Between Suits and Scrubs

1. Breathe with me. Youre doing so good.

The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, soft buzzing of machines in the background. Noise that my brain had completely adjusted to. As I sat writing notes in my office in the delivery suite, I could hear the screams of a labouring patient down the hall.

I could tell it was time for her to start pushing.

Jotting down the last medication for a patient, I left the note on my desk, knowing one of the nurses would take it from there.

Walking down the hallway, I heard the screams grow louder. Being in labour, bringing a child into the world was difficult, scary, yet so beautiful.

I remember being slightly traumatised from the first time I saw a lady give birth, back when I was still a medical student, until I realised how amazing it was for the female body to be capable of that.

Women were just so amazing, so strong.

"Dr. Ayra," Nurse Leena came jogging up to me. "Patient is in active labour. Fully dilated. Ready to push."

I nodded, scrubbing in before rushing to the delivery room where my patient lay whimpering in pain. "Lisa, you're doing so great. Hang in there, okay? You're going to have your baby in your arms very soon." I told her gently.

My eyes scanned the monitors. Vitals stable, fetal heart reassuring. Then I did a quick vaginal exam. Cervix fully effaced and dilated.

"Okay, Lisa, you're going to push when you feel a contraction, okay?" I said.

I had scrubbed into multiple deliveries before, but every birth was different, every mother unique, and every second mattered.

The patient gripped the side rails, beads of sweat on her forehead, a mixture of pain and anticipation in her eyes. The monitor beeped steadily; the baby's heart rate was strong. I adjusted my stance, gloved hands ready, sterile drapes in place.

"Breathe with me. You're doing so good." I encouraged, placing my hand on her knee.

I guided her breathing: inhale, exhale, push. Inhale, exhale, push. The room was a choreography of focus and teamwork: the nurse passed instruments without me needing to ask, the attending physician observed quietly, allowing me the responsibility while ready to intervene.

And then, there it was. The first crowning.

A moment both exhilarating and terrifying.

I guided the perineum with my hand, applying gentle pressure to prevent tearing.

The baby's head emerged, slick with amniotic fluid, and I felt the surge of adrenaline I'd always loved.

Another push, and the tiny shoulders slipped free.

And the baby was finally there.

"I need to clear the airway." I instructed softly, gently suctioning the mouth and nose. A cry erupted, loud and commanding, a sound that never failed to make my heart swell with emotion.

I quickly clamped and cut the cord, placing the newborn on the mother's chest. Warmth, relief, and awe filled the room. The mother's tears mixed with laughter.

"Congratulations," I smiled. "You did so good."

Soon after, the placenta was delivered as well. As the nurses cleaned the baby, I examined the mother for any lacerations, checked uterine tone, and administered oxytocin to encourage contraction.

After the family settled, I moved to the ward, shifting from the high-intensity delivery room to the rhythm of patient rounds.

My stethoscope swung around my neck as I entered the postpartum wing.

Mothers recovering from cesareans, inductions, and natural deliveries looked up as I walked by, a mix of exhaustion and relief etched across their faces.

First stop: Mrs. Lewis, day two post-cesarean, complaining of mild incisional discomfort. I palpated the abdomen gently, feeling for tenderness, checking the incision site for redness or signs of infection. I instructed her on wound care, ambulation, and pain management.

Next, I checked vitals and fetal heart monitors for a few patients still in late labor induction. The subtle shifts in heart rates and contractions kept me alert; one slight deceleration could require immediate intervention.

By mid-morning, I was juggling medications, patient education, and counseling anxious mothers on breastfeeding. Each interaction reminded me why I had chosen this path—the gratitude in a patient's eyes, the trust placed in my hands, the delicate balance of authority and empathy.

As I sat back in my office, nurse Lena walked in. "Dr. Ayra, the OB-GYN consults are here for review, and the new patient admissions are ready."

I nodded, scurrying outside immediately. The day was long and exhausting as always, but I was still immensely grateful to be able to do what I loved. Between the beeping monitors, the rhythmic breathing, and the tiny cries of newborns, I felt alive in a way I couldn't anywhere else.

Later that evening, I sat back in my office going through patient files, when an announcement had my ears perk up.

"Dr. Ayra, you're required in the ER stat!"

I dropped the file I was working on and jolted out of my seat, running to the ER.

"What's wrong?" I inquired as I reached there.

"Patient's a G1P0, with severe pre-eclampsia. BP is 190/120. Proteinuria 3+. Fetal heart rate dropping." The nurse explained.

My pulse spiked, but my voice remained calm. "Call the senior obstetrician. Give the patient oxygen, and gain IV access immediately. Prepare antihypertensives."

Everyone got to work instantly. I watched the mother trembling, her face pale. Her vitals monitor beeped erratically, her blood pressure dangerously high, and fetal heart tracing showing variable decelerations.

I neared her. "Mrs. Rowan, I'm Dr. Ayra Laurent. I'm going to take care of you with my team. You and your baby are going to be fine."

The nurse set up the IV line while I checked the magnesium sulfate infusion, making sure the loading dose would run without error. I ordered a stat dose of labetalol to control her blood pressure. Her vitals fluctuated, and the fetal heart monitor beeped a warning: prolonged deceleration.

"Fetal distress," I called, scanning the tracing. "We're going to need an emergency C-section. Prep the OR now. Team, move quickly."

The room shifted into controlled chaos. Nurses moved with precision; anesthesiology confirmed readiness. I spoke to the mother as we rolled her down the corridor. "We're taking you to surgery. You're in good hands. The baby is fine, but we need to act fast."

In the OR, I scrubbed in while mentally mapping out the procedure. The incision, the uterus, the risks—everything was second nature, though the stakes were high. My hands worked with deliberate precision as we opened the abdomen, and I visualized the baby's position, anticipating complications.

Soon enough, the baby's cry filled the room, and I let out a sigh of relief.

The baby was handed over to the neonatal team, while I discarded my gloves and gown.

"Excellent work, Dr. Ayra." The note of appreciation from my attending filled my heart with glee.

I walked out with slightly shaky legs, wiping sweat off my brow. It was scary, the intensity of managing a life and death situation in such a short window.

In my office, my eyes fell on the clock. My call was about to end soon. The day had been crazy busy.

Little did I know, my life was about to become far more chaotic. It was about to enter a territory far beyond scrubs, emergencies and deliveries.