“No problem. You know where to find me.”
“Oh yes,” she says, and the whole way back to the birthing pavilion, I try to shake the sense that those two simple words could be a threat.
When I get back to my floor, however, I don’t have time to wallow in self-doubt. Marie sees me step out of the elevator and grabs my arm with relief. “Ruth,” she says. “Meet Virginia. Virginia, this is Ruth, one of our most experienced L and D nurses.”
I look at the woman standing in front of me, wide-eyed as she watches a gurney being wheeled down the hallway for what must be a stat C-section. That’s all I need to understand what’s going on here. “Virginia,” I say smoothly, “Marie’s got a lot on her plate right now, so why don’t you shadow me?”
Marie tosses me a silent thank-you and runs after the gurney. “So,” I say to Virginia. “Nontraditional student?”
Unlike most of the baby-faced nursing candidates we get parading through here, Virginia is in her thirties. “Late start,” she explains. “Or early, depending on how you look at it. I had my kids young, and wanted them out of the house before I started my official career. You probably think I’m crazy to be going back to school this old.”
“Better late than never,” I say. “Besides, being a mom ought to count as on-the-job training for L and D, don’t you think?”
I intercept the nurse who’s coming off duty and figure out which rooms I’m taking over: a couplet with a GDM G1 now P1 at forty weeks and four days who had a vaginal delivery at 5:00A.M.; baby is on Q3 hour blood sugars for twenty-four hours; a G2 P1 at thirty-eight weeks and two days in active labor. “It’s like alphabet soup,” Virginia says.
“It’s just shorthand,” I laugh. “You get used to it. But I’ll translate for you—we’re taking over two rooms. One is a mom with gestational diabetes who delivered this morning and whose baby needs sugars every three hours. One is a woman in labor who already has one kid,” I say, “so at least she’s done this before. Just follow my lead.”
With that, I push into her room. “Hello, Mrs. Braunstein,” I say to the patient, who is holding on to her partner’s hand in a death grip. “I hear you’re a repeat customer. My name’s Ruth, and this is Virginia. Virginia, it looks like Mr. Braunstein here could use a chair. Can you pull one closer?” I keep up a constant, calm chatter as I examine her strip and feel her belly. “Everything looks good.”
“Doesn’tfeelgood,” the woman grits out.
“We can take care of that,” I say smoothly.
Mrs. Braunstein turns to Virginia. “I want a water birth. That’s on my plan.”
Virginia nods tentatively. “Okay.”
“Once we monitor you for twenty minutes or so, we’ll see how the baby’s doing, and if it’s possible, we will definitely get you into the tub,” I say.
“The other thing is that we don’t want a circumcision, if it’s a boy,” Mrs. Braunstein says. “We’re having a bris.”
“Not a problem,” I tell her. “I’ll make a note in the file.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m at about six centimeters,” she says. “When I had Eli, I threw up just about then, and I’m starting to feel queasy now…”
I reach for the emesis basin and pass it to Virginia.
“Let’s see if we can examine you before that happens,” I suggest, and I slip on a pair of latex gloves, pulling up the sheet at the end of the bed.
Mrs. Braunstein turns to Virginia. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Um.” She turns to me. “Yes?”
I lower the sheet. “Mrs. Braunstein,” I say. “Virginia’s a nursingstudent. I’ve been in this business for twenty years. If you want, I’m sure she’d be delighted to add to her education by seeing how many centimeters you’re dilated. But if you’re in any sort of discomfort and just want to get that part of this over with, I’d be happy to accommodate you.”
“Oh!” The patient turns bright red. “I just assumed…”
That she is in charge.Because even though Virginia is ten years younger than me, she is white.
I exhale, the same way I tell my imminent mothers to exhale, and—like them—with that breath, I let the frustration go. I put a gentle hand on Mrs. Braunstein’s knee, and offer her a professional smile. “Let’s just get this baby out,” I suggest.
—
MY MAMA STILLworks for Mina Hallowell in her Upper West Side brownstone. Ever since Mr. Sam passed, it’s Ms. Mina that my mom is supposed to be helping. Her daughter, Christina, lives nearby, but has her own life. Her son, Louis, lives in London with his husband, a director in the West End. Apparently I’m the only person who finds it ironic that Mama is three yearsolderthan the woman she’s supposed to be assisting. Every time I’ve talked to my mama about retiring, though, she shrugs me off and says the Hallowells need her. I’d venture that my mama needs the Hallowells just as much, if only to feel like she still has a purpose.
My mother only has off on Sundays, and since I usually am asleep that day after a long Saturday-night shift, when I visit her it has to be at the brownstone instead. I don’t visit very often, though. I tell myself it’s because I have work or Edison or a thousand other reasons that take precedence, but in reality, it’s because a little piece of me dies every time I walk inside and see my mama in that shapeless blue uniform, with a white apron wrapped around her hips. You’d think that after all this time, Ms. Mina would just tell Mama to dress the way she likes, but no. Maybe this is the reason why, when Idovisit, I make a point of using the front entrance, with the doorman, instead of the servants’ elevator in the back of the building. There is just some perverse part of me that likes knowing I will be announced like any other guest. That the name of the maid’s daughter will be written down in a log.
Today when my mother lets me inside, she gives me a big hug. “Ruth! If this isn’t the best surprise! I just knew today was going to be a good one.”
