Resisting The Single Dad

She nodded as he continued. ‘And with the potential for Rory...’ He let his voice tail off.

The realisation didn’t take long to hit her. She worked in research. She knew exactly what he was getting at. Cardiomyopathy was a hereditary condition.

‘Rory has the gene?’

‘Rory has the gene,’ he repeated.

She didn’t hesitate. She reached over and squeezed his hand. ‘Oh, Gene. I’m so sorry.’

He drew in a deep breath. ‘So am I. But that’s life. You’ll know the odds. He had a fifty per cent chance of inheriting the gene—and he has. But so far there are no symptoms. No indication that there’s anything to worry about. That’s what I need to keep inside my head. But it doesn’t stop me making this my life’s work.’

He didn’t need to say any more. She’d know the potential. She’d know that hypertrophic cardiomyopathy was the condition frequently undetected then associated with young sportsmen suddenly dying.

That was why the ‘no symptoms’ was so important to keep in his head. Because late at night, when he looked at that gorgeous little mop of blond hair, every worst-case scenario in the world wound its way through his head.

Her voice had a sympathetic tone and he could see the understanding her eyes as she looked at him. ‘So you’re committed. You want to be here. You want to do the work.’

He could tell she was almost relieved. If he’d turned and walked out today because Professor Helier wasn’t going to be around, it could have potentially brought the research to a halt. But he’d never do that. He repeated those words. ‘I want to do the work. It’s important to me. It’s important to Rory. And it’s important to a whole host of other people all around the world affected by this disease.’ He didn’t have a single doubt about what he was saying.

She gave a nod of approval and held her hand out towards the next wing. ‘Well, in that case, Dr Du Bois, come and meet your fabulous team. And your fabulous patients.’

* * *

Her head was swimming as she pasted a smile on her face. Her heart ached for him—literally.

Now she understood—probably a whole lot better than he expected her to.

The thought that his gorgeous little son could have a ticking time bomb in his chest—similar to her own—was heart-wrenching. How must it feel to look at that little guy every day and wonder if at some point he would develop symptoms or become unwell? As a medic, one thing was crystal clear in her head. Parents shouldn’t outlive their kids. They just shouldn’t. There was something so wrong about that. Unbearable. And she wasn’t even a mother.

She’d worked with families who’d lost kids due to cardiac defects and anomalies and there was something so wrong about it all.

They walked down to the east wing—where all the patients were seen and monitored. The Rueben Institute was like many other cardiac research centres. They monitored patients with certain conditions, seeing if small lifestyle changes could have impacts on their lives, along with dietary changes and alternative therapies. They also monitored certain new medicines, making sure that patients didn’t have any side effects and comparing the differences between them and the existing medicines. There was no point introducing a new medicine to the world if it didn’t really make any improvements for patients.

There were similar institutes all over the world, but in the land of cardiac conditions, with or without any trials, patients’ conditions could change in an instant. The staff here were highly trained and the institute well equipped to deal with any emergency. Cordelia showed him from room to room.

‘We have twenty monitoring bays for the clinical trials. We also have overnight beds available with monitoring, too, for anyone feeling unwell.’

‘Who covers that?’

Cordelia dabbed an electronic tablet next to one of the doors and grabbed hold of one his hands. She pulled up a page and pressed his forefinger to the pad, shooting him a smile. ‘As quick as that—your fingerprint will open any of these. It gives a complete list of all patient details, contacts and staff on duty. At any time we have two doctors on—day and night—along with four nursing staff. We never fall under that ratio and are frequently above it.’

He frowned a little. ‘Do those numbers include you and me?’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, no. We’re supernumerary—along with all the research staff. Around fifty per cent of our researchers have a clinical background. And working here helps them maintain their clinical registrations. You’ll frequently see our researchers doing the clinical monitoring of patients.’ She tried to choose her words carefully. ‘Quite often, our clinicians have had to go into research because of health conditions of their own. Working here helps them still have the patient contact that they love, as well as contributing to improving things for patients.’