The Rosie Effect
Page 85
I reassured her. ‘The procedure is straightforward. I’m going to have to perform an examination.’ I was not looking forward to this: the thought of intimate contact with a human female who was a close friend was causing a wave of revulsion, but I could not be responsible for failing to do everything possible to ensure the survival of the baby. It would be extremely disappointing if Dave and Sonia’s five-year project failed at the final stage. I did my best to imagine Sonia as the mother of Dave the Calf. I would probably have some sort of post-traumatic stress to deal with later.
Lydia was pacing aimlessly. I diagnosed anxiety. ‘Do you know what you’re doing, Don?’ Very poor bedside manner.
‘Of course, of course.’ I was feeling much less sure, but was adhering to the principle of inspiring calm: profess total confidence even at the expense of honesty. I was about to commence the examination when I heard the external door open.
‘Hello? Is that you, Don?’ It was Rosie’s voice. Gene was with her. They stood in the doorway of Rosie’s study. ‘What’s happening?’
I explained the problem. ‘I need to do an examination.’
‘You need to do an examination?’ said Rosie. ‘You’re going to examine her? I don’t think so, Professor. Everybody out. Including you.’ She indicated me.
‘Thank God you got here in time,’ said Lydia to Gene and Rosie.
Rosie evicted us and closed the door. Less than a minute later, she opened it again, exited, and closed it behind her.
‘You’re right,’ she said, speaking in a loud whisper. ‘Oh my God, what are we going to do? I haven’t done obstetrics.’
I attempted to match the volume of her whisper. ‘You’ve done anatomy.’
‘What the fuck use is that? We need someone who knows what to do, right now.’
‘I know what to do.’
‘I’m the medical student, I should know what to do.’
Rosie’s tone indicated a descent into irrationality.
‘They’re sending medical students now?’ said Lydia to Gene. She also sounded panicked.
Sonia was calling out incoherently. Gene had been right about Italian women.
‘I know what to do,’ I said to Rosie again.
‘Bullshit, you’ve got no experience.’
‘Theory will be sufficient. You will need to execute my instructions.’
‘Don, you’re a geneticist: you don’t know anything about obstetrics.’
I did not want to remind Rosie of an incident that had been instrumental in our relationship breakdown, but it was more important that she had confidence in my obstetric knowledge than in my social skills.
‘Heidi the antenatal class convenor was convinced I was an OBGYN.’
I was feeling calm now that I had been relieved of the human-contact aspect. Then I remembered Rosie’s problem with physical medicine.
‘Do you have a problem touching Sonia?’ I said.
‘Not as big a problem as having you do it, Professor. Just tell me what to do.’
Lydia turned to Gene. ‘Can’t you do something? You’re qualified, aren’t you?’
‘Full professor,’ said Gene. ‘New to this city. My wife and I parted company and Columbia made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’ He extended his hand. ‘Gene Barrow.’
I left Gene speaking to Lydia, while I instructed Rosie on the procedure. Essentially, the objective is to keep the baby’s head from putting pressure on the cord, by pushing it back if necessary. It was apparently difficult. Rosie kept saying ‘Fuck,’ which made Sonia hysterical, which in turn caused Rosie to say ‘Fuck’. Meanwhile, I was repeating the information that we were totally competent, which seemed to have a short-term positive effect on Sonia. It would have been easier if we could each have said, in turn, ‘Oh God, it’s going to die,’ ‘Fuck, keep her still,’ and ‘Don’t panic, we’re in control,’ with an instruction to iterate as necessary.
Unfortunately humans are not computers. The intensity of our conversation increased, with Sonia actually screaming and not keeping still, Rosie shouting ‘Oh fuck,’ and me attempting to create calm by lowering the pitch and raising the volume of my voice. Our verbal efforts were rendered irrelevant when the band started up again.
After no more than ninety seconds, the band stopped. Approximately thirty seconds later, the study door opened. Gene entered, followed by George the Third, the Prince and the remaining Dead Kings, whom I had met in Greenwich Village on the night of the Passing of the Batons. There was also a woman of about twenty (BMI in normal range, no more accurate estimate possible due to overall confusion) and a male of about forty-five, with a camera around his neck. A few seconds later, three uniformed paramedics pushed through the crowd with a stretcher.
‘Are you a doctor?’ one (female, approximately forty, BMI normal range) asked Rosie.
‘Are you?’ said Rosie. I was impressed. Rosie’s emotional state had transformed during the musical performance from panicked to professional.
‘The medical situation is under control,’ I said. I gave the officer a quick briefing.
‘Outstanding work,’ she said. ‘We can take it from here.’ I watched her take over from Rosie. In keeping with the bedside-manner protocol, I advised Sonia of the status.
‘The paramedic appears competent. The chances of your baby’s survival have increased significantly.’
Lydia was pacing aimlessly. I diagnosed anxiety. ‘Do you know what you’re doing, Don?’ Very poor bedside manner.
‘Of course, of course.’ I was feeling much less sure, but was adhering to the principle of inspiring calm: profess total confidence even at the expense of honesty. I was about to commence the examination when I heard the external door open.
‘Hello? Is that you, Don?’ It was Rosie’s voice. Gene was with her. They stood in the doorway of Rosie’s study. ‘What’s happening?’
I explained the problem. ‘I need to do an examination.’
‘You need to do an examination?’ said Rosie. ‘You’re going to examine her? I don’t think so, Professor. Everybody out. Including you.’ She indicated me.
‘Thank God you got here in time,’ said Lydia to Gene and Rosie.
Rosie evicted us and closed the door. Less than a minute later, she opened it again, exited, and closed it behind her.
‘You’re right,’ she said, speaking in a loud whisper. ‘Oh my God, what are we going to do? I haven’t done obstetrics.’
I attempted to match the volume of her whisper. ‘You’ve done anatomy.’
‘What the fuck use is that? We need someone who knows what to do, right now.’
‘I know what to do.’
‘I’m the medical student, I should know what to do.’
Rosie’s tone indicated a descent into irrationality.
‘They’re sending medical students now?’ said Lydia to Gene. She also sounded panicked.
Sonia was calling out incoherently. Gene had been right about Italian women.
‘I know what to do,’ I said to Rosie again.
‘Bullshit, you’ve got no experience.’
‘Theory will be sufficient. You will need to execute my instructions.’
‘Don, you’re a geneticist: you don’t know anything about obstetrics.’
I did not want to remind Rosie of an incident that had been instrumental in our relationship breakdown, but it was more important that she had confidence in my obstetric knowledge than in my social skills.
‘Heidi the antenatal class convenor was convinced I was an OBGYN.’
I was feeling calm now that I had been relieved of the human-contact aspect. Then I remembered Rosie’s problem with physical medicine.
‘Do you have a problem touching Sonia?’ I said.
‘Not as big a problem as having you do it, Professor. Just tell me what to do.’
Lydia turned to Gene. ‘Can’t you do something? You’re qualified, aren’t you?’
‘Full professor,’ said Gene. ‘New to this city. My wife and I parted company and Columbia made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’ He extended his hand. ‘Gene Barrow.’
I left Gene speaking to Lydia, while I instructed Rosie on the procedure. Essentially, the objective is to keep the baby’s head from putting pressure on the cord, by pushing it back if necessary. It was apparently difficult. Rosie kept saying ‘Fuck,’ which made Sonia hysterical, which in turn caused Rosie to say ‘Fuck’. Meanwhile, I was repeating the information that we were totally competent, which seemed to have a short-term positive effect on Sonia. It would have been easier if we could each have said, in turn, ‘Oh God, it’s going to die,’ ‘Fuck, keep her still,’ and ‘Don’t panic, we’re in control,’ with an instruction to iterate as necessary.
Unfortunately humans are not computers. The intensity of our conversation increased, with Sonia actually screaming and not keeping still, Rosie shouting ‘Oh fuck,’ and me attempting to create calm by lowering the pitch and raising the volume of my voice. Our verbal efforts were rendered irrelevant when the band started up again.
After no more than ninety seconds, the band stopped. Approximately thirty seconds later, the study door opened. Gene entered, followed by George the Third, the Prince and the remaining Dead Kings, whom I had met in Greenwich Village on the night of the Passing of the Batons. There was also a woman of about twenty (BMI in normal range, no more accurate estimate possible due to overall confusion) and a male of about forty-five, with a camera around his neck. A few seconds later, three uniformed paramedics pushed through the crowd with a stretcher.
‘Are you a doctor?’ one (female, approximately forty, BMI normal range) asked Rosie.
‘Are you?’ said Rosie. I was impressed. Rosie’s emotional state had transformed during the musical performance from panicked to professional.
‘The medical situation is under control,’ I said. I gave the officer a quick briefing.
‘Outstanding work,’ she said. ‘We can take it from here.’ I watched her take over from Rosie. In keeping with the bedside-manner protocol, I advised Sonia of the status.
‘The paramedic appears competent. The chances of your baby’s survival have increased significantly.’
