I'm in grippy socks and a paper gown, and it’s 4 a.m. and absolutely no one in the labor-and-delivery triage area is worried about me. But one of the nurses is at least compassionate or seems so. I’m relieved I haven’t met her before, given it’s my third visit here this week. She must be new. She doesn’t suggest I’m wasting everyone’s time as she readjusts the fetal heart monitor. I study her sparkly Crocs and the crucifix around her neck and ask if she has children. “Three,” she tells me. A few of the nurses don’t bother hiding their eye rolls anymore, so I make a point of seeking out the friendly ones who call me “sweetie” or “honey” because they feel sorry for this woman who they are certain has lost her mind.
But I haven’t lost my mind. For example, I alternate between the two main hospitals in my small southern city to give the medical staff at each one a break from me. Since I entered the second half of my pregnancy, I have been to each unit more than a dozen times.
