My son was rushed to the hospital with severe bleeding after a car accident.
When it was time to sign the surgical consent form, the nurse snapped the medical chart shut and held it down firmly.
“Hospital policy says only an immediate family member can sign the consent form. What proof do you have that you’re the child’s mother?”
I stared at her. “He’s my biological son. I have to prove that to you?”
“Birth certificates can be forged. Who knows if you kidnapped him? If you can’t prove it, we can’t operate.”
Watching the nurse’s righteous expression, I trembled with anger.
“I’m signing the consent form for my own son. Do I have to provide you with DNA evidence, too?”
The nurse curled her lip. “Those are the hospital’s rules. We’re just looking out for the patient. If you can’t prove the child is yours, we’ll have to report you to the police for child trafficking.”
With that, she actually called over the security guards to report me, shouting that I was a “kidnapper.”
You want to call the police?
I pulled the police uniform out of my bag and put it on.
Let me show you what it means to be on the scene in one second!
