part one Day
Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
—Matsuo Basho
Chapter One
Once upon a time, there was a doctor who loved to run. Up at her version of dawn, she sought solace on the road before her brain was fully awake. She found rest in the movement of her legs as they kept time to the music in her playlist; she escaped into the beats of the song and away from the minutia of the everyday hum of DC life and traffic.
One could find it odd—that running gave her rest—but Diana Gallagher-Cary couldn’t explain it any other way. When her feet hit the pavement, the will to move, the direction to take, the speed at which she accomplished each step was of her own volition. She could choose to stop at Starbucks and order that delicious Frappuccino for comfort whenever things—not running—got her down. She could sprint her entire route or walk it without guilt, because running was, solely, for her.
Running also served Diana well when every step meant the difference between witnessing her job’s daily miracles or missing them entirely.
Especially today, Valentine’s Day.
The labor and delivery ward at Alexandria Specialty Hospital, a generous size at ten labor beds, was almost at capacity. Eight patients were in active labor; of the eight, two were pushing. Another patient was on her way up from the ER, hoping to usher her baby into the world on this auspicious day, or the hour that’s left of it. About ten months ago, a summer storm had knocked out power for almost twenty-four hours to most of the DC area, and tonight was the proof.
Diana’s job, as the on-call house OB, was to get babies delivered and mothers recovered in a cost-effective and timely manner.
Correction: That was Diana’s mission for all patients except for those VIPs who occupied two very exclusive combined labor, delivery, recovery, and postpartum suites, where neither expense nor effort was spared.
With her hands stuffed in gloves where her sleeves ended, her curly hair in a tight bun, and wearing decorative eyeglasses that did nothing for her except protect her eyeballs, Diana approached the woman in VIP suite #1 with practiced measure and natural confidence despite her exhaustion. The back of her neck was damp. She’d sprinted there from the emergency room a floor down, cutting through the nurses’ break room to snag a couple of lumpia from the Valentine’s potluck the night nurses had planned, changing out of a soiled scrub top, and blowing by the elevator to take the stairs in twos, which would have impressed even an Ironman. Her gaze jumped from the silver cart parked near the infant warmer that held all her sterile supplies and equipment for the delivery to the moaning patient on the bed, then to the nurse and husband standing nearby. In the background, beeping machines and the baby’s heart rate amplified through a machine’s speakers mimicked the beat of one of the dubstep songs on her running playlist.
“Hello, Senator Preston.” Diana halted at the head of the bed, where Senator Madeline Preston of Virginia rocked on her hands and knees. “I’m Dr. Cary, the OB on call. I’m covering for Dr. Bahar until he arrives; he had a bit of car trouble.”
Madeline’s hair draped over her face, and the back of her neck was exposed, shiny with sweat. Her husband, the graying lead singer of the rock band SMAK, stood to his full height at the opposite side of the bed, though his expression was like a child’s, vulnerable and disheveled despite his rugged good looks. In his hand was a cup of ice chips.
Madeline moaned. In between breaths, she said, “I don’t … want you. I … want … Dr. Bahar.”
I want him, too. Believe me. Dr. Bahar was going to owe her one. Diana plastered on a smile and through gritted teeth said, “I understand your concerns, but I promise I will do my very best to fill his shoes.” Diana kept her voice light and reassuring to mask her impatience. She hated covering for these VIP doctors; the hospital staff shouldn’t have to, with the daily census they carried on L & D. She should’ve been out there with the rest of her patients.
“They told me that since this is my first baby, I would be in labor forever. They lied.” Madeline growled and lifted her damp face. Her eyes glistened with tears. The next second, a guttural sound emerged from her throat, and her gaze seemed to focus elsewhere—inward. Another contraction.
Her husband sprung to his duties; the palm of his hand made contact with Madeline’s lower back. He dug in like a Swedish masseur, and his face contorted with effort. His sleeve tattoos wiggled as his muscles contracted and relaxed.
“Good. Breathe, Mama. And great job, Dad. That’s the way,” Diana said reflexively. She scanned the amount of fluids in the IV bag and the pattern of the baby’s heartbeat on the monitor. Nice and steady. She surveyed the suite. Unlike the rest of the rooms on the labor and delivery ward, which only accommodated mothers in labor and during their short recovery after birth, these suites were used for the entirety of a mother’s stay, from labor, to delivery, to recovery, and then postpartum. The VIP suite was also three times larger. Champagne sat in a chilled bucket on the windowsill. Off to the side was a real bed—not a pullout chair—with 1,200-count Egyptian cotton sheets for Madeline’s husband for the two nights they would stay if mom and baby progressed without complications. Currently, untouched room service with fine tableware sat on a cart in front of a love seat across from a fifty-four-inch television, which now piped soothing classical music through its speakers, a specific request outlined on Madeline’s birth plan. Through the open door to their private bathroom peeked a Jacuzzi tub and a separate stand-up shower.
Diana considered all of these amenities “wants,” but Senator Preston and her husband could afford the reservation fee for one of these astronomically expensive suites where the rich and the privileged could have their birth plans followed to a T. In the lap of luxury and comfort, this was deeply unlike the way the rest of the world’s mothers delivered their babies.
Diana tore her eyes away from the room’s details, pushing her lower-middle-class values down, and planted them back on the person—the people—who mattered: the patient and the baby she was minutes from bringing into this posh environment. Diana had joined Alexandria Specialty Hospital’s staff knowing she would be caring for patients across the spectrum of privilege; that, during call, she might have to admit and care for VIP suite patients before their exclusive, personal OB doctors arrived. It wasn’t her job to judge the excess. Outwardly judge, anyway.
“How’s it going, Lettie?” Diana approached the nurse as she readied extra sheets and towels at the corner of the room, away from the senator.
Lettie Vasquez, too, was part of the normal staff of the ward, especially assigned to this patient because of her caring demeanor (which this clientele soaked up like a sponge) and her ability to put privilege in its place (like the time when a president’s son had insisted she answer his phone calls while his wife was in labor). She was a veteran on the staff, with two decades of experience and wisdom that had helped Diana in more than one sticky situation.
Great nurses were worth their weight in gold and then some.
“Ms. Preston’s contractions are coming about a minute apart now,” Lettie said while Madeline groaned in the background. “And pretty regularly. I just checked her, and she’s ten centimeters and ready to push. Did you eat?”