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Midnight call: A Heartbeat lost
It's almost 1 o'clock in the night, and I'm a doctor, utterly exhausted after dealing with four consecutive deliveries. I was at the hospital, packing my handbag, ready to go home. Suddenly, I heard some commotion outside. Curious and concerned, I went to check on what was happening.
"Don't you understand? It's 1 am, and the doctor is going home. Come tomorrow," said the nurse harshly.
I looked at the young woman before me. Her eyes were filled with exhaustion, her body thin and frail. She looked like she hadn't slept in days. Her saree was disheveled, barely clinging onto her hips, and her backside was stained with blood. She was visibly pregnant, and the sight of her in such a state broke my heart.
"It's okay, let her come in," I insisted to the nurse.
"Take a seat," I said to her, but she remained standing.
"I want to know if my child is alive," she said, her voice trembling as she wept.
The pain and agony in her eyes were palpable. This was not a time for comfort or calm words; that moment had passed.
"Have you come for check-ups before?" I asked her gently.
"No," she replied, shaking her head.
From just looking at her, I could tell she was severely malnourished and likely had high blood pressure.
"How many months?" I inquired.
"Three months," she answered, her voice barely a whisper.
Using a Doppler ultrasound device, I tried to listen for the heartbeat, but I heard nothing. My heart began to race as I switched to the fetal heart rate monitor, but still, there was no pulse. My hands froze, but my hope pushed me to continue. I moved on to an ultrasound scan, praying silently. But there was no movement, no signs of life. My heart shattered into pieces as I confirmed the miscarriage, noticing the vaginal bleeding and confirming the cervical dilation through a pelvic exam.
"It's a miscarriage," I said, my voice cracking as I threw my stethoscope down in grief. I sat down on the floor, overwhelmed with despair.
She placed her hands on my shoulders, a gesture of unexpected strength and solidarity. Despite her pain, not a single tear fell from her eyes. She was too weak, too exhausted even to cry.
The problem wasn't just her physical frailty. Her baby had miscarried because her husband, an evil man, had beaten her mercilessly, kicking her stomach—the very womb where their baby resided. He kept at it until her cervix dilated, her vagina bled, and the baby was lost.
She was one of many women I had seen, another victim of such brutality.
© Aboorva
🙏Thanks for reading 🙏
"Don't you understand? It's 1 am, and the doctor is going home. Come tomorrow," said the nurse harshly.
I looked at the young woman before me. Her eyes were filled with exhaustion, her body thin and frail. She looked like she hadn't slept in days. Her saree was disheveled, barely clinging onto her hips, and her backside was stained with blood. She was visibly pregnant, and the sight of her in such a state broke my heart.
"It's okay, let her come in," I insisted to the nurse.
"Take a seat," I said to her, but she remained standing.
"I want to know if my child is alive," she said, her voice trembling as she wept.
The pain and agony in her eyes were palpable. This was not a time for comfort or calm words; that moment had passed.
"Have you come for check-ups before?" I asked her gently.
"No," she replied, shaking her head.
From just looking at her, I could tell she was severely malnourished and likely had high blood pressure.
"How many months?" I inquired.
"Three months," she answered, her voice barely a whisper.
Using a Doppler ultrasound device, I tried to listen for the heartbeat, but I heard nothing. My heart began to race as I switched to the fetal heart rate monitor, but still, there was no pulse. My hands froze, but my hope pushed me to continue. I moved on to an ultrasound scan, praying silently. But there was no movement, no signs of life. My heart shattered into pieces as I confirmed the miscarriage, noticing the vaginal bleeding and confirming the cervical dilation through a pelvic exam.
"It's a miscarriage," I said, my voice cracking as I threw my stethoscope down in grief. I sat down on the floor, overwhelmed with despair.
She placed her hands on my shoulders, a gesture of unexpected strength and solidarity. Despite her pain, not a single tear fell from her eyes. She was too weak, too exhausted even to cry.
The problem wasn't just her physical frailty. Her baby had miscarried because her husband, an evil man, had beaten her mercilessly, kicking her stomach—the very womb where their baby resided. He kept at it until her cervix dilated, her vagina bled, and the baby was lost.
She was one of many women I had seen, another victim of such brutality.
© Aboorva
🙏Thanks for reading 🙏
