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.
“Dolor mucho?” 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 that puta does not mean push.
It means . . . bad things.
Yenisley’s eyes widen at me, and the dad sputters, “What did she say?”
“She means empuje,” I whisper.
From the back of the room, the patient’s mother cackles in laughter. “Gringa tonta!”
Carol’s face floods with red.
I shake my head and laugh while I encourage her, “Come on, Yenisley, push!”
A squealing baby slides out, squished and stunned, but cute despite that.
As I’m finishing up the repair, the dad slaps his hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, Doc. I have to say, I wasn’t too sure when
Yenisley picked you, but you’ve been awesome.”
My gut reaction is to brush it off—after all, I did what any doctor would do under the same circumstances—but then I stop
myself. Can’t keep succumbing to these pathologic thought processes. I allow myself a moment to truly consider what he said.
You’ve been awesome.
And hang on. Is that—pride? In my chest?
I shoot him a smile. “It’s my pleasure. Congratulations.”
This is what Joss meant about mental snapshots. Every good thing that happens to you—snapshot.
The doting parents pay me no mind as I finish and clean up. With a quick congratulations, I slip out of the room to check
on my C-section patient.
On the way, I pass Dr. Isaacs—a well-respected urogynecologist—walking with Dr. White.
I lift my chin in greeting. Isaacs either doesn’t see me or he’s an asshole because he walks by without even looking my way.
Dr. Dillhole. Dr. White, however, slows to talk to me, and I inwardly cringe.
This man should be my mentor, but instead he’s a thing I
have to endure. His wrinkled face always cracks into a smile like I’m his buddy, but he treats me like a naughty child.
“You hear that Murphy got herself knocked up?” he asks, referring to one of our female call partners.
I’d heard mutterings that Dr. Murphy and her husband were trying, but not that they were successful. “Really? That’s great!”
He subtly rolls his eyes. “Yeah, great we’ll be taking her call while she’s on vacation.”
I pause. Is maternity leave a vacation, though?
“She’s the feely-good emotional type.” He titters. “Her patients’ll love you. Probably be flocking to you when she’s out.”
Because I’m also the feely-good emotional type? How am I supposed to take this? I settle on a laugh. “Yeah . . .”
“Lucky you, eh?” He claps me on the shoulder and walks away, chuckling.
The lead vest of inadequacy settles over me. Tums. Where did I leave them?
Wait, no. I force myself to channel Joss-energy. This doesn’t matter. Let it roll off. No snapshot here.
In the post-anesthesia unit, Malika’s just coming to. “Malika, can you hear me?” Jocelyn asks her.
“Stop yelling!” Malika shouts and thrashes in the bed.
“Okay,” Joss says in a quieter voice. “You’re in the hospital.”
“I know that, bitch!” Malika’s eyes open and she yanks at the wires connecting her to the monitors before the nurses stop her. “Get your hands off me!”
Whoa. What the hell? Malika’s combative while the dad stands off to the side, wide-eyed with a bundled baby in hand.
“Malika, it’s Doctor Foley.” I touch her ankle over the blanket. “You had a beautiful baby boy.”
“Yeah, with a big fucking nose!” she snaps.
“Ha!” Jocelyn squawks before throwing a hand over her mouth. “I mean—” She gives a fake and halfhearted gasp.
I can’t stop myself from snorting. She’s a terrible actress. “What’s going on?”
She leans closer and whispers, “Ketamine makes you mean. And honest.”
The father looks half scared, half concerned. “Is she okay?”
Joss nods. “She’s fine. It’s the anesthesia. Give her a minute.”
After a few more outbursts, Malika calms enough that she asks to hold her baby. A smile erases the angry lines on her forehead.
“Such a sweet baby.” She turns to me, still mostly drugged. “You are the best. Look what you gave me.”
Did we all hear that? I’m the best. The best.
Another snapshot.
“Nah.” I jiggle her shoulder. “You did all the work.”
Feels good. Really good. Mood has moved solidly to the terrific range. As I leave Joss to finish up, I chuckle to myself. Two in one day. Who’d have thought? I’m halfway to the elevator
when that resident, Gabriela, hurries up to me.
“Doctor Foley,” she says. “Before you leave, one of your patients is in triage. Twenty-seven weeks, and . . . well, she has
a bar of soap stuck in her vagina.”
My steps falter, and I turn to look at her. No way did I hear that correctly. “What?”
Gabriela’s apple cheeks bunch with her smile. “I know it’s ludicrous, but I can’t get it out. It keeps breaking apart.”
I’ll definitely be late, but this I have to see. I spin on my heel and follow her to the triage bay. When we enter the room,
the patient hides her face behind her hands. “Oh, my god. I’m so embarrassed.”
I sit in the chair at her bedside. “What happened, Leah?”
She peeks out from between her fingers. “It’s getting so hard to clean down there! I couldn’t see, and I guess I got too aggressive?”
“Too aggressive?”
She throws her hands in the air. “It just got sucked up there.”
“What did?”
With a building giggle, she places one hand over her eyes. “A bar of Irish Spring.”
A bar of Irish Spring. Sucked up into her vagina. What kind of turbo suction does she got on that thing? It takes everything—everything—in me not to laugh with her. “Okay. Let’s see what we can do.”
With Gabriela beside me, we try everything. Everything. All I manage to do is create a giant soapy mess between her legs.
Eventually, the patient disintegrates into laughter so hard, it’s silent. And that—full-on belly laughter—is what finally
pushes everything out of her vagina.
“Hey, look!” I say as it plops into the bucket beneath the bed. “It’s a girl.”
Eyes glistening with elated tears, Leah meets my gaze. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re my doctor right now. Can
you imagine if that had been Doctor White?”
Dr. White. The guy Mrs. Mulaney trusted more than me to help her pee. The guy who refused to assist me with my difficult C-section. The guy who low-key gaslights me into thinking I’m a bad doctor.
Welp. Score’s even, bucko. And that’s another snapshot.
I am totally winning today.
“I didn’t really do anything,” I say. “Should I be cliché and say that laughter is clearly the best medicine?”
It’s not even funny, but I think Leah is beyond that now. The laughter has invaded her entire person. Her continued apologies
slur around giggles.
“You’re fine,” I say as I wash my hands, joining in her amusement. “That isn’t even the weirdest thing I’ve pulled from a
vagina.”
“Oh, god. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
She really doesn’t.
“Well, that was an adventure,” Gabriela says afterward.
I chuckle-nod while texting my temporary MA.
Will be super late to office today
Vagina emergency
Thanks
Sigh. Miss Talia. Her replacement is boring.
Settling at a computer in the empty dictation room, I tap my badge to unlock LEGENDARY. Gabriela sits at the computer next
to me. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I glance over my shoulder. No one’s there, but I do a double take at Gabriela,
who’s making eyes at me.
She gives me a tentative smile. “Your patients adore you.”
They do. I’ve always known this. Just . . . forgot. So maybe it’s okay that I bring a little more fun to the whole endeavor.
The serious ones can find a different doctor.
Wish they didn’t feel like they had to, though.