The tribe of women gather in the mornings. Discussing other women who are in the process of giving birth, the various obstacles, or suffer from a pregnancy related illness. The elder's responsibility is rotated on a daily basis, but always present at the meetings: guiding, teaching, challenging decisions made for the sake of self-reflection. The men are token attendees in the secret business of women.
We disperse and go forth in the day's activities. Waiting for us in the ward are two women. Commonly these women were sent in by their family doctor for definitive management of their miscarriages. Starved and thirsty from midnight the night before, their anxiety and emotional fears simmer just beneath the surface.
I went to review one of these young women, holding at bay my own insecurities and palpable sense of lack. I only hoped I did not appear as ghostly white as the woman in front of me. With her pale long blonde hair and lacklustre eyes, she was an apparition, linked vaguely to earth by her partner holding her hand.
We had had several phone conversations on the previous day. She wanted to delay her review as she could not get someone to replace her at work. The only information I had was her doctor's urgent referral letter for a more serious condition and adviced her it would best to come in at the arranged time. Then she told me her doctor had called her and said it was just a miscarriage, and nothing more serious. I told her I had no records but I will chase it up and ask for senior advice. Then she called again and said she wanted to come in on the arranged day, but in the afternoon. By then I had sufficient information available to me and I adviced her it would not be more advantageous, and that it was easier the next day, as she had desired in the first place. But of course, I added, if she was feeling feverish, unwell and bleeding a lot that she should present herself to Emergency. Oh, she added, but if she were to have a procedure done, would she be able to go to her daughter's dance performance that night. Yes, I reassured her, it is a straightforward day procedure.
And so the following day, she presented at the original time, apparently after waiting for four hours at the Emergency department overnight, when she was obviously not an emergency, and left to go home. Apparently our circuitous discussion had not worked out as I had planned. And here she was, driven mad by anxiety and fears. Nevertheless she was here, and I went on to prepare her for the procedure.
It's hard to get away with being in hospital without at least a blood test. And especially with pregnant women, the risk of bleeding copiously is always there. She mentioned her needle-phobia, amongst various other random thoughts that I had ceased to pay attention to and I grit my teeth internally.
So there we were, alone sitting in the waiting room, glass panes and all, her partner holding her in a tight embrace while I tried to utter soothing sounds as I first inserted a cannula into her vein. And when the blood did not flow freely, due to her much starved and dehydrated state for too many hours, I regrettably informed her that another needle was needed. Only to be met by further hysterical tears and cries. And I felt hardened in my heart in that moment, doing what was necessary, in an imperfect world.
That was my first taste of hysteria.
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