Never In The Picture

The postpartum nurse, Biance Goode, replaced my third soaked maternity pad. Her expression grew more worried with each change.

"Dr. Gibson, Ms. Winona's losing far too much blood, and her blood pressure keeps dropping. The patient in Bed Six has normal oxygen levels. Can we check on Ms. Winona first?"

My mom, Marsha Gibson, was examining my adoptive sister with a stethoscope.

Natalie Graham had given birth two hours before me. Her baby had been born prematurely and was now in the neonatal unit. She had been doing fine until the power went out, then she suddenly developed chest tightness and palpitations.

When Natalie heard Bianca's concerns, she pushed herself up in bed. "Mom, go check on Winona. I'm fine. The nurse just said my oxygen levels were normal."

Mom shot her a look and pulled her blanket up.

"You've always been like this. You say you're fine no matter how you're feeling. You gave up your room and new clothes when you were little. Now you're even giving up medical care?"

Natalie was so worried her eyes welled up with tears. "But Winona just gave birth, and she won't stop bleeding."

"I'm keeping an eye on her."

With that, Mom finally came over to my bed and pressed a hand against my abdomen.

The moment she pressed down, my whole body tensed in pain.

"Does it hurt that much?" Mom asked.

I nodded and grabbed her wrist. "It's not the incision. The pain is deeper inside."

Mom frowned.

Suddenly, someone called to her from the hallway.

"Dr. Gibson, the reporters want to know how the hospital is deciding which patients get priority when both your daughters are here."

Mom hesitated, then quickly pulled her hand away.

Eventually, she said, "Postpartum contractions can hurt, too. Winona, lie still for now. I'll examine you once the power comes back."

Less than ten minutes after she left, my husband, Elijah Colton, arrived with the only portable monitor left on the floor.

Bianca immediately waved him over. "You're just in time, doctor. Hook her up. She needs constant monitoring."

Elijah had already uncoiled the cables when Natalie suddenly gagged twice.

He turned around and asked, "What's wrong with Natalie?"

"She still feels tightness in her chest, and she just said she felt a little nauseous, too."

Elijah fell silent for a moment, then wheeled the monitor away.

Bianca grabbed the handle. "Ms. Natalie's readings are stable. Ms. Winona's blood pressure is barely registering."

"I know," Elijah said quietly, "but every camera out there is rolling. I'm an anesthesiologist here. How am I supposed to explain it tomorrow if I give the only monitor to my wife first?"

He turned to me, his tone softening. "Honey, just a little longer. Marsha is right here. She won't let anything happen to you."

I let go of the bed rail.

I really thought I would only have to wait a little longer.

That was until the first transfer list arrived.

There were three spots, and my name was second on the list.

My dad, Ian Graham, glanced at the list. He crossed out my name and wrote in Natalie's name instead.

Bianca couldn't stay silent. "Dr. Graham, Ms. Natalie's vital signs are stable. Ms. Winona needs help more urgently."

But Dad turned toward a nearby camera broadcasting live.

"If my biological daughter gets transferred first while my adopted daughter is left behind in a hospital without power, do you know what people will say?"

He signed the form again, then turned and patted my shoulder.

"Winona, you've always been understanding. Let Natalie go first again today."

As the transport team wheeled Natalie past my bed, Natalie kept turning to look at me.

"Dad, I really don't need to go. Transfer Winona instead!"

No one listened to her.

I stared at my name, crossed out in black ink.

Suddenly, a sharp spasm tore through my abdomen.

This time, the pain was so intense I couldn't even straighten my back.