My mother was in labor for five hours before she became convinced that natural childbirth was a mistake.

“Drugs!” she screamed. “I want drugs!”

It was too late for an epidural and morphine was out of the question. She had to get by on mere painkillers, which to her pain were the equivalent of sawing through a redwood with a toothbrush.

She demanded that my father be summoned. He was on alert, so he was supposed to stay on the Air Force base, in case war broke out unexpectedly. A compromise was reached: his buddy Dave would have to sit in the hallway of the hospital next to a phone, waiting for a potential call to arms. In full uniform.

My father stroked my mother’s hair and promised he would never do this to her again. Dave slouched further and further down in his chair, accepting the occasional cup of coffee from a sympathetic nurse. My mother screamed and cried and my father paced frantically. Dave nodded off.