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The words come out in a rush. “I-I thought it was just aches, but I’ve been having contractions all day, and my water just broke, but I’m only six months along. I’m going to lose the baby,” I sob.
Isa’s hands are on my shoulders, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles. “Sophia, just breathe, okay?” She exaggerates her breathing so that I can match it. “I’ll take you to the hospital. Maybe there’s a way to stop the labor.”
She helps me to my feet and leads me to my room to quickly change. When I take off my shirt for a clean one, we both notice that my stomach is blue. At that, even Isa looks started, but she quickly puts on a brave face when I stare at her in horror.
Quickly, she pulls my shirt down and pushes me out the door. Between the bombings and the soldiers, the streets are dangerous, but we risk it. We have no other choice. At least it’s a close walk to the hospital.
“Almost there,” Isa says as another contraction bowls me over, forcing me to lean against the wall to catch my breath.
I hear the rumble of approaching army vehicles and pull Isa into the nearest alleyway to watch them pass. These thugs love pushing us around. They might try to take our ration books or our money, and that’s if we’re lucky. I’ve heard horror stories about women who have been even less lucky.
Once they’re gone, we turn the corner and finally reach the hospital. The emergency room is crowded, full of people with cuts, broken bones, and even just small coughs and sore throats. When there’s no accessible medical care, everything turns into an emergency. There’s nowhere else to go. Any sane doctor left us months ago.
A long line snakes away from the front desk. The check-in kiosks seem to all be down, so it’s one exhausted-looking human woman handing out physical paperwork.
“You should sit,” Isa says, nodding to one of the few empty chairs. “I’ll get your paperwork.”
I nod, a lump already forming in my throat. Every second that ticks by is a second that my baby could be closer to dying, and I want to scream and demand help. But I doubt it’ll do much.
I take my seat and try to distract myself, but every time a contraction hits, I’m reminded of what I’m about to lose. I’ll be a mother without a baby and a daughter without a mother.
In spite of myself, I sob when the next contraction starts. The time between them is getting shorter and shorter. When it passes, I hear Isa’s voice.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Three hours? She might not have three hours,” she shouts.
Wiping my face as best I can, I force myself to my feet and rush over to Isa’s side. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“She says it’ll be three hours before a doctor will be able to see you.”
The receptionist gestures to the room of sick and injured people. “Look, I’m doing my best here, but we’re all overwhelmed.”
I burst into tears. “Please, I-I just lost my mom. I can’t lose my baby, too.”
The receptionist softens slightly and sighs. “Okay. Doctor Rev, our obstetrician, is on-call. Let me try to get him. He’s been lending a hand in other departments, though, so I can’t guarantee that he’ll be available.”
“Thank you,” I sob.
Isa grabs the intake paperwork, wraps an arm around my shoulder, and leads me back to the chair. I haven’t needed to write with pen and paper for a while, so it takes a moment for me to get my coordination back as I fill it out.
For a few minutes, the forms provide a decent distraction. I can almost pretend that I’m here for other reasons. But then another contraction hits and the terror returns.
Isa kneels in front of me with her hands on my knees. “Sophia, breathe. It’s okay. Just breathe.”
I force myself to breathe through the pain and the panic, riding out the contraction. And then it’s over.
When I finish filling out my chart, Isa collects it and returns it to the receptionist. Now, all we can do is wait and hope that the doctors don’t take too long. Isa helps me breathe through every contraction and distracts me by describing the plots of holostreams that she used to watch with Mama while I was at work.
I can’t seem to stop crying, though, each breath hitching and hiccupping until another contraction takes it away completely.
After what feels like an eternity, a nurse appears with a wheelchair and a tired smile. “The doctor will see you now.”
20
DREX
The voyage is taking forever. I have been confined to my quarters for most of the trip. We’re traveling on a small outmoded military cruiser. The conditions are basic at best. The diplomats have been given the best quarters, of course, with free use of the small mess room.
All the grunts, like me, are housed in tiny cabins barely big enough for the three-tier bunks that occupy them.
