On Valentine’s Day, as I was walking back toward the hospital after buying a Coke from the Red Cross canteen (a little shop adjacent to the hospital “car park” where they sell snacks, soft drinks, and sadza ), a man about my age walked briskly toward me, saying, “Hi doc, I’m sorry to interrupt you but can I ask a personal question?” My mind jumped to: where’s the rash? Instead, he continued, “It’s about my wife. She was admitted to the labour ward for an induction today, but now they’re sending her back to the antepartum ward because she isn’t having contractions.” (The labour ward has a strict no visitors policy, which also means no husbands.Throughout the rest of the hospital, visitors are only allowed for two hour-long periods each day.) He went on to tell me about the recent course of his wife’s pregnancy, and I was becoming curious about what the “personal question” would be. After a few minutes, he asked simply, “Do you think she’ll be okay? Do you think the baby will be ...
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