JABIR POPE: My sister answered the phone and said to me, "Mom's in the hospital.

"They found cancer, and she's not expected to live through the night."

OMAR HUSSAIN: My pager goes off just as I'm getting out of the shower.

"Please call now regarding traumas," in all caps.

SWAPNA DESHPANDE: I put him in that daycare, where I know he's going to get sick, just so I can be a doctor?

Guilty-- guilty as charged.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "In an Instant."

As we all know, our entire lives can change in the blink of an eye.

We meet a stranger and forge a lifelong connection, we try something new and discover our place in the world, or we take a random chance on a whim, and suddenly, we're walking a completely different path in life.

Tonight, our amazing roster of storytellers are going to share their tales of when fleeting moments went on to change everything.

♪ ♪ POPE: My name is Jabir Pope.

I'm 71 years old.

Born and raised in Boston, one of ten children.

Did 38 years, wrongly convicted, for a crime that I didn't do-- recently released.

Part of what I used to do inside was, was music.

And so, now that I'm out here, I'm resuming that with some of the fellows that was inside with me, as well as being an advocate for those that were left behind.

I'm just really curious, you know.

Why do you feel it's important to share your story?

Because a lot of people are not going to get a chance to do so.

I've seen some horrors in prison, similar to my own.

People losing family members and all the rest of that, and, and not recovering from that.

People dying inside, needlessly, that shouldn't die, because they're not getting the proper healthcare or the proper justice.

So, I try to be a voice for those that can't be a voice for themselves.

When our audience hears your story tonight, what would you hope that they most take away with them after listening to it?

POPE: Some of the realities of what prison is.

Um, beyond that, I would allow people to take away from it what they will.

It was May of 2013, the week of Mother's Day, and I did what I had been doing for 29 years up to that point.

I ordered a Mother's Day card, sent it out, timed it so that it would arrive on Saturday, before Mother's Day.

I did it this way not because I lived in another state, or because I lived out of the country, but because 29 years earlier, I had been wrongly convicted and sentenced to die in prison.

On the morning of Mother's Day, I came downstairs with a host of other prisoners and found my place in line, waiting for my turn at the phone.

When I called home, my sister answered the phone and said to me, "Moms is in the hospital.

"They found cancer, and she's not expected to live through the night."

She went on to say that she and my other siblings was on their way down to the hospital to say their goodbyes, and recommended that I call the hospital to do the same thing, and told me that if I did, she would talk to me when I called.

Now, prison is a place that is filled with many rules and regulations.

Among them is that you can only have ten people on your phone list, and if you wish to call anybody beyond that list, then that requires special permission from the higher-ups.

With that, I went to my block officer, explained my situation, and asked him to notify the shift commander to facilitate the call, which he did.

He then reported to me that the shift commander said to him that authorizing such a call was above his pay grade, and he would have to notify the deputy at home.

Which he was reluctant to do, because he didn't want to disturb him at his day off.

And then he asked that I have access to a three-way, which is against the rule.

Now, a three-way is me calling somebody on my list and asking them to put me through to someone else.

We can get in quite a bit of trouble for that, because while some of the rules in prison are legitimate, there was a whole lot of rules that are nonsense.

And so, that angered me.

But, so as not to take it out on my block officer, I simply informed him that I was going for a walk and I headed for the yard.

While I walked the yard, I contemplated what my options might be.

The first is, I could risk making a three-way call and having it shut down immediately, and then be carted off to the hole.

Solitary confinement, for those that may not know what that is.

That didn't trouble me that much, because I'd been to the hole before, on more than one occasions.

Like I said, some of the rules are silly.

I mean, you could actually go to the hole for not standing when a guard comes by to make his count.

You could go to the hole and lose your visiting privileges for something as innocent and as simple as giving your child a piggyback in the visiting room.

A rule that I was never going to obey, because I'm never going to obey any rule that tell me that I can't show love to my children.

And so, there I was, contemplating what my next move was going to be.

I could take a shot and run the risk of having the call shut down in the middle of the conversation, which would have been turned into something real crazy real quick.

My only other option was not to make an attempt at all, which was not an option, because I was going to make this call that day.

And while I was contemplating this, I was interrupted by the intercom in the yard that directed me to report to the captain's office, which I did.

And as soon as I walked in, the captain says to me, "We have been in touch with the hospital, and we have confirmed that you had been telling us the truth."

That angered me.

But I know if I dealt with it in the way that I wanted to, I would have never been able to make the call.

And making that call was paramount.

And so I bit it, choked on it, and allowed it to pass.

They put me through to the hospital, and my sister answered the phone and placed it to my mother's ear.

Which presented me with yet another challenge, because I did not know if my mother knew what her prognosis was.

So, I had to tailor my conversation with her and share with her my love and the fact that I would miss her, without alerting her to the fact that death was imminent.

My sister retrieved the phone and said to me, "I hope you're not finished, "because we want you to talk to her some more, "because she seemed to be receptive to your voice and struggling to respond to you."

So, I spoke with her some more.

And after I was finished the call, I returned to my unit.

My block officer was waiting for me and asked if I wanted to see a grief counselor or clergy, to help me facilitate my grief.

I told him no-- all I needed was some quiet time, and I returned to my cell and sat on my bunk, reflecting about the call I just made, which reminded me of another important call that I had to make years earlier.

You see, my moms was a working mother and was not able to sit through my entire trial.

So, when they convicted me and sentenced me to forever, on my way to the penitentiary, I was filled with the anxiety of, how would I break this to her?

And what would it do to her, hearing this news?

I finally got up the courage to call.

And when she answered the phone, I said, "There's no simple way to put it.

They gave me forever today."

God bless her, she didn't blink.

She said, "Son, are you still alive?"

And I said, "Yes, ma'am."

And she said, "Well, then, the fight ain't over."

And that gave me the courage that I need to focus on the fight ahead of me, relieved of the burden that my sentence would destroy her.

It would take me 38 years to finally win my freedom.

My mother never live through that evening, and that left a hole in my soul.

A hole that is gradually being repaired to some extent with my freedom, my reconnection with my beautiful daughter, and the greeting of my beautiful grandson.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ HUSSAIN: My name is Omar Hussain, I live in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and I'm currently a fifth-year neurosurgery resident physician.

What inspired you to want to be a doctor?

My grandfather suffered from multiple strokes when I was younger, and seeing all of the doctors, every single type of physician taking care of him, really inspired me to pursue that field.

And I didn't know if I was going to either be a neurologist or some sort of specialist around the brain, but I knew I was, I was moving in that direction.

Why do you feel it's important to share this story to a general audience?

Like, you know, bringing it outside of the medical world?

HUSSAIN: I think when people think of the brain surgeon, they probably think of one or two things.

They think of somebody who is a robot, who has an ego, who kind of comes in and says, "We're going to do this," and then leaves, and then does the surgery, and they never hear from them.

And then they also may think of Grey's Anatomy, and they think of how sexy and cool it is to, to be in, in neurosurgery.

And I think both of those things are on weird ends of a spectrum.

And I think the importance of being able to share this story specifically shows the humanity side of who doctors are, who neurosurgeons are, who the nurses are, taking care of these patients, and having that exposure to the general public kind of grounds people, and it connects us all.

♪ ♪ My pager goes off just as I'm getting out of the shower.

(inhales) It's early Sunday evening, and after being on call the whole weekend, getting a page is not a big deal.

But after reading this particular page, I was struck by one letter.

"Please call now regarding traumas," in all caps.

And that extra letter S really put a pit in my stomach.

I'm a third-year neurosurgery resident physician at this point, and I'm on call at the children's hospital in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

I call the page back as I'm putting on my scrubs, and the E.R.

doctor says to me, "Omar, there's some sort of mass casualty "going on in Waukesha, "and we need you and your attending to get here now."

I said, "I'm on my way."

I get to the hospital and the scene is just pure chaos.

Dozens of people are just running around.

People are wearing those high-visibility, those construction-type vests.

There's others with clipboards, walkie-talkies.

There's doctors, nurses, emergency medical technicians.

The preparation and the scale of the preparation is something that I had never seen before.

So, what was my first move?

Honestly, I retreat-- to the break room in the back of the emergency department.

I find the coffee machine, and I pour myself a cup of lukewarm coffee, partly because I know the night I'm about to have, but also because I just need a moment to collect myself.

In the moments after, I join the head of the emergency department in the ambulance bay entrance.

And behind her is this large whiteboard, and on it is scribbled the patient names, their ages, and the injuries of the kids that they knew were coming in.

On it, I see the ages seven, ten, 12 years old.

She says to me, "Omar, we found out some guy drove his S.U.V.

"through the Christmas parade in Waukesha.

"We're told that a lot of kids are going to be coming in, and some of them have known brain bleeds."

I briefly turn around, and I see that scene of chaos is now organized.

There's now multiple teams of E.R.

doctors, trauma surgeons, anesthesiologists, nurses, and operating room staff, all standing, ready and waiting.

I quickly run and I grab a few sheets of blank printer paper, I have my pen and my penlight, and I stand and I wait with them at the front.

It's only at that moment that I had processed what she said, and I could only think beyond, "Man, screw this guy," before it began.

Child after child roll into the E.R.

via ambulance bay stretcher.

Some of them were wearing these bright, sparkly outfits with sequins, makeup, and lip gloss.

And it turns out some of the girls that were coming into the hospital were a part of a dance troupe that was participating in the actual parade.

I began triaging the kids as they come in.

Some of them, surprisingly, seemed fine.

Others were more sick.

Some of them were coming in with breathing tubes, and one of the children had fixed and dilated pupils, which is a sign of serious injury to the brain.

At that moment, I find out that my attending had arrived, along with the help that he had called in.

There's now a team of us-- three pediatric neurosurgeons, there's two neurosurgery P.As., and myself.

We immediately rush two of the children to the operating room for emergency craniectomies, which is a lifesaving procedure in which we're able to remove half of the skull to allow for the brain to swell.

I stay back in the trauma bay in the emergency department to help continue to triage as kids continue to come in.

And then comes Kenzie.

Kenzie was confirmed to have a small epidural hematoma, which is a collection of blood between the skull and the outer covering of the brain.

As she's rolling into her room, I see her screaming and crying.

She's moving her arms and legs in protest of the doctors and nurses trying to examine her.

She's wide awake, and this is good.

To be safe, I set up my computer station outside of her room so I could periodically check in on her as I just do some basic charting.

A few minutes later, I notice less crying, and I look up, and Kenzie seems to be less awake.

Her nurse notices, as well, and tries to wake her, but she's not waking up.

And the anesthesiology doctors put in a breathing tube because she is having difficulty breathing.

She then goes to get a repeat scan of her brain, and it shows a significant worsening of that bleed.

Kenzie goes to the operating room for a craniotomy, emergently, to remove that blood.

By the end of the night, we would have done a total of five emergency neurosurgical procedures on children, compared to the five that we normally do over the course of a month.

That Sunday night eventually turns into Monday morning.

And as the surgeries ended and I check in on all of the patients in the I.C.U., I finally make my way home, and I hug my pregnant wife, and I don't want to let go.

Seeing the pain and the, and the torture on the families and the parents experiencing that is something that I do not wish upon my worst enemy.

I somehow find it in me to close my eyes and sleep.

Kenzie goes on to do quite well.

Every day, I got to see her progress, and every day, I got to see a glimmer of hope grow stronger, not only in her eyes, but her parents', as well.

And throughout this whole time, families of the patients at the hospital were bringing food donations to share with the hospital staff and other families.

And this provided opportunities for us to bond, and those families truly provided healing through nourishment.

On the day of Kenzie's discharge, I go into her room to take her staples out out of her incision, which she handled like a champ.

Afterwards, she handed me this squeezy toy of a sloth, which she happened to know was my favorite animal.

(audience chuckling) And with her mom and her dad and her nurse surrounding her in bed, she tells me to squeeze this squeezy toy of the sloth.

Naturally, I oblige.

And when I do so, about two tablespoons of chocolate pudding squeeze out of the butt of the sloth onto my hands and my scrubs... (audience laughing, clapping) ...and everybody's laughing.

(exhales): Because they're all in on the joke.

But nobody laughed harder than Kenzie did.

She was clearly ready for discharge.

(audience laughs) It was only in the weeks after that I had truly processed what happened.

One man drove his S.U.V.

through a parade.

Six people, six souls, were lost, and almost 62 others were seriously injured.

But what happened afterwards is extremely important.

A community had come together to overcome the heinous acts of one person.

Seeing those bright, shiny vests, seeing the large whiteboard with the scribbles on it, seeing the teamwork of everybody involved, that's what it looks like.

The lukewarm coffee and the food donations, that's what it smells and that's what it tastes like.

And Kenzie's laugh, that's what it sounds like.

A community coming together.

Getting to remember that and getting to squeeze my toy sloth when times get rough are all that I truly need to keep myself going.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ DESHPANDE: I'm Swapna Deshpande.

I am from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where I immigrated 25-plus years ago from India.

I'm an internist by occupation, but I consider myself a mom, a sister, a daughter, a wife, a neighbor, a friend, and now a storyteller, too.

How did you get started in storytelling?

Yes, so, the first time, what happened is, about five years ago, I was traveling to Atlanta to see a friend, by myself, and a series of very... (chuckles): ...interesting events occurred.

And I was telling it very passionately to one of my oncology friends.

And she's, like, "Swapna, you have to come on the stage at the slam, the local slam, and tell this story."

And I did, and I was successful, and I felt very accomplished.

Then I continued, because I found this community, wonderful audience and the fellow storytellers, and I felt like I belong here.

As an immigrant, especially, I think it was very important for me to find, you now, that space where the community is so welcoming.

What do you find most meaningful about sharing your stories for an audience?

The connection.

The world has a lot of hate, and storytelling spreads kindness to a level that a lot of us don't.

We listen to each other.

And that connection, that's the most important thing for me.

♪ ♪ So I decide to become an internist and a mommy at the same time in my life.

(chuckles, audience laughs) Am I going bananas, right?

But I'm 30 years old, and I believe-- truly do-- that impossible is nothing.

And on top of it, you know how the biological clock?

It's ticking, right?

So we live, we live in Bethlehem, which is, like, an hour north of Philadelphia in Pennsylvania, and I'm training in the hospital there.

You see, I've always wanted to be a doctor because my dad worked in the pharmaceutical industry, and a lot of our family friends were doctors.

And I was astounded growing up by the passion and the gratitude they continued to feel towards their profession.

So this hospital, it's a three-year intensive training program, right?

So, I am working days, and nights, and weekends, and holidays, and I'm learning a lot.

Your CPR, your advanced life support, your diabetes, your hypertension, congestive heart failure, H.I.V.-- you name it.

Which means I don't sleep much.

And I don't care.

Because I love every minute of it.

And then at home, I, I am a mommy, yeah?

We have a precious, sweet, adorable little baby boy.

And I feed him, and I bathe him, and I watch him smile.

You know how babies, they have that smile when you're asleep?

So, I stay up just to capture that smile.

And when I do, I am in heaven.

But then moments later, I smell the poop.

(laughs) (audience laughs) The essential diaper calls, right?

So, and I respond to each diaper call rather promptly, which means I don't sleep much, and I don't care, because I love being a mommy.

I love every minute of it, too.

So, living the dream, right?

(audience laughs) Or so I tell myself, because, somewhere in the back of my mind, there's this constant nagging fear.

How is he doing when I'm not around?

What am I missing?

And God knows, what is he missing, right?

So, every day, in the morning, I take this bundle of joy and I drop him to the daycare, which is conveniently located right next to my hospital.

And they call me frequently.

You know daycares, right?

They, they do-- they always do.

"Mommy, you got to be here now, "like, A.S.A.P.

now, to pick up your son, because he's sick with, like, some snot or something."

(audience chuckles) I scramble, I scramble.

I find a fellow resident to take my pager so they can watch my patients, and then I run to the daycare.

I pick him up, I put him on my lap, and I call my husband.

(audience chuckles) Now, my husband works an hour and a half away, because his job is flexible.

Mine called for nights and emergencies.

So we've decided to live closer to the hospital.

And a couple of hours later, our precious, sweet, adorable little baby boy, who is sick, is sent home to be with his daddy and not with his doctor mommy.

And I allow that to happen, just so I can be a doctor?

And I put him in that daycare, where I know he's going to get sick, just so I can be a doctor?

So guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty as charged.

Shabby!

(laughs): Shabby mommy!

(audience chuckles) So three years go by, and today is my last day of training, and I graduate tomorrow.

So, I say my goodbyes and I walk over to the daycare to pick him up.

He looks happy from a distance.

And Jessica, she sees me coming.

She picks him up, brings him to the door, and I've got my arms extended wide open so he can spring into my arms.

But no.

(voice trembling): He turns around, clinging to Jessica, and not wanting to come to his mommy.

And it occurs to me that I have failed miserably in one of my two goals, at becoming a good mother, like my mother.

Eventually, we do go home, after I snatch him.

(audience chuckles) But I can't sleep at night-- I toss and I turn and I reflect.

My patients, the hospital staff, they all seem to want me and respect me, and I feel loved.

Will he love me, I wonder.

And then, I begin to despise Jessica.

(audience laughs) The one that looks after him when I don't.

And then, I despise myself for that.

What went so wrong?

The sun rises-- you know, the next day, it is graduation.

And I'm dressed in this crisp white blouse, and they pin an elegant corsage on it.

And I'm fake-smiling and shaking hands and posing for pictures.

And the graduation, the ceremony, is in this big auditorium.

And the musical ensemble sings, ♪ You can climb every mountain ♪ (chuckles): I am not feeling it.

I'm feeling pretty much down in the dumps.

And then they call my name, and I walk up on the stage towards my mentor, Dr. Malacoff.

He's going to hand me my diploma, right?

"Congratulations, Dr. Deshpande.

Great job."

Yeah, right.

I were completely defeated.

And suddenly, this quiet auditorium... (voice trembling): ...is filled with a loud sound.

"Mommy!

Mommy!"

And everyone looks, and I look, and there is our baby boy, with his arms extended wide open, wanting his mommy.

And I realize I have gotten two cherished diplomas in that moment.

And this doc mommy ain't looking that shabby any longer.

(chuckles, audience laughs) Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪