As a first real post, let me put in this link to a poem that I wrote in November and published in December, "An Accident and Two Coincidences."

I wrote the poem because one of the editors of Primary Care asked me to write the story down for their special issue on writer's experiences with their primary-care doctors. As they weren't going to pay me, I decided to pay myself, as it were, by writing it in verse.

Update, 17 October 2025:

As the link doesn’t work anymore, I thought I’d post the poem here so that the post makes sense:

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

Primary Care 51-52, 2005