Excerpt from Chapter VIII
Somewhere in the Mountains Out West

The snow flurries had been swirling around and dotting the gray skies all day as isolated patches of gusts of wind shot up from the angry earth. Anybody with any sense and certainly a pregnant woman in labor would’ve gotten the hell out of the mountains, but in walked a young lady with long golden-brown hair braided as far down as her ass. She was wrapped in an oversized gray overcoat, with her contractions already 15 minutes apart.

“Listen, nurse, I think I’m in labor.”

The elderly nurse slowly closed her Reader’s Digest and gently set it down. She removed her spectacles and, with an amused look on her face, said, “Come in and let the doctor check you out.”

In the exam room the patient removed her coat, revealing a floor-length velvet purple dress. She reluctantly removed her clothing and slipped on the blue polka-dotted hospital gown that she found neatly folded on the exam table.

After a brief history and a quick examination, I told the patient that I agreed with her assessment and she should get down the mountain as quick as possible before the storm blew in. Aside from the fact that she was in labor and we were in a small clinic at 9,000 feet above sea level, she had also had a prior cesarean section which made the situation all the more dangerous. I explained that she needed to be transported immediately to the closest hospital. On a good day that was 45 minutes away but with the snow blowing in it would take at least twice as long. She reluctantly agreed and left the clinic.

The rest of the day I saw the usual hodgepodge of things one sees in a mountain clinic. At around ten o’clock that evening with the snow accumulation at four feet, in she walks with her contractions two minutes apart.

“I thought we agreed that you would leave earlier today.”

“Well, I decided to stay so I could have a high mountain baby.”

“A high what?”

“A high mountain baby. Someone born at a high altitude. That way he’ll soar for the rest of his life. Like a god.”

“You’re mentally ill. In fact, you’re certifiably insane. Can’t you see you’re putting you and your baby in danger?”

I gestured to the nurse to call the other physician in town and see if he could come in and help me. Ten minutes later he arrived. We discussed our plan of action and decided that he would be the obstetrician and I the pediatrician. Just then six of her friends also arrived, looking as if they were transplanted relics from the ’60s. They formed a circle around her and myself and began to chant and told the both of us to relax.

“Relax! Are you kidding? This baby probably will die and the mother probably won’t do so hot either.”

Just then the window blew open and snow started circulating in the delivery room. Her friends thought that it was an omen from Zeus because it reminded them of the Milky Way, formed by the milk of Hera, wife of Zeus and Goddess of marriage and childbirth. The Milky Way, they said, was created when Hera realized that she had been giving milk to Hermes, the messenger of the Gods, and thrust him away, spreading her milk across the universe. The mother of the child about to be born took this as an omen to breast-feed her baby and I took it as a reason to get more nervous.

“Doctor, please relax,” the mother said desperately.

Her friends added that they wanted me to relax also. “You’re just too uptight and we don’t think your vibes will help the situation any.”

“What would help the situation would be if all of you would get the hell out of here and let us do our job.”

A thirty-year-old man with shoulder length hair, dressed in a long robe and sandals, said, “What do you think, guys, does he need a smoke?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“We were thinking more like pot,” said his companion who looked more alien than anything else.

The next thing I knew and before I could object, a third man with short-cropped hair, dyed dark purple, and a ring through his nose, lit up a joint and blew the smoke my way. The whole time, he and his group of friends were chanting “om.” At that moment the baby was delivered in respiratory distress and I resuscitated him while the other physician attended to the mother. Meanwhile, the mother kept singing, “I’ve got my mountain high baby.” I was humming I’ve got my mountain high baby blues.

I stabilized the baby and gave him to his mother so they could bond. Then I retreated into the next room and I called the sheriff on the phone. He arrived a few minutes later with his shiny tin star pinned to his starched brown shirt. He strolled into the makeshift smoke-filled delivery room tipped his dark brown ten-gallon hat and nodded to the expectant mother and said, “Evening, mam.”

He then walked over to our anachronistic friends and said, “Don’t bogard that joint, my friend, just pass it over to me.” He grabbed the joint, pushed aside his Wyatt Earp mustache and said, “Hey, this is really good shit. Where the hell did you get it?”

“Got it over yonder, down in the hollow,” responded the goofball with the short-cropped, purple-dyed hair.

“We haven’t had stuff this good around here in a long time. Next time you score let me in on it. You really ought to try this, doctor, it might make you relax,” declared the sheriff as he toked on the joint.

—Reprinted from Foam Reality by Bill Cornish by permission of Desert Bloom Press. Copyright © Bill Cornish, 2007. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission.