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May. 25th, 2008 08:06 pmThey've been back to New Canaan a number of times, in the two years since the mobile clinic got its start there. By this time he knows almost half of the settlers by name, and nearly all of them by sight -- enough so that he can pick out the new faces. (There aren't many. The Alliance hasn't put out a call for colonists to come to New Canaan in years.)
Mal sent word ahead that they'd be coming, and the settlement's practicing nurse Lea Graf sent back a wave detailing the cases that need a doctor's attention. She's there when he brings the shuttle in for a landing at the prearranged site, with a few updates to the list. A nearby barn's been set up as a makeshift waiting room, as the weather's just a little too cold for sick people to wait outside; Lea goes back and forth between the barn and the shuttle, bringing patients in.
He's finishing up with the fourth or fifth patient, a balding man whose recurring stomach pains turned out to be an ulcer on the verge of perforation, when the shuttle door bangs open. It's Lea, her face white, struggling to keep her voice calm as she tells him there's been an accident and could he please come quickly.
* * *
The woman can't be any older than nineteen. Eight and a half months pregnant; took a fall from the porch steps. The labor's begun early, and is going badly.
He sends Lea to bring more equipment from the shuttle while he starts.
About twenty minutes into the labor, he asks Lea to please go tell the few patients waiting that he's sorry, but he'll have to see them tomorrow.
* * *
It's four hours later and nearly dark outside by the time the labor ends. Simon scarcely notices, except to have more light brought in as the afternoon slants toward evening.
He suctions the infant's nose and mouth, clamps and cuts the umbilical cord, directs Lea through setting up a saline IV by the new mother's bedside to replace some of the fluid she's lost. The infant is small but not dangerously underweight, and his vitals are strong; the mother is exhausted and still in pain but should be fine, with plenty of rest.
Lea calls in the father, a big blunt-featured man with frightened young eyes, to sit with his wife and hold his newborn son. Simon answers his anxious questions reassuringly, goes over followup treatment with Lea while mechanically going through the motions of stripping off his sterile gloves and gathering up his instruments.
He's nearly to the door when the young father catches up to him, seizes his hand and wrings it hard. I don't hardly have the words to thank you enough, doc. I thought for sure -- Unable or unwilling to say it aloud, he falls back on repeating earnest thanks, gripping Simon's hand like a lifeline. Simon returns the handshake firmly, answers him with automatic courtesy and a professional smile, and finally manages to take his leave.
Once back in the shuttle he unpacks his bag, resterilizes each of the instruments, puts them away. Changes the disposable slipcover on the examination table. Mentally reviews the list of cases; there were at least four he didn't get the chance to see, he'll have to come back early tomorrow.
It shouldn't startle him as much as it does, he thinks distantly even as it happens, when the tears come.
Maybe it's just the violence of it, the suddenness, a sob doubling him over like the wrench of nausea. He struggles to stay silent, only ragged breath escaping his clenched teeth; the last thing he wants is to be overheard.
(The fact that the shuttle is virtually soundproof doesn't occur to him, then or later.)
He shouldn't be crying. He shouldn't be. This was a good day, damn it, he saved two lives back there, that's what he's here for --
His shoulderblades bump against the wall and slide slowly down until he's sitting hunched over on the floor, head buried in his arms.
Eventually it stops.
He washes his face, and studies himself in the mirror for close to a minute, before he heads through to the cockpit to fly the shuttle back to Serenity.
Mal sent word ahead that they'd be coming, and the settlement's practicing nurse Lea Graf sent back a wave detailing the cases that need a doctor's attention. She's there when he brings the shuttle in for a landing at the prearranged site, with a few updates to the list. A nearby barn's been set up as a makeshift waiting room, as the weather's just a little too cold for sick people to wait outside; Lea goes back and forth between the barn and the shuttle, bringing patients in.
He's finishing up with the fourth or fifth patient, a balding man whose recurring stomach pains turned out to be an ulcer on the verge of perforation, when the shuttle door bangs open. It's Lea, her face white, struggling to keep her voice calm as she tells him there's been an accident and could he please come quickly.
* * *
The woman can't be any older than nineteen. Eight and a half months pregnant; took a fall from the porch steps. The labor's begun early, and is going badly.
He sends Lea to bring more equipment from the shuttle while he starts.
About twenty minutes into the labor, he asks Lea to please go tell the few patients waiting that he's sorry, but he'll have to see them tomorrow.
* * *
It's four hours later and nearly dark outside by the time the labor ends. Simon scarcely notices, except to have more light brought in as the afternoon slants toward evening.
He suctions the infant's nose and mouth, clamps and cuts the umbilical cord, directs Lea through setting up a saline IV by the new mother's bedside to replace some of the fluid she's lost. The infant is small but not dangerously underweight, and his vitals are strong; the mother is exhausted and still in pain but should be fine, with plenty of rest.
Lea calls in the father, a big blunt-featured man with frightened young eyes, to sit with his wife and hold his newborn son. Simon answers his anxious questions reassuringly, goes over followup treatment with Lea while mechanically going through the motions of stripping off his sterile gloves and gathering up his instruments.
He's nearly to the door when the young father catches up to him, seizes his hand and wrings it hard. I don't hardly have the words to thank you enough, doc. I thought for sure -- Unable or unwilling to say it aloud, he falls back on repeating earnest thanks, gripping Simon's hand like a lifeline. Simon returns the handshake firmly, answers him with automatic courtesy and a professional smile, and finally manages to take his leave.
Once back in the shuttle he unpacks his bag, resterilizes each of the instruments, puts them away. Changes the disposable slipcover on the examination table. Mentally reviews the list of cases; there were at least four he didn't get the chance to see, he'll have to come back early tomorrow.
It shouldn't startle him as much as it does, he thinks distantly even as it happens, when the tears come.
Maybe it's just the violence of it, the suddenness, a sob doubling him over like the wrench of nausea. He struggles to stay silent, only ragged breath escaping his clenched teeth; the last thing he wants is to be overheard.
(The fact that the shuttle is virtually soundproof doesn't occur to him, then or later.)
He shouldn't be crying. He shouldn't be. This was a good day, damn it, he saved two lives back there, that's what he's here for --
His shoulderblades bump against the wall and slide slowly down until he's sitting hunched over on the floor, head buried in his arms.
Eventually it stops.
He washes his face, and studies himself in the mirror for close to a minute, before he heads through to the cockpit to fly the shuttle back to Serenity.
