A malpractice claim is not the only way to end up in court.

I happened to be on the night a toddler was brought broken to our ER essentially dead from abuse, a case that was horrific for all of us that futilely tried to stave off the inevitable.  An investigation dug up even more grisly details, and eventually the perpetrator was brought to trial.

The day I was called to take the stand I put on a suit I hadn’t worn since a funeral, which seemed appropriate.  I arrived at the courthouse and took a seat outside the courtroom to wait my turn to testify.  I sat alone flipping through a stray Newsweek wishing my stomach would stop churning.  I was really nervous although about what I’m not sure — I had already met previously with the prosecutors to go over the case and the questions they would ask.  I guess it was just the gravity and the formality of the proceedings, knowing that all eyes would be on me and that all my answers would be permanently recorded, worrying some about how my answers would come across and more from the uncertainty that hung over the questions I might get in cross-examination.  Maybe at some point in my career I’ll get used to providing testimony, but for now it’s all new and I found myself way out of my comfort zone.

Then they opened the door and called me in.  I walked up to the stand and faced the jury and raised my right hand and said I’d tell the whole truth.  I sat down, my stupid stomach on spin cycle by now, and for a split second I had trouble answering just where it was that I went to med school.  But gradually I settled down and soon it was just a conversation, albeit with a lot of spectators, about what happened in the ER that night.

The defense just had a couple of easy questions, I think through my own self-centered take on the proceedings it was easy to forget that I wasn’t the one on trial.  Then for me it was over and I walked out to my car relieved to be just some guy again.

The drive home gave me a chance to reflect.  Some of the questions they asked bounced around in my head, and like I always do I picked apart my answers and wished I had said it this way instead of that, replaying the altered, new-and-improved dialogue again and again in my mind as if doing so would make the changes real.

But mostly I thought about that little kid, and life, and why is it that some children are born with love overflowing and others destined to savagely die.  And those kind of thoughts stir up dormant emotions, because no matter how grizzled and cynical this job makes you, some things still pierce through.  I wonder if time really does heal all wounds — this one just seems to scab over, rebleeding every time it’s picked at.

But I’m not much of a thinker, and by the time I got home I was ready to start forgetting.  I got a beer from the fridge and turned on a mindless baseball game, appreciating the sanctuary of my home, insulated from all the monsters.