by Alice Ward
I wanted to shout at her about the dejected thirteen-year-old down the hall, who’d be handing her baby over to the overjoyed adoptive parents also in the room—and who would be going to live at a friend’s house after discharge because her parents had kicked her out when they learned she was pregnant.
I wanted to shout at this pampered princess that, three doors down, a mother had sacrificed her life for the sake of her child. The thirty-one-year-old woman had been diagnosed with brain cancer when she was nine weeks pregnant. She’d foregone chemotherapy and treatment so that the baby could be born healthy. She might get to spend three months with him, but probably less. She and her son would go home tomorrow morning, and her family would wait for the cruel reality of her painful death.
But I didn’t shout any of those things, because I also knew just how much this mom deserved her special day too. Yeah, she might be over the top, by a lot. She might be annoying as hell. She might even deserve to have that damn tiara yanked from her golden head... but today was precious. And I’d do whatever it took to make sure her baby came into this world safely.
And I don’t get my ass sued or Instagramed into the Nursing Hall of Shame.
As an L&D nurse, I loved my job, no matter how horrible the mom or the situation. It had been what I wanted to do since I was young and pretended my first Barbie was in labor with Ken holding her hand. Of course, at that time, I thought babies came from their mother’s belly buttons. It wasn’t until I went to live on my aunt and uncle’s farm in upstate New York when I was nearly eight that I learned the truth by witnessing a black and white calf come into the world. Yes, it was messy, but I’d been hypnotized by the process. I’d loved it. From that moment on, I watched almost all the farm animals give birth. I rubbed bellies, and when I was older, the vet would let me help, guiding me through every step while answering my plethora of questions.
Excusing myself from the room, I ran to the nurses’ station and hit the button to answer the call button for room ten, wondering where everyone was. “How can I help you?” I asked, keeping my voice as courteous as possible.
“Can my wife have more ice chips, please?”
I rolled my eyes but forced a bright smile on my face, hoping the action would come across in my voice. I checked the wife’s name on the board to confirm she was allowed this bit of comfort. She was. “Absolutely. Just a moment.”
Squirting out a hand full of antibacterial foam and vigorously rubbing it into my palms and between my fingers, I rushed to the pantry and scooped up a cup of ice, still wondering where everyone was. Today had been crazy, and the night didn’t seem to be getting much better.
There was a full moon, and I didn’t care how many people said it was an old wives’ tale, the change in moon did seem to affect amniotic fluid as much as it did the waves in the ocean. In addition to that, a significant barometric pressure shift had pressed down on the entire east coast from an incoming strain of storms. My sinuses felt it, and it seemed pregnant women near their due dates were feeling it too. Plus, it was September, one of our busiest months. Apparently, it was too cold in December and January to do anything but have sex in this town, so we always had a slew of late summer and early fall babies. And today, we were swamped with them.
“Here you go,” I told the panting mother-to-be, handing the ice chips to a concerned-looking woman holding her hand. Ah, yes. The lesbian couple. Or was the non-laboring one transgender? I couldn’t remember, and my poor brain refused to give up the information.
I checked the strip. Yep, she was having a contraction and was doing so steadily every three minutes. Where the hell was Olivia, her primary nurse?
“Will my epidural be here soon?” she asked when the contraction had faded, her wife wiping the sweat from her forehead with gentle fingers.
I took her hand in mine, giving her my best reassuring smile. “I’ll find out. We have a full house this evening, so try to be patient. Remember your breathing.” I looked at the wife. “Can you help her with that?”
I was given a shaky smile, and I squeezed the other woman’s hand too. They both looked to be in their late thirties, and I wondered if this was their first child. I didn’t have time to look in the patient chart, which made me feel extremely guilty.
On a normal day, I’d try to get her up and out of bed, have her walk or sit on one of the birthing balls. Maybe even take a shower, let the warm water hit her back and let gravity help with the baby’s descent. Do anything but lie in the bed and suffer the way she was suffering now.
But she wasn’t my patient, and I needed to figure out where everyone was. I gave her hand another squeeze and a gentle pat. “Either Olivia or I will be back soon.”
Hurrying out, I was so relieved to see Stephanie in the hallway, I nearly broke out in dance. “Where is everyone?” I whisper-yelled as I got closer to where she was tapping information into a computer on wheels.
She wiped a sleeve over her forehead. “Olivia and Melinda are in ER, assessing the two transfers. We don’t have any open rooms, so they’re trying to figure everything out. Everyone else is with their patients. Thanks for helping with ten. What did she need?”
“Ice chips and her epidural’s estimated time of arrival,” I told her and squirted more antibacterial foam into my hands. Some people were addicted to drugs, alcohol, gambling. Me and my nerd self had a hankering for Germ-X every time I passed it.
Stephanie shook her head, her eyes filled with sympathy and concern. “I warned her that anesthesiology would be slow in coming around. On top of the big twelve car pileup on the interstate, there was a smaller pileup about a half hour ago. Got staff all over the hospital calling in to say they’re stuck in the resulting traffic jam. Everyone’s pulling overtime until they can get here.”
I pressed my fingers to my temples. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish. OR and ER are filled with victims. We’re having all maternity patients diverted, but you know how that goes. Nobody wants to change hospitals or doctors. County is already full. Cameron is calling in help, so we’ll just have to hang in there.”
Well, there goes my girls’ night out with Amy and friends.
“How about we toss out Barbie?” I asked with a flash of my teeth. “One problem solved. No, actually two problems solved. We’ll free up a bed, and I won’t be going to jail for murder.”
Stephanie laughed, her dark eyes shining in the hallway’s bright lights. “I wish.” She blew out a breath that made her lips flutter. “Dr. Pansy-ass would probably clear out the entire floor for Mr. and Mrs. Moneybags if administration would let him.”
A call bell rang, and I gave her a salute before racing down the hall. I snagged my Snapple as I hit the answer button. “How can I help you?” I took a long drink of the lukewarm tea, then chugged another while I waited for someone to talk. When they didn’t, I said again, “Hello? How can I help you?”
Nothing. Then the same call bell sounded again.
A shiver of unease snaked up my spine, and the hair on my neck stood up. Setting down the tea, I raced to room six, shoved open the door, and… shit.
“Bloody hell,” I yelled, unsure of why I suddenly sounded British. I jerked my head sideways to make the vision of the two people having sex go away. Too late.
The man — not the baby’s father, who I remembered from earlier, was a tall blond dude with a nose the size of a small child — whirled around, his four-inch pecker pointing directly at me. His curly pubic hair, definitely not blond, was almost longer than his glistening midget member, resembling a worm being consumed by a bush. The mom screamed and yanked down her hospital gown, then pulled up the pillow to cover her face.
I. Am. A. Professional.
Lifting my chin, I cleared my throat, then reached into my pocket and rummaged past the rolls of tape, the pen light, alcohol wipes, sticky notepads, and ink pens to wrap my hand around a pair of bandage scissors in case I needed them. For limited protection. Not to offer the hairy dude a much-needed trim.
This wasn’t my patient, but I’d helped Lorie earlier with her admission, and had a gist of what was going on.
“Miss Patrick, do you know this man?” I was fully aware that it appeared to be a silly question given the circumstances, but one never knew. I had to make sure some random guy wasn’t taking advantage of a patient. I pointed at the guy’s penis. “Please put that away.”
He cursed, then whirled back around, and the hiss of a zipper was the only sound in the room. I was disappointed when he didn’t catch his scrotum in the teeth and become yet another patient in our ER.
The red-faced patient pulled the pillow down just enough to peek at me. “Yes. He… he…”
The guy cursed, then faced me again. He actually took a few steps in my direction and stuck out his hand. I didn’t shake, for what I thought were obvious reasons, and he slowly lowered it to his side, his face turning redder by the second. “I’m sorry. I’m Mike, Mindy’s boyfriend. I’m the father of the baby. We… I… shit. Heard that, you know, doing it helped things along.”
My eyes slid to Mindy, who was giving me a pleading look. My eyes slowly slid back to Mike. “Sexual intercourse…” I purposefully used the official name for doing it, just to see if it made him squirm — it did, “can help initiate labor, but Mindy is in active labor.” I glanced at her chart. “She’s seven centimeters dilated.” I made a fist, which was a little larger than what Mindy’s open cervix was when she was last checked. If I had a can of soda, I’d have used it for a better visual, but the exact measurement didn’t matter right now. “That means your penis was encountering this much of the baby’s head during penetration. You’re lucky her water hadn’t broken or we’d have an even more serious infection risk here.”
And you’re lucky your pecker wasn’t longer or you’d given the kid a concussion, I wanted to add just before I kicked the asshole in the balls. I did neither.
The guy paled and began kneading the back of his neck with his hand. “I’m sorry. I thought it might also, you know, distract her from the pain. I didn’t jizz. Only trying to help.”
Jizz? What did this girl see in this man?
As if to underscore his words, Mindy had a contraction and began to squeal as it hit her hard. Mike’s eyes opened wide and he gave me a see, it’s working look before turning to hold her hand, then nearly went to his knees as Mindy squeezed his knuckles into dust. Too bad she hadn’t gotten hold of his hairy balls.
Behind me, the door opened, and I turned to find a tall blond man with a big nose coming in without knocking, and Mindy’s eyes widened in pure panic. A bead of sweat trailed down her temple as she panted through the pain.
Oh, shit.
I gripped the scissors harder as adrenaline sent a surge of its juicy chemicals through my blood stream, making my heart start pounding in return. I angled away, taking small steps toward Mindy’s head, and the call bell. Where the hell was the call bell?
“Who the hell are you?” Big nose said, looking from me, to Mike, to Mindy and Mike again.
Mike was still in hand recovery mode, shaking the injured appendage before sticking it in the tall guy’s direction. I winced as they shook, but then realized both men’s hands had been where Mike’s were most recently. “I’m Mike,” hairy guy said, “you the doctor?”
Stunned at that assumption, I looked at big nose, who was wearing his jeans halfway down his ass, showing off his Fruit of the Loom underwear. Hairy guy — erm, Mike — wasn’t very bright, I assessed, if he thought this bozo was a physician. I desperately hoped he wasn’t the baby’s father, not that the alternate was much better. Poor kid was going to have a tough enough childhood as it was.
“Out, please.” I finally made my mouth work enough to speak up, flapping my arms in a sweeping gesture to herd them toward the door. “I want both of you to head to the waiting area while I check Mom.”
Once the two potential paternity candidates figured things out, I didn’t want the blowup to be in this room. And from the way they were eyeing each other, and from the still panicked look in Mindy’s eyes, it might happen soon. For big nose, certainly. He appeared to have more than a few brain cells working. It might take a little longer for Mike to figure things out.
I shooed them out the door and moved back to the patient’s bedside. She fell backwards onto the pillow, both hands covering her eyes. I pried them away and gave her antibacterial wipes to clean them. Damn. What was wrong with these people?
“So, what is the plan?” I asked her, desperately trying to keep my voice calm and sympathetic when all I really wanted to do was shake some common sense into the girl. “Do you know which is the father?”
She blinked rapidly while her head did a slow side to side. “I… I was hoping I’d figure it out when the baby was born,” she confessed with a little sob. “You know, by the hair color.”
I sighed, deciding this wasn’t the best time to get into a genetics conversation, then heard a small voice call out, “Can I help you?” Then it came again, barely audible. Realizing what it was, I followed the cord to the patient call box, which was wedged under a trembling Mindy. How she hadn’t felt the rigid plastic under her ass was a mystery. Well, at least I now knew why the buzzer had kept going off.
Before I could answer, Lorie came into the room. I practically leaped at the primary nurse, filled her in on her patient’s delicate situation, and left her with the mess, promising to call security to come deal with the men if necessary.
Suddenly, Instagram Barbie didn’t seem so bad, and I nearly flung myself into her room, pumping out a double dose of sanitizing foam along the way, working it into my hands and almost up to my elbows, wishing I could use it to disinfect my brain as well.
“It’s about time,” Mrs. Harlington-Worthington, the Fifth exclaimed with a huff that shot her bangs up into the air.
Bangs?
I blinked at her. “You’ve changed your hair.”
And with that one comment, my tardiness was apparently forgiven. She beamed and stroked her fingers through the even longer mane of even brighter blonde curls. “Do you like? I think it showcases the tiara better, don’t you?”
Poor, poor baby.
“Absolutely,” I said with what I hoped was a warm smile. “You look beautiful.”
She beamed even brighter, but what she didn’t know was that I’d tell that to any laboring mom, no matter how matted the hair or sweat-streaked the face.
Labor was the epitome of vulnerable, and often, a kind word or two went a long way toward easing the stress of the constant pain.
“Well, you still look terrible,” the social media brat said, and I immediately hated her again. “I don’t mean to be mean…” Sure she didn’t. “But you’d be really pretty if you just tried a little bit. Giselle and I were just talking about how good your skin is. A little pale, but it complements your auburn hair — which would be more attractive if you straightened it — and makes your blue eyes look even bluer. If I were you, I’d cover the freckles though. Have you seen the blending cremes on the market? They cover all kinds of deformities.”
I inhaled deeply through my nose as I typed in her chart. Deformities? When did a few spots on the nose and cheeks become a terrible thing?
Suddenly missing Mindy and the two-father dilemma two doors down the hallway, I ignored Mrs. Harlington-Worthington, the Fifth while I continued to chart and she went on about how best to contour my face.
“Aren’t you going to check me?” she asked with a huff, rubbing her hands over her slight mound of belly. If I didn’t know she was past her due date, I would have thought she was closer to seven months along. Her bump was tiny. “I’m probably ready to push by now, you took so long to come back.”
Inhaling another long, deep breath in through my nose, I let it out just as slowly. “Are you feeling any contractions yet?”
A pained expression came across her face, and she lifted her phone to take a picture of it. She looked at the screen, was clearly not pleased with the res
ult, made an even more agonized face, and snapped again.
Oh, dear god.
“Yes.” She fanned herself with her hand. “It’s agony.”
Snatching up a pair of gloves, I snapped them on, thinking I could do this gently, or not so gently. I could even have thumb slippage and give her a little jolt in the ass.
Mrs. HW5’s eyes widened just as I was about to ask her to let her knees fall to the side. “Oh…” She grabbed her belly. “Oooh!” I glanced at the monitor, and hurray, oh thank you god, she was having a contraction. A real damn one. Finally.
The stylist surged forward and patted rice paper on her nose while my patient writhed on the bed. Dear heavens above. Calmly, I timed the contraction, encouraging her to breathe through the pain.
“Epidural,” she screamed, and her husband’s head finally popped up from his laptop screen.
He looked directly at me and snapped his freaking fingers. “Get on that.”
I shot laser darts of hatred onto his head as he looked back down at his computer and began tapping away, but ignored his command. I showed my teeth to my patient in what I hoped would pass as a smile. “I’ll check you as soon as this one ends.”
She continued to writhe and scream, her camera forgotten for a moment. If this was how real labor with her was going to be, I’d put in the epidural myself. Maybe even a backup one, just in case.
“Have you decorated the nursery yet?” I asked in way of a distraction as I felt her belly grow even tighter under my palms.
She huffed and puffed, but managed to nod as the contraction wound its way down. “Yes,” she panted. “It’s beautiful. Better than Princess Charlotte’s, no doubt. It’s… oh… oh… auggh…” The last sound ended on a scream that jerked her husband’s head up again.