“Morning.”
“Three admissions overnight.” She jumped right in. “Two waiting.”
“I’m Dr. Sophie,” I said, scanning the board and the names marked with red circles. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”
“Zana.”
And that was the extent of our introduction before I disappeared behind a curtain to find one woman sobbing with delivery pains while crunching on ice chips and another screaming that she’d changed her mind about delivering naturally.
It was going to be one of those days.
By noon, my stomach hurt with hunger, but somehow there was notime to take a break. Babies kept coming like it was a full moon, except the sun was still high in the sky.
However, every time that first cry cut through the air, the moment reset and tears of joy and laughter flooded back in, reminding me why I loved this job.
It was three in the afternoon and I was just about to go out for a quick lunch. I hit the call button and the elevator dinged, sliding open to reveal a woman who looked seconds away from collapsing. I barely caught her in time before her head hit the floor.
“We need help here,” I shouted, the woman’s hands clenched over her abdomen.
She said something in Albanian, her words tumbling fast from her tongue.
“It will be okay, help’s here,” I soothed, but it had the opposite effect.
She kept talking, her voice rising with each word and her hands fluttering now, miming something I didn’t understand. Then her hand returned to her stomach, her face twisting with pain.
“Contractions?” I asked, making a fist and opening it. She shook her head hard. Pointed lower. Then she made a slicing motion across her belly, her lips widening in a silent scream.
I looked around, not a nurse in sight, and I cursed inwardly. Where the hell was everyone?
The language barrier made everything more complicated and it was impossible to know what was wrong with the woman. She didn’t seem far along enough to be in labor.
I helped her straighten, and slowly, we made our way toward the first station where I could at least sit her down and examine her.
I turned to grab my tools when the woman grabbed my wrist with both hands and locked eyes with me. Her voice dropped as she kept repeating the same words over and over again in an urgent tone.
My pulse roared in my ears.
I’d never felt out of place in the hospital, but at this very moment, I did. I was at a loss, searching her face for any signs I might have missed. Sweat traced her temples. Her knuckles were white.
“Lie down,” I instructed, but she couldn’t understand me so I gently pushed her onto her back. Once stretched flat, I pushed her shirt out of the way and felt around the area she’d been cradling. She winced when I reached the right side of her abdomen.
Not contractions. Not labor. This woman wasn’t pregnant.
The curtain opened at that moment and a nurse came in.
“Where were you?” I hissed, more furious at myself than her. “This patient is on the wrong floor. It seems like a ruptured appendix.”
For the next hour, it was mayhem. There was screaming, exchanges in Albanian I couldn’t understand, crash carts being rushed to our station.
It wasn’t until the woman was wheeled off the maternity ward that a fellow doctor explained, “You were right, it’s a ruptured appendix. Bacteria spilled into the abdominal cavity, causing infection and severe pains.”
“What was she doing on this floor?” I muttered, my hands trembling.
He shrugged. “Probably hit the wrong button. It’s a miracle she was able to walk to the hospital.”
He left while I stared at my reflection in the metal cabinet, suddenly aware I’d been skating along with my inability to understand locals. I knew my shit in the delivery rooms and maternity ward, but I didn’t know a single word in this language.
I could have cost this woman her life.
