In two days I was being induced “hell or high water,” according to Dr. Baylor, which I thought was funny because the baby was living in water and I was living in hell. It was a matter of utmost importance because on top of my over-excited uterus that landed me here in the first place, my liver was releasing bile that after thirty-seven weeks could without warning cause “instant uterine death.” A medical way of saying, get out baby or I might kill you.
“Two hands, Cheesesteak,” Night Laurie said after dinner, holding out my favorite sugary beverage — a mix of orange, pineapple, cranberry, and apple juices in a gigantic pink-plastic cup topped with a mound of crushed ice, poked with a striped straw that accordioned above the top of the cup. I took it and put it on the incredible table next to me that rolled across the slick, fake-wood floors without a sound and moved up and down and even dialed the nurses.
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