Our friend, Charlene Robinson, was about due, and she asked if I would drive her to University Hospital when the contractions started. I was honored to do so. To understand the events, you need to know that Charlene was African-American, very dark, and I am European-American, medium tone.
When she felt the labor pains, she phoned me at one a.m. I dressed, drove to her apartment, and then to the hospital. Between contractions, Charlene joked. I found this amazing. When Margaret experienced pain—or any strong emotion—joking was impossible for her and dangerous for me.
At the emergency entrance, I found a wheelchair and took Charlene in. An orderly took the chair from me and wheeled her through the swinging double doors.
Not knowing what to do next, I sat down and leafed through a magazine. The receptionist wiggled her hand, signaling me to approach the desk.
“What’s the patient’s name?”
“Oh, let’s see. She’s in the one-hundred block of East Liberty. Must be about 110 or 112, third floor back.”
“Date of birth?”
“I dunno. She’s in her thirties.”
“Place of birth?”
“Louisville, Kentucky, I think.”
“Social Security number?”
“Are you the father of that baby?”
“No ma’am, I’m just the driver.”
Purpose of this blog is to compile several books for my grandchildren to read in 25 years.
Copyright © 2014 by Jack Towe
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