Here we go.
* * *
Diana followed her boss, Dr. Aziza Sarris, two floors up, to her sparse office, where Aziza tossed her keys, wallet, and phone on the desk. She had said nothing to Diana on the walk, which was a slight relief. Diana wasn’t one for small talk, and she needed a moment to review her night, for what was likely to be an inquisition.
Aziza gestured to one of her chairs. As Diana sat, Aziza perched on her desk. Behind her was the open expanse of Alexandria, the tops of buildings, and the pink glow of sunrise. Yet, despite the peaceful scene depicted behind her, her pinched expression told a different story.
At sixty, Aziza had not cared for patients in more than a decade, but she still exuded a maternal, yet professional, nature. She wore her hair in a low, loose bun, always with a strand out of place. Despite the late—or early—hour, she wore her standard cardigan with a colorful lanyard around her neck adorned with bling: pins of her years in medical service, her service organizations, and a select few Disney characters.
Diana spotted a framed picture on the wall of the current hospital staff OBs: herself, Aziza, Dr. Clay Pritchard, and Dr. Justina Folds. She released a breath, remembering that they were a team, and a special one at that. It had been easy for Diana to join the hospital staff because of Aziza, and frankly because of Clay and Justina, too. They were professionals, respectful, ethical. And they actually liked one another.
Moreover, they each truly cared for patients’ well-being, appreciated new theories in medicine, and were unafraid of testing the waters. But each was equally careful. Pathophysiology was sometimes ruthless, and stories of careless doctors abounded. Much like a wild child in a group of siblings, there seemed to be a reckless doctor in every department, but not in Alexandria Specialty’s OB staff. Four out of four were, hands down, rule followers. For the most part.
“Thanks for staying after a long night, but I feel like we need to get together to discuss some next steps.” Aziza clasped her hands in front of her, shoulders rounding. Like a mother readying her child for her punishment, her voice was steady, firm. Her dark eyes were steadfast and penetrating.
Diana sat up a little straighter in her chair, and her heart beat a steady drum of dread. “Next steps?”
“Yes, Diana. Because what the hell were you thinking?” Aziza’s expression hardened. The wrinkles between her eyebrows deepened.
Diana inhaled through her nose and bolstered herself. Then she recounted the night to Aziza’s unflinching expression.
“I’d do it again,” she told Aziza. “I don’t have any regrets.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Diana, but you postponed a delivery tonight.”
“Winter Storm wasn’t sure she was even in labor, Aziza. Francesca Smith’s case was emergent.”
Aziza leaned back, face softening. “I’m not questioning your priorities, Diana. It’s about you following the policies and procedures. The facilities and the equipment …”
“Were used for a patient I determined wasn’t stable enough to be transferred out. I mean, the room was technically open.” But at her mentor’s frown, she acquiesced. “I’m sorry, I am. But it’s fixable. I mean, it’s already fixed. In a couple of hours, more patients will deliver. Even more will get discharged. Space will open up on the postpartum floor. At most, Winter Storm will have been put off by eighteen hours. I spoke to her myself last night. I also spoke to her physician, who confirmed that she is still not in labor, Aziza.”
“She might have said she understood.” As if relenting, Aziza sat down in a chair across from Diana.
Now at eye level, Diana saw that the displeasure in her mentor’s eyes was actually disappointment.
“What do you mean?”
“It means that she made a call that quickly climbed up the chain, to the CEO of the hospital. Additionally, we have a nonpayer in our books occupying the most expensive room in this building.”
A burn started in Diana’s chest. She hated the subject of money; financial considerations were the reality, yes, but they always settled in her belly like a brick. Having grown up poor and now with a best friend who served a disadvantaged population, Diana had a perspective that at times collided with the current state of insurance laws. Times like right now.
“There’s more.” Aziza took her phone out of her pocket, thumbed it on. She handed it to Diana. The screen was on Facebook, to a Rachel Lam’s profile, which had been set to public. A picture had been uploaded, of her holding a baby. The pair looked serene, with the newborn in a onesie and knit cap. The mom wore a faded blue gown with pink and blue stripes: Alexandria Specialty’s. Rachel held the baby against her chest, her nose on the top of the baby’s head.
But the caption above the photo was long, protracted. Diana squinted at the screen to read it.
Whose life is more important than yours?
Does money make you better than the other person?
When did our society get so out of hand that we’ve now segregated, from birth, the haves and the have-nots?
“The Lam family is still here,” Aziza said. “Apparently, despite the staff’s best efforts, news spread quickly on the ward that the newest transfer was going to a VIP room. Mr. and Mrs. Lam didn’t realize we had one, and it seems the rest of their friends, and their friends’ friends didn’t know, either. Her post went viral.”
Diana scrolled down to the users who’d commented on the post. They were a mix of supporters and naysayers. Of those who understood the necessity to separate high-profile patients for their own privacy, and those who questioned the state of the country’s health-care crisis.
“I agree this doesn’t look good, but I didn’t do this.” Diana started, then held her tongue to keep from saying she agreed, that transparency in health care had a long way to go. This wasn’t the time.
“In a roundabout way, you did. Your break with policy did this.”
“It’s social media. It’ll blow over. As if people don’t know that more private services exist. Beyoncé, Kim Kardashian, Meghan Markle—they can’t go just anywhere to have babies, or else they’d be mobbed by paparazzi.” Diana all but rolled her eyes. The shift ended in a good outcome, and it was ridiculous that social media had a part in this conversation. Sleep tugged from inside her, and she wanted to go home, now more than ever. “What happens now?”
“We have yet to see how this plays out. You were not negligent, but the fact of the matter is that we have been named, Diana. The hospital, the VIP ward. You made a sound medical decision. Frankly, you probably saved that baby’s life, but by doing the right thing, you might have exposed something none of us wants to be associated with—even if we do it—and that’s serving the rich,” Aziza said. “Now people are going to be curious. Not only curious, but the question will be asked—who has the right to special treatment?”
Everyone, was Diana’s first thought. But this wasn’t a philosophical debate.
“What does this mean for me? The bottom line.” There was a reason why she was here, alone, with Aziza. Something was up.
Silence had descended like a thick waterfall around them. In the pause, the words of the HR documents she’d read regarding actions against breaking policy materialized in her head.