Dolo Diaz
NO EYE CONTACT AT STANFORD HOSPITAL
I dropped the Dr. from My Name to give birth at Stanford Hospital. With my last name ending in –z like all those other mothers—no papers or insurance. And entered not one but two twilight zones: motherhood and otherness. It started with the labor nurse—those Palo Alto ladies don’t know how to push, but you people are naturals. It took me a while to catch on to the tone. Shift after shift, it slowly untangled from the cables connected to the baby’s chest: the condescension. The nurses and the doctors and the pediatric cardiologist who checked my baby’s heart before release. The baby was so mellow, she asked to keep him longer—for practice. And I said yes. And through all of this—no eye contact. A whole hour went by, with no eye contact from anyone. And no response to my casual comments during that silent hour—my words passing right through them, their ears like Teflon, even when my words articulated the precise medical terminology.
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