constant. Orders had been given to move the hospital, so Lois and a South Vietnamese nurse, Nghuy Tran, were the only ones there. They were waiting for the last six patients to be evacuated, and then they would join the rest of the medical unit. Lois listened as Nghuy questioned the girl, understanding only an intermittent word. When Lois examined the mother-to-be, she found she’d lost a lot of blood.
“A C-section is risky,” she told Nghuy. “She’s placenta previa. She and the baby’ll die if we don’t do something.”
Without further discussion, they began to prepare for surgery. Only moments had passed before Nghuy made the incision. The girl didn’t handle the anesthetic well; her blood pressure dropped.
Even all these years later, Lois remembered the events vividly. The infant was tiny—probably less than four pounds, though they had no scale. Her cries sounded weak and far away. By the time Lois turned back to the table, the patient was dead. They tried to work on her, but the medical unit had taken most of the big equipment. Lois closed the girl’s empty brown eyes and covered her face with the cleanest thing she could find, a somewhat bloody towel. Nghuy Tran arranged with locals for burial. No one claimed to know the dead girl.
Their first mistake was naming the little brown baby. They’d called her Ruby for a nurse who’d died in the first days of Tet, the med unit’s only casualty so far. That evening Nghuy Tran found a scrawny goat outside an abandoned hut, and they’d fed the infant from a makeshift bottle. Lois had been sure they’d lose Ruby eventually, but she thrived.
When Lois prepared to rejoin her unit, she asked Nghuy Tran to take the child and find her a good home. Nghuy’s response surprised her.
“Like a stray dog, you mean? In a country where orphans starve and die on the streets, you want me to find this one a home?” Nghuy’s English was hard to understand when she was angry, but Lois caught her meaning. Nghuy said, “I thought you would take her. We should have let her die.”
Lois asked, “What should I do with her?”
Nghuy Tran turned her back and walked away. At the entrance of the tent she hesitated, looked over her shoulder, and said, “She is your daughter now. Take her with you or kill her today, before the others know about her.”
Lois had been twenty-one and in Vietnam for fifteen months. Men were pulling long stretches back then. Most of the guys who went home before their time was up traveled in a body bag. With a sinking feeling, Lois gazed at the baby sleeping in a cardboard box that once had held two-dozen bottles of Ringer’s lactate. Ruby was wrapped in a camouflage T-shirt that some soldier wouldn’t need again.
Of course a Vietnamese mother wouldn’t take her. They struggled to feed the children they had. Most South Vietnamese women had lost a father, brother, son, or husband. Women lined the backstreets of Saigon begging and selling themselves. Lois had known all that on some level, but she hadn’t connected it to the situation with Ruby until that minute.
The tent was hot. Through the open flap, Lois could see that rain threatened. Boxes sat all around her. She and Nghuy Tran had packed early that morning after the wounded were loaded into a helicopter. Nghuy wouldn’t move with the unit. She had a grandmother and a sister in Saigon to care for. Only women cared for women in Vietnam. After a moment, Lois heard the soft beat of raindrops on the tent. Then Nghuy Tran was beside her.
“We got to load up—the truck is here.”
“What about Ruby?”
Nghuy met her eyes and said softly, “Leave me a little morphine. She will feel nothing. It’s a better death than most children in this country get.”
Lois stared at the sleeping child for a long time and finally said, “I can’t.”
“Then take her with you.”
And that was that. She didn’t know how to care for the child or even if that would be possible, considering
“A C-section is risky,” she told Nghuy. “She’s placenta previa. She and the baby’ll die if we don’t do something.”
Without further discussion, they began to prepare for surgery. Only moments had passed before Nghuy made the incision. The girl didn’t handle the anesthetic well; her blood pressure dropped.
Even all these years later, Lois remembered the events vividly. The infant was tiny—probably less than four pounds, though they had no scale. Her cries sounded weak and far away. By the time Lois turned back to the table, the patient was dead. They tried to work on her, but the medical unit had taken most of the big equipment. Lois closed the girl’s empty brown eyes and covered her face with the cleanest thing she could find, a somewhat bloody towel. Nghuy Tran arranged with locals for burial. No one claimed to know the dead girl.
Their first mistake was naming the little brown baby. They’d called her Ruby for a nurse who’d died in the first days of Tet, the med unit’s only casualty so far. That evening Nghuy Tran found a scrawny goat outside an abandoned hut, and they’d fed the infant from a makeshift bottle. Lois had been sure they’d lose Ruby eventually, but she thrived.
When Lois prepared to rejoin her unit, she asked Nghuy Tran to take the child and find her a good home. Nghuy’s response surprised her.
“Like a stray dog, you mean? In a country where orphans starve and die on the streets, you want me to find this one a home?” Nghuy’s English was hard to understand when she was angry, but Lois caught her meaning. Nghuy said, “I thought you would take her. We should have let her die.”
Lois asked, “What should I do with her?”
Nghuy Tran turned her back and walked away. At the entrance of the tent she hesitated, looked over her shoulder, and said, “She is your daughter now. Take her with you or kill her today, before the others know about her.”
Lois had been twenty-one and in Vietnam for fifteen months. Men were pulling long stretches back then. Most of the guys who went home before their time was up traveled in a body bag. With a sinking feeling, Lois gazed at the baby sleeping in a cardboard box that once had held two-dozen bottles of Ringer’s lactate. Ruby was wrapped in a camouflage T-shirt that some soldier wouldn’t need again.
Of course a Vietnamese mother wouldn’t take her. They struggled to feed the children they had. Most South Vietnamese women had lost a father, brother, son, or husband. Women lined the backstreets of Saigon begging and selling themselves. Lois had known all that on some level, but she hadn’t connected it to the situation with Ruby until that minute.
The tent was hot. Through the open flap, Lois could see that rain threatened. Boxes sat all around her. She and Nghuy Tran had packed early that morning after the wounded were loaded into a helicopter. Nghuy wouldn’t move with the unit. She had a grandmother and a sister in Saigon to care for. Only women cared for women in Vietnam. After a moment, Lois heard the soft beat of raindrops on the tent. Then Nghuy Tran was beside her.
“We got to load up—the truck is here.”
“What about Ruby?”
Nghuy met her eyes and said softly, “Leave me a little morphine. She will feel nothing. It’s a better death than most children in this country get.”
Lois stared at the sleeping child for a long time and finally said, “I can’t.”
“Then take her with you.”
And that was that. She didn’t know how to care for the child or even if that would be possible, considering
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