The Absence of Self
The white lights of the emergency room streaked by above Chelsea, as she lay motionless on the gurney being frantically pushed towards the operating room. The artificial light filtered down through the faded and dirty screens that protected the overhead fluorescents, shining upon the medics who wore a grim expression, fitting their white uniforms, as they tried to increase their pace.
"I think we're losing her," the medic on the right spoke, out of breath, to the nurse holding up an IV fluids bag as she faltered in her step.
"That's not good," the nurse huffed, "She's almost at term, you know."
"Do you think they'll be able to save the baby?" the second medic questioned, trying to make talk as the operating room doors approached quickly.
"That's for a higher power to decide," the nurse grimaced as the gurney hit the metal sheathed doors, swinging them wide, "Doctor! She's here!"
"Thank you for your help gentlemen," a doctor in the process of pulling on a set of blue scrubs spoke from the corner of the operating room, "I'll be able to take it from here."
"Good luck," called one of the medics as he turned to leave, "It looks like you'll need it with this one."
"Luck never had anything to do with it," called the chief surgeon stepping out of a side room, "Drive safely tonight, boys."
The other medic waved his hand in reply without a word as he followed his companion out.
"Now," the surgeon said, peering down at the pale feminine figure laid out before him, "Let's perform a miracle, doctor."
With a chuckle, the doctor called in the rest of the operating room team, and they began to methodically prepare Chelsea's body for the impending surgery.
"What happened to her?" the anesthesiologist inquired impatiently.
"It looks like a drug overdose," the doctor replied, frowning beneath his disposable surgical mask, "Such a shame, considering the baby."
"Do you think we can save them both?" she asked, preparing the gas.
"We're sure as hell going to try anyway," the surgeon barked, "No one's meeting god tonight if I can do a damn thing about it."
"She might already be gone," the doctor murmured, lifting one of Chelsea's damp eyelids, shining a penlight in it, "There's no response from her pupils. It could indicate brain damage."
"Shit," swore the surgeon, "Quick, get me an ultrasound, how's that baby doing?"
Tense minutes passed, marked by the beeping of the heart monitor as the ultrasound was connected and readied. When everything had been prepared, the doctor held the wand against Chelsea's stomach as they all watched the monitor in tense anticipation.
"The baby appears to be alright," the doctor sighed in relief, "I think we can save it, but we'll need to perform a C section."
"What about the mother?" the anesthesiologist queried, "Are we just going to let her die?"
"Let's run a brain-function scan," grumbled the surgeon, "I don't want to commit murder if there's a chance she's going to come back from this."
"Call the nurses," ordered the doctor, "Let's get this done quickly. We might not have as much time to do this as we think."
A moment later, nurses in surgical gowns entered the room and left, wheeling Chelsea away to a separate room with a CAT scan machine.
The doctor, surgeon and anesthesiologist stood around in a nervous haze as they waited for the call with the results.
"She's someone's daughter," started the anesthesiologist.
"You don't think I know that?" roared the surgeon, "Of course I know that. If I could think of a way to stop all this, I would do it. But if she's gone, the only thing we can do is try to save her child."
"Where do you think the father is?" the doctor pondered.
"That's a damn good question," the surgeon replied, appearing to calm down slightly, "Tell the nurses to check her belongings for some sort of identification or contact information."
Suddenly the phone rang, the doctor ran over to pick it up. The conversation was brief, he returned with a deliberate pace in his step.
"The neurologist confirmed it, she's now brain-dead."
"God dammit!" shouted the surgeon, "Why the fuck did she think it was a good idea to use drugs pregnant?"
"She was probably in a lot of emotional turmoil," the anesthesiologist spoke softly in reply.
"But it's not just her life," groaned the surgeon, "It's her child too! I could only imagine if this happened to one of my own daughters…"
"It's not something you need to dwell on," the doctor pointed out, "I don't think they would ever put themselves in a situation like this."
Just then, the doors of the operating room swung open, Chelsea reappeared on the gurney, pushed by the somber nurses.
"Alright," sighed the surgeon, "You know what we have to do…"
...…
Holding the squealing baby boy wrapped in a light blanket, the doctor glanced back at Chelsea's graying lifeless body as it grew cold and stiff on the table. He sighed with remorse, there was nothing happy about bringing this life into the world. The boy would grow up without a mother.
"Doctor," one of the nurses spoke from behind him.
"Yes?" he turned, still holding the baby, "What is it?"
"We found this," the nurse stretched out a gloved hand, "I think it might be the boy's father."
The doctor carefully took the paper from the nurse and examined it. It was a picture of a young man, smiling in a mischievous way, his mid-length brown hair swept to the side under the blue hood of his jacket. His teeth clenched a half-smoked cigarette in one corner of his mouth. The photo had been taken with an old-style Polaroid camera at some point in the distant past as indicated by the faded and worn corners.
"Who is he?" the doctor asked, gently rocking the baby in his arms.
"There's a number on the back," the nurse pointed, "Maybe it's his?"
"I suppose it's worth a try at the very least," murmured the doctor, "Here, hold the baby while I make the call."
Unquestioningly, the nurse took the newborn infant in her arms. The doctor then turned and walked to the phone, flipping the picture over as he carefully transcribed the numbers on the back into the buttons he pushed.
There was silence for a moment before the phone connected, and the dial tone began to sound. Patiently, the doctor waited for an answer on the other end. After the fifth ring, a male voice answered.
"Hello?"
"This is doctor Schwart, from Central medical. We just admitted a pregnant girl this evening. Unfortunately, she passed away from a drug overdose. The baby is alright though, I'm here with him now."
There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment before the voice replied, "What does this have to do with me?"
"She had your picture, and this number on the back of it." the doctor spoke in an exhausted voice, "We don't even have a name for her, we're really running on a lack of details right now. Can you at least confirm that you know her and give us her name? Maybe someone we can contact?"
"Her name was Chelsea," replied the voice.
"Great, that's a relief to have a name for her. Do you know if she had any next of kin?"
"No."
"Alright," the doctor tried his best to sound nonplussed, "What about the father of the child?"
There was another long pause before the boy replied, "I don't know."
"Is it you?" the doctor boldly inquired, "Are you this child's father?"
"I left her months ago," the voice replied with a sudden chill, "It's no longer my problem."
Before the doctor could reply, the line went dead, leaving him with a dial tone.
In shock, the doctor stood there, the receiver held to his ear, silently listening to the electronic hum of the dead phone line as the baby began to cry frantically in the background....