Nick
“You hanging in there, Siobhan?”
“I-I think so,” her voice trembles. Despite her excruciating headache that reduced her to tears less than an hour ago, she’s holding remarkably still, curled on her side. “Are you getting close?”
“Yes, ma’am. Almost there.” I carefully advance the Tuohy needle through the tough fibers and ligature of her back. “Lots and lots of pressure.”
“I just had a baby, Dr. Crawford. This is not lots and lots of pressure.”
I chuckle. “I guess I wouldn’t exactly know, huh?”
Millimeter by millimeter, I maneuver the sharp instrument, my fingertips hyperfocused for a subtle change in pressure.
Unlike many areas of medicine, anesthesiology demands a level of trust in what isn’t visible.
We have to navigate through anatomy—sometimes with imperfections—and make crucial decisions based solely on our instincts and experience.
The change is almost imperceptible, but after thousands of procedures, I recognize the loss of resistance immediately, indicating I’m in the right spot.
“Perfect.” I hold the needle steady while Siobhan's delivery nurse, Larissa, draws a vial of blood from her arm.
A few moments later, I slowly inject it into the epidural space, careful not to rush the process.
“And this patches the leak?” the new mom asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” Larissa answers. “The clotting abilities in your blood will create a scab over wherever the leak is.”
“Wow,” Siobhan hums.
“Pretty neat, huh?” I remove the needle and control her bleeding. “Your body is doing all the hard work. I’m simply giving it a nudge in the right direction.”
Dimming the lights, Larissa and I ease Siobhan onto her back, adjusting her blankets and fluffing her pillows. She settles into the mattress, her eyes closed. The tension that had been etched across her face earlier has finally begun to fade.
“How’s that headache now?” I ask, signing into the computer to make some notes.
“You're a miracle worker, Dr. Crawford.”
“Don’t tell him that,” Larissa jokes. “He has a big enough head as is.”
“What can I say?” I shrug. “My God-complex doesn’t fuel itself.”
I spend the next several minutes discussing activity restrictions and pain management with Siobhan. Before I can finish, a call light connected to Larissa's pager chirps. She glances down at it and sighs. “It’s my other patient. I'll be right back.”
“Take your time. I’m in good hands.” Siobhan softly laughs, her eyes still closed.
The room falls silent for a brief moment as I finish charting, the gentle tapping of keystrokes rhythmic and comforting.
As I sign-out of the computer system, a soft whimper rises from the bassinet in the corner.
I raise an eyebrow, hoping this baby will self-sooth.
But what starts as soft grunts quickly turns into fussy cries.
Well, shit.
“Can you pass him to me?” Siobhan asks, her words defeated.
“Are you kidding me?” I snark, stepping toward the crib. “You need to stay flat on your back.”
His tiny face is an impressive shade of red. “H-Hey, buddy,” I say softly as I tenderly rub his belly. “Shhh, it’s okay.”
Suddenly, the whimpers turn to wails, his arms working their way from his swaddle.
I remove his blanket and check his diaper, but nothing appears to be physically irritating him.
Goddamnit. Tell me what you want, little dude. Please?
“I’m afraid he might be a cuddler, Dr. Crawford,” Shiobhan quietly informs me from her bed. “If you bring him over her—”
“No, no,” I reassure her. “You need to rest. I’ve got this.”
I think.
Where the hell is Larissa?
I stare at the infant for a beat. Before I overthink it, I gently cradle his head and lift him from the bassinet. Laying him against my chest, I grab his soft, pale blue blanket to tuck him under my chin and begin walking with him.
His cries quickly lose steam, his fists unclenching as he nestles against my shoulder.
“Okay … yeah … there we go,” I murmur, gently swaying. “Hey, little man. It’s okay now. It’s okay now. Sometimes we just need to be held, huh?”
Inhaling his newborn smell, I count his tiny fingers curling around the neck of my scrub top.
So innocent, so helpless, so in need of love and guidance.
All I can think about is Grady at this age, all the versions of him I will never get to experience.
Ever since I met him a few days ago, my mind has focused on the big milestones.
First steps. First words. First foods. Holding this newborn reminds me of the moments that we don’t measure.
The moments in-between. The moments that feel ordinary, yet they seem to be more important than the firsts—not because they carry greater weight, but because they represent time lost.
I wasn’t there when he fussed in his bassinet.
I wasn’t there when he needed me to hold him.
I wasn’t there when he needed reassurance he wasn’t alone in this world.
“You’re a natural, Dr. Crawford.” Shiobhan softly snickers from her bed. “Please tell me you babysit.”
I chuckle, rocking her newborn. “I’ll leave you my card.”
“Do you have any children?”
The question catches me off guard, but something inside my chest swells as the corner of my mouth curls. “Actually, I do. I have a son.”
“What?” Larissa rejoins us, shutting the door behind her. “How did I not know this?”
Welcome to the party.
“It’s a long story.” I offer a cordial smile, hoping she’ll drop it. At this point, I don’t know what to tell people. I don’t even know what I am willing to share—if anything at all. I already know what people will think. Irresponsible. Low-life. Deadbeat.
At that moment, my phone vibrates in my pocket. My eyebrows furrow, seeing Tiffany’s name flash across the screen. “‘Scuse me, ladies.” I chuff, handing the newborn to Larissa. “I need to take this.”
***
“You have arrived.”
After parking my truck, I turn off the navigation and rest my hands on the steering wheel for a minute.
Pinehurst Elementary School reminds me of the private school I attended growing up.
The exterior aesthetic is clean and manicured.
Red brick with fresh flowers and beautiful low-lying trees frame the building, creating an inviting atmosphere.
A tall wrought-iron fence circles the perimeter of the school, enclosing several grassy play areas scattered with swing sets, slides, and monkey bars.
Beyond them sits a basketball court decorated with painted handprints, alongside designated spaces for hopscotch and four square that brighten the blacktop with splashes of color.
This looks like a good school—at least, I think it is.
Chelsea works here, and she and Julian send their girls here, which feels like a solid endorsement from two people I thoroughly trust. I've never exactly spent much time thinking about school districts or test scores, but I find myself wondering whether this is a good fit for Grady.
Tiffany called me, frantic and crying. Grady was involved in an altercation with several other students during recess, which surprised me because it didn't sound like the gentle kid I met a few days ago.
The school requires a parent or guardian to pick him up immediately, but Tiffany couldn't get away from work.
Fortunately, I was in a position to have another physician cover my OB shift, so after she spoke with the front office, we arranged for me to pick him up instead.
This can’t be that complicated.
Walking through the double doors, I’m met by a police officer—or possibly a defensive lineman for the Houston Texans. He's huge, at least half a foot taller than me with a frame that makes my six-foot-two feel average, and he easily has a hundred pounds on me.
“ID, sir,” his voice rumbles.
“Oh, uh … sure. But actually, I’m not staying. I’m here to pick up my son.”
“Still need an ID.”
“For what?”
“To get past me.”
“Right … of course.” Good grief, Barney Fife. I pull out my wallet from my back pocket and flip it open to reveal a clear insert that holds my driver’s license. “Here you go.”
“Remove it for me.”
I blink.
I flash him a smile—that is anything but friendly—and try to remove the card.
I pinch, wiggle, and pull, but my identification is wedged so tightly inside the plastic sleeve that it refuses to budge.
Determined, I shove my fingers deeper into the wallet and tug harder with no avail.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” I ask, holding the wallet open.
“You can clearly see my ID through this little window.”
“I need to see both sides of your ID, sir,” he says dryly.
“I’m just trying to pick up my son.”
“And you can do that after I verify who you are.”
“But you can see through the plastic. That’s why it’s there.” I huff as I continue wrestling with the license. “I feel like we're creating obstacles where obstacles don't need to exist.”
The officer's expression doesn't change.
I grumble, gripping and pulling harder. “Apparently, I look like a child abductor—”
“Sir!” The officer jumps from his chair, his hand on his holster. “I should detain you right now! We take the safety of our students very seriously.” He breathes heavily, trying to—and successfully—intimidate me. “This is your first and only warning about joking like that inside this building.”
I nervously nod, focusing my attention to my wallet—and not on the fact that Paul Blart just threatened to arrest me. Finally, I manage to dislodge my driver’s license from its plastic prison and hand it over to the officer.
Except I wasn’t prepared for the foil packets that were lodged behind my ID to slip loose and fall out on the desk.The room falls silent as three condoms slide across the desk and come to rest beside my driver's license.
The cops dark eyes study the condoms before glaring up at me, letting out a deep sigh.
I’m not shy when it comes to sex and protection—at least, not before this moment. A swirl of heat snakes up my neck as I nervously chuckle. “Can never be too safe, am I right?” I punctuate the statement with a fingergun.