Sarkar is head of the department. I’m sure he’s correct, but, almost reflexively, I place both my hands on Greta Moss’s taut stomach. Yep, Greta’s ready to go. I look closely at Greta’s face. She’s squinting with the beginning of labor pains. I’m ashamed to admit—even to myself—that all I can think is My God, this woman is beautiful!

I also can’t help but notice that she’s wearing full makeup: eyeliner, mascara, even a little foundation.

“Somebody get her jewelry removed,” I say.

“Absolutely not,” Greta yells.

Troy speaks firmly. He’s not in the mood to charm the patient. He tells her, “This is standard procedure, ma’am, in case surgery becomes necessary. This isn’t a fashion show, lady.”

“Do you know how valuable these earrings are? I’m not taking them off,” says Greta.

Now it’s time for my special touch. “That’s fine,” I say. “In that case, then, you can deliver your own baby. Or they can wheel you right down the corridor to obstetrics.”

“Very well,” Greta says.

Then Troy begins advising Greta on simple breathing. Greta seems uninterested.

“You gotta do some short breaths with me, ma’am,” Troy says. “You took the natural childbirth class, didn’t you?”

She looks at him blankly. It dawns on me that chances are great that our patient did not attend any natural childbirth classes. Perhaps she expected customer service from Chanel or Bergdorf to show up in her hospital room with a newborn in a shopping bag.

Suddenly a voice comes from behind me. “You can do this, Greta. I’ll coach you.” I turn around and I see football star and all-American heartthrob Hank Waldren. The guy can only be described as annoyingly handsome. I do not go weak in the knees.

Sarkar moves close to me. “I see you have everything under control,” he whispers. Then he adds, “Thank you,” and leaves.

I’m pissed off enough to give him a punch, but I’ve got my diva patient to take care of.

Greta’s knees are bent, pointing up. Her chin is pushing hard into her sternum. Troy is still advising on breathing. Every thirty seconds he says, “Everything’s looking good down below.”

I know that the labor pains are intense, but Greta doesn’t yell, doesn’t cry. Her face is contorted, but that’s it.

I wipe the perspiration from her head. I feel compelled to say, “You’re doing well, Greta. You’re doing just fine.” Then I turn and look at her husband standing behind me.

“Why don’t you hold her hand?” I say to Waldren. He nods quickly and reaches for his wife’s hand.

“No,” Greta says as she pulls her hand away from him. “I’m good. I’m doing good.”