By Lauren Kotkin, ASF
My sister was born in the middle of a blizzard.
That is, my father flagged down a truck driver near their apartment in the NY suburbs to take them to the hospital—any hospital—because emergency services refused to pick them up. The driver drove them to the nearest hospital, and my sister was delivered by an unknown doctor.
The story is family lore.
Fast forward a few decades. My parents were schmoozing at a bar-mitzvah when my mother recognized a man in the crowd. She never forgets a name or a face. Sure enough, it was the doctor who delivered my sister. She said to him, “You probably don’t remember this, but…” and then introduced herself and thanked him with a smile. Continue reading