"It's Friday the Thirteenth. Not the luckiest of days. Surely you'll be all right for another couple of days."
"So you can play golf, doctor? Instead of delivering my baby for me?"
"You'll be fine."
"Doctor, the baby is ready to be born. I'm ready. I've been ready for weeks. Months."
"I'll be ready on Monday. The operating room will be ready on Monday. Everything will be ready when the time is ripe."
"I'm ripe now. Is your stupid golf game that important to you?"
"It has nothing to do with my golf tournament. I'd skip the tournament if I thought there was any reason to do so, but you're going to be fine. There aren't going to be any problems."
"There are already problems. I've been having contractions but nothing is happening. I'm in pain. The pain keeps getting worse. I'm going to have a baby. I want to get it over with."
It was December, 1940, at Mercy Hospital in San Diego, California. Despite the cool weather, the doctor played his golf. At least that is what my mother always claimed. She said she almost died that weekend, waiting for me to be removed by caesarian, which finally happened on Monday morning at 10:29.
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