CHAPTER ONE
Scarlett
“We have two more coming up from ER!”
I stared at Melinda in disbelief, but the charge nurse just shot me a sympathetic look and kept running down the hall of the labor and delivery unit where I’d spent the past twelve hours. And where I’d possibly spend the next who knew how long. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly seven, nearly time for my shift to end, but one thing was for sure… from the looks of it, I wouldn’t be going home for the next couple hours at least.
A call bell rang, and I looked up to see that it was the birthing mother from hell — again. I sighed and ran an arm over my brow. I stuffed a peanut butter cracker into my mouth and downed two swallows of my Snapple Peach Tea before straightening my ponytail and heading to her room.
Plastering on a smile, I headed to the patient’s bedside, barely able to suppress the chuckle that wanted to burst from me each time I saw how ridiculous the woman looked. It didn’t matter how elegant our most sophisticated birthing room was decorated, nothing was good enough for this first-time mom. Upon arrival, she’d had her “people” change the sheets of the hospital bed from the practical white cotton-poly mix to ridiculously expensive — and slippery — pink silk.
“In honor of our precious daughter’s birth,” the primping diva told me when I first saw the room’s transformation as she smoothed the newly added furry white blanket with her bejeweled hand.
Of course, it wasn’t.
Mrs. Celine Harlington-Worthington, the Fifth — aka Cece-Gorgeous on Instagram — only thought of herself and hadn’t stopped taking selfies since her arrival ten hours ago. Her accoutrements for the glorious occasion had nothing to do with the baby in her womb. The decorations included pale pink twinkle lights that cast a soft glow around the woman — the better to selfie herself with, no doubt. The outrageously expensive looking silk gown that was going to be ruined in a few hours showed off super slim, tanned arms and breasts that were bigger than my ample ass cheeks. And silliest of all, the diamond encrusted tiara perched on the twenty-two-year-old’s head appeared to have real diamonds. The curling iron on the nearby nightstand was being carefully watched by her stylist, who checked her hair and makeup every few minutes, pulling from the suitcase of cosmetics by her side as needed.
Mrs. Harlington-Worthington, the Fifth wasn’t a queen. Or a princess. She was worse. One of those Instagram models who made money from showing off her tits and ass… and now her baby was going to be swept down that money track too. Not that she needed it. She’d snagged an older billionaire dude who called her precious and sweedums. She was semi seriously on my list for a psych eval, but my smile stayed in place as I asked the soon-to-be momster, “How may I serve you?”
Crap. I hadn’t meant for it to come out exactly that way.
Mrs. HW5 didn’t seem to mind. “I think you should check me again. I’m quite certain I’m at ten. I just can’t imagine my body taking so long. I’ve been preparing for this moment for weeks, and I’m quite behind schedule.”
I suppressed a sigh and headed over to the monitor to look at her strip. Baby looked good. Mom looked good — on paper. “I checked you just a half hour ago. I doubt there has been much change.” Not with these wimpy ass contractions, I wanted to add but didn’t. Her doctor needed to be shot for admitting her this early in labor. Especially on an evening like this.
She raised her chin, and the reflection from one of the diamonds in the tiara nearly blinded me as it refracted the light. Her perfectly glossed pink lips pursed together. “I’m quite sure you’re mistaken. I can feel my body opening in glorious anticipation of Marie Claire’s entrance into our world.”
This poor baby.
I glanced at Mr. Worthington, the Fifth, who was still tapping away at his laptop. He hadn’t even lifted his head since I entered the room, his thick silver-streaked black hair shining in the pink ambiance of the lighting. He was at least forty years her senior and was “very busy with his important work” as Mrs. HW5 told me several times.
“Celine, I—” I stopped when she raised an eyebrow, then cleared my throat, forgetting about my earlier instructions to use her formal married name. “Mrs. Harlington-Worthington, the Fifth, I—” Another call bell sounded at the nurses’ station, drawing my attention. “I’ll be right back.”
Her overly drawn smoky cat eyes blinked rapidly at me, the long fake lashes reminding me of spider legs as they swept her bronzed and highlighted cheeks. “But, I want to be checked now.” Her cool blue eyes dropped to my shoes and crawled their way back up my pink and chocolate-brown scrubs. “And please do change before the baby’s born.” She glanced at her stylist, who jumped to attention, reminding me of what a soldier would do for a general. “Can you do something with her? Makeup, hair.” She gave a tight smile as her cool blue eyes assessed me. “Something more, um, photo friendly.” Her eyes grew large and she inhaled a great gasp, and I wondered if she was finally feeling a contraction. When she thrust a finger into the air, I realized she’d just had an idea. A terrible idea by the way she was eyeing me. “We’ll do a makeover for her! Won’t that be delightful? We’ll call it Ambush Makeover, Nurse Edition, and it—”
I held up my hands as if warding off a slap. “Um, no. Thank you for the kind offer, but no.”
Mrs. HW5 thrusted her lower lip out in an exaggerated pout, and I was nearly overjoyed to see the pink smear of her gloss create a semicircle on her chin. My delight lasted only an instant before the stylist swept in and whisked the gooey flaw away, then pressed some powder to her already unshiny nose.
Heat flooded my face. I could feel it scorch its way up my neck and to my cheeks. Not from embarrassment of how I knew I looked at the moment, but from the sheer audacity of this woman. This was New York. I had divas aplenty on this ward. But this was the diva of all divas, and I wanted to slap the stupid tiara off her hair extensions and thrust her curling iron up her tight ass.
I wanted to scream at her. I wanted her to know that all twelve of our birthing room beds were full and that we had patients vying for an open one downstairs. I wanted to chide that she shouldn’t even be admitted yet, but because her husband pretty much owned half of New York City, her every wish had been granted by a suck-ass doctor who refused to say no when the very first contraction hit.
I wanted her to know that, in the room next to hers, a woman was going through labor too, but would be pushing out a baby who had already died from profound anencephalies, and she and her family knew they’d never hear that first precious cry. I wanted her to know that we’d already had another fetal death earlier this week. And I’d been the one who washed the vernix from the little boy’s limbs and swaddled him like I’d swaddle any newborn, handing him over to his sobbing mother and the father who looked like a feather would knock him off his chair.
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 result, 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.
He had a highbrow, annoying tone. “Do you plan on doing anything?”
I hated him.
I checked the monitor, touched the belly that was growing tighter again. Sure enough, she was having another. Labor could be weird like that sometimes. Hours of nothing, then everything happened at warp speed. Maybe her doctor was secretly a genius, and I should bow down and worship by his crystal ball.
“It’s been a couple hours since you went to the bathroom,” I said, knowing that a full bladder often increased contractions. I pulled up her gown to release the monitors she — and her freaking doctor — insisted be kept in place. “Let’s get you up. You can use the bathroom and walk around a little bit.”
She gave a dramatic sigh and rolled her eyes. “I suppose. It is tiring just lying here. I’m so used to being active. Just a second.” She raised her camera, took a picture, and I watched in astonishment as she typed, “Last pee break before baby!!” across the screen.
Lowering the bedrail, I helped her to her feet. It really was amazing how small her baby bump was for forty-one weeks. “How much do you work out?” I asked, genuinely curious.
Her hand went to her belly as she leaned heavily onto me. You’d have thought she’d just had major surgery from how slowly she moved. “At least twice a day, about two hours each session.”
I gasped. “You’re kidding.”
“No, and that was just in the past few weeks. I didn’t want the baby to get too big, create those atrocious stretch marks.”
Of course, stretch marks would be her primary worry.
More concerned now, I asked, “And what do you eat to stay so slim?”
We finally made it to the toilet. She sighed as a loud stream of urine hit the water. “Mostly green vegetables, a little fruit, but not too much. I have to get back into shape immediately, you know. Don’t want hubby turning me in for a younger model.”
I stared at her, and for the first time, saw something close to real emotion cross her face. It was there and gone in an instant, but it caused a flood of compassion to hit me. “I’m sure he wouldn’t do that. You’re perfect, and you’re giving him a baby to love.”
She blinked rapidly and yanked at the toilet paper, pulling off nearly a quarter of the roll. She wiped, and I helped her stand and get to the sink to wash her hands. I checked the color of her urine before flushing it all away, then snapped on new gloves as she stood and looked at herself in the mirror.
“You think I’m ridiculous, don’t you?” she asked softly but continued to stare at her reflection.
Yes. Yes, I did.
“No, not at all,” I said and went to stand behind her, my gaze meeting hers in the mirror. “I think you live a very different lifestyle than I do, with a different set of pressures.”
“I’m scared,” she whispered and began blinking hard again.
My heart squeezed a little. “Scared of what?”
“Carl’s never seen me without makeup,” she confessed, and I blinked. I’d expected her to talk about the pain of childbirth, being a good mom, being able to breastfeed with DDD implants.
“Never?”
Looking miserable, she shook her head. “And I don’t want him to, you know, watch the birth. I don’t want him to see me look bad… down there. I—” Her eyes widened, and she groaned as another contraction hit her.
After it had passed, I suggested we go for a walk, maybe finish our conversation as I tried to figure out the relationship dynamics and how best to care for my patient’s emotional needs as well as the physical ones.
She shook her head. “I just want to lie down again. I’m feeling a bit dizzy.”
Holding onto her tighter, I asked, “When did you last eat? A real meal?”
She glanced up at me and sighed. “A couple days ago.” She lowered her voice. “I heard rumors of women, you know, pooping during labor. I wanted to clean out my system so it didn’t happen to me.”
It also explained why her full-term baby was so small. I gritted my teeth, wanting to kick her doctor and her husband in the balls. She’d probably been dieting the entire time in addition to working out like a fiend.
“Well, let’s get you back into bed, and I’ll talk to your doctor about adding some additional nourishment intravenously. You can’t eat right now, but some glucose could help. I’ll check your blood sugar once you’re settled.”
Once she was back in bed and I’d placed the monitors back on, I checked and she sure enough was hypoglycemic. Knowing her asshole doctor would want to know her delivery status, I lowered the head of the bed and warned the other two people in the room that I was ready to check her. The husband turned away, his eyes never leaving the computer monitor while the stylist looked on curiously.
“Heels together,” I instructed Mrs. HW5. “Let your knees drop to the bed.”
And… gush.
Amniotic fluid burst out in a sudden flood, the color darkened with the baby’s meconium. Shit. Literally.
Worse, a section of the umbilical cord presented itself from her vagina. Just like that, we’d gone from prima donna labor to full-scale emergency in an instant. I glanced at the monitor, and damn, the baby’s heart rate plummeted.
I made a promise to never criticize a doctor again, even though I knew that promise would last about half a minute.
Jumping on the bed, I jammed two fingers into the writhing, screaming woman, found the baby’s head where it was pressing on the cord and gently lifted, taking pressure off the life-giving cord. The heart rate increased, giving us some time.
“What are you doing?” the husband shouted, launching himself to his feet so fast his precious laptop crashed to the floor.
Ignoring him, I twisted around and jammed my other hand on the call button, then began lowering the head of the bed even farther, putting Mrs. Harlington-Worthington, the Fifth into the Trendelenburg position, hoping to decrease the pressure on the cord.
I needed to give her oxygen but couldn’t risk removing my fingers to reach for it, and because of the silk sheets, I kept sliding around, making my precarious perch even more precarious. I felt Mr. Worthington, the Fifth’s tight fingers on my shoulder. “Get off of her. I’ll have your job on a silver platter.”
I winced at the pain in my shoulder but didn’t stop holding the baby’s head off the cord. Carefully arranging my face into my calmest expression, I explained the emergency in simple terms. “The umbilical cord has prolapsed, meaning it has slipped out of the cervix ahead of the baby.” Mr. W5’s face went milky white, and he swayed a little to the side. With my free hand, I clutched at him, not needing a bleeding or concussed father to worry with too. “The baby’s head is compressing the cord. I’m holding the baby’s head up. We’re okay for the moment, but we’ll—”
“Can I help you?”
Relief flooded through me as I recognized Olivia’s voice float into the room. “UPC. Prep OR. Need O2. Stat.”
In seconds, the door burst open, and I yelled for someone to get Dad. Within a minute, the entire bed, me included, was being pushed down the hallway, my fingers growing numb from holding the baby’s head up as my knees slipped and slid on the sheets.
“What’s happening?” Mrs. HW5 cried out, and I gave her a gentle smile as I hovered above her. I explained the situation again as we raced down the hall.
“You’re going to be fine,” I soothed. “I can feel your baby’s head. I think little Marie Claire’s got lots of hair.” With the gloves on, I didn’t know that at all, but it gave me something to talk about during one of her most terrifying moments. “I bet she’ll be as beautiful as you.”
Mrs. HW5 smiled, just a little, tears shining in her eyes. “Do I look okay?” she asked and it didn’t even piss me off. I laughed and promised that she did.
We were lucky. An OR had just been cleared and cleaned after one of the traffic accident victims, so we were wheeled in immediately. I held my position as we moved to the operating table and the OR nurses covered me with blue sterile sheets.
Covered as I was, I couldn’t see anything, just listened as the anesthesiologist gave the go ahead, indicating she was asleep. The sound of the scalpel slicing through skin was shiver inducing, but still, I held my position, knowing my fingers were the only thing saving this precious little human at the moment.
Within minutes, the weight of the baby’s head was lifted from my fingers, and I could finally remove my hand, although it took a few moments to uncramp from the position it had been in for so long. I crawled off the table, my legs shaky beneath me as sweat dripped down every part of my body, and pulled off the gloves, tossing them in the trash.
Then, there was the cry, the sweetest sound in the entire world. It started out small, then grew stronger with each breath. I deeply hoped the meconium didn’t affect her too badly.
That sound was one of the reasons I loved this job so much.
“Great job, Scarlett,” Dr. Edmond said, glancing up from where he was delivering the placenta before going through the process of sewing the patient back up. Mrs. HW5 would probably have a hissy fit about the vertical scar, but it couldn’t be helped, and I hoped she would find beauty in it one day.
As I watched him stitch up the uterus that was still lying on the outside of the patient’s body, my hand went to my own scar, caressing the long line of puckered tissue that ran down my side.
Maybe I’d find beauty in my scar one day too.