7
Sara
My on-call shift is a blur of emergencies, everything from a five-months-pregnant woman coming in with severe bleeding to one of my patients going into labor seven weeks early. I end up performing a C-section on her, but luckily, the baby—a tiny but perfectly formed boy—is able to breathe and suckle on his own. The woman and her husband sob in happiness and thank me profusely, and by the time I head into the locker room to change out of my scrubs, I’m physically and emotionally drained. However, I’m also deeply satisfied.
Every child I bring into this world, every woman whose body I help heal, makes me feel a tiny bit better, alleviating the guilt that smothers me like a wet rag.
No, don’t go there. Stop. Only it’s too late, and the memories flood in, dark and toxic. Gasping, I
