I pulled my hand free as naturally as I could, took the consent form, and said evenly, "You've lost over a thousand milliliters of blood. Without surgery, you could die."
She surged forward and slapped the consent form out of my hands.
The metal clip on the clipboard scraped across my ankle. She glanced down at it sideways, cold and utterly indifferent.
Then she put on the look of someone who'd seen right through us, her voice cutting: "You're just worried I'll die here and you'll have to answer for it."
She hadn't recognized me behind the surgical cap and mask.
The assisting physician shot back, "That's your own dirty mind talking. Don't lump us in with you."
That set her off. She sat bolt upright and jabbed a finger at me, snarling, "Look at her! What kind of attitude is that? Try me. I'll buy this whole hospital and fire every last one of you.
"They all take orders from you, don't they? Tell them to give me back my healthy son. Otherwise I'll die right here on this table, and you can explain that to the hospital. You can explain it to my fiancé."