Without further ado, let's see what's in store for Sara and Charlie and the baby they may have already lost .
I bit back a sob. “I understand, but I’d
really like a sonogram to be sure.”
“Go on about your business and if you’re
still cramping Tuesday, come into the walk-in clinic. After all, you’re just
ten weeks along.”
Too upset to talk anymore, I handed the
phone off to Charlie, slunk to the bedroom, and buried my head in the pillow. The next morning after
dropping the kids off at the on-post childcare facility, Charlie packed me into
our pink and purple Volkswagen Beetle – Pink Floyd edition and took me to the
Italian Emergency Room, or l’ospedale.
The nurse pulled us back first, before the
patients sitting in the strap-backed wheelchairs and through the jungle of glass bottles
that dangled from threatening IV poles that would have looked more at home in a
1960’s mental institution, and into a room no larger than a humble office with wood
paneling and magazine pictures of wolves taped onto the wall. A small exam table sat
off to the side, almost out of place amid the tangle of books and misbegotten
papers. The doctor, who hadn’t looked up from his work since we walked in,
mumbled something in Italian before turning around expectantly.
“Strip now,” the nurse translated brusquely, “waist
down.”
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