Out here in the Land of the Rising Sun, tomorrow is Thursday, April 1. April Fools Day. And Holy Thursday. As the world turns to follow the sun, April 1 will propagate around the globe and eventually greet our family and friends in the U.S.
For some who read this piece, April 1 marks two momentous anniversaries: Marcia was born on April 1. Her husband, Jim, died on April 1, 1999, on another Holy Thursday.
Marcia and Jim were Mom and Dad to my wife, Kathy, and to her five siblings. They were Grandma and Grandpa and Great Grandma and Great Grandpa to a small army of subsequent generations. For this large extended (did I mention Catholic?) family, this date is far from being only April Fools Day. It is a day of intense yet conflicting memories, of joy and sadness, of light and darkness, of despair and hope, of family and love, of legacy and future promise.
Perhaps one presumes too much to blog about parents-in-law. But what better day for this well-meaning fool to rush right into that? Caution aside, I so plunge:
I recall Marcia, in both her pre- and post-stroke days, as a tenacious and insightful matriarch. Her children will validate that she didn't miss much, and never hesitated to call you out if she caught you short of her high standards. But then, those standards were usually attainable. She really just expected people to discover and rise to the upper limits of their capability, and never to settle for despicable mediocrity. That is a pretty remarkable, and rare, manifestation of motherly love.
Beyond mere remonstration, she also modeled winning habits in her own robust approach to life. Even after the devastating stroke left her fully hemiplegic, she rose to any and all challenges, meeting them square on the nose with a "so there" panache. Competitive? Oh yes, she redefined and polished that attribute! And then she passed it on to her offspring, especially to her oldest daughter. If you played Scrabble with Marcia, you'd better bring your "A" game and show no signs of weakness or trepidation, for you would see no mercy. No matter what your age. That simple board game was not for the weak of heart against this formidable lioness. Not bad practice for facing the unforgiving vicissitudes of life in the real world.
Her tenacity and competitive spirit extended to support of her offspring and their offspring. She traveled long distances to root for them in team sports. And God help the coach who would dare to slight one of her blood proteges. Clearly heard across the floor at a junior high volleyball game: "Sit next to the coach, Katie, so he'll put you in the game." And so Katie did. Then the coach did. Then Katie excelled...and went on to captain her senior varsity team in high school. Thanks for the subtle push, Marcia.
While no less robust or passionate, and certainly committed to his own high standards of excellence, Jim exuded a quieter, more subtle air. He led more by example than by word, although he could surely give you the word if need be. In my life I have known some truly great men. Jim stands tall among the very best of them.
Jim could also wax vociferous at any sporting event. No incompetent referee could escape his scrutiny and, well, "subtle" advice. But he could be gentle too. One could almost sense when he was holding something back, a man always in control of himself and the environment around him. He had malice for no one, and respect from all.
He was thrifty, a habit honed from supporting six children to adulthood in an austere fiscal era. His definition of a good golf outing would be to return with more balls than you had at the start, even if it meant roaming the bushes and water hazards interminably. (Fore!) And if one found a few extra coins on the ground, the outing was a huge success...no matter the actual score.
His courage stood out beyond all other traits. He vigorously battled colon cancer for 15 years before it finally claimed his life. No one, not even those closest to him, ever really knew how much pain he suffered, or what comforts he would forego just to be with family. No fanfare, no self-pity, no complaint, just a great man constant in his calming presence, defining loyalty and committment by action over word. A model of courage.
A person could do far worse in life than to emulate Jim, especially when beset by overwhelming odds. At the risk of sacrilege, I venture to redefine the meaning of that popular catchphrase, "WWJD". Honestly answering the "What Would Jim Do?" question will put one the right path more often than not.
I consider myself most fortunate to have known and loved, and been loved by, this remarkable man and woman whose lives crossed in such a unique way on April 1. I am further blessed to love and be loved by their firstborn daughter. And, as an only child myself, I am extremely honored and proud to share in the unconditional brotherly and sisterly love of her siblings.
So, tomorrow, whilst bobbing around on the world's largest ocean, I will simply raise my glass of tea and toast the health and continued well being of the family that Marcia and Jim sired and nurtured...and I will do so with humble gratitude and love. Cheers!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
My Cousin Rob
My cousin Rob was a big, gentle man with a huge heart.
This past weekend someone murdered Rob on his own cattle ranch. Put a bullet through his big, gentle heart...and killed his dog too.
My extended family and I are now cloaked in unfathomable shock, sorrow, and just anger.
Rob's final words showed the man he was. He called home to say he would be rendering assistance to an illegal alien he'd just discovered at a watering hole. Rob was killed performing an act of kindness. Even if he had thought he'd be putting himself in danger, he would not hesitate to help. That's just the man he was.
Here's a quote from a earlier newspaper interview that aptly describes Rob's regard for his fellow man. He was talking about the problems associated with escalating numbers of illegal aliens crossing the Arizona border.
"One time," Rob said "You know, we've personally been broke in once. And they took about $700 worth of stuff. And you know, if they come in and ask for water, I'll still give them water. I - you know, that's just my nature."
Simple words profoundly describing a fundamental value that makes humans different from wild animals.
This big, gentle, kind man who never knew an enemy died at the hand of a stranger for whom he held no malice or threat. That is far beyond outrage. For his helping nature, Rob paid the ultimate price, and - I truly believe - also will reap the greatest reward.
Tonight I treasure my memories of cousins in happier times at the ranch with Rob and Sue and Phil. We rode horses, and a gentle old burro named Jackson. We worked cattle. We savored the land where our grandparents had made a home for our fathers and aunts and uncles, and where Rob would eventually raise his own family to adulthood.
The ranch was a mecca for us all, a haven where we relished the great outdoors and natural beauty of southeast Arizona. It was also a place for regeneration, to commune with the rugged pioneer spirits of our forebears, and to learn that hard work renders just rewards...eventually.
Now Rob is wrenched away from us by a heinous, despicable, cowardly act. Yet his spirit is reunited with those who cherished that ranch before him...and who through example and word taught their future generations to always be kind and gentle to those in need.
You know, that's just our family's nature.
So, rest in peace, Rob. And please pass our love and gratitude to Frank and Sarah, and to Bertha and Louie, Marian and Eleanor and Dorothy, and most especially to Stuart and Bob.
And one other thing, Rob. Could you saddle up old Jackson and take one last ride on him for all of us cousins? We would love that a lot.
This past weekend someone murdered Rob on his own cattle ranch. Put a bullet through his big, gentle heart...and killed his dog too.
My extended family and I are now cloaked in unfathomable shock, sorrow, and just anger.
Rob's final words showed the man he was. He called home to say he would be rendering assistance to an illegal alien he'd just discovered at a watering hole. Rob was killed performing an act of kindness. Even if he had thought he'd be putting himself in danger, he would not hesitate to help. That's just the man he was.
Here's a quote from a earlier newspaper interview that aptly describes Rob's regard for his fellow man. He was talking about the problems associated with escalating numbers of illegal aliens crossing the Arizona border.
"One time," Rob said "You know, we've personally been broke in once. And they took about $700 worth of stuff. And you know, if they come in and ask for water, I'll still give them water. I - you know, that's just my nature."
Simple words profoundly describing a fundamental value that makes humans different from wild animals.
This big, gentle, kind man who never knew an enemy died at the hand of a stranger for whom he held no malice or threat. That is far beyond outrage. For his helping nature, Rob paid the ultimate price, and - I truly believe - also will reap the greatest reward.
Tonight I treasure my memories of cousins in happier times at the ranch with Rob and Sue and Phil. We rode horses, and a gentle old burro named Jackson. We worked cattle. We savored the land where our grandparents had made a home for our fathers and aunts and uncles, and where Rob would eventually raise his own family to adulthood.
The ranch was a mecca for us all, a haven where we relished the great outdoors and natural beauty of southeast Arizona. It was also a place for regeneration, to commune with the rugged pioneer spirits of our forebears, and to learn that hard work renders just rewards...eventually.
Now Rob is wrenched away from us by a heinous, despicable, cowardly act. Yet his spirit is reunited with those who cherished that ranch before him...and who through example and word taught their future generations to always be kind and gentle to those in need.
You know, that's just our family's nature.
So, rest in peace, Rob. And please pass our love and gratitude to Frank and Sarah, and to Bertha and Louie, Marian and Eleanor and Dorothy, and most especially to Stuart and Bob.
And one other thing, Rob. Could you saddle up old Jackson and take one last ride on him for all of us cousins? We would love that a lot.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
A True Officer and Gentleman
The following announcement on our 1MC just interrupted work on my next Hong Kong post:
"CAPT Scott Butler, United States Navy, Departing."
"BH" had just stopped by my stateroom to say farewell en route to his final trip across this Flagship's brow. In deference to OPSEC and personal privacy, I usually don't disclose full names on my blog, but this officer deserves recognition.
A bit of background for non-Navy readers: The "bonging" of officers aboard or ashore from a naval ship is a traditional rendering of honors dating in time to the early British Navy. Like many of our traditions, the practical reason for this little ceremony long ago ceased relevance. Nowadays we employ it simply to respect our senior leaders, and for other special recognitions. Three elements constitute the simple ceremony: 1) A number of bell rings corresponding to the rank of the honored officer (e.g., four bells for CAPT, eight bells for VADM); 2) The announcement of the honoree, usually by position instead of name. (E.g., "Seventh Fleet, Arriving.") 3) All stand at attention and salute as the boatswain's mate pipes the dignitary across the quarterdeck.
A typical naval vessel will bong aboard/ashore anyone of the rank of Captain or above. However, on a 3-Star Fleet Flagship, Captains are as plentiful as corn dogs. So it would be impractical to bong each of us as we go about our daily sojourns. But when a senior officer departs the ship for the last time en route to his next job, as BH did today, we do render these special honors to say, "Fair winds and following seas, Shipmate. Bravo Zulu, and thanks for your service."
A word about CAPT Scott Butler as he departs for command on the other side of the world. He just completed a stellar tour as Flag Operations Officer, arguably the toughest and most unforgiving job on the staff. Think of being the conduit and control point for all the naval activity in the world's most expansive area of operations. Think of being on call 24/7, ready to coordinate the movements of this massive naval force in response to any number of contingencies. Think of maintaining a standard of excellence that demands nothing less than perfection. Think of being the mentor, confidante, and advocate for a team of junior officers and enlisted sailors who must adroitly perform a myriad of tasks to get the job done right. Think of that officer also being a person and family man, periodically experiencing issues that accompany any life, irrespective of the demands of your job. Think of all that occurring in a daily double-time battle rhythm, because that's just the way it has to be here.
And then consider how lesser men or women might crumble under that pressure, or might resort to maladaptive ungentlemanly behaviour in shifting the load and the stress to their shipmates or minions. Think of how they might abandon family and friendship out of some ill-conceived notion that the job always comes first. And then consider that this one Scott Butler, this quintessential Naval Aviator and former winning "Price is Right" contestant, not only executed his job with extraordinary panache, but did so with infectious, self-effacing, morale-enhancing wit and humor; never once laid an undue burden or took out frustration on anyone else; and never forgot nor ignored the really important things in life. In ways we will not completely understand until his absence, Scott embued our staff with team spirit and a winning attitude. Such is the hallmark not only of a true leader, but also of an extraordinary human being.
Outstanding sailors like Scott Butler are the reason I remain an operational Navy doctor and flight surgeon. Their lives add meaning to mine. I am deeply honored to serve them..
BH: BZ, Shipmate! Fair winds and following seas....."Doc"
"CAPT Scott Butler, United States Navy, Departing."
"BH" had just stopped by my stateroom to say farewell en route to his final trip across this Flagship's brow. In deference to OPSEC and personal privacy, I usually don't disclose full names on my blog, but this officer deserves recognition.
A bit of background for non-Navy readers: The "bonging" of officers aboard or ashore from a naval ship is a traditional rendering of honors dating in time to the early British Navy. Like many of our traditions, the practical reason for this little ceremony long ago ceased relevance. Nowadays we employ it simply to respect our senior leaders, and for other special recognitions. Three elements constitute the simple ceremony: 1) A number of bell rings corresponding to the rank of the honored officer (e.g., four bells for CAPT, eight bells for VADM); 2) The announcement of the honoree, usually by position instead of name. (E.g., "Seventh Fleet, Arriving.") 3) All stand at attention and salute as the boatswain's mate pipes the dignitary across the quarterdeck.
A typical naval vessel will bong aboard/ashore anyone of the rank of Captain or above. However, on a 3-Star Fleet Flagship, Captains are as plentiful as corn dogs. So it would be impractical to bong each of us as we go about our daily sojourns. But when a senior officer departs the ship for the last time en route to his next job, as BH did today, we do render these special honors to say, "Fair winds and following seas, Shipmate. Bravo Zulu, and thanks for your service."
A word about CAPT Scott Butler as he departs for command on the other side of the world. He just completed a stellar tour as Flag Operations Officer, arguably the toughest and most unforgiving job on the staff. Think of being the conduit and control point for all the naval activity in the world's most expansive area of operations. Think of being on call 24/7, ready to coordinate the movements of this massive naval force in response to any number of contingencies. Think of maintaining a standard of excellence that demands nothing less than perfection. Think of being the mentor, confidante, and advocate for a team of junior officers and enlisted sailors who must adroitly perform a myriad of tasks to get the job done right. Think of that officer also being a person and family man, periodically experiencing issues that accompany any life, irrespective of the demands of your job. Think of all that occurring in a daily double-time battle rhythm, because that's just the way it has to be here.
And then consider how lesser men or women might crumble under that pressure, or might resort to maladaptive ungentlemanly behaviour in shifting the load and the stress to their shipmates or minions. Think of how they might abandon family and friendship out of some ill-conceived notion that the job always comes first. And then consider that this one Scott Butler, this quintessential Naval Aviator and former winning "Price is Right" contestant, not only executed his job with extraordinary panache, but did so with infectious, self-effacing, morale-enhancing wit and humor; never once laid an undue burden or took out frustration on anyone else; and never forgot nor ignored the really important things in life. In ways we will not completely understand until his absence, Scott embued our staff with team spirit and a winning attitude. Such is the hallmark not only of a true leader, but also of an extraordinary human being.
Outstanding sailors like Scott Butler are the reason I remain an operational Navy doctor and flight surgeon. Their lives add meaning to mine. I am deeply honored to serve them..
BH: BZ, Shipmate! Fair winds and following seas....."Doc"
Friday, March 26, 2010
Tasting Hong Kong
Imagine sampling an exotic yet unstrange fruit for the first time. Perhaps something that resembles an orange but is not an orange. You may have even heard of this rare fruit or even seen pictures of it. Maybe you've read about it. Friends who have tasted that fruit tell you it's delicious, perhaps even rave about it. But even those less demonstrative say they look forward to tasting it again. No one calls it a bad fruit.
And now you hold that fruit in your hand. Would you plunge right into it? Bite off a big chunk like a familiar, delicious red apple, only half paying attention to aroma and taste?
Or would you study it for awhile? Hold it in your hand, feel its texture, perhaps admire its color? Put your face into it like a sommelier examining the nose of a fine wine? And then only when you felt duly introduced and familiar would you actually take that first cautious taste. And yet another. And another, as each successive bite released the full delicious flavor into not just your taste buds, but all your senses. Would you perhaps reflect that this may be the one and only time you get to taste this famously delectable fruit, so you would savor it ever so slowly?
Many things in life evoke that experience. A fruitful, healthy relationship with another human being may be the best example. But I'll save that thought for another time.
Visiting a renowned international destination like Hong Kong can be very much like relishing that exotic yet vaguely familiar fruit. Two days into this port, I find myself still in the early fascination phase. The little bit I've tasted so far makes a very pleasant blend. I suppose that any cosmopolitan city might have that effect on the fortunate world traveler, as experiences from other parts of the world replicate themselves somewhere you might not expect. Irish pubs may be the best example. What major city anywhere on earth doesn't have at least one?
Last night we hailed and farewelled some shipmates at the Dublin Jack in Lan Kwai Fong. That juxtaposition of a traditional Irish moniker with a Chinese phrase gives some texture to the rich mixture of cultures that makes Hong Kong so much like that exotic yet familiar fruit. To openly receptive ears a mix of languages plays a thrilling melody as peoples from all over the world mingle among each other. A stroll down a narrow street reveals a panoply of ethnic food choices to meet any taste. The visual panoramas evoke cosmic light shows. Hong Kong tantalizes all the senses at once.
And yet, like the skin or the nose of the exotic fruit, what I've experienced so far promises deeper enrichment yet to come. This city clearly offers far more than Irish bars and ethnic restaurants. I plan to savor that next layer today.
Con mucho gusto.
And now you hold that fruit in your hand. Would you plunge right into it? Bite off a big chunk like a familiar, delicious red apple, only half paying attention to aroma and taste?
Or would you study it for awhile? Hold it in your hand, feel its texture, perhaps admire its color? Put your face into it like a sommelier examining the nose of a fine wine? And then only when you felt duly introduced and familiar would you actually take that first cautious taste. And yet another. And another, as each successive bite released the full delicious flavor into not just your taste buds, but all your senses. Would you perhaps reflect that this may be the one and only time you get to taste this famously delectable fruit, so you would savor it ever so slowly?
Many things in life evoke that experience. A fruitful, healthy relationship with another human being may be the best example. But I'll save that thought for another time.
Visiting a renowned international destination like Hong Kong can be very much like relishing that exotic yet vaguely familiar fruit. Two days into this port, I find myself still in the early fascination phase. The little bit I've tasted so far makes a very pleasant blend. I suppose that any cosmopolitan city might have that effect on the fortunate world traveler, as experiences from other parts of the world replicate themselves somewhere you might not expect. Irish pubs may be the best example. What major city anywhere on earth doesn't have at least one?
Last night we hailed and farewelled some shipmates at the Dublin Jack in Lan Kwai Fong. That juxtaposition of a traditional Irish moniker with a Chinese phrase gives some texture to the rich mixture of cultures that makes Hong Kong so much like that exotic yet familiar fruit. To openly receptive ears a mix of languages plays a thrilling melody as peoples from all over the world mingle among each other. A stroll down a narrow street reveals a panoply of ethnic food choices to meet any taste. The visual panoramas evoke cosmic light shows. Hong Kong tantalizes all the senses at once.
And yet, like the skin or the nose of the exotic fruit, what I've experienced so far promises deeper enrichment yet to come. This city clearly offers far more than Irish bars and ethnic restaurants. I plan to savor that next layer today.
Con mucho gusto.
Needles and Grins
Rights of passage. We all celebrate at least one in our life: The anniversary of our birth, the one day when even the most humble of us secretly relishes celebrity status. We may demure that, "It's no big deal, not to me." But neither was creation, neh? Honestly, who really doesn't enjoy or need birthday recognition?
Other times we extend our natal noteworthiness to a week, or even a month, with multiple celebrations; and sometimes by participating in recurring annual events that coincide with the day or month of our birth. Bureaucratic organizations in particular find our DOB a useful adjunct to our SSN for all sorts of purposes. The Navy, more specifically Navy Medicine, is one such sentinel of annual life cycles.
So, there I was a couple of days ago dutifully completing my annual Physical Health Assessment (PHA) and annual dental exam.
Recently described by a Navy colleague as "the world's oldest doc", I thought I knew what to expect from this preventive-health-model-for-a-national-strategy-focusing-on-prevention-instead-of-costly-disease-care (ref: my blog post of March 22). You get a dental exam and x-rays, answer a bunch of questions about health-related personal behavior, plus a screening of your health record to identify disease-risk factors and to be sure all required immunizations are current. Then you sit down with the healthcare provider for counseling and advice if your answers indicate a need for lifestyle modification. Once completed, you get a stamp on your health record validating that you are good to go, world-wide deployable, fit for full duty for another year.
The process is elegant in its simplicty, has fairly good predictive value, and is much more cost-effective than treating the future preventable disease. We also provide assistance in the form of physical enhancement and smoking cessation programs. We must assume that sailors duly counseled really do follow through with our carefully crafted advice and assistance. Therein lies the rub on any such program. Ultimately the human individual chooses whether or not live a health promoting lifestyle. Sadly, some put a lot more thought and energy into their next automobile or vacation, but such is the human condition.
Having just entered my 65th year on the planet, I approached this year's PHA more seriously than usual. I certainly consider myself healthy...just completed my 6th marathon run less that a month ago and I feel great. But as a physician I am very aware of the specter of occult disease, and I recall friends and colleagues who never made it this far in life. I dare not take my health or relative longevity for granted. Nor do I believe that I am smart or objective enough to be my own physician. So this year I looked forward to my annual assessment and counseling, especially with a medical colleague on this ship whose expertise and judgment I greatly respect.
Well, I got a couple of surprises, but none directly related to my current state of health. The first was the digital dental x-ray process, which was new to me. Not having to bite down on annoyingly sharp little cardboard x-ray widgets was a pleasant change. This process uses a softer cassette, and you can actually smile when asked to so as they shoot the image. I enjoyed looking over the dentist's shoulder as he manipulated the digital images on the screen, magnifying my teeth to King Kong dimensions. And good news, no cavities. My mother says, "It's from growing up in Arizona with all the fluoride in the water." That's one of many Mom tapes that still run in my head.
Not quite so fortunate on the physical assessment. Oh, I am healthy all right. But I had somehow never gotten around to taking my 6th and final anthrax shot, and I was overdue for typhoid immunization and tuberculosis skin test. So the next I knew, a very robust hospital corpsman seized the opportunity to plunge hypodermic needles into both my arms...the day before a port visit. (Did I mention that these shots notoriously make your arms really sore?)
So here I am, two days later about to head into town to join my fellow officers in another Navy rite of passage, a Hail and Farewell where we welcome new officers to the command and say good-bye to one especially popular guy as he transfers to command of a Naval Air Station in Europe. Happens to be the same guy who christened me "world's oldest doc" a few days ago. Such is my admiration for this officer and gentleman that I will ignore the gnawing pain in my arms to raise my glass in a toast to him for "Fair winds and following seas."
And I will offer another toast, silently just to myself, a sincere thanks for my own good health, and a wish for the continued good health of my shipmates, friends, and loved ones.
A sante!
Other times we extend our natal noteworthiness to a week, or even a month, with multiple celebrations; and sometimes by participating in recurring annual events that coincide with the day or month of our birth. Bureaucratic organizations in particular find our DOB a useful adjunct to our SSN for all sorts of purposes. The Navy, more specifically Navy Medicine, is one such sentinel of annual life cycles.
So, there I was a couple of days ago dutifully completing my annual Physical Health Assessment (PHA) and annual dental exam.
Recently described by a Navy colleague as "the world's oldest doc", I thought I knew what to expect from this preventive-health-model-for-a-national-strategy-focusing-on-prevention-instead-of-costly-disease-care (ref: my blog post of March 22). You get a dental exam and x-rays, answer a bunch of questions about health-related personal behavior, plus a screening of your health record to identify disease-risk factors and to be sure all required immunizations are current. Then you sit down with the healthcare provider for counseling and advice if your answers indicate a need for lifestyle modification. Once completed, you get a stamp on your health record validating that you are good to go, world-wide deployable, fit for full duty for another year.
The process is elegant in its simplicty, has fairly good predictive value, and is much more cost-effective than treating the future preventable disease. We also provide assistance in the form of physical enhancement and smoking cessation programs. We must assume that sailors duly counseled really do follow through with our carefully crafted advice and assistance. Therein lies the rub on any such program. Ultimately the human individual chooses whether or not live a health promoting lifestyle. Sadly, some put a lot more thought and energy into their next automobile or vacation, but such is the human condition.
Having just entered my 65th year on the planet, I approached this year's PHA more seriously than usual. I certainly consider myself healthy...just completed my 6th marathon run less that a month ago and I feel great. But as a physician I am very aware of the specter of occult disease, and I recall friends and colleagues who never made it this far in life. I dare not take my health or relative longevity for granted. Nor do I believe that I am smart or objective enough to be my own physician. So this year I looked forward to my annual assessment and counseling, especially with a medical colleague on this ship whose expertise and judgment I greatly respect.
Well, I got a couple of surprises, but none directly related to my current state of health. The first was the digital dental x-ray process, which was new to me. Not having to bite down on annoyingly sharp little cardboard x-ray widgets was a pleasant change. This process uses a softer cassette, and you can actually smile when asked to so as they shoot the image. I enjoyed looking over the dentist's shoulder as he manipulated the digital images on the screen, magnifying my teeth to King Kong dimensions. And good news, no cavities. My mother says, "It's from growing up in Arizona with all the fluoride in the water." That's one of many Mom tapes that still run in my head.
Not quite so fortunate on the physical assessment. Oh, I am healthy all right. But I had somehow never gotten around to taking my 6th and final anthrax shot, and I was overdue for typhoid immunization and tuberculosis skin test. So the next I knew, a very robust hospital corpsman seized the opportunity to plunge hypodermic needles into both my arms...the day before a port visit. (Did I mention that these shots notoriously make your arms really sore?)
So here I am, two days later about to head into town to join my fellow officers in another Navy rite of passage, a Hail and Farewell where we welcome new officers to the command and say good-bye to one especially popular guy as he transfers to command of a Naval Air Station in Europe. Happens to be the same guy who christened me "world's oldest doc" a few days ago. Such is my admiration for this officer and gentleman that I will ignore the gnawing pain in my arms to raise my glass in a toast to him for "Fair winds and following seas."
And I will offer another toast, silently just to myself, a sincere thanks for my own good health, and a wish for the continued good health of my shipmates, friends, and loved ones.
A sante!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
"The Sand Pebbles"
Midnight will pass here in the South China Sea by the time I finish this post, although I will attempt uncharacteristic brevity.
I write at this late hour because I spent the evening in the Flag Mess enjoying our special pre-Hong Kong movie, "The Sand Pebbles."
I was the only member of tonight's audience who saw the original theater run of this 1966 Robert Wise epic story of an independent, rebellious U.S. Navy machinist mate aboard the gunboat USS SAN PABLO in 1920s China. The film hit our old Phoenix Fox Theater the year that I dropped out of the seminary, and I saw it -- drumroll please! -- on my first ever actual date with a real live girl! Seeing it again tonight, I realized I'd forgotten much of the movie's plot and dialogue. Not sure whether to attribute that to the 44 year lapse between viewings, or to my nervous distraction at the delightfully novel female presence next to me...i.e., on the initial viewing. Tonight my left and right seatmates were -- isn't it ironic? -- our Catholic priest and a supply guy. I'm pretty sure I'll remember this movie much better when I see it again 40 or so years hence.
Although the plot and some of the dialogue may be slightly arcane by today's standards, "The Sand Pebbles" is still a darned good movie with a stellar cast: Steve McQueen, Richard Attenborough, Richard Crenna, and a young, and very attractive Candice Bergen. Add to these fine performances some really spectacular scenery shot in Taiwan and Hong Kong, plus enduring soundtrack music, and you have a truly timeless epic. It is definitely worth a download or rental.
I write at this late hour because I spent the evening in the Flag Mess enjoying our special pre-Hong Kong movie, "The Sand Pebbles."
I was the only member of tonight's audience who saw the original theater run of this 1966 Robert Wise epic story of an independent, rebellious U.S. Navy machinist mate aboard the gunboat USS SAN PABLO in 1920s China. The film hit our old Phoenix Fox Theater the year that I dropped out of the seminary, and I saw it -- drumroll please! -- on my first ever actual date with a real live girl! Seeing it again tonight, I realized I'd forgotten much of the movie's plot and dialogue. Not sure whether to attribute that to the 44 year lapse between viewings, or to my nervous distraction at the delightfully novel female presence next to me...i.e., on the initial viewing. Tonight my left and right seatmates were -- isn't it ironic? -- our Catholic priest and a supply guy. I'm pretty sure I'll remember this movie much better when I see it again 40 or so years hence.
Although the plot and some of the dialogue may be slightly arcane by today's standards, "The Sand Pebbles" is still a darned good movie with a stellar cast: Steve McQueen, Richard Attenborough, Richard Crenna, and a young, and very attractive Candice Bergen. Add to these fine performances some really spectacular scenery shot in Taiwan and Hong Kong, plus enduring soundtrack music, and you have a truly timeless epic. It is definitely worth a download or rental.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Live Fire
Ratatatatatattatat! Ratatatattatatat!
Oh, great. The enlisted kids in the CS (cuilinary specialists) lounge next to my stateroom must be watching a war movie...with the volume up too loud again. So now this grumpy old man will go over and tell them to turn it down. Which will fill me with guilt because they have 10 times the people crowded into half the space that I enjoy. And they work hard, and consistently make the best soup I've ever tasted. Still, I have work to do, so.....
RATATATATATATATAT! RATATATATTATATATATATATAT!
Wait a minute! That was louder and closer, and NOT coming from next door! It's coming from......the main deck over my head! There are no TVs up there. What the....?
RATATATATATATATATAT! RATATTATATATATAATATATAT!
RATATATATATATATATAT! RATATATATATATATATATATAT!
That is definitely live fire from automatic weapons, and now it's coming in bursting volleys from multiple weapons at once!
RATATATATATAATATATATATATATATATATAT!
Should I dive for cover? Sound an alarm?
Of course not. By now I realize that our embarked U.S. Marine Corps anti-terrorism force is simply conducting a live fire exercise off the port side, just above my stateroom. I saw them setting up for it when I took a stroll on the deck after supper. Well, surgeons have to actually do surgery to maintain their skills, right? I wouldn't want my heart operation to be the surgeon's first. I haven't touched an actual patient myself in almost ten years. I sure wouldn't want me resuscitating me under that circumstance.
So Marines should practice their skills, just like surgeons, and damage controlmen, and aviators, and ... culinary specialists. Good on ya, Marines!
Still, it's more than a bit disconcerting to hear such close actual live automatic weapon fire, with real bullets. I saw those bullets. They were definitely real. And pointy. And big. And many. And.....lethal.
What about the people in this world for whom the sound of close live fire is a daily life intrusion? Do they know whether it comes from friend or foe? Are they relieved when it finally ceases? Or do they cower in panic fearing a hostile killing force will soon storm into their living or bed room? Do they pray that they will live through the onslaught? Or do they silently wish to offer their own lives to spare their children? What other terrible, unspeakable thoughts and images fill their minds and hearts with each successive RATATATATATATATATAT? Do those vivid images ever become "normal"? Or are they just endured like the other horrors of war?
Aside from the immediate aftermath of 9/11/2001, we Americans just don't suffer such fear of encroaching death and destruction, day after day, week after week. That's good, right? Or is it?
I vaguely remember being alone in a D.C. hotel room on that September 11 morning, and I was indeed frightened like never before in my life. The TV images from New York and the actual smoke I could see rising from the Pentagon that day emblazened my fear. My country, my society, my security was under attack, by whom and to what evil extent I knew not. And, the ennui fostered by a lifetime of relative peace ensured that I never even fathomed the possible choice of sacrificing my own life, in my own home, to spare my loved ones.
But the fearful images soon faded, no further attacks occurred, no constant rifle volleys endured to hone the sharpness of my fear. So, like most Americans, I eventually hit the snooze alarm and went back to sleep. Seemed like that anomolous 9/11 event was nothing more than a fleeting crack in our national security, indeed a profitable opportunity for many citizens. So we just got on with our daily business. We need fear no more.
RATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATAT!
Or should we? Can we really believe no enemy plots today to do us harm in our own homes? Knowing what happened in 2001, do we dare take that chance...again?
Ooo-rah, Marines! Carry on and keep your skills sharp. And thanks for being here.
Semper Fi
Oh, great. The enlisted kids in the CS (cuilinary specialists) lounge next to my stateroom must be watching a war movie...with the volume up too loud again. So now this grumpy old man will go over and tell them to turn it down. Which will fill me with guilt because they have 10 times the people crowded into half the space that I enjoy. And they work hard, and consistently make the best soup I've ever tasted. Still, I have work to do, so.....
RATATATATATATATAT! RATATATATTATATATATATATAT!
Wait a minute! That was louder and closer, and NOT coming from next door! It's coming from......the main deck over my head! There are no TVs up there. What the....?
RATATATATATATATATAT! RATATTATATATATAATATATAT!
RATATATATATATATATAT! RATATATATATATATATATATAT!
That is definitely live fire from automatic weapons, and now it's coming in bursting volleys from multiple weapons at once!
RATATATATATAATATATATATATATATATATAT!
Should I dive for cover? Sound an alarm?
Of course not. By now I realize that our embarked U.S. Marine Corps anti-terrorism force is simply conducting a live fire exercise off the port side, just above my stateroom. I saw them setting up for it when I took a stroll on the deck after supper. Well, surgeons have to actually do surgery to maintain their skills, right? I wouldn't want my heart operation to be the surgeon's first. I haven't touched an actual patient myself in almost ten years. I sure wouldn't want me resuscitating me under that circumstance.
So Marines should practice their skills, just like surgeons, and damage controlmen, and aviators, and ... culinary specialists. Good on ya, Marines!
Still, it's more than a bit disconcerting to hear such close actual live automatic weapon fire, with real bullets. I saw those bullets. They were definitely real. And pointy. And big. And many. And.....lethal.
What about the people in this world for whom the sound of close live fire is a daily life intrusion? Do they know whether it comes from friend or foe? Are they relieved when it finally ceases? Or do they cower in panic fearing a hostile killing force will soon storm into their living or bed room? Do they pray that they will live through the onslaught? Or do they silently wish to offer their own lives to spare their children? What other terrible, unspeakable thoughts and images fill their minds and hearts with each successive RATATATATATATATATAT? Do those vivid images ever become "normal"? Or are they just endured like the other horrors of war?
Aside from the immediate aftermath of 9/11/2001, we Americans just don't suffer such fear of encroaching death and destruction, day after day, week after week. That's good, right? Or is it?
I vaguely remember being alone in a D.C. hotel room on that September 11 morning, and I was indeed frightened like never before in my life. The TV images from New York and the actual smoke I could see rising from the Pentagon that day emblazened my fear. My country, my society, my security was under attack, by whom and to what evil extent I knew not. And, the ennui fostered by a lifetime of relative peace ensured that I never even fathomed the possible choice of sacrificing my own life, in my own home, to spare my loved ones.
But the fearful images soon faded, no further attacks occurred, no constant rifle volleys endured to hone the sharpness of my fear. So, like most Americans, I eventually hit the snooze alarm and went back to sleep. Seemed like that anomolous 9/11 event was nothing more than a fleeting crack in our national security, indeed a profitable opportunity for many citizens. So we just got on with our daily business. We need fear no more.
RATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATAT!
Or should we? Can we really believe no enemy plots today to do us harm in our own homes? Knowing what happened in 2001, do we dare take that chance...again?
Ooo-rah, Marines! Carry on and keep your skills sharp. And thanks for being here.
Semper Fi
Monday, March 22, 2010
Healthcare Reform - Some Modest Thoughts
Well, it really ain't over because it ain't really over and no fat lady is singing. But I suppose that today's sweeping legislation will enable that corpulent soprano to get liposuction or a stomach stapling at some prestigious high cost medical center where Congressional leaders currently buy their cosmetic surgery.
Like many Americans, I am tired of the healthcare debate...which in spite of the soundbytes is not novel to this current administration. Healthcare reform has been vigorously debated throughout most of my medical career. As a point of reference, the year that I graduated from medical school a U.S. President resigned his office over a bit of national ugliness named after an office complex in northwest D.C. Like the healthcare debate, the building still stands long after the former president departed the pattern.
But maybe now I'll get a little respite from the, "Doc, what's your take on the current healthcare debate?" questions I have fielded over the years.. How many different ways can one say, "Don't know, and don't care."
Well, not entirely true. I do care, and I know a bit. I do believe that every American citizen should have equal access to high quality healthcare, regardless of his or her socioeconomic status. And I even (gasp!) believe some redistribution of wealth may be justified in order to pay for it.
But until we finally rid ourselves of insurance companies and tort lawyers; until we finally revise our fundamental American paradigm to address HEALTH care vice disease care, government alone will never really effect substantial reform.
("Ma'am, have you tried simple diet and exercise for your morbid obesity?")
Public debate and tinkering around the edges of the system will endure, perhaps even cleverly crafted by well-meaning, dedicated politicians. But without changing our society's basic assumptions or tolerances, in the end it will merely be theater.
And - like today's televised debate - not even good theater at that.
Like many Americans, I am tired of the healthcare debate...which in spite of the soundbytes is not novel to this current administration. Healthcare reform has been vigorously debated throughout most of my medical career. As a point of reference, the year that I graduated from medical school a U.S. President resigned his office over a bit of national ugliness named after an office complex in northwest D.C. Like the healthcare debate, the building still stands long after the former president departed the pattern.
But maybe now I'll get a little respite from the, "Doc, what's your take on the current healthcare debate?" questions I have fielded over the years.. How many different ways can one say, "Don't know, and don't care."
Well, not entirely true. I do care, and I know a bit. I do believe that every American citizen should have equal access to high quality healthcare, regardless of his or her socioeconomic status. And I even (gasp!) believe some redistribution of wealth may be justified in order to pay for it.
But until we finally rid ourselves of insurance companies and tort lawyers; until we finally revise our fundamental American paradigm to address HEALTH care vice disease care, government alone will never really effect substantial reform.
("Ma'am, have you tried simple diet and exercise for your morbid obesity?")
Public debate and tinkering around the edges of the system will endure, perhaps even cleverly crafted by well-meaning, dedicated politicians. But without changing our society's basic assumptions or tolerances, in the end it will merely be theater.
And - like today's televised debate - not even good theater at that.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Busan Receding
The city of Busan and south coast of the Republic of Korea slowly sink into the horizon aft of our underway vessel. For the past 16 days this busy Asian port has been our home away from our home away from home. Twice a year we support a major U.S. alliance by coming to the land of kim chee and Hyundai for game playing and networking with our ROK counterparts. Although I will not miss the constant northwestrly bitter wind that stifled a planned Saturday bike ride, I do take away fond memories and a deeper appreciation for the people of this country.
Similar to their neighbors to the east - with whom they have been sometimes enemies and now friends - these ROKs, as we call them, are hard working and industrious. One needs simply to sojourn about in Busan (or Seoul, which I was privileged to visit last fall) to recognize a nation of relative prosperity and brisk economic growth; home to a resilient people who truly relish their lives and freely share with foreigners. They are every bit as friendly as our Japanese allies, but with fewer of the cultural formalities of that society. I find this interchange always delightful, albeit frequently awkward when ROKs struggle to communicate in our language; a necessary burden since so few Americans ever attempt to learn Hangul. Anxious to facilitate the dialogue, I often embarrass myself with an occasional "hai" or "sumimasen," which my ROK friends politely ignore.
Being a committed foodie (as at least two thirds of my regular blog followers will attest), I am fascinated by Korean cuisine. I used to think that Korean barbecue was a single genre, a notion as naive as proclaiming only one style of American barbecue. Not that I have sampled the Korean varieties to any great extent. This was a working port visit, not heavy on liberty calls. But the different offerings that I did sample were pleasantly different and each delectable in its own subtle blend of texture, taste, spices, and abundant side dishes. The same is true of kim chee, of which I have grown quite fond. Korea has as many different styles of kim chee as Heinz has pickles. (I know, trite expression...) It is all good. The spicier the better.
I depart Busan with two lasting memories of my ROKN medical counterparts, at opposite ends of the two-week spectrum. The first occurred on the day of arrival, when we held our inaugural "staff talks" (term of art) with the ROK Navy medical leadership. The discussions were groundbreaking in the level of mutual sharing and understanding of each other's capabilities. Much more meaningful was the enthusiasm and camaraderie with which we approached these talks, and our shared delight at discovering similarities of purpose and process. Most satisfying was the abundant hospitality shown to us by our hosts, most of whom had traveled by train for a fair distance in the early morning, just to meet and greet.
An even deeper impression occurred, however, near the end of the fortnight, during the "Victory Party" between the two navies, hosted on our main deck. After due ceremony, complementary speeches, and random interactions with our ROK guests - made difficult by the language issue - I was well ready to go below out of that cold NW wind. I was stopped by a young ROKN lieutenant, which rank I had only recently learned to associate with the two diamonds on his uniform's collar device.
"You are Fleet Surgeon," he said in enthusiastic if not fluent English. "Do you remember me?"
Years of leadership training prompted my, "Of course I do," verbal reply while my mind vigorously searched its overloaded cerebral hard drive for the corresponding memory bytes. Fortunately, it clicked right in, "You are from the medical department on DOKDO. We met here in Busan last summer." The young man was so delighted at the recognition that he almost swooned. I cannot tell you his name, even now, but that is strictly a linguistic thing. We then had a wonderful conversation about our mutual interests and opportunities to collaborate during the next exercise.
I promised to host our mutual medical staffs to Korean barbecue and kim chee the next time we're in port. Hopefully the ROK lieutenant will consider that a treat. I know I will. Because as he and my own staff lieutenants continue the interaction, I will sit back to enjoy my kim chee and barbecue, fully confident that the relationships we started during this trip really will endure to the next generation of leaders.
Similar to their neighbors to the east - with whom they have been sometimes enemies and now friends - these ROKs, as we call them, are hard working and industrious. One needs simply to sojourn about in Busan (or Seoul, which I was privileged to visit last fall) to recognize a nation of relative prosperity and brisk economic growth; home to a resilient people who truly relish their lives and freely share with foreigners. They are every bit as friendly as our Japanese allies, but with fewer of the cultural formalities of that society. I find this interchange always delightful, albeit frequently awkward when ROKs struggle to communicate in our language; a necessary burden since so few Americans ever attempt to learn Hangul. Anxious to facilitate the dialogue, I often embarrass myself with an occasional "hai" or "sumimasen," which my ROK friends politely ignore.
Being a committed foodie (as at least two thirds of my regular blog followers will attest), I am fascinated by Korean cuisine. I used to think that Korean barbecue was a single genre, a notion as naive as proclaiming only one style of American barbecue. Not that I have sampled the Korean varieties to any great extent. This was a working port visit, not heavy on liberty calls. But the different offerings that I did sample were pleasantly different and each delectable in its own subtle blend of texture, taste, spices, and abundant side dishes. The same is true of kim chee, of which I have grown quite fond. Korea has as many different styles of kim chee as Heinz has pickles. (I know, trite expression...) It is all good. The spicier the better.
I depart Busan with two lasting memories of my ROKN medical counterparts, at opposite ends of the two-week spectrum. The first occurred on the day of arrival, when we held our inaugural "staff talks" (term of art) with the ROK Navy medical leadership. The discussions were groundbreaking in the level of mutual sharing and understanding of each other's capabilities. Much more meaningful was the enthusiasm and camaraderie with which we approached these talks, and our shared delight at discovering similarities of purpose and process. Most satisfying was the abundant hospitality shown to us by our hosts, most of whom had traveled by train for a fair distance in the early morning, just to meet and greet.
An even deeper impression occurred, however, near the end of the fortnight, during the "Victory Party" between the two navies, hosted on our main deck. After due ceremony, complementary speeches, and random interactions with our ROK guests - made difficult by the language issue - I was well ready to go below out of that cold NW wind. I was stopped by a young ROKN lieutenant, which rank I had only recently learned to associate with the two diamonds on his uniform's collar device.
"You are Fleet Surgeon," he said in enthusiastic if not fluent English. "Do you remember me?"
Years of leadership training prompted my, "Of course I do," verbal reply while my mind vigorously searched its overloaded cerebral hard drive for the corresponding memory bytes. Fortunately, it clicked right in, "You are from the medical department on DOKDO. We met here in Busan last summer." The young man was so delighted at the recognition that he almost swooned. I cannot tell you his name, even now, but that is strictly a linguistic thing. We then had a wonderful conversation about our mutual interests and opportunities to collaborate during the next exercise.
I promised to host our mutual medical staffs to Korean barbecue and kim chee the next time we're in port. Hopefully the ROK lieutenant will consider that a treat. I know I will. Because as he and my own staff lieutenants continue the interaction, I will sit back to enjoy my kim chee and barbecue, fully confident that the relationships we started during this trip really will endure to the next generation of leaders.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Kamsamnida, Ms. Cho!
Shortly after we learned that Chinahe, ROK would be the site of our weekend layover at the midpoint of our current exercise, I realized that I was one of the few staff members who had actually been to this port before. I fondly recalled my prior visits to the small U.S. Navy base that adjoins the much larger ROK Navy Base. I was commanding officer of the Naval Hospital in Yokosuka, to which belongs the very small Branch Health Clinic on board Commander, Fleet Activities Chinhae. I visited this site three times during my CO tour. Each visit was pleasant, but from a gastronomic perspective, the initial visit remains memorable as my first experience with genunine Korean barbecue.
Given that several of my shipmates and I had some occasions to celebrate, such as birthdays, a promotion, and imminent departure, I thought it might be fun to step out of my habitual introvert mode to organize a group sortie to that very same restaurant. Of course, I had no idea of the name of the restaurant, much less its location, how to make reservations, get there, order, etc. Three years ago I was the visitng VIP, so my hosts took care of all those arrangements and all I had to do was show up with suitable appetite. (Never a problem for me.)
My friend and colleague Gilda C. often describes a phenomenon of "learned helplessness." She describes how officers (most especially the gentlemen variety) who previously were quite adept at caring for themselves become increasingly ineffective and dependent as they rise through the ranks to positions of higher stature. I have no basis on which to refute her opinion.
Having only recently transitioned from VIP to staff officer, my recovery from learned helplessness remains mired in the denial phase, so I immediately seized on a solution to the "how do I do this?" dilemma. I could simply contact the Chinhae branch clinic manager, Ms. Cho, who manages these occasions for visiting COs, and ask for the contact information on that restaurant. However, I had no idea how to contact Ms. Cho. So I e-mailed Miki-san, my former secretary at the Yokosuka Naval Hospital asking for Ms. Cho's e-mail address. In typical Japanese helpfulness, Miki-san not only gave me the e-mail address, but also copied Ms. Cho so she could expect to hear from me. I wonder in retrospect if this was some sort of secretarial code for "Warning, Warning." These two ladies clearly have experience in caring for helpless senior naval officers.
So I e-mailed Ms. Cho, asking specifically for the contact information of that restaurant, and for some advice on how to make reservations for a group. She immediately replied that the prior restaurant is now closed. She could help us with another restaurant, but asked for essential information first, such as how many people, and "Do you mind sitting on floor"?
So as the ship docked in Chinhae Friday afternoon I called Ms. Cho to get the restaurant contact information, hoping that she might bewilling to call and make the reservations on our behalf. (My Hangul is even more limited that my Japanese. I know only "Kamsamnida", which means "Thank you", and "Katchi kapshida", which means "We go forward together." The latter is a motto for the USN/ROKN alliance.)
Experienced as she is in assisting helpless naval officers, Ms. Cho was very kind and patient with me as I fumbled through a series of missteps and reattacks throughout the next two days. I had first asked her to make a reservation for Friday night. I totally forgot that one of the honorees, our Catholic chaplain who was just promoted to Captain, could hardly participate in Korean beef barbecue on a Friday in Lent. And, since he mentioned it, neither could I. So I called her back and reworked the plans for Saturday night instead, for a party of 8. I also invited her to join us, recalling that she had attended the prototype dinner back in 2007. She readily accepted, which pleased me that a) I would be able to treat her to dinner, a small price for her assistance; and b) we wouldn't have to figure out the ordering and paying in an establishment where the staff probably speak little or no English.
Fast forward to the actual event, which occurred after three more phone calls to Ms. Cho as various other shipmates begged to be included in the soiree. (Apparently our event became the highlight of the Mess for that evening, surpassing even the opportunity to dine with Flags and wannabes at the U.S. base.) Precisely on schedule at 1800 (6 p.m.) Ms. Cho and Chief Gerardo showed up on our ship's pier in two vans, and whisked 12 American naval officers away to a very delightful and delicious evening of Korean cuisine, floor seating and all. Ms. Cho handled all the ordering, taught us all the finer points of cooking and eating, and made sure we always had an ample supply of beef and other ingredients until all had eaten their fill. With gratitude and pleasure we split among ourselves the cost of hers and the Chief's meals.
But she was still not done showing us unexpected kindness. Noting how much we enjoyed the Korean coffee at the end of the meal, on the way back to the ship she stopped at a grocery store so we could buy some of that coffee to take back with us. (Like instant coffee, it comes in individual packets, so we just add a little hot water to enjoy it in the comfort of our own staterooms. I bought two boxes of 24 packets each, regular and mocha. Cost about 6 bucks.
My shipmates and I are very grateful to Ms. Cho, and to Chief Gerardo, for their kindness and thoughtfulness in helping a group of sailors enjoy a rare night out in the midst of a heavy working port visit. So sometime this week they will receive in the mail a thank you card signed by all their helpless diners, along with an assortment of 7th Fleet coins, pins, and other mementoes that we never thought to bring with us last evening.
I think one does not ever fully recover from learned helplessness.
Now where did I put those little coffee packets?
Given that several of my shipmates and I had some occasions to celebrate, such as birthdays, a promotion, and imminent departure, I thought it might be fun to step out of my habitual introvert mode to organize a group sortie to that very same restaurant. Of course, I had no idea of the name of the restaurant, much less its location, how to make reservations, get there, order, etc. Three years ago I was the visitng VIP, so my hosts took care of all those arrangements and all I had to do was show up with suitable appetite. (Never a problem for me.)
My friend and colleague Gilda C. often describes a phenomenon of "learned helplessness." She describes how officers (most especially the gentlemen variety) who previously were quite adept at caring for themselves become increasingly ineffective and dependent as they rise through the ranks to positions of higher stature. I have no basis on which to refute her opinion.
Having only recently transitioned from VIP to staff officer, my recovery from learned helplessness remains mired in the denial phase, so I immediately seized on a solution to the "how do I do this?" dilemma. I could simply contact the Chinhae branch clinic manager, Ms. Cho, who manages these occasions for visiting COs, and ask for the contact information on that restaurant. However, I had no idea how to contact Ms. Cho. So I e-mailed Miki-san, my former secretary at the Yokosuka Naval Hospital asking for Ms. Cho's e-mail address. In typical Japanese helpfulness, Miki-san not only gave me the e-mail address, but also copied Ms. Cho so she could expect to hear from me. I wonder in retrospect if this was some sort of secretarial code for "Warning, Warning." These two ladies clearly have experience in caring for helpless senior naval officers.
So I e-mailed Ms. Cho, asking specifically for the contact information of that restaurant, and for some advice on how to make reservations for a group. She immediately replied that the prior restaurant is now closed. She could help us with another restaurant, but asked for essential information first, such as how many people, and "Do you mind sitting on floor"?
So as the ship docked in Chinhae Friday afternoon I called Ms. Cho to get the restaurant contact information, hoping that she might bewilling to call and make the reservations on our behalf. (My Hangul is even more limited that my Japanese. I know only "Kamsamnida", which means "Thank you", and "Katchi kapshida", which means "We go forward together." The latter is a motto for the USN/ROKN alliance.)
Experienced as she is in assisting helpless naval officers, Ms. Cho was very kind and patient with me as I fumbled through a series of missteps and reattacks throughout the next two days. I had first asked her to make a reservation for Friday night. I totally forgot that one of the honorees, our Catholic chaplain who was just promoted to Captain, could hardly participate in Korean beef barbecue on a Friday in Lent. And, since he mentioned it, neither could I. So I called her back and reworked the plans for Saturday night instead, for a party of 8. I also invited her to join us, recalling that she had attended the prototype dinner back in 2007. She readily accepted, which pleased me that a) I would be able to treat her to dinner, a small price for her assistance; and b) we wouldn't have to figure out the ordering and paying in an establishment where the staff probably speak little or no English.
Fast forward to the actual event, which occurred after three more phone calls to Ms. Cho as various other shipmates begged to be included in the soiree. (Apparently our event became the highlight of the Mess for that evening, surpassing even the opportunity to dine with Flags and wannabes at the U.S. base.) Precisely on schedule at 1800 (6 p.m.) Ms. Cho and Chief Gerardo showed up on our ship's pier in two vans, and whisked 12 American naval officers away to a very delightful and delicious evening of Korean cuisine, floor seating and all. Ms. Cho handled all the ordering, taught us all the finer points of cooking and eating, and made sure we always had an ample supply of beef and other ingredients until all had eaten their fill. With gratitude and pleasure we split among ourselves the cost of hers and the Chief's meals.
But she was still not done showing us unexpected kindness. Noting how much we enjoyed the Korean coffee at the end of the meal, on the way back to the ship she stopped at a grocery store so we could buy some of that coffee to take back with us. (Like instant coffee, it comes in individual packets, so we just add a little hot water to enjoy it in the comfort of our own staterooms. I bought two boxes of 24 packets each, regular and mocha. Cost about 6 bucks.
My shipmates and I are very grateful to Ms. Cho, and to Chief Gerardo, for their kindness and thoughtfulness in helping a group of sailors enjoy a rare night out in the midst of a heavy working port visit. So sometime this week they will receive in the mail a thank you card signed by all their helpless diners, along with an assortment of 7th Fleet coins, pins, and other mementoes that we never thought to bring with us last evening.
I think one does not ever fully recover from learned helplessness.
Now where did I put those little coffee packets?
Monday, March 8, 2010
"Something for the Older Guys"
This was forwarded to me, in good faith I'm sure, by our Fleet Chaplain. I well remember the first time someone offered me a senior citizens' discount, but it was only last year...in D.C. at a grocery store whose name I don't remember. Sigh.
"$5.37. That's what the kid behind the counter at Taco Bell said to me.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out some lint and two dimes and something that used to be a Jolly Rancher. Having already handed the kid a five-spot, I started to head back out to the truck to grab some change when the kid with the Emo hairdo said the harshest thing anyone has ever said to me.
"It's OK. I'll just give you the senior citizen discount."
I turned to see who he was talking to and then heard the sound of change hitting the counter in front of me. "Only $4.68" he said cheerfully.
I stood there stupefied. I am only 48, not even 50! A youngster!
Senior citizen?
I took my burrito and walked out to the truck wondering what was wrong with Emo. Was he blind? As I sat in the truck, my blood began to boil.
Old? Me? You little twit!
I'll show him, I thought. I opened the door and headed back inside.
I strode to the counter, and there he was waiting with a smile.
Before I could say a word, he held up something and jingled it in front of me, like I could be that easily distracted! What am I now? A toddler?
"Dude! Can't get too far without your car keys, eh?"
I stared with utter disdain at the keys. I began to rationalize in my mind.
'Leaving keys behind hardly makes a man old! It can happen to anyone!'
I turned and headed back to the truck. I slipped the key into the ignition, but it wouldn't turn. What now? I checked my keys and tried another.
Still nothing.
That's when I noticed the purple beads hanging from my rearview mirror. I had no purple beads hanging from my rearview mirror.
Then, a few other objects came into focus. The car seat in the back seat. Happy Meal toys spread all over the floorboard. A partially eaten doughnut on the dashboard.
Faster than you can say ginkgo biloba, I flew out of that alien vehicle.
Moments later I was speeding out of the parking lot, relieved to finally be leaving this nightmare stop. That is when I felt it, deep in the bowels of my stomach: Hungry! My stomach growled and churned. I reached to grab my burrito, only it was not there.
I swung the truck around, gathered my courage, and strode back into the restaurant one final time.. There stood Emo, draped in youth and black nail polish. All I could think was, "What is this world coming to?" All I could say was, "Did I leave my food and drink in here?" At this point I was ready to ask some Boy Scout to help me back to my truck, and then go straight home and apply for Social Security benefits.
Emo had no clue. I walked back out to the truck, and suddenly a young lad came up and tugged on my jeans to get my attention. He was holding up a drink and a bag. His mother explained, "I think you left this in my truck by mistake."
I took the food and drink from the little boy and sheepishly apologized.
She offered these kind words:
"It's OK. My grandfather does stuff like this all the time."
Grandfather? Grandfather?
All of this is to explain how I got a ticket doing 85 in a 40 zone.
Yes, I was racing some punk kid in a Toyota Prius.. And no, I told the officer, I'm not too old to be driving this fast.
As I walked in the front door, my wife met me halfway down the hall.
I handed her a bag of cold food and a $300 speeding ticket. I promptly sat in my rocking chair and covered up my legs with a blanky..
The good news is I had successfully found my way home."
"$5.37. That's what the kid behind the counter at Taco Bell said to me.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out some lint and two dimes and something that used to be a Jolly Rancher. Having already handed the kid a five-spot, I started to head back out to the truck to grab some change when the kid with the Emo hairdo said the harshest thing anyone has ever said to me.
"It's OK. I'll just give you the senior citizen discount."
I turned to see who he was talking to and then heard the sound of change hitting the counter in front of me. "Only $4.68" he said cheerfully.
I stood there stupefied. I am only 48, not even 50! A youngster!
Senior citizen?
I took my burrito and walked out to the truck wondering what was wrong with Emo. Was he blind? As I sat in the truck, my blood began to boil.
Old? Me? You little twit!
I'll show him, I thought. I opened the door and headed back inside.
I strode to the counter, and there he was waiting with a smile.
Before I could say a word, he held up something and jingled it in front of me, like I could be that easily distracted! What am I now? A toddler?
"Dude! Can't get too far without your car keys, eh?"
I stared with utter disdain at the keys. I began to rationalize in my mind.
'Leaving keys behind hardly makes a man old! It can happen to anyone!'
I turned and headed back to the truck. I slipped the key into the ignition, but it wouldn't turn. What now? I checked my keys and tried another.
Still nothing.
That's when I noticed the purple beads hanging from my rearview mirror. I had no purple beads hanging from my rearview mirror.
Then, a few other objects came into focus. The car seat in the back seat. Happy Meal toys spread all over the floorboard. A partially eaten doughnut on the dashboard.
Faster than you can say ginkgo biloba, I flew out of that alien vehicle.
Moments later I was speeding out of the parking lot, relieved to finally be leaving this nightmare stop. That is when I felt it, deep in the bowels of my stomach: Hungry! My stomach growled and churned. I reached to grab my burrito, only it was not there.
I swung the truck around, gathered my courage, and strode back into the restaurant one final time.. There stood Emo, draped in youth and black nail polish. All I could think was, "What is this world coming to?" All I could say was, "Did I leave my food and drink in here?" At this point I was ready to ask some Boy Scout to help me back to my truck, and then go straight home and apply for Social Security benefits.
Emo had no clue. I walked back out to the truck, and suddenly a young lad came up and tugged on my jeans to get my attention. He was holding up a drink and a bag. His mother explained, "I think you left this in my truck by mistake."
I took the food and drink from the little boy and sheepishly apologized.
She offered these kind words:
"It's OK. My grandfather does stuff like this all the time."
Grandfather? Grandfather?
All of this is to explain how I got a ticket doing 85 in a 40 zone.
Yes, I was racing some punk kid in a Toyota Prius.. And no, I told the officer, I'm not too old to be driving this fast.
As I walked in the front door, my wife met me halfway down the hall.
I handed her a bag of cold food and a $300 speeding ticket. I promptly sat in my rocking chair and covered up my legs with a blanky..
The good news is I had successfully found my way home."
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
A Different Reflection
Just about two years ago I stood on a broad expanse of black sandy beach on the island whose official name now is Iwo To. But to me and others of my generation and that of my parents, the name will always be Iwo Jima, two small Japanese words capable of stirring vast memories and emotions.
I sweated in my nomex flight suit as I gazed along the silent and placid beach toward Mount Suribachi at the head of the island, and I tried to imagine the bloody, chaotic scene there 63 years prior. I tried to picture the ships, the vehicles, the weapons, and the Marines who employed them, all prime targets of the fierce fire barrage emanating from Mt. Suribachi and other points around the island. These men would have been no older than most of my children, yet they were thousands and thousands of miles away from home and families, fighting an enemy desperately entrenched and fully resolved to fight to the last man in defense of their homeland.
Try as I might, I could not feel the aura of that day. Instead I gazed upon an almost idyllic beach that in many other parts of the world would be dotted with sunworshipping vacationers paying exhorbitant prices for the privilege of soaking in sun and sea as if the world had no cares at all. The iconic WWII battle was too far away in time, with no real emotional hook for an Arizona man who was not even born yet on the day that produced one of the most famous photos of all time.
I squatted down and scooped some of that black sand into a plastic baggy, sealed it, and stuffed it into the leg pocket of my flight suit. I took quite a few pictures, because the scene was very photogenic. Then I turned and began walking back up to the road to rejoin my colleagues. That is when the enormity of that day in 1945 did sink in, just as my flight boots sunk into the thick sand that rose abruptly up to a berm about 40 yards from the water. Laden with nothing other than my Nikon and that full baggy, I struggled up the sand to crest the berm. I could easily imagine being weighed down with a heavy ruck sack, a weapon...or perhaps medical gear...being totally open and vulnerable to anyone above taking a shot at me. It seemed an eternity as I slipped and trudged to the relative protection of the berm, and still had an open field to cross before reaching any real cover. What if I was carrying a wounded Marine?
As I made my way to higher ground I noted a group of young men in Marine camoflauge uniforms descending to the beach. Assuming that they were in fact Marines, I was prepared to give them my usual greeting of "Oo-rah, Marines" on passing. But as I got closer I noted the cadeuceus collar insignia on the leader of the group, and the embroidered "US Navy" above the pocket. This was a hospital corpsman, dressed per custom in the uniform of the men and women who know him simply as "Doc". As I passed him by, a spontaneous ethereal voice arose inside me and proclaimed, "Corpsman up!" The response was immediate as always, "You got it, Sir!"
Hospital corpsmen assigned to the Fleet Marine Force are deservedly among the most well respected and cherished of all military members. In the heat of combat they willingly and bravely risk their own lives to save others...often at the highest personal price. When last I looked almost 40 corpsmen, all men and women in their prime, have lost their lives in OIF and OEF. Most of our Navy hospitals boast a wall dedicated to the many Medal of Honor recipients who were hospital corpsmen. Navy corpsmen are unique among all rates in all services, not only for what they do but for the spirit and dedication with which they do it. And they share a rich legacy and proud heritage.
This spring marks the 65th anniversary of the Battle of Iwo Jima.A visit to Iwo Jima can mean many different things and provoke a variety of emotions. For me, it was trudging up that hill and the chance encounter with that young corpsman, a direct descendant of men like John Bradley, the Iwo Jima flagraiser protagonist of "Flags of Our Fathers".. The enthusiastic response to my greeting means that the true core values of Navy Medicine will endure, at least as long as there are young men and women of honor, courage and commitment ready to respond to the call, "Corpsman up!"
I sweated in my nomex flight suit as I gazed along the silent and placid beach toward Mount Suribachi at the head of the island, and I tried to imagine the bloody, chaotic scene there 63 years prior. I tried to picture the ships, the vehicles, the weapons, and the Marines who employed them, all prime targets of the fierce fire barrage emanating from Mt. Suribachi and other points around the island. These men would have been no older than most of my children, yet they were thousands and thousands of miles away from home and families, fighting an enemy desperately entrenched and fully resolved to fight to the last man in defense of their homeland.
Try as I might, I could not feel the aura of that day. Instead I gazed upon an almost idyllic beach that in many other parts of the world would be dotted with sunworshipping vacationers paying exhorbitant prices for the privilege of soaking in sun and sea as if the world had no cares at all. The iconic WWII battle was too far away in time, with no real emotional hook for an Arizona man who was not even born yet on the day that produced one of the most famous photos of all time.
I squatted down and scooped some of that black sand into a plastic baggy, sealed it, and stuffed it into the leg pocket of my flight suit. I took quite a few pictures, because the scene was very photogenic. Then I turned and began walking back up to the road to rejoin my colleagues. That is when the enormity of that day in 1945 did sink in, just as my flight boots sunk into the thick sand that rose abruptly up to a berm about 40 yards from the water. Laden with nothing other than my Nikon and that full baggy, I struggled up the sand to crest the berm. I could easily imagine being weighed down with a heavy ruck sack, a weapon...or perhaps medical gear...being totally open and vulnerable to anyone above taking a shot at me. It seemed an eternity as I slipped and trudged to the relative protection of the berm, and still had an open field to cross before reaching any real cover. What if I was carrying a wounded Marine?
As I made my way to higher ground I noted a group of young men in Marine camoflauge uniforms descending to the beach. Assuming that they were in fact Marines, I was prepared to give them my usual greeting of "Oo-rah, Marines" on passing. But as I got closer I noted the cadeuceus collar insignia on the leader of the group, and the embroidered "US Navy" above the pocket. This was a hospital corpsman, dressed per custom in the uniform of the men and women who know him simply as "Doc". As I passed him by, a spontaneous ethereal voice arose inside me and proclaimed, "Corpsman up!" The response was immediate as always, "You got it, Sir!"
Hospital corpsmen assigned to the Fleet Marine Force are deservedly among the most well respected and cherished of all military members. In the heat of combat they willingly and bravely risk their own lives to save others...often at the highest personal price. When last I looked almost 40 corpsmen, all men and women in their prime, have lost their lives in OIF and OEF. Most of our Navy hospitals boast a wall dedicated to the many Medal of Honor recipients who were hospital corpsmen. Navy corpsmen are unique among all rates in all services, not only for what they do but for the spirit and dedication with which they do it. And they share a rich legacy and proud heritage.
This spring marks the 65th anniversary of the Battle of Iwo Jima.A visit to Iwo Jima can mean many different things and provoke a variety of emotions. For me, it was trudging up that hill and the chance encounter with that young corpsman, a direct descendant of men like John Bradley, the Iwo Jima flagraiser protagonist of "Flags of Our Fathers".. The enthusiastic response to my greeting means that the true core values of Navy Medicine will endure, at least as long as there are young men and women of honor, courage and commitment ready to respond to the call, "Corpsman up!"
Monday, March 1, 2010
Gambatte Kudasai!
Gambatte kudasai! Heard this over a thousand times during my six hours on the Tokyo Marathon course in less than ideal weather conditions. The phrase and the people thus inspired make this marathon especially memorable. To truly enjoy the Tokyo experience, one does not race for oneself, for a personal best, for a medal (although everyone who finishes gets one), or a gold star in your running log. This is a unique chance to enjoy immersion into a profound and inspiring culture, and its incredibly friendly and enthusiastic people.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)