Rachel was nearly crucified with pain, her arms gripping the metal rails blanched-knuckle tight. When a younger woman came on duty to take his place, I flagged her down. I found myself pleading, uselessly, for that kind of special treatment. I felt like I could bend iron, tear nylon, through the minute ambulance ride and as we entered the windowless basement hallways of the hospital. The intake line was long—a row of cots stretched down the darkened hall. Otherwise, Rachel lay there, half-asleep, suffering and silent. Women wait an average of 65 minutes for the same thing. I gave the dispatcher our address, then helped my wife to the bathroom to vomit.
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