In October
2005, I told my friend Andreas about an experience I'd had with our pediatrician.
A few weeks later, he told my story to his friend Dani, who was editing a German-language
medical magazine and was looking for stories about experiences writers had had.
When Dani asked if I could write up my story. I asked if it was okay to write the
story in English heroic couplets (rather than in German prose); after checking
with the publisher, he said it was fine. And so I wrote my poem "An
Accident and Two Coincidences", about our pediatrician and one of his former
patients: Roger Federer when he was a child. (Andrew Shields, #111words, 16 September
2022)
An
Accident And Two Coincidences
Ein
Unfall, zwei Zufälle.
I
slipped from the ladder of Miles's bunk bed
and
landed on my ankle, not my head.
He'd
had a nightmare just before midnight,
and
I had dozed for minutes at his side
until
I'd heard his breathing settle down.
I'd
wanted to get up without a sound,
and
for a second after hitting the floor,
I
thought I'd try out crawling to the door,
but
then I knew I couldn't, so I shouted
quite
loudly to my wife, although I doubted
Miles
would sleep through that. He did sit up
to
ask me in a daze, "Daddy, what's up?"
Andrea
came to help me to my bed
then
went back to check on Miles, who said
nothing
more. "He's gone right back to dreamland,"
Andrea
said, "snoring to beat the band."
Then
she got me aspirin and ice.
And
while I lay there, I thought it would be nice
to
tell our pediatrician I was the one
who'd
fallen from the bunk bed, not my son.
He
would appreciate the irony;
Miles
had often heard his warning: "I see
so
many cases where my patients fell
out
of their bunk beds, even though I tell
them
to take care!"
You don't
believe that I
was
thinking that while lying there that night?
But
surely you'll believe me when I say
I
did remember it when the X-ray
showed
in the morning that nothing was broken
(torn
ligaments).
I'd have liked to
have spoken
to
Dr. Kaufmann sooner, but happily
my
son and daughter lived quite healthily
for
two months, until Luisa had
to
go in for a check-up with her Dad.
And
everything was fine, and then we spoke
about
some vaccination dates and joked
about
the funny things my daughter does.
And
since the afternoon was slow, I was
able
to tell the story of my slip.
And
when it ended, I added one more quip,
a
lovely bit of Basel irony:
that
very week, that very injury
had
struck down Roger Federer—I wondered
as
I made the joke if I had blundered,
but
Dr. Kaufmann answered with a grin:
"I
was Roger Federer's pediatrician
until
he was fourteen and moved away
to
go to tennis school where he could play
more
seriously. He was very shy
when
I knew him." I told the doctor I
had
been a Roger fan for quite a while.
The
Basel boy who'd made it made us smile,
and
then we said goodbye. We had to hurry,
Luisa
and I, or our friends would worry,
whom
we were going to meet beside the Rhine.
But
we were hungry, and we just had time
to
stop at Starbucks to pick up a snack.
While
I was ordering, behind my back
I
heard a voice I'd heard somewhere before,
and
I thought in half a second (no more):
"Someone's
talking English on his cell,
someone
that I think I know quite well
but
cannot place. Which expat could it be?"
I
took my muffins, turned around to see
Roger
sitting there, his foot in a cast,
crutches
on the floor. He had the glassed-
over
eyes of someone on the phone.
Coincidences—I'd
have liked to wait
to
share this tale with him, but we were late,
and
he kept talking, so I left him alone.
(But maybe he will see these lines
sometime
and enjoy my anecdote in rhyme.)
— November 2005
Originally published in Primary Care 51-52, 2005