Baby Love by Rebecca Walker Page B

take my temperature or something, looked at me and said she didn’t believe I was actually sick. She said that if I were in as much pain as I said I was, I would be perspiring, or at least breathing heavily, and there were no signs of either, which made her skeptical.
    I was like, um, are you kidding me? You think I just wanted to come and get into an ambulance for fun? And then she said, Well, ma’am, are you sure you aren’t involved in a domestic dispute? My jaw dropped open almost to Chile. Then she changed course and asked if I had been taking drugs.
    Fortunately, Glen drove up behind the ambulance at that moment, and I told the EMT to let me out. Unbelievably, she started saying all of this crazy stuff like they couldn’t just let me go, I had to sign something and blah, blah, blah, which seemed absurd, considering she had just told me there was nothing wrong with me.
    When we finally arrived at the emergency room, a nice intern checked my vitals and then rolled in a portable ultrasound. After a few seconds of searching, I heard the baby’s heartbeat and then the intern say the baby looks fine before bursting into uncontrollable sobs on the gurney. Talk about drama. I had been lying there thinking that I would rather die than lose the baby, and if I had to die to save him, that would be okay.
    I didn’t have to try to feel that way. There was no ambivalence, no inkling of possible relief at being let off the hook. I knew the truth of this as intimately as I knew my own name: My child must live. Period. End of story. Done.
    Dr. Lowen arrived. The pain had subsided a little, and we were all close to letting it go as one of those crazy, bizarre moments in a pregnancy. But just as the intern started to fill out the release form, the pain started again, stronger than ever, and that’s when they started talking about a morphine drip for the pain. At that point I would have injected orange juice into my veins if they told me it would stop the pain, but morphine? I had visions of my baby emerging from the womb incoherent and addicted to opiates. As if reading my mind, Dr. Lowen said that it was relatively safe, and that sometimes during pregnancy you have to prioritize the mother’s health. I nodded skeptically as the intern injected the needle in my arm.
    I was admitted just as I fell into an opium-induced haze, and now here I am, the next morning, with a second IV in my arm and doctors coming in and out trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. I keep suggesting to them that it’s intestinal. I’ve been taking those giant iron tablets and eating ridiculous, absurd amounts of food. So far the internist and Dr. Lowen both say that the pain would be lower if it was intestinal.
    Whatever it is, I am really happy to have this drip.

July 6
    The perinatologist came in today. She said that even though my blood and urine look normal, the location of the pain suggests a possible kidney infection. She recommended a baby-safe antibiotic. I will get it through the IV for the first two days and if the pain decreases, I can take the last dose at home. I asked her three times about the effects of the antibiotics on the baby, and if there were any studies that even hinted at adverse effects on the infant. Then I quizzed her on the morphine. She was very nice and assured me that both were okay. Not ideal, but okay. I asked her if she thought it might be intestinal. She didn’t think so.
    Glen came in just as she was leaving, with big bags of food. I dished it out on my pale green laminated tray, and poured us both some lemonade. I don’t know what I would do without him. What do people do without other people? Why is it that so few people are competent in the caretaking department? I feel like the luckiest woman alive to have him sitting with me, going over the details of my conversation with the doctor as if his life depended on it, too.
    I am concerned, but I’m also not so into being in the hospital. I have never felt