Yeah.
I’m sorry, too.
Asher
When you don’t know what to do, do nothing.
—My Therapist
In the dictation room in late July, I hide at the corner desktop, completing my morning charts while the nurses at the other computers chat. Vaguely registering some conversation regarding the bonuses offered to nurses who work an extra shift per week, I hunch my shoulders and power through labs and notes, checking my watch to be sure I’ll make it to the OR on time.
Eight minutes until my C-section.
I got this.
“You ready to go back?” Jocelyn whispers near my ear. “The patient’s good.”
“Yeah, let’s do it.”
I follow her with my eyes trained on the back of her head.Won’t look elsewhere. The only way to rid myself of this ill-advised crush is to starve it. Friends don’t admire other friends’ asses, and they can’t admire anything if they never look.
Joss equals friend. Nothing more. I’ve had to remind myself of that far too many times since the photoshoot. The one where posing with me in lovey-dovey pictures was so repulsive it caused her pain.
Won’t think about that. Hurts a little too much.
The C-section goes well, and when the baby is shown to my patient, Malika, she coos, “Aw, honey. He has your nose!”
But about forty-five seconds later, she has a bit of a panic attack—a reasonable reaction to being tied to a bed and cut open—and Joss gives her some cocktail of drugs to calm her down so I can finish the operation.
As soon as I’m finished, I receive a page that my laboring patient is ready to push. Yenisley speaks English as if she was born to it, even though she wasn’t. Only the slightest accent colors her fluent speech. Despite that, her nurse continues to communicate with her in extremely broken Spanish.
“Dolormucho?”the nurse asks.
Jeez, Carol. Let’s try indoor voices.
“No, it’s okay,” Yenisley answers with a strained smile.
With no epidural, she’s likely in a shitload of pain, but she’s stoic and endlessly sweet. Sweat dampens her brow. Her dark hair frizzes about her face. Between each contraction, she closes her eyes and focuses on controlled breathing.
She’s a pro.
She whimpers the slightest bit when the next contraction builds. The father helps support one leg while Carol holds the other.
I grab a blue towel to prepare. “All right, Yenisley. You got this. Let’s push.”
The baby’s head descends with each push, and the nurse pats Yenisley’s knee in excitement. “That’s it!Puta!Puta!”
My body stiffens. I don’t speak Spanish, but I live in Texas. Even I know enough Spanish to know thatputadoes not meanpush.
It means... bad things.
Yenisley’s eyes widen at me, and the dad sputters, “What did she say?”
“She meansempuje,” I whisper.
From the back of the room, the patient’s mother cackles in laughter.“Gringatonta!”
Carol’s face floods with red.
