It wasn’t.
Verna was twenty-four years old in February of 1995. Her second week on the job. Working the late shift because her husband was in the Army at Fort Benning and she needed the money. She’d never helped deliver anything but a litter of puppies. She remembered Charlene screaming at her husband to “quit apologizing and hold my leg.” She remembered the baby was big and loud and had a full head of black hair. She remembered riding to the hospital in the ambulance with them because Charlene wouldn’t let go of her hand, and then catching a ride home with a state trooper at three in the morning, still in her apron.
“And your mama asked me my name,” Verna said. “Right before they rolled her in. And I told her. And she said, ‘I’m going to name him after you, then.’” Verna laughed. “And I said, honey, you can’t name a boy Verna. And she said, ‘Watch me.’”
