The Unmasking of Hannah Nguyen

“Pushhh!” the midwife shouted, as if screaming would help get this baby out of my vagina.

I had been pushing for two hours after a 30-hour labour, most of which was in a private waiting room, with nothing more than a desk, computer, and a less than comfortable chair. The nurses said it was Valentine’s Day baby season. With only seven birthing rooms at the public hospital, many labouring women (including myself) had the pleasure of barring our labour in rooms, with what felt like paper thin walls, side by side, with no pain relief.

In the early hours of the morning, I was finally shown to my birthing room, only to be told I had 3cm to go. Exhausted and in pain, I panicked and cried asking for an epidural.

Little did I know that there is a process of ordering the epidural before the process of administering the epidural. Lord have mercy.

I opted for the gas until the anaesthetist arrived. She explained the process would take approximately 30 minutes and there were risks involved:

Epidural risks are mild and rare. Rare sides effects include temporary and permanent nerve damage, leading to loss of function in the lower part of the body, seizures, infection, severe headaches, and breathing problems. Do you consent?

Knowing I didn’t have a lot of time to decide, I replied, “go for it.”

The anaesthetist asked that I notify her as a contraction approached, so she could pause her procedure until the contraction passed. This was to reduce the risks.

“You’re all set”, said the anaesthetist as she packed her tools to leave.

“Something doesn’t feel right”, I explained. There was a weird feeling of cold air passing back and forth, down my back and into my leg.

We had to remove the epidural and repeat the process. The anaesthetist explained that there was a high chance that she punctured the membrane covering my spinal cord, but I should be fine.

She repeated the process and I mentally happy danced, as I clicked the epidural release button. I took a nap.

Three hours later, I woke and pushed that epidural release button, once again. Moments later, I was told I was fully dilated and ready to push.

…here we are, two hours later, still pushing.

The midwives called in the doctor. “She hasn’t progressed much in two hours”.

The doctor made an examination and said I would need to be taken down to the theatre room to prepare for an emergency c-section.

Within minutes, I was wheeled down to theatre and was surrounded by medical staff. The anaesthetist returned, ready to provide a heavier dose of anaesthetic stating I would feel numb from the waist down. Shortly after the anaesthetic was administered, I instantly started feeling weak. My breathing slowed down and as I opened my mouth to notify the medical staff, I realised I couldn’t speak properly. I was fighting to say, “I can’t breathe”. I was panicking.

No one believes me and I am dying, I thought to myself. I began moving any part of my body I could at that stage, rolling my eyes, mumbling, trying to pull my chest off the surgery bed. I was provided an oxygen mask and sedated. My heavy eyes opened and closed, while choking from what felt like lack of air entering my lungs. I looked over at my husband, terrified I would never see him again or meet my baby… and the bright lights faded.

I woke up in the recovery room. Shaking and disoriented, my husband walked over and placed my baby in my arms. I broke down staring into the dark blues eyes of my baby, sobbing. I was overwhelmed with both joy and fear, I still couldn’t speak and swallow, fearing I was in fact, dead. Is this real?

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The anaesthetic slowly washed away over the next few hours and I was feeling somewhat normal.

The following day I felt a headache coming on. I requested pain killers and relaxed. My head soon after began throbbing and I was growing nauseous and weak. Frustrated by the medical errors in the last 24 hours, my husband stood up and said, “I’m going to find your anaesthetist!”

They both return momentarily with blank looks on their faces. “I spoke with your husband and unfortunately, I believe you are suffering from a chronic headache caused by the original epidural error. This happens in 1 per cent of epidurals, where the puncture has led to a spinal fluid leakage, making its way to the brain. We fix this with a blood patch”.

I was wheeled away from my husband and child once again. I had blood removed from my arm and pumped into my spine, until I felt strong pressure in my back. My headache was instantly gone.

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On the first night home, my husband and I hopped into bed, relieved to finally have our baby and begin moving on with our lives. Within minutes, the screaming began; this is not what I had expected. I started becoming overwhelmed and began to shake again. The room began to change, becoming darker and cold. I felt I was losing my mind. What have they done to me?

The following day, my maternal health nurse came to check on me and my child. My husband opened the door and said, “please help her”. She looks over at me and I’m trembling with eyes wide open. The maternal health nurse, walks over and introduces herself to me.

As I started to detail the events of my emergency c-section, my breathing paced, and I started violently shaking. “I’m going to stop you there. I believe you are experiencing post-traumatic stress and I feel you will benefit with a briefing from the medical staff and anaesthetist. I will organise this in a couple of days”. “What will I do in the meantime?”, I asked. “I am not coping. I don’t feel myself”. The nurse replied, “bubs looks good and healthy, so sit tight and I will be in touch”. The nurse left. It was a mentally difficult 24 hours.

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I asked my Mum to come and watch our baby as we went for the briefing. Leaving our child was surreal. We weren’t used to taking her anywhere, but the connection was imprinted from conception and I felt like leaving her was like leaving the house without my phone and keys.

At the hospital, we sat down with the anaesthetist and ran through the series of events I went through during the night, with all records from all medical staff on duty. I didn’t understand how running me through the events again would help. “How can I move forward”, I asked the anaesthetist.

“hmm… let me grab the unit manager”.

As the anaesthetist left the room, I noticed a little black book sitting open on her desk. I glance over and see that she has written ‘COMPLICATIONS PRACTICE EXAM’ under tomorrow’s date. Exam? Until this stage, I hadn’t paid much attention to anyone or anything beyond my own four walls. I couldn’t even remember the anaesthetist’s name. I look over to my husband and said, “her planner says she has an exam tomorrow! Do you think she’s even qualified?!”. “Don’t be silly, that’s surely not possible”, he responded.

I was already feeling like I was losing my mind, so I thought, fuck it. I am going to steal this little black book and investigate. I didn’t hesitate as my eyes widened, and I quickly reached out and shoved it in my bag.

The unit manager returned, gave me some standard advice, and pretended to care. You’re a joke, I thought and smiled. I happily left knowing I had some research to do. I needed to do it quickly before the anaesthetist realised her planner was missing.

As soon as we got in the car, I opened the little black book to find her name... Hannah Nguyen.

I opened google to find a register of qualified anaesthetists in Victoria. I typed in her name and it displayed, ‘no results’. I searched through her planner and found she is attending Monash University. I am feeling hot in pursuit and distracted from my abnormal sense of self. I call the university and ask to speak to the administration team. “Hi, my name is Jo and I am calling from Frankston Hospital to conduct a qualification check on Hannah Nguyen for her recent job application”.

I was put on hold for a moment and transferred to a Penny Defontany. “Hi Jo, thanks for your call about Hannah. We can confirm Hannah is a current student attending our institution, however, she is not yet qualified as an anaesthetist”.

“Ok, thanks Penny. I have what I need.” I hung up and stillness overwhelmed me. My husband overheard the conversation and begins ranting, “I can’t fucking believe it! How is such an important person not at least reference checked!”. I begin to struggle breathing, but instead focus on my rage.

I immediately call the hospital and asked to speak to Hannah.

“Hi Jo, how can I help?”. “You can start by stop practicing medicine! How dare you ask how you can help, when you are happy to risk lives with your dirty little secret”.

Hannah stumbles and asks me to clarify what I mean. I reply, “I know you’re not qualified!”.

“Please Jo! I am so sorry. Let me explain!”.

“Sorry that you got caught!” I replied and hung up.

We were sitting in our driveway, wondering how different life was 72 hours ago. I hugged my husband and enjoyed the moment with him alone in the car. My breasts were swollen.

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Before I finished breastfeeding my baby, there was a knock at the door. It was Hannah!

“Please let me explain Jo!”

“What could you possibly have to say, that would avoid me taking legal action?” I asked Hannah.

“I am a top student in my class and am almost qualified. I applied for the role as my family lived in Cambodia and needed medical treatment here in Australia. I was saving money for them.”

“Why are you still working unqualified if they are already living here?”, I bluntly asked, realising I could maybe soften my approach given the family circumstances she is under.

“I’m in a tight situation and working to pay off medical loans”, she replied.

Hannah paused for a moment, still standing on the porch at my front door. She was wearing a classic looking leather backpack, hooked on her left shoulder. “Jo, I am here to offer you $20,000 in return for your silence”. She looked around, as if to make sure there were no passing witnesses and pulled out six wads of $100 bills. I look back over at my husband in the living room to see for his reaction. His eyes displayed feelings of shock, but his face emotionless, as was mine.

I pondered whether this would make me a criminal too. We were a young couple and bought an old property to start our family in. We could really use this cash.

I nodded rather than verbally agreeing, as shame flooded my mind with images of other women that could suffer over Hannah’s fraudulence. She pulled out a contract which asked for my confidentiality. I skimmed the document and quickly signed, thinking I could have visitors any moment. At the bottom of the contract, there was a rectangular red stamp with what looked like an outline of a temple on it. I felt as if I had seen it before.

Hannah passed me the cash, took the contract, and began walking away.

“Wait!” I yelled. “You forgot your little black book”. At that moment, I realised she may have not been aware that I stole it. She walked back, grabbed it, and said “thank you” with a grim smile on her face.

What have I done?

I closed the door, sat down in the living room with my husband and sobbed.

“It’s done now”, he said. “You survived, we have our baby and now $20,000. At least look at the bright side.”

I thought back to the red stamp I saw on the contract. “There was a strange red stamp on the contract, and I can’t shake the feeling that I have seen it before”, I said as my tears began to fade.

“Can you draw it for me”, my husband asked.

As I drew the image, my husbands faced dropped, “what have we done!”

“What!” I yelled, urgently waiting for his reply.

“It’s the Khmer Rouge flag”.