When my boys were born by c-section, the anesthesia didn't work.
I'm serious. The epidural, which had been in place for several previous hours of labor, was compromised, and so the anesthesiologist used a spinal. As my OB began to cut (which I know because I was watching in a mirror), the ineffectiveness of the spinal became apparent. As soon as they boys were out (which I remember) I got a heavy dose of other stuff for the hour of repair work (which I don't).
Weeks later, in great dismay over the general mess made of my so-called pain relief, I called the hospital and spoke at length to the resident anesthesiologist who had participated in the delivery, so that I could understand what had happened. I'll spare you the details.
This morning, at the hospital down the road for my daughter's eye surgery: the anesthesiologist came in and introduced herself as Dr. S. I pondered the last name for a moment and then said, "Are you SS, and did you use to do OB at The Other Hospital?" When she answered in the affirmative, I said, without thinking, "You were there when my boys were born!" "I did some 5,000 deliveries there," she said. "Oh, yes, I was the Epidural Queen."
Well, not exactly. But I didn't mention that.
And then I realized with horror that she might ask me about my boys.
Fortunately, she was too busy chatting with my daughter about where she goes to college than to think to ask her about her brothers, and too busy talking about her own four daughters and where they have ended up than to think to ask me how far away my own children have gone.
Since she was a resident when my boys were born, then she is likely a few years younger than I am, and since she has four grown daughters and one grandchild, life has been good to her, at least as far as I know.
There is just no place I can go without running headlong into reality.