

Within a few seconds, he sounded absolutely panicked. He couldn’t understand what I was saying, but he knew that I was sobbing. It was very cruel of me. He must have wondered what was wrong with our baby to have upset me so much. But I worked on sounding less pathetic and I finally was able to tell him why I was crying. He acted like, “That’s all?” I wanted support, but he was probably so relieved to find out that Chloe was okay, that not having a doctor seemed like a wonderful relief.

Right in the middle of my hysterical story, the phone dropped the call. I tried to call back, but it didn’t work. I huddled in my room, feeling very alone. Twice, hospital employees came in to bring food or check on me. I hid my face. The last thing I needed was someone reporting I had a case of post-partum depression or something like that.

It took me over an hour to calm down. I knew I had one resource left. We had a friend in the ward with two boys about the same age as mine. Her husband was a year ahead of Nate at the same medical school. She was the one who had helped me get to the appointments to get Medicaid in the first place. I doubted very much this would work out, but I decided to call to see who her doctor was. I was skeptical because that was what I had done when I first became pregnant. I called other women’s doctors and was told they were no longer accepting Medicaid.

Shanna was so sweet. She told me that she had only found her doctor because she had a baby at the hospital where I was. She warned me that the office was not wonderful. But she said that the doctor was amazing. He had once been part of a practice with several other physicians, but had to go out on his own because he refused to stop accepting Medicaid. The nurse who had given Shanna his number had said, “This guy shoulda been a priest.” It was nice to talk to Shanna because she didn’t wonder why my voice cracked. She understood what I was going through completely. When I hung up, I felt much less alone.

I took a deep breath and dialed the number for Dr. Harris. I told the receptionist that I had just had a baby and needed a doctor who would accept Medicaid. That familiar pang of humiliation hit me and I held my breath, waiting for her answer. She said, “Can you come in next Wednesday?” She didn’t tell me to try again in a couple months. She didn’t say they weren’t accepting new patients. She didn’t act condescending or pitying. I couldn’t help it. I started bawling again. The poor girl must have thought she was talking to a crazy person. But I cannot describe how it felt to know there was a doctor willing to see my baby.

I started taking all of my kids there because the atmosphere was completely different from the other doctor. I didn’t feel like my kids were being treated begrudgingly or like the doctor smiled to my face and then complained at my back. I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing a more competent, kind, wonderful doctor. He will never know how much he did for my family during our years in Illinois. It’s hard being on the receiving end of charity, so much harder than being the giver.

I learned something through being on that end, though. I learned how flawed it is to think that someone who has more has it because he works harder. The difference between rich and poor often has little to do with integrity and work ethic. The difference is the grace of God. That makes the riches we’re given a stewardship from a loving father who trusts us, rather than something we’re entitled to because of our own work. You see, Heavenly Father gave us the ability to work as well.

I also learned that those who understand this principle the best never talk down to those who have less than them. I always felt like I needed to apologize for our reliance on Medicaid. I still do. I felt humiliated every time I pulled out the card. But usually on the other side of a humiliated person is a prideful person. Usually. But, never at Dr. Harris’ office. I had to learn these lessons the hard way. I pray I never forget them.

Our experiences were completely different, but I think Stephanie and I both had a few indisputable blessings come to us that month. We added daughters to our forever families and we both gained a firmer testimony of the eternal nature of the family. Stephanie learned about sacrifice and I learned about charity. I will always be grateful to my friend, her sweet daughter and a chronically underappreciated family practice doctor in Illinois for that.