Jeffrey retraced his steps through the surgical lounge and down the OR corridor and pushed through the connecting door that led to the delivery area. The decor there was a welcome antidote to the stark utilitarian tile of the OR. The individual delivery rooms may have been as sterile, but the delivery area and labor rooms were painted in pastels, with framed
Impressionist prints on the walls. The windows even had curtains. The feeling was more like a hotel than a major urban hospital.
Jeffrey went to the main desk and inquired about his patient.
“Patty Owen is in fifteen,” a tall, handsome black woman said. Her name was
Monica Carver, and she was the nursing supervisor for the evening shift.
Jeffrey leaned over the desk, thankful for the momentary rest. “How’s she doing?” he asked.
“Just fine,” Monica said. “But it’s going to be awhile. Her contractions aren’t strong or frequent, and she’s only dilated four centimeters.”
Jeffrey nodded. He would have preferred to have things further along. It was standard practice to wait until the patient had dilated six centimeters to put in an epidural. Monica handed Jeffrey Patty’s chart. He went through it quickly. There wasn’t much there. The woman was obviously healthy. At least that was good.
“I’ll have a chat with her,” Jeffrey said, “then I’ll be back in the OR. If something changes, give me a page.”
“Sure thing,” Monica said cheerfully.
Jeffrey started down toward room fifteen. About halfway down the hall he got another intestinal cramp. He had to stop and lean against the wall until it passed. What a nuisance, he thought. When he felt well enough, he continued to room fifteen and knocked. A pleasant voice told him to come in.
“I’m Dr. Jeffrey Rhodes,” Jeffrey said, extending his hand. “I’ll be your anesthesiologist.”
Patty Owen grasped his outstretched hand. Her palm was
damp, her fingers cold. She appeared considerably younger than twenty-four.
Her hair was blond and her wide eyes looked like those of a vulnerable child. Jeffrey could tell the woman was frightened.
“Am I glad to see you!” Patty said, not willing to let go of Jeffrey’s hand immediately. “I want to tell you straight off that I’m a coward. I’m really not very good with pain.”
“I’m sure we can help you,” Jeffrey said reassuringly.
“I want an epidural,” Patty said. “My doctor said I could have it.”
“I understand,” Jeffrey said, “and have it you will. Everything is going to be fine. We have a lot of deliveries here at the Boston Memorial. We’ll take good care of you and after all is said and done, you’ll wonder why you were so apprehensive in the first place.”
“Really?” Patty asked.
“If we didn’t have so many happy customers, do you think so many women would be coming back a second, a third, or even fourth time?”
Patty smiled wanly.
Jeffrey spent another quarter hour with her, questioning her about her health and allergies. He sympathized with her when she told him her husband was out of town on a business trip. Her familiarity with epidural anesthesia surprised him. She confided that not only had she read about it, her sister had had it for her two deliveries. Jeffrey explained why he wouldn’t be giving her the epidural immediately. When he told her that she could get some Demerol in the meantime if she wanted it, Patty relaxed.
Before leaving her, Jeffrey reminded her that any drugs she got, the baby got. Then he told her again there was no reason to worry; she was in good hands.
Coming out of Patty’s labor room and suffering through another intestinal cramp, Jeffrey realized he would have to take more drastic steps against his own symptoms if he was to get through Patty’s delivery. Despite the paregoric, he was feeling progressively worse.
Passing back through the connecting doors to the OR suite, Jeffrey returned to the anesthesia alcove next to the OR, where he’d spent most of the day.
The room was empty and probably wouldn’t be used again until the following morning.
Glancing up and down the OR corridor to make sure the coast was clear,
Jeffrey pulled the drape closed. Although bed finally