A Thousand Naked Strangers - Kevin Hazzard Page 0,83

of the house and into the hospital. Baby number one typically takes the longest to deliver, with subsequent deliveries getting easier and faster. But it’s all so subjective, so dependent on factors beyond our control, that I just want to get there. Sabrina insists on covering the car seat with a bath towel, and once it’s down, I drive like hell.

Even though her water has broken, there are no contractions, no urge to push, and we’re able to enjoy the moment. Something big is happening—a forever kind of thing—and this moment, the two of us in the car with a bath towel, is the beginning. It’s hard not to smile. There’s nothing to do but wait.

And that’s what we do. Wait. Without end, without progress. It takes hours for the contractions to kick in and hours more for everything to get real. Finally, there’s a spinal tap, an epidural, more exams, more waiting. The frequency of contractions, like a slow burn, picks up little by little until we almost don’t notice the moment has arrived. Suddenly, there are nurses and a doctor, and for the first time everyone is wearing a gown. All I can think is I’m not ready for this, I’m not ready for this. The doctor asks if I want to help, and even as I say yes, my hands are trembling.

When the doctor tells me to step around to the end of the bed, Sabrina is deep into what will be the final push. As I get close, the head appears. I reach down, cradle it, and guide it out. Nothing dramatic, nothing to report. No disaster. Merely a child, a son. Healthy and here and ours.

By technicality, his delivery is number fourteen.

37

The Summons

I was told years ago that if I stuck with this job long enough, three things would happen: First, I’d burn out and need to find my own way back. Second, with time, I’d run every call I ever hoped to run. And third, I’d end up in court. The first two have already happened, though I never expected the third. Until I got sued.

When news of the lawsuit arrives—alleging that I’m a poor provider who irreparably harmed someone with my negligence—I’m not surprised. I remember the patient. I knew this was coming. Though it was a few years ago now, the details of that day are clear and simple. Basically, it unfolded like this.

                      1

So I’ve known this day was coming. I’ve known—at least suspected—that a lawyer has been creeping around the doors of my past, looking for a way in. There’s been nothing to do but wait for him to pick the lock and steal inside. Now it has happened. It’s early spring, and I walk into work to find a letter shoved in my mailbox. It’s from the hospital’s lawyers, and they’re asking, almost apologetically, if I can set aside some time to speak—when it’s convenient, of course. I schedule a meeting, arrive at their offices, shake hands, sit down, and am stripped to the bone.

Every detail of the call is dissected until its parts no longer look like they belong to the same whole. My recollection is put on trial and sentenced to death prior to its conviction. After several hours, I explain that I have to leave, that I have a child back home who’s a few weeks old, and my wife works in the morning. This inquisition is over. The attorneys look at each other and, because I’ve left them without a choice, say I can leave. I stand.

“Do you have any questions for us?” one of the attorneys asks. She’s bone-thin, and her jacket hangs limp from her shoulders. Her partner is powerfully built but says almost nothing.

“Am I being sued?”

“No.”

Relief. Because the hospital has bigger pockets, I’ll merely serve as witness at my own trial.

A month later, we meet again. This time with less cross-examination. More questions.

“Give shorter answers,” the attorney says, shrugging off her jacket to reveal a set of skinny arms. “No unsolicited explanation. Make them work for it.”

The whole thing is a sucker punch. It’s unnerving to be drilled and doubted and accused of the worst while never having a chance to explain. The facts are an afterthought; what matters is how each side can manipulate and present them. I develop a nagging nausea, like the faint echo of food poisoning that lingers for days after the purging. I’m embarrassed and isolated from everything, even my own confidence. Imagine being exiled from your