"Doctor Hooper," the softly accented English of the ancient Iranian obstetrician edged into her consciousness. Molly's eyes opened and she focused on his gentle, lined face. She had met Dr. Mohammed several times when the man brought bodies down to the pathology lab. Whenever there was a late miscarriage or stillbirth, he insisted on bringing them to her himself wrapped lovingly in a flannel hospital infant blanket, not in a biohazard bag. His gentleness for these small beings was known throughout the hospital, and the other obstetricians frequently allowed him to handle loss patients because of the soft touch he had with them. She knew what it meant that he was here and she was grateful it was him.
Her sinuses felt filled with cement and her throat was sore. Intubation? She could feel an IV port taped to her right hand, and her left ached where she could see another had been removed. Surgery, then. She could feel the distant ache of opiate-dulled pain and the pull of staples near her pubis.
The fuzziness in her mind was fading quickly, though her limbs still felt heavy, but she cleared her throat and managed to rasp out roughly "Ectopic?" She'd suspected it when the pain in her abdomen exploded. She'd been experiencing some cramps for a few days, but passed them off as round ligament pain. Normal, if aggravating. But as she rose from the lab stool with an autopsy file in her hands, she felt a deep ripping pain and for a moment saw the floor rushing up to meet her. The last thing she knew before she woke up here was hearing John's voice, though she wasn't sure if that was a dream.
The elderly man nodded, handing her a cup of ice water with a straw which she took gratefully. "We had to remove your left tube and ovary last night. You lost nearly two litres of blood into your abdomen. You've had four units. Looks as though you will pull through in short order, though." He paused, patting her arm gently, seeing the pain writ large across her features. "I'm very sorry, Molly. There is no word that can describe your loss. I stayed just to speak with you, to see if there is anything you need, if you have any questions. Do you want us to ring anyone for you?"
His gentle brown eyes bore into her own, offering her what little solace he could. She shook her head, feeling very small in the large bed. "I'm fine and I know what to expect. Thank you, Farouk."
"Your sister has been in to see you," He gestured to the small vase of flowers, the sort sold in the gift shop,on her bedside table. "But she had to leave to get her train."
He turned to walk out, telling her that she was welcome to call him with any questions and once again expressing his condolences. As his hand pulled the door closed, she called after him "Did you send my... Did you send everything to path?"
He poked his head back around and told her, "Of course. But at St Thomas'. It seemed the most reasonable choice, in the circumstances." She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding at his response and thanked him again. He closed the door behind him and left her to her silence.
Ectopic pregnancies ended because they couldn't continue without risking the life of the mother. Molly knew the clinical aspects of it all; she was, after all, a trained physician, even if her patients were all dead. She knew that in all likelihood, the fetus (how odd, she said to herself, to think so clinically) was normal, just in the wrong place. Had it been discovered earlier, she might have avoided surgery, but there was still no hope for the pregnancy. It warmed her a little to know that there would be an analysis to make sure it wasn't some chromosomal or other issue. She wasn't sure if she would feel better if it had a fatal defect or not, but she liked that at least she would know.
She looked out the window at the driving rain diffusing the early morning light. February in London. At least it wasn't snowing, but she could tell it wasn't far off. They'd had a few bursts of snow over the last few months, but nothing that stayed. It was just cold and miserable, an accurate reflection of her current state, she felt.
The reality of the loss started to settle on her. She had only just begun accepting the fact of her pregnancy before it was gone. It was only a week ago she'd cancelled her termination appointment and called the Early Pregnancy Unit for antenatal care. Funny, she thought, how you sometimes end up with exactly what you'd decided you didn't want.
She had come to terms with her decision never to have children a year and a half before. Tom had spent most of their relationship trying to convince her to change her mind because he dreamed of a home full of small versions of himself. Her refusal to reconsider her decision had effectively ended their engagement six months ago, not long after the Watson wedding.
Yet she had ended up pregnant and, no matter her carefully laid "oh shit plan," as she had named it, she'd decided to continue down the path towards motherhood she unexpectedly found herself on. She still wasn't quite sure why all of a sudden the idea had appealed to her.
It was pointless to consider, as the opportunity had passed now anyway. She was nearly 34, down an ovary, and was single with no prospects. She reached into her memory to try to find again her peace with the future she had started planning for herself; one of travel and new experiences, friendships that still allowed her to return home to her quiet flat and her cat each night. No limits, no anchors, and definitely no dependants. But the peace was fleeting; shattered by a ghost of a thought, the faintest wisp of a daydream she had allowed herself a few days ago, of a child with brown curls falling in front of wide blue eyes, smiling up at her from behind a book.
Molly relaxed her shoulders, having curled in on herself as she considered her situation. Her abdominal muscles ached. The stark room she found herself in provided nothing on which she could latch her mind to keep from thinking over recent events. The loss of her pregnancy. The genius child that would have been. She reached up to wipe away the single tear that had run down to the point of her chin. It wouldn't do to cry. No good could come of succumbing to the sadness that lurked just outside her conscious thoughts. She could feel it testing the edges, trying to consume her. Molly refused to allow it.
Down the hall, she heard the mewling cry of a neonate, bracketed by the rumble of adoring comments from the no doubt happy family that had come to visit, too distant to pick out the words. Molly knew she would have been admitted to the obstetrics and gynaecology ward, though this was the first evidence of it she heard. It seemed cruel to put her here, but there was nowhere more appropriate in the hospital that they could put a woman recovering from gynaecological surgery.
She let her eyes focus back outside. Wet snow now clung to the windows of her room. The words of a poem she'd written in her angst-ridden teenage years came back to her as the sadness that had been creeping around the edges settled firmly at the forefront of her thoughts.
I see with my mere mortal eyes what only gods may know,
The truth of nature's penance cast in softly falling snow.
Turn my eyes into the sun and watch it burn away,
Here in the quiet places, where even devils dare to dream.
She'd dared to dream of a life for herself that she had once broken a man's heart to refuse. It seemed her due to suffer for it.
The smooth button of the call bell clicked softly under her thumb and she heard the faint chime at the nurse's station. Molly let her eyes roam over the bare room, the empty bed beside hers, an empty cot stored in the corner. Everything empty. Posters about breastfeeding tacked up beside hand washing notices. An ignored meal tray - definitely awful - sat on the rolling table beside her bed. She wanted to go home.