As a student, one of my favorite places was not the L&D unit but the outpatient clinic, where we saw an endless line of women with every imaginable issue come in and out of the four cramped exam rooms. Some had infections, some needed prescriptions, some were pregnant when they didn’t want to be, some couldn’t get pregnant and didn’t know why. Sometimes they came alone, and other times they brought their children, their partners, their mothers, their friends. I carried around a little notebook in my pocket on those long clinic days, scrawling clinical short-hand so that I would remember the diagnostic cutoffs for gestational diabetes, say, or the ultrasound results indicating the need for an endometrial biopsy. I spent a lot of time being nervous about what I would encounter during a day at the clinic, as indicated by the following snippet that I found today in the back of my little notebook.
What will I find behind the door?
The slightest grin, a quiet anticipation of the first sounds of the muffled, aqueous heartbeat so longed for?
Or a suppressed desperation, the dread of a tiny, internal gnawing, the hope that there is some explanation for this feeling other than a child that she does not want?
Or the tired, resigned sigh of a seasoned mother who knows how many more gray hairs another baby will bring, of the honesty she does not offer — dear God, let this be the last!
I scrawl my notes in preparation, I scan them one last time, I breathe deeply and close my eyes before entering.
I make myself like a blank page to be filled with the woman’s pleas and inquiries, her interpretations, her offers of thanksgiving.
Behind door #2 I hear a metallic crash, the unruly work of a toddler’s blunt fingers against a tray of medical instruments, followed by the swift, sharp: Jorge! Basta!
Behind door #3, a soft weeping, as she understands that the child will be born, but not live.
Behind door #4, the pointed cry of the cervix being gripped, of an IUD placed, of the pain she didn’t know was coming.
And I head to door #1 to deliver the measured, non-news we all want to hear:
Everything is alright, today. Today, there’s nothing for us to worry about.
I stand outside the fern-green door: she anticipates me from one side, and I anticipate her from the other.