It was a ritual, of sorts. Shower before bed. Clean t-shirt. Jeans over the footboard. Sneakers pointing toward the door.
A phone, ringing in the dark. Sometimes, a general surgeon. “The Saturday night knife and gun club is back in business.” More often, the nursing supervisor. A section for failure to progress. Or fetal distress. Moms 12 or 13 years old. Really.
Not one of them ready to be there.
Farther back.
First year in college. Mid ’70’s. A gym teacher. Extra credit for women students who had a GYN exam and brought a signature from the doc. (I suspect she had a story of her own.)