The Emergency
by N.M. Campbell
The waiter scurried away from our isolated table on the terrace. Without taking a sip, I continued exactly where I left off when we were interrupted by our wine and olives. “Then he asked me when I gave birth.”
“But, it was his job to ask again, after all.”
I retorted, “He also had to have known it was a miscarriage, no?”
“Well… this part might have been lost in translation, but it was already a—what was that word you Americans use—a shit storm?”
Happy for the deviation from the dark memories, my friend lightened the mood and clarified. “English is a weird language. We call it a mis-born, or in your case, a missed birth.”
“It wasn’t anywhere near viable, bu—“
“Semantics,” she interjected and penetrated my heart: “You had a birth. You did not carry it badly.” Reaching out her hand, she held my trembling fingers firmly. “These things sometimes happen.”
My friend was doing what she needed to do. Having left me in my own hole for the right amount of time, I was pulled out into the daylight again since leaving the hospital with only a hastily packed overnight bag.
“I have fibroids. I accepted this outcome as possible.”
“If only we had more than one option for every female need. How many erection pills are churned out in your homeland?”
“I can’t fight that logic because logic cannot be avoided. I know these things are sometimes not meant to be. But that is the heart of the matter. Overall, I learned once again that certain people’s pain isn’t taken seriously—anywhere. At least this time my partner was there to speak for me on my behalf; given the language barrier—until the OR.”
Catching my gaze from wandering into the distance, she sang, “He’s a good man. I am shocked he took off a week, eh? I guess this is why you’re pretty stable actually.” My partner is quite industrious, but it was as if the internet, save Netflix and symptom clarification, had suddenly disappeared.
“But I do understand Dutch. I can even read it. I just cannot spit it out of my mouth.”
“Your hidden knowledge is not typical. I bet this guy was one of those old timers with a Calvinistic backbone? I’ve heard about him and his coterie before, honestly.”
“I hope this is a dying breed. In the end what mattered to me was that I was helped by the rest of the female team. There are some sharp young nurses and doctors who were having none of his stalling guff.”
“Well, let’s hope for the future. To them and to your first glass of wine since!”
“Proost!”
N.M. Campbell is an expatriated antiquarian bookseller living in the Netherlands. The author lives in an old house surrounded by a few antiques and a library of books wafting vanilla and lignin. A fellow world-traveller, a Maine Coon cat, permits people to live there. New to writing, previously published works are "The Hill We Climb" in April 2021's The Dillydoun Review and "The Other in Paris" in December 2021's The Write Launch. See more at www.nm-campbell.com.