an hour later, I was working with a patient in Delivery Room Two when Myra stuck her head in to announce that our tuberculous transfer was ready to have her baby. “Take her into Room One,” I yelled, gesturing with my head. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
I delivered and sutured at double time, ripped off my gown and gloves, and ran toward Delivery Room One. As I got to the door, I heard the unmistakable howl of a newborn infant. “God damn!” I muttered. “Too late.”
I walked into the room and froze in disbelief. The woman was up in the delivery position, and the baby was wrapped in a blanket and lying in the bassinet near the window. Between the patient’s legs was my rotund wife in the process of catching the placenta in a basin as the woman pushed it out of her vagina.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
Myra jumped as though goosed. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, her voice just a bit shakier than usual. I noticed that her hands were shaking too. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”
“But why you? Why didn’t you get help?”
“Who from?” Myra snapped. “The other guys are still doing that section, and you were in the middle of your delivery. After I told you she was ready, I put her up in the stirrups and washed her so you’d be able to just run in and deliver her. But she didn’t wait. She started to push the kid out; all I did was keep it slow and smooth. Thank God, the baby was in good shape. I put it in the bassinet, head down, and then I came back and caught the placenta when it fell out of her. I figured that was better than just standing there and letting her deliver with no help at all.”
It all struck me as logical, but not quite kosher. “Why didn’t you call Mrs. White?” I asked, simultaneously wondering where the nurse was.
As if for answer, Myra pointed toward Delivery Room Three. “Are you kidding?” she said with a little laugh. “She can’t do two at a time either.”
The dialogue was brought to an abrupt conclusion by a piercing shriek from the hallway. I ran out to find the inhabitant of one of the stretchers with her knees pulled up to her chest, alternately screaming hysterically and grunting like an eighty-year-old who hasn’t had a bowel movement for a month. As I charged over, she grabbed me by the arm and shook me so that my teeth rattled. “Helpa me, helpa me,” she implored wildly.
Simultaneously trying to free myself from her grasp and pull back the twisted sheet from her abdomen, I finally managed to get the baby, which was lying between her legs, almost totally immersed in a puddle of amniotic fluid. As I pulled the infant out by his feet, he gurgled, choked, and turned even bluer than he had been to start with. Since he was still attached by the umbilical cord, my mobility was severely limited. “Get me an emergency tray!” I howled at the top of my lungs. “Quick!”
Almost before the echoes had died down in the hallway, both Myra and Mrs. White were standing there, each holding an emergency delivery kit. I took one—I’m still not sure which—cut the baby free from his mother, and I sucked out what looked like a gallon of amniotic fluid from his nose, throat, and chest. To my immense relief, the kid turned pink, and let out a properly enraged howl.
After all the babies had been wrapped and sent to the nursery and their mothers had been taken down from the delivery stirrups, I slumped into the nearest chair. “Gawd,” I mumbled. “What next?”
Another shriek from the hallway cut through the air. Simultaneously, I heard Mrs. White’s always-calm voice: “Dr. Karp, come quick.”
I got up running.
A deficiency of ancillary personnel is, of course, a relative matter, and since the early 1960’s the situation at The Vue has been ameliorated to some extent by medical insurance plans. Because so many people are now covered by insurance, enabling them to seek care from private doctors who practice at private
I delivered and sutured at double time, ripped off my gown and gloves, and ran toward Delivery Room One. As I got to the door, I heard the unmistakable howl of a newborn infant. “God damn!” I muttered. “Too late.”
I walked into the room and froze in disbelief. The woman was up in the delivery position, and the baby was wrapped in a blanket and lying in the bassinet near the window. Between the patient’s legs was my rotund wife in the process of catching the placenta in a basin as the woman pushed it out of her vagina.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
Myra jumped as though goosed. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, her voice just a bit shakier than usual. I noticed that her hands were shaking too. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”
“But why you? Why didn’t you get help?”
“Who from?” Myra snapped. “The other guys are still doing that section, and you were in the middle of your delivery. After I told you she was ready, I put her up in the stirrups and washed her so you’d be able to just run in and deliver her. But she didn’t wait. She started to push the kid out; all I did was keep it slow and smooth. Thank God, the baby was in good shape. I put it in the bassinet, head down, and then I came back and caught the placenta when it fell out of her. I figured that was better than just standing there and letting her deliver with no help at all.”
It all struck me as logical, but not quite kosher. “Why didn’t you call Mrs. White?” I asked, simultaneously wondering where the nurse was.
As if for answer, Myra pointed toward Delivery Room Three. “Are you kidding?” she said with a little laugh. “She can’t do two at a time either.”
The dialogue was brought to an abrupt conclusion by a piercing shriek from the hallway. I ran out to find the inhabitant of one of the stretchers with her knees pulled up to her chest, alternately screaming hysterically and grunting like an eighty-year-old who hasn’t had a bowel movement for a month. As I charged over, she grabbed me by the arm and shook me so that my teeth rattled. “Helpa me, helpa me,” she implored wildly.
Simultaneously trying to free myself from her grasp and pull back the twisted sheet from her abdomen, I finally managed to get the baby, which was lying between her legs, almost totally immersed in a puddle of amniotic fluid. As I pulled the infant out by his feet, he gurgled, choked, and turned even bluer than he had been to start with. Since he was still attached by the umbilical cord, my mobility was severely limited. “Get me an emergency tray!” I howled at the top of my lungs. “Quick!”
Almost before the echoes had died down in the hallway, both Myra and Mrs. White were standing there, each holding an emergency delivery kit. I took one—I’m still not sure which—cut the baby free from his mother, and I sucked out what looked like a gallon of amniotic fluid from his nose, throat, and chest. To my immense relief, the kid turned pink, and let out a properly enraged howl.
After all the babies had been wrapped and sent to the nursery and their mothers had been taken down from the delivery stirrups, I slumped into the nearest chair. “Gawd,” I mumbled. “What next?”
Another shriek from the hallway cut through the air. Simultaneously, I heard Mrs. White’s always-calm voice: “Dr. Karp, come quick.”
I got up running.
A deficiency of ancillary personnel is, of course, a relative matter, and since the early 1960’s the situation at The Vue has been ameliorated to some extent by medical insurance plans. Because so many people are now covered by insurance, enabling them to seek care from private doctors who practice at private
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