Persephone Visits The Taramco Arcadia

“Welcome to the Taramco Arcadia”, says the sign above the huge glass doors at the entrance to the hospital. The font is informal, yet classy, conjuring the atmosphere of a 5 star hotel rather than a hospital. Persephone steps through the doors as they slide silently open before her and is greeted by a broadly smiling porter who asks how he can direct her today.

“M-Maternity, please”, Persephone stutters, feeling unsure and a little unsteady. This place always makes her feel rather small, despite the effusive welcome one receives on arrival. She is directed through the huge entrance court and up a long, marble corridor, walls lined with art, past an enormous glass case containing the prizes the hospital and its consultants have been awarded. The Taramco Arcadia is a decade old – it replaced an old hospital on the same site but is much larger and has won architectural awards for its innovative use of materials and energy efficiency. More palace then place of healing, the Arcadia oozes money and power. Its Chief Executive, Etienne Alodie, is quoted as saying that health care is 90% time and motion effciency and 10% medicine. Like a factory conveyor belt, patients are moved smoothly from place to place, pushed into one end of a pipeline and spat out the other, soothed and hypnotised by the organic coffee, the silk sheets on the beds, the private rooms and extensive, chef-created menus catering to every taste and dietary need.

Persephone chooses to step onto the moving walkway up the long corridor to the Maternity department. At 20 weeks pregnant she has only been here once before. Walter, her husband opted for the platinum service, which means Arif Tabib, her consultant Obstetrician, has been visiting her at home, weekly. Each Wednesday morning she lays meekly on her bed as he takes her blood pressure, the only sign of emotion visible is her set jaw as she clenches her teeth. She silently dreads the moment he smiles and asks her to bend her knees, put her feet together and let her knees flop open, gloved fingers probing her most tender place.

Today, though, she has been summoned for a scan. As she nears the maternity department, the art on the walls changes. Schmaltzy images of mothers and infants are interspersed with large flexi-screens, advertisements scrolling by in quick succession.

“Buggaroo buggies with integrated wifi and flexi-screen: because your baby deserves only the best”

“Timmytoppy bottles and teats – organo-plastik, soft and pliable, with a unique anti-colic delivery system.”

“Aptigate – from cradle to grave. Milk for your pregnancy health, your newborn and toddler and support for your post pregnancy nutrition. Based on 100 years of breastmilk research, you can relax knowing Aptigate knows what’s best.”

“Taramco Health. For your every need, every minute of your life.”

“Taramco Insurance. Putting your mind at rest.”

“Renaissance Cord Blood Banking: your child’s future health is our obsession.”

Reaching the maternity wing, Persephone presses her palm to the flexi-screen on the wall by the door. “Welcome Mrs Regeneratio. We do hope you are well today. Please enter and approach the reception desk.” The message flashes on the screen and is intoned out loud in a silken, male voice. The door slides open and through it, Persephone sees said desk, behind which sits a beautiful young woman, dressed in a dark suit and glasses, who looks her up and down, assessing her attire.

Satisfied that Persephone is sufficiently Capitalist, she smiles and, in a sickly sweet voice, says, “Good morning Mrs Regeneratio, please take a seat. The sonographer will be out to greet you soon. Please help yourself to refreshments while you wait.” Like the good girl she is, Persephone pours herself a coconut water, settles on a sofa, takes her flexi-sheet from her bag and begins to browse the day’s news. There is a vague fluttering in her solar plexus and her heart beat rushes in her ears.

“Persephone Regeneratio” says the AI voice as her name flashes up on the large screen on the wall. “Please proceed to Honeysuckle clinic room.” Looking up, she sees the sonographer, dressed in lilac scrubs, open the door and bend his lips into a semblance of a smile. His eyes, however are cold and distant.

“On the bed please…and lift your blouse and pull down the top of your trousers.” The ultrasound devise digs painfully into Persephone’s belly. The man does not look at her, eyes fixed firmly on the screen in front of him. He frowns. Persephone stops breathing, searching every millimetre of the sonographer’s face for information and reassurance. “The infant is measuring too small. I will send my report to Doctor Tabib, who will book extra scans and schedule the date of birth.”

“Date of birth?” whispered Persephone. “I was rather hoping for a natural birth.” The sonographer snorts with amusement and rolls his eyes. “Well you can let go of those silly notions. You will be free to choose between a surgical removal or an induction of labour.”