Chapter 6 - The Ghost of Delivery Room Four
The physical recovery from a hysterectomy is a slow, tedious negotiation with one's own muscles. Every movement—sitting up, reaching for a cup of water, clearing one's throat—requires a deliberate, conscious calculation.
On the fifth day after my surgery, they pulled the urinary catheter, and the nurse told me it was time to walk.
"Just to the door, Dr. Grant," she said, her voice gentle, her hand resting on my shoulder. "We don't need any marathons today."
My mother was there, standing by the window, her hands tucked into the pockets of her grey wool cardigan. She didn't offer to help me. She knew, as I did, that the only way to reclaim my body was to do it myself, step by painful step.
I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress. The movement sent a sharp, hot wire of pain through my lower abdomen, and for a second, the grey light of the room tilted, the edges of my vision turning black.
"Breathe," my mother said from the window. "Don't hold your breath, Amelia. Your pelvic floor needs the oxygen."
I took a slow, deep breath, letting my feet touch the cold linoleum floor. The hospital slippers were thin, offering no support against the hard, uncaring surface. I stood up.
The weight of my own body felt immense, as if the gravity in Room 412 had been doubled. My abdominal muscles felt like wet paper, incapable of holding me upright, but the wide, elastic surgical binder kept me from falling apart.
I took one step. Then another.
By the time I reached the doorway, my gown was damp with cold sweat, and my breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. I rested my hand against the wooden doorframe, looking out into the hallway.
The maternal-infant wing was quiet. A nurse was pushing a bassinet containing a sleeping newborn down the hall, the tiny, clear plastic tub squeaking softly on the polished floor.
Further down the corridor, behind the heavy, double-paned glass of the neonatal intensive care unit, the blue lights of the phototherapy units glowed like small, artificial stars.
"He's doing well today," a voice said from behind me.
I turned slowly, my hand still resting on the doorframe. Dr. Arispe, the Chief of Obstetrics, stood there. She was a short, round woman of sixty, with a warm, maternal face and hands that had delivered half the babies in this city. She wore her green surgical scrubs, a paper mask hanging beneath her chin like a second collar.
"I just came from the NICU," she said, her eyes soft as she looked at me. "Teddy’s bilirubin levels are dropping. They’ve taken him off the IV fluids. He’s taking formula from a bottle now."
"Can I see him?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"Not today, Amelia," she said, her hand coming down on mine where it rested against the wood. "Your white count is still slightly elevated, and we need to keep your incision dry. But tomorrow... tomorrow we’ll get you into a wheelchair and we’ll go down together."
She looked at my mother, then back at me, her expression turning serious.
"I’ve been asked to give a deposition to the medical board on Friday," she said. "About the events in Delivery Room Four."
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"And what are you going to tell them, Sylvia?" my mother asked, stepping forward from the window.
"I’m going to tell them the truth," Dr. Arispe said. "I’m going to tell them that when I walked into that room, Cameron Grant was standing by the window with his arms crossed, watching his wife bleed to death while his intern was holding a medication tray that should never have been on the floor. I’m going to tell them that in thirty years of practice, I have never seen a more flagrant, deliberate failure of clinical responsibility."
