“Then, with all that chaos swarming around him, he grabbed my arm and said, ‘Doc, you operate on me like I’m alive, not like I’m dying.’ He let go, then jerked and said, ‘And my name is Roger. What’s yours?’ “He made it, too. Wife gave birth two weeks later. They paged me, called me into their room, and laid their son in my arms. Named him after me.” I stared at her. “Textbooks will tell you that he should be doornail dead. No reason he’s still with us. I think it had something to do with a DNA-level sense of humor mixed with a rather strong desire to meet his son.”
