My foot nudges the accelerator even closer to the floor, the indicator creeping higher on the speedometer. She sits there in the passenger seat next to me, almost lifeless, in audible pain. The distance between the cars behind us increases. We had planned a home birth, but something has gone wrong. A wall of cars greets us up ahead. I am no doctor and this situation is entirely foreign to me. As the car ahead of me nears, some of our speed subsides, but I attempt to force the car ahead into submission. Her lack of movement intensifies my worries. The cars around me don’t want to give. I delicately stroke her hair, giving some comfort, but with anxiety I quickly remove my hand, not wanting to cause more pain. Finding a small gap in between the car in front and the left of me, I force my way into the space producing several honks and accelerate closer to the hospital. She twitches and my awareness pulsates. More cars block my path.
“What can I do? What can I do?”
Silence.
Why can’t I will the cars to move? If only I had a siren.
Her breathing slows, but not in a good way.
“Only two more exits,” I tell myself. She seems far away, an escape from the pain.
Inches away from meeting another car, I squeeze my way into another lane, more honks.
I don’t know which scares me more, her slowed breathing or her separation.
One more exit and more honks. I attempt to stroke her hair again, in hopes of regaining some connection. I see my exit on the opposite side of the freeway and cross several lanes.
“I gotta get her to the hospital,” I yell at no one in particular. They can’t hear me, but it gives me some comfort.
“We’re almost there, Minnie,” I reassure her.
With a sharp turn, I drift into the parking lot, slam on the breaks, throw the gear into park, scoop up Minnie, and dash into the hospital, walking past a sign, “Greenwood Animal Hospital.”
The doctor is waiting to deliver each of Minnie’s precious pinkies.
