Bronson is worried about his unborn baby.

“Any reason you should be?” I ask, thinking something may run in the family of his wife, Rachel.

He sighs. “No. But I worry anyway.”

“I’m a worrier, too,” I say. “And as far as I know, there’s no cure for it.”

We get a call for a “sick,” and I lean over to read the computer screen. Apparently, a 20-year-old woman in East Flatbush has been vomiting all day and feels weak. “Great,” I say.

I turn on the lights but not the sirens, and we take a casual drive to an address on Linden Boulevard, a decrepit five-story apartment building with the name “The Alexandria” optimistically etched into the stone above the front doors. What once was a grand fireplace in the lobby now looks like a burned-out hole, the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling is falling off in chunks, and the marble steps are cracked and chipped.

I hit the antique elevator button with my elbow and watch the iron arrow sweep over the numbers like a sundial, but Bronson decides to hoof it. “I am not climbing five flights in this heat,” I warn him.

“Gotta get in shape for my baby boy,” he replies, taking the steps two at a time. They just found out it’s a boy.

“Oh for chrissakes,” I sigh, falling in behind him – there’s no way I’m getting stuck in that elevator all alone. Partners never split up. At the top of the last flight, I’m huffing and puffing, drenched in my uniform. We knock and enter the airless, sweltering apartment. It’s dark, but I can see a waterbug skitter across the floor.

In the bedroom, we find a young woman lying on her side on a sagging mattress. A young man, apparently her boyfriend, is sitting beside her, not very interested. He kicks a shoebox back under the bed.

“Hey,” Bronson greets them. “You called an ambulance?”

The woman nods weakly. “I threw up four times today. The last time half an hour ago.”

I take her vital signs, which are normal, and ask her, “What did you last eat, and when?”

“Bowl of cereal, yesterday.”

I lift the sheet and feel her abdomen. It’s normal. “Do you have any medical history?”

She wrinkles her brow at the unfamiliar terminology.

“Any medical conditions?”

She shakes her head, and then says, “I took pills last night.”

“What kind?” She looks at her boyfriend.

“Neurontin,” he answers. “I got seizures.”

She closes her eyes. “I was depressed.”

“How many did you take?”

“I don’t know.”

I tell her that we’re going to take her to Kings County Hospital to get her treated, and also to speak with somebody. She buries her face in the filthy pillow, moans, and then dry heaves into a plastic take-out container.

I look at Bronson. We both suspect the same thing. He goes into the hall and calls out the boyfriend to get the patient’s information for the paperwork. That’s when I whisper to the woman, “How pregnant are you?”

She’s crying softly, wiping her mouth. “I guess about three months.” I ask her if she knows her due date. She shakes her head. “No.”

“You getting any prenatal care?” The local clinics offer this service regardless of whether the patient has health insurance, Medicaid, or nothing at all.

She shakes her head again. “No.”

“First pregnancy?”

“Yes.”

“No previous miscarriages or abortions?”

“One abortion.”

I sigh. “So this is your second pregnancy.”

She nods. “I don’t want to have another abortion. But this just doesn’t seem right.”

I tell her what she’s describing is severe morning sickness, which in many women lasts 24/7 for the first trimester, then begins to ease up. I don’t know what, if any, teratogenic effects neurontin might have on a fetus. I tell her they’ll start prenatal care at the hospital.

Her boyfriend decides not to accompany her. Bronson shrugs and says sarcastically, “I guess you have more important things to do,” nodding toward the marijuana flakes scattered around the shoebox the guy kicked under the bed. I look at this apartment and at these parents and wonder what chances this baby will have at any sort of future.

After we drop off the woman at the hospital, Bronson gets quiet. I tell him I wish there was some karmic equation that could make the amount of love and affection he is going to shower on his baby negate the lack of guidance these parents are going to offer theirs.

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician on an ambulance in Brooklyn.This column details her observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.
To hear Ms. Klopsis on WNYC, please go to the following link: http://www.wnyc.org/shows/bl/episodes/2006/07/14