LOUISVILLE—The middle of the night, 3 a.m. It’s chilly. Maybe 30 or 40 degrees. A car squeals into the Baptist Health Hospital parking lot on two wheels. David Patrick is driving. His wife, Sarah, is in the passenger seat, having contractions.
“HOLD ON, HONEY!” he shouts.
She is grasping her pregnant belly. Breathing heavily.
As a side note, I was born under emergency-style circumstances, too. Sort of. My mother had to drive herself to the hospital. My father was working late. Her water broke in the car. She made it to the delivery room just in time. When I entered this world, my mother named me “Sean,” after Sean Connery, the actor who played James Bond.
When asked why my mother named me this, she answered, “Because Sean Connery is one sexy man.”
In all my life, I’ve never met another kid named after James Bond who successfully survived his childhood.
But getting back to David and Sarah. There they are, in dire straits. They jump out of the vehicle. They waddle up the hospital sidewalk. A pregnant woman can
only waddle so fast.
“He’s coming!” shouts Sarah.
They are at the west entrance of the hospital, and security is tight at hospitals these days because—just in case you forgot—this is an international pandemic. The west doors are locked.
David pounds on the glass. “HELP!”
David tries two more entrances. All locked. Nobody answers. He scrambles back to Sarah. Now they are rushing back to their car. David plans on driving to the emergency room entrance on the opposite side of the hospital.
All of a sudden, Sarah stops shuffling on the sidewalk.
David hears a gush of water fall onto pavement.
“He’s coming!” Sarah says.
It’s a little ironic, David and Sarah are standing beneath the glow of a lit-up hospital sign that reads: “Labor and Delivery.” This is not a dream. This is your life, David…