First Born - October 20th, 2008

            “Doctor M to the ER.  Doctor M to the ER. STAT,” blared the overhead speaker.

            Now what, I thought as I strode down the hall to the swinging doors of the emergency room.  Another stat and it probably is nothing more than a sore throat or a hangnail.

            “In here, quick,” shouted Caldwell, our warhorse emergency room nurse.  She’d been an  ER nurse for ages and nothing fazed her; she’d seen it all.  But this time there was panic in her voice.

            “Doc, he’s been stabbed in the chest.  He’s going into shock.  The blood is bright red, arterial and it was spurting when he came through the door.  Now it’s only dribbling and we’re losing him.  Hurry.”

            His eyes were rolling back and he was collapsing in her arms. 

            “Get him on the gurney.  Looks like they might have got him in the heart,” I said as I gave him a quick once over.

            “Call the OR and tell them we’re coming.  Emergency thoracotomy.  Get some blood to the lab for a six unit cross match.  Come on, move girl or we’ll lose him.  Have Cynthia get the elevator for me now,” I shouted as I wheeled the gurney into the hall.

            They were finishing a belly case in the OR as I burst through the door with the stretcher.

            “Call anesthesia and break out the chest instruments in the big room,” I yelled.  “He’s been stabbed in the chest and I think they got his heart.  Get him on the table, left side up while I scrub.”

            The well oiled OR team didn’t miss a beat.  They dropped the clean up duties from the previous case, wheeled him in the trauma OR and prepped him for a left chest incision.  My “sterile” scrub was a splash of soapy water and I was back in the OR, gowning and gloving. 

            “Spray the betadine and give me an eye hole sheet.  No time for a full drape,” as I grabbed the scalpel from the back table and made a sweeping incision beneath his left fourth rib. 

 As I the chest cavity blood cascaded onto the floor.

            There.  There it is, I thought, as I exposed the heart.  Just a slight nick in the pericardium now only dribbling minute amounts of un-clotted blood.  I split the pericardial lining around the heart with the scissors and we could see a rent in the heart muscle pumping now only diminutive jets of bright  red arterial blood.  I put my index finger over the hole and the bleeding ceased.

            “Pour the blood to him John,” I said to the anesthesiologist.  “Give him all six units as fast as you can.  I know there are at least six units on the floor and in my shoes right now.”

            “OK, team, easy on now.  I’ve got the bleeding stopped.  Let’s give him a few minutes to stabilize while we get better organized.  Let’s all of us take a breather.”

            The crew visibly relaxed as the tension in the room eased.

            “Doctor M.  Can I speak to you for a minute?” whispered the circulating nurse hesitantly.

            “Sure Cindy.  Before you do see if you can clean up this bloody mess I spilled on the floor.  It’s all over me, the floor and it’s in my shoes.”

            “In a minute, doctor M.  I think this takes priority.”

            “Go ahead, now what?”

            “Your wife called when you burst through the door.  I took the call.  She said she was in labor.  I told her you couldn’t come to the phone right then.  She said her water broke and wanted you to come get her.  I explained that you were busy and told her to get a cab and come here to the hospital.  What else was there for me to do?”

            “Oh my.  Forgot all about her being so close to delivery.  Go on.”

            “Well, she did as I asked.  She’s now down on the OB floor and she’s OK.  I’m afraid she delivered in the cab.  You’re a new father.  She’s fine they tell me, and asking for you.  It was a boy and all the fingers and toes are in the right place they tell me.  I had to wait till now to tell you.  You were too busy to listen.”

            “Golly.  Thanks for grabbing the ball and running with it Cindy.  Now get me some three O cardiovascular silk so I can fix this hole in this man’s heart.”

              “Is he OK, John?”

            “His blood pressure is coming up and his pulse is coming down.  Go ahead and finish what you’re doing.  Looks like he’ll make it.  And by the way, congratulations, dad.”

            We finished the case.  The patient survived with no complications. 

            My wife did fine after her single handed taxi cab delivery. 

            And my son?  Oh yeah, he’s OK too.

Eavesdropping – by Dr. Reilly Maginn – Surgeon, Adventurer, Storyteller - October 13th, 2008

Grand Central Station, Wash. D.C.

December 6, 1941

It’s cold in the D.C. Grand Central Station in December. At least it was on that first Saturday of the month in 1941. The benches are hard and the temperature’s frigid and the lights are too bright to sleep; at least at 4:00 AM. I was on my way to LA for a flight to Hawaii; a new assignee as Japanese translator to the OSS, the precursor to today’s CIA. I’d been traveling for 72 hours. Delays, detours and detainments. Exasperated, I sat on the rigid pew, nodding and head jerking, trying to nap sitting up. I woke every few moments and my neck was beginning to cramp.

They sat down next to me. I moved my duffel to accommodate the both of them. Obviously Asians. Possibly Japanese. Obsequious, bowing, smiling. Probably embassy staff. Gray homburgs, black, swallow-tail coats, bumbershoots and of course, their traditional brief cases. Their faces were grim and their foreheads creased with worry. They spoke whisperingly to each other rapidly and with impunity, ignoring me completely. How could these two know I understood every word? Both were oblivious to my listening as I studiously avoided looking in their direction. They were discussing a major upcoming event, apparently with some concern.

“What will they do to us”?

“Who knows? It will not be pleasant, I’m sure.”

“Should we leave?”

“Absolutely not. We mustn’t change our routine.”

“I’m worried.”

“So am I. But our first and only duty is to the Emperor.”

I began to wonder. What were these two up to? A crime? Maybe just an innocent event of some sort? I continued to listen, my curiosity now aroused.

“Do they have any idea?”

“None. It should be a complete surprise to them.

“Wonderful. I anticipate the event with some trepidation, however.”

“When will it happen?

“Soon. Very soon.”

“Train Fourteen to Los Angeles. Track seven. Leaving in ten minutes, all aboard”, the loudspeaker blared.

Standing, I swung my duffel on my shoulder and nodded to the two.

“I hope your surprise turns out well. You both look worried”

Stunned, the taller one replied, “you understand Japanese?”

“Yes.”

Looks of astonishment and then discomfiture swept over their faces as they glanced at each other. It was obvious they were now unnerved.

Cautiously, hesitatingly, the taller one said, “I hope we didn’t concern you with our chatter, did we?”

“No. I figure you two are planning a big surprise for someone.”

“Yes. Yes. That’s what it is. A surprise. A big surprise.”

“Do have a safe trip lieutenant,” said the shorter one.

Cutthroat - October 6th, 2008

Diablo - October 2nd, 2008

            Tired, we’d been sailing all day, so we didn’t enter the nearly hidden inlet until 1700 hours and decided to “drop the hook” for the night.

            We anchored and began fixing dinner. 

            The frogs and cicadas were beginning their nightly serenade as the sun sank behind the tree line.  White gingers sent their marvelously sweet fragrance wafting across the still water.  The inhabitants of the four mansions surrounding our concealed anchorage were now beginning to congregate on their verandas, watching us.  Florida can be rather warm and muggy in summer, so shucking off my shoes and shirt, I dove into the cool, clear water.  A swim before dinner does wonders for one’s appetite.

“Hurry and dry off“, said Elizabeth as she emerged from the galley with a platter of fried chicken.

“I’m ready and I’m ravenous, so bring it on,”

            The residents of the inlet continued to scrutinize us as they conversed animatedly with their neighbors.

“Guess they haven’t seen that many catamarans”, I observed casually.  We slowly ate our dinner and watched them as they watched us.

“Something’s going on”, said the wife.  They’re waiting for something.”

“They’re just curious.”

            A black girl carried a large white bucket to the shoreline.

“Not now Essie.  Just put it down. Dump it later.”

 She put the bucket down, turned, and stared hesitantly at us.        

“Elizabeth, finish your dinner and I’ll feed the fishes the leftovers.”

            Climbing down to the swim platform, I dumped the remnants of dinner at the starboard rudder.  I was immediately rewarded by a boiling swirl of saltwater catfish.

“Hey, these guys are really hungry.” 

 I turned to my wife and said, “they’re absolutely ravenous,” and I dropped a chicken bone in the water.  There was a swirl and splash as a huge wave broke the surface.  Suddenly,  I was face to face with an enormous gaping alligator maw.  He engulfed the floating leftovers in one final, crushing,  “whomp.”  Terrified, I dropped the rest of the leftovers and scrambled into the cockpit.

            “Good Lord, he almost got me,” I croaked. 

            That alligator must have been ten feet long.  He sank beneath the surface and disappeared, only to reappear, just a few feet off the stern.  He floated watching us, his two glowing eyes, unblinking.  His ominously swaying tail held his position at the stern.  It seemed as if he were waiting.

 He wouldn’t leave.  He just continued to drift just off our stern.,

From the shore there was a shout.  “His name is Diablo.  Don’t hurt him.  He’s a pet.”

“Hurt him?”  Were they insane?

“Reills, you were just swimming with him thirty minutes ago,” said a white-faced Elizabeth.

            These people had been feeding this monster, probably for years.  These fools were feeding their garbage to this dangerous behemoth.

Neither of us slept very well that night.  Bad dreams. 

We docked at the City Dock around noon.  The dock master asked us if we had seen Diablo.  “Hope you didn’t hurt him.  He’s their pet you know.”

REAL DEAL - August 24th, 2008

“Houston, we have a problem here.”

HOUSTON CONTROL:  “Good morning, Eagle.  Houston Control here.   What’s your problem, this, your last day in that tin can.  You must be tired.  Mission’s nearly over.”

EAGLE SHUTTLE:  “Affirmative, Houston.   Commander Busch here in the left hand seat.  We have been up and about for more than an hour.  And you can turn down that loud bluegrass music now.  We’re up.  We have started the re-entry checklist and countdown as we speak.  The board was evergreen until just now.  In the last few minutes I got a yellow on my heads up board and damn it, it just turned red as we speak.

HOUSTON:  Whoa!   What?  What’s the problem?  Say again.  Go ahead, Eagle.  We read you.”

EAGLE:  “Seems we have an aft bay sensor showing a significant sudden rise in temperature.  Just now got the red light on my board.  I’ll give you a heads up when I know more.”

HOUSTON:  “How long has it been on?”

EAGLE:  “It just came on.  I’m sending Mike Quinn, the flight engineer, back to check it out.  Thermo shows a temp of ninety five at this time, so I shouldn’t have a red alert but there it is.  Quinn is checking it out now.  The aft bay is where we had the optics for the Hubble stored on our way up.  Now all we have back there is some debris we’re storing till we land.”

HOUSTON:  “What have you done about the warning light thus far?”

EAGLE:  “I was about to punch the snuffer when the red light came on but am waiting to  hear what Quinn has to say before I flood the aft bay with fluorocarbon gas.  The ozone hole is big enough without us contributing to it.  The problem could be just a sensor malfunction.  There is nothing active back there that could start a fire.  It may not be real.  As yet I have taken no action.”

HOUSTON:  “Roger that, Eagle.  Good decision.  Keep us apprised of the situation.  I don’t show anything but green on our board here in Houston.”

EAGLE:  “Oh, oh.  Damn it.  Houston, the temp on my board now shows one niner zero.  It’s going up fast.  No word from Quinn yet.  This looks real.”

OVER THE SHUTTLE INTERCOM:  Cap.  Quinn here.  I’m at the aft bay.  The hatch feels very warm.  The thermo in the bay indicates two hundred fifty degrees at the bulkhead.  The gaskets are getting soft around the hatch but they are holding.  I’m afraid to open the hatch, considering.  I’m starting to sweat and it’s getting hot back here.  I think we have a real problem.  You better punch the snuffer.”

COMMANDER BUSCH:  “Roger that, Quinn.  Stay there and monitor the aft bay thermo at the hatch.  I’m hitting the snuffer now.  Okay.     Done.  Give it a minute.”

OVER THE INTERCOM:  “Attention, All Crew, we have a problem.  Probable fire in the aft bay.  Better don your EVA gear and stay alert.  I’m using the snuffer to douse it now.”

COMMANDER BUSCH:  Quinn, any change back there?  Still hot?”

QUINN:  I heard the pop and the hiss as the gas flooded into the bay but the hatch now feels even hotter and the gasket is starting to leak some smoke into the mid bay crew compartment.  I don’t think the snuffer worked its magic.  I might be opening the gates of Hades if I open the aft bay hatch now.  No question it’s warmer back here than up front.”

EAGLE:  “Did you get that transmission Houston?  Apparently, there’s a real fire in the aft bay.  Damn, now my board has altered again and is presently showing all green and the red warning light has gone out.  The thermo digital now shows only eighty five degrees but Quinn says the gaskets are leaking smoke and the hatch feels even hotter.  I’m afraid we now have a temperature sensor malfunction here as well as a real fire.”

HOUSTON:  “Roger, that Eagle.  Our board is still shamrock green.  You may be right about a sensor malfunction.  Wiring could have been damaged by the heat.”

EAGLE:  “Hell yes, I’m right about the sensor defect, but we also have a real fire up here in the aft bay.  I sure as the devil trust Quinn’s report of the leaking gasket and the hot hatch more than some low bidder’s electronic sensor.  We’re beginning to get smoke in the mid bay crew compartment.  You had better come up with a contingency plan quickly or we’re gonna’ have a problem with re-entry.  Get a move on, now.”

HOUSTON:  “Ease up, Commander.  We’ve got some time.  Re-entry in twenty-five minutes.  We’re re-routing some sensor pathways to bypass the electronic glitch and see if we can come up with a plan.  In the meantime, try opening the aft bay hatch and see if that will snuff out the fire.”

EAGLE:  “I’ll give it a try.  You do know we are only two minutes away from re-entry; not twenty-five.  We will have atmosphere to contend with soon.  Those open bay doors may spoil our contour as we re-enter.  Remember the Challenger.  She had only an eighteen-inch hole in the wing yet she crashed and burned when she tried re-entry with only a minor wing contour irregularity.  Those open aft bay doors may cause enough buffeting to tear off the tail section as the atmosphere gets thicker on re-entry and we begin to heat up.”

HOUSTON:  “Re-entry imminent?  No way, Eagle.  Can’t be.  Eagle, at present we show you almost twenty-four minutes from re-entry on our computers.”

EAGLE:  “I think our computers are out of sync.  We show only two minutes till entry.  Our nose heat shield tiles are already beginning to glow.  We are less than one minutes away from entering the troposphere.”

HOUSTON:  “Commander, for God’s sake, don’t open the aft bay doors under any circumstances at this time.  You’ll tear off the tail if the bay doors are open as you come in.”

EAGLE:  “I know that Houston, damn it.  Have you come up with a plan about how I’m going to get this bird down with a fire on board?  Things are getting hairy up here and fast.  We’ve got a real problem.”

HOUSTON:  “You can’t re-enter with a fire burning in the aft bay.  You almost certainly will lose control of the electronics and hydraulics as both of those conduits are routed along the overhead in the aft bay.  The conduits will melt before touchdown and you’ll crash and burn.  Those experimental thrust engines on Eagle will explode, leaving a radioactive contrail hundreds of miles long that will cause substantial pollution world wide.  Their energy source is radioactive Cesium 137 with a half-life of thirty-three years.  That is unacceptable and we cannot let you come in with the high risk of a crash and burn.  You’ll have to pull up till we figure out how to send a rescue vehicle up to you.”

EAGLE:  “Come on Houston, get real.  If we pull up now we will ricochet off the troposphere, and we’ll fall into the sun before you can launch a rescue vehicle.”

HOUSTON:  “That’s true Commander, but you know the drill.  ‘The greater good for the world and all that.  Sacrifice the few to save the many.’  We’re not giving up on a rescue, but for now, you can’t come in hot with a potential crash and burn.  It is just too risky and you’re just too hot.  Do you understand?  Hold on till we do some calculations.”

EAGLE:  “Affirmative Houston.  We’re changing our re-entry angle and pulling up.  Will await your instructions about a contingency plan.”

HOUSTON:  “Have you polled your crew about your decision?”

EAGLE:  No polling.  This is my decision, Houston.  This isn’t a democracy up here. I’m the commander and captain and responsible for what happens aboard this ship.  The buck stops here with me.”

HOUSTON:  “Understand, Commander.  Good decision and appropriate answer.  Stand by.

And Eagle crew, Good luck.  Houston out.”

*                                              *                                              *

The simulator’s hatch popped open with a rush of stale air and a wisp of smoke.

“How do they do the smoke and the heat Cap?  It was so authentic I actually thought the fire was for real.  I was sweating,” said Flight Engineer Mike Quinn to Commander Busch as they and the rest of the crew climbed down the simulator ladder to the hanger deck.

The NASA “techi” helped them down the simulator’s platform and said, “this way team.  Your six days in that tin can are finally over.  Follow me to the MOD for debrief and then you can get some rest.  We put you through the wringer, didn’t we?  I hear you did real well.

Your last practice run.    Next time it’ll be the Real Deal.”

Nightmare - August 22nd, 2008

The bigger, sinister one, the darker of the pair, looked back over his shoulder and grumbled something to the other one.  The other glared balefully at me. At first, the big guy didn’t even acknowledge I was there, as he tore at the parcel. They were both big, ugly, mean inner city toughs, hardened by life on the street.  They were tearing open their newfound cache and they were not about to share it with me, their little brown brother.  Their unintelligible, low-pitched mutterings and rumblings sounded ominous. 

They turned, glowering and scowling.  I knew I was in trouble; an attack was coming and soon.  Stiff legged; they slowly advanced from each side cutting off any avenue of escape.  I began a slow and deliberate retreat.  My Mexican heritage prevented me from understanding their every word but their looks and body language were unmistakable.  I was going to get hurt; and soon; and badly.  I was in serious trouble, with no way out.  As I backed away, looking desperately for an escape route, their menacing, ominous rumblings grew even louder and more threatening.  I began to whimper.  I couldn’t help it.  Somebody please, help.  There was no one.  Not only were they not going to share the treasure, they were going to hurt me.  The classic fight or flight confrontation was about to occur and there was little doubt that they were going to fight.  I just wished I could carry out the other half of the aphorism; flight.  But I was cornered.  I’d backed into the alley, closed at the other end, a cul-de-sac.  I was trapped.  They crouched, preparing to attack.  Terrified, cornered and about to be assaulted by the two toughs, I whimpered and lost control.  A flood of warm urine splashed on the pavement as my legs buckled and I assumed a fetal curl.  I closed my eyes and prayed.

Twitching, I awoke with a start, my heart racing.  I was panting.

A Chihuahua is no match for a pair of Rottweillers.

Hey, dogs dream too.

Memories - August 22nd, 2008

He finally found the hand gun.  “I’ll show that little loudmouth.”

“Now where did I put the clip?  Gotta’ be around here somewhere.  It’s sure as hell not in the closet.  Have to check with Marie and see if she knows where it is.” 

Searching aimlessly and talking to himself, he stumbled around the foyer, looking for something he had misplaced.  “Marie.  You seen the damned clip for this weapon?” 

“Hey, no one can talk to me that way.  That little shit Carl, down at the Senior Center, says I’m a coward does he?  I’ll show him a coward, that old codger.  Call me a chicken, southern redneck and a Christian zealot, does he.  And says I’m all talk and no action.  I’m sure as the devil no coward.  .  I’ll show that little shit head, that I’m not afraid of anybody.  I don’t have to take crap from him.  I’ll show him a little action.”

“Marie.  Answer me.  Where the hell are you?”  He rambled on, searching.

“I did my tours in Nam.  Two of ‘em.  Well one and the shortened one in ’67, anyway.  God damn, it seems like yesterday.  When I re-upped they flew us second tour guys back right away.  Guess they needed two timers in there fast.  As we got off the big bird, the huey medvac helo landed on the pad right next us and they hit it with a RPG just as it touched down.  Must have been a willie peter round as the smoke burned your nose and was white; we couldn’t put the damned fire out.  I didn’t think the slopes even had white phosphorous.  Anyway, when it hit the cockpit on the co-pilots side, it blew him the hell right out of the huey.  Body parts all over the tarmac.  The pilot was still strapped in and he was on fire, and smokin’; but there wasn’t a sound but for the poppin’ and hissin’ of him ‘a burnin’ there in the cockpit.  Sounded just like when we make cracklin’s back home on the farm.  Couldn’t put him out.  He didn’t make a sound.  Still strapped in the left hand seat.  Ears and nose burned off.  Face black, lips pulled back like he was grinnin’, teeth a’ showin’ white.  I still see him in dreams. The smoke was bad but the smell was worse.  God how I’d like to forget that awful smell.  I still get sick just thinking about him and remembering like it was yesterday.  Sweetish it was.”

 ”The wounded grunts in the back were a different story.  There were four of them strapped down on stretchers.  Couldn’t move.  The one guy near the door, his leg was on fire.  White phosphorous.  Can’t put it out.  Just gotta’ burn out.  I remember yanking the whole stretcher out and trying the extinguisher but the fire wouldn’t go out.  In the field we had to dig the stuff outa the wound with a knife.  And the grunt was screaming.  “Put it out!  Put it out!”  I remember.  He was a black guy.  Had a big bandage on his head and his neck and God, did he scream.  Sounded like a crazy man.  Between the sounds and the smell, I near passed out.  Heard he finally lost the leg.  Think his name was Darius.  Damn.  Seems like yesterday.  Funny I’d remember his name and all those details.”

“Hell I’m ramblin’ again.  That’s what Marie calls it.  I’m just rememberin’.

I’m sure as hell no coward.  Did Carl really call me a coward? Think he said, ‘You’re too chicken to go to Iraq.’  That’s the same as callin’ me a coward, ain’t it?  Well by God, I paid my dues and I’m sure as hell not a chicken.”

“Now where in the hell is the clip for this weapon.  Can’t remember where in hell I put it though.  Try the storage closet on the patio.  No, not here.  Crap, this is all gardening stuff in here.  For Christ’s sake here’s the TV remote.  What’s it doin’ out here? Been looking for that for a week.  Marie must have left it out here.  And I’ll be damned, here are the other car keys.  . Wait a minute, Marie couldn’t have left the remote out here.  She passed last month, I think.  Or was it March, Marie?   She’s kinda forgetful.  Found my cell phone in the freezer where she musta’ left it. 

“Golly, didn’t Marie and me have some good times together.  I remember our high school senior prom like it was yesterday.  I got all slicked up in my first real suit.  Blue serge.  Had to wear a tie; a clip-on.   And by God didn’t that Old Spice smell nice.  And Marie was a doll.  She wore that pink strapless thing. Pretty as hell and smelled like a June morning.  That durned dress, though, had wires all around her tits and when I was feelin’ her up it was like I was squeezing her through a hog wire fence. Paid seven fifty for that damned orchid corsage for her that night.  We all went out to the lake after the dance, Eddie Williams, Susie Edwards, Marie and me.  Eddie had a bottle of that cinnamon rum and some cokes.  Christ, we drank all of the rum and I got sick and puked my guts out.  We didn’t get home till 5:40 in the morning.  Was her Dad mad or what?  Red faced and scowlin’ like a hornet stung bull, he came at me swingin’.  I thought he was going to smack me up side of my head, but stopped and just glared in my face and told me to get the hell outa’ there and stay the hell away from his daughter or he’d have my balls.  I believe she eventually married Bubba Smith, had four kids and is teaching over at the grade school.

“Good.  Here’s the clip but, now where did I put the damned weapon?  I’m always losin’ things.  Shit, I couldn’t have lost it. I just had it.  Let’s see, I didn’t leave the house did I?  So it’s gotta’ be here somewhere.   Couch?  No.  Dining room table?  No.  Bedroom?  No.  Wait, check under the pillow.  Here’s the son-of-a-bitch under the pillow.  Musta’ put it there for safekeeping.   OK. Safety on.  Lock and load as ol’ Sergeant Major Anders would holler.  Rough as a cob, he was..  He did thirty and out, I heard.  Jeez, he was tough.  Nice guy though.  Made me come back three times before I qualified with the 45.  He bought me a beer at the NCO club that night.  Damn nice guy.  But he was a tough old nut, though.  Seems like only yesterday.

Safety on.  No holster.  Don’t need one, though, do I?   Don’t need one?  Why not?  Whoa.  What in the hell am I doing with this damned sidearm anyway?  Good Christ it’s loaded!  How’d that happen?  A loaded automatic in the house?  Good thing we don’t have any of the little ones around.  Don’t think we do.  Marie, all the kids growed now, aren’t they?  Safety is on, thank God.  I can still hear Sergeant Major Anders still beating that “safety on” stuff into us on the firing line.  Saw him over in Biloxi at the VA hospital six years ago.  His mind was gone.  He didn’t remember me.  Too much booze, I guess.  Gotta’ be the booze.  He’s only sixty-nine.   That’s not too old.  I’m seventy-six and I’m doin’ good.”

“I think I’m supposed go back to the Biloxi VA next month.  But why did I need this gun?  And it’s loaded at that.  Wonder why?  Hard to keep track of stuff today.  I missed my last two appointments.  Forgot ‘em. They’re all screwed up over there in Biloxi.  Told me I have “Old Timer’s Disease”.  Bullshit.  I can remember nearly everything.  I remember my service number, 425 1704.  Not many guys can do that today at when they’re seventy-six.  Those crappy little pills they give me don’t help my memory.  I’m goin’ back on the ginseng and beer.  Marie says the ginseng is good for my memory.  It’s as good as this horse piss they gave me to take each morning; or was it evenings?”

“Guess I’m ready.  Now where was I goin’?  Oh yeah.  Down to the center?  Must be time to be a’goin’ there, cause I’m hungry and that’s where me and Marie get our lunch this time of day with the rest of them oldies.  Must be it’s around noon or so right now I figure.  Guess Carl and the rest of ‘em will be there.  Like to have lunch with the old timers.  They’re a lot like me.  Especially Carl.  He’s old and a little cranky.  A Democrat and an atheist but I like the little fella’ anyway.  Better get movin’.  Now what in the devil am I gonna’ do with this damned weapon.  It’s on safe for now.  I’ll just put it behind the couch pillow and get it later.  Wonder what I wanted the durned thing for, anyway.”

“Marie, better get a move on or we’ll miss lunch.  Marie !  Snap to it, let’s go!   Damn girl, come on. 

Oh yeah, damn near forgot.  She passed. 

Hard to remember everything nowadays.”

CLASSIFIED - August 22nd, 2008

I shouldn’t be telling this story but I am getting long in the tooth and this tale needs to be told before I’m go to that big airplane hangar in the sky. Too long, this apocryphal tale has been secreted in the secret classified recesses of the Office of Naval Intelligence. I’m going to delete and may even change some of the names, dates and the like, for I might be imprisoned or worse, after I’ve let this story see the light of day. See if you agree whether I should be concerned about my being the whistle blower of this hair raising account of a WW II battle.

WW II was nearing its end. The Japanese in the south Pacific were on the run. We’d won the “turkey shoot” in the Marianas and their carriers were hightailing it for home. Our carrier group shot down more than four hundred of their naval aircraft and we broke the back of the Japanese naval air wing. Our flight, The Red Foxes, caught a Japanese battle group of two carriers and their escorts late on a sunny afternoon as our TBF squadron patrolled the western Pacific. We were a group of eight planes, the Red Fox flight, with torpedoes and bombs at the ready. Unfortunately, our TBF’s (torpedo/bomber/fighters) were slow and cumbersome. We made our bomb and torpedo runs but the Japanese anti aircraft gunners had a field day with us. Seven of our planes went down. My aircraft was badly shot up, though I was still flying. I was the sole survivor of the Red Fox flight, though we did sink one of their carriers.

Out of ammunition with my bombs and torpedoes expended, I headed for home on my carrier as the sun sank slowly into the distant western horizon. My fuel was nearly expended and the needle was bumping on empty. I desperately looked for my “mother” ship, the carrier Enterprise. From ten thousand feet I spied a shimmering wake through a break in the cumulus as the sunlight began to fade.

Landing on a carrier is hazardous at best and downright dangerous at night; especially without landing lights on deck to maintain perspective and guide you in. In war time, lights aboard ship were strictly forbidden on carriers and radio silence was maintained as enemy submarines were in the vicinity.

I banked my TBF to port and descended to five hundred feet, following the now barely perceptible wake of the carrier. Daylight was nearly gone and the needle on the fuel gauge was on empty. I didn’t have enough fuel to go through the standard landing pattern of a downwind leg, turn one hundred eighty degrees and then final upwind leg. I needed to come straight in to the deck and get my damaged aircraft down before the engine quit. As I neared the fantail, I dropped my wheels, then the tail hook and then the flaps as my aircraft slowed to stall speed. On the fantail, the landing officer, with his two paddles, waved me off frantically. I was too high or too fast for him to let me land safely.

OK. You jerk. I see you. Not sure I’ve got enough gas to go round again but I’ll try. I firewalled the throttle, pulled up and banked to port to miss the carrier’s island bridge. I made a tight turn and again got in line with the wake from the carrier and made another approach as the sun disappeared in the west. The engine was beginning to miss and cough. I very much wanted to land on deck, as ditching in the sea at night would mean almost certainly I would die as they would never find me before I drowned.

I broke radio silence. “This is Red Fox leader. I’m desperately low on fuel and don’t have enough for another go round. Please give me only thirty seconds of light so I can see the deck. I need lights to land this crate. I’m going to crash on deck rather than ditch in the sea. Over”. No reply. Nothing but silence from the radio. And no lights on deck. I’m not going to ditch in the ocean. I continued in the “modified” approach pattern; blindly burrowing straight in toward the stern. It was now pitch black. No moon. No visible stars or horizon. Wheels down, hook down, flaps down, throttled down and wavering at near stall speed I floated in over the fantail of the carrier. And there he was, the little jerk of a landing officer with his two paddles, again waving me off. The hell with him. I’m coming in anyway and I’ll crash on deck rather than ditch in the ocean.

I cleared the fantail just as the engine quit. The plane dropped like a rock and hit the deck, bounced twice and caught the third wire, my momentum carrying me down the deck to finally stop only feet from the barrier near the bow. Throwing back the canopy and pulling off my helmet, I stood up in the cockpit still sweating and thanking my lucky stars. I’d made a very difficult and dangerous night landing and without lights, at that, and still had an intact aircraft. I probably would get a reprimand; but maybe, just possibly, I might even get a commendation or a medal for my exceptionally difficult night landing. I crawled out on the wing, as one of the flight deck crew men popped out from beneath the fuselage.

Grinning broadly he said, “Ah so, Melican Pilot. You make very good landing.

PERMISSION - August 20th, 2008

Her eyes, wandered, questioning, as her eyelids began to droop. Tired. Exhausted. She could hear our muted conversation. As best she could, she faintly nodded and blinked once for yes. She understood and gave me permission. Permission to quit. It was time. It was hopeless. We’d tried everything. All the electrical shocks. All the drugs. We’d maintained circulation to her brain and vital organs with open cardiac massage at the operating table. But her heart just wouldn’t restart. She gave me permission to quit massaging her heart and let her go.

Forty years ago I was the chief surgical resident on a surgery unit in a prestigious university hospital. As first assistant, on a chest case that morning, I prepped, draped and positioned, on the OR table, a 42 year old woman patient for a major lung resection. She had a huge tumor in her left lung. The operation proposed by the attending clinical professor was a heroic attempt to remove the lung and the tumor before it took her life.

I had developed a rapport with this young woman when I did her admission history and physical exam. In the three day interval of preoperative evaluation and workup prior to operation, we had become close friends. This is unusual as residents don’t generally develop personal relationships with patients. But we connected for some unknown reason, and became good friends. I met her three teenaged children and her quietly apprehensive husband. The entire family and the patient herself put themselves in our hands in our desperate attempt to save her life.

The operation began without incident and things were going well. The senior surgeon began the lung dissection when she suddenly suffered a cardiac arrest. Her heart just stopped beating; for no apparent reason. It just stopped. We’d done only minimal dissection and disturbed little of her anatomy. Her heart just stopped beating. The result, of course, was that her blood pressure fell to zero and there was no blood flow to her vital organs. In itself, cardiac arrest during a chest operation is no reason to panic. During a lung operation, if cardiac arrest occurs, the heart is squeezed manually to maintain blood flow and blood pressure until the cause of the cardiac arrest is determined and corrected as the cardiac function resumes normally. As the first assistant standing directly across from the professor, I had immediate access to her now quietly flaccid heart right at my fingertips.

So I began rhythmically squeezing her heart with my right hand to maintain her vital signs and blood flow until we could right whatever was wrong. The anesthesiologist immediately switched off the anesthetic gases and administered pure oxygen via the tube in her trachea.

But, why had her heart stopped beating? We hadn’t a clue. It just stopped. We went through the standard checklist. Lab tests, blood gases, etc. All within normal limits. Still, we could find no apparent cause for this suddenly catastrophic cardiac arrest. We were mystified. Her heart remained lifeless and unresponsive to the cardiac stimulant drugs immediately administered intravenously by the anesthesiologist as I continued to massage the lifeless organ. We tried shocking her heart with defibrillator paddles placed directly on the heart. Once. Twice. No go. Her heart remained unresponsive to electrical shocks. I continued to massage and pump blood through the persistently ineffectual organ. We tried injecting cardio-tonic drugs directly into the heart itself; again, with no effect. Repeated shocks with the defibrillator paddles had no result. I continued to massage the flaccid organ during these machinations.

And then she opened her eyes. With no anesthesia and breathing pure oxygen, she awoke on the operating table. She looked directly into my eyes as my hand was massaging her heart. Our faces couldn’t have been more than two feet apart.

I lamely tried to explain.

“You have a tube in your wind pipe through your voice box. You can’t talk while the tube is in your throat. Everything is under control for right now. You’ve had a cardiac arrest. I’m massaging your heart to temporarily maintain pressure and flow till we can correct things and get your heart restarted. Do you understand me? Blink once if you understand.”

She blinked once.

“Are you having pain? Blink once for yes and twice for no.”

She blinked twice. Good. No pain.

“Close your eyes and try to rest. We have things under control.”

She blinked twice. She was apprehensive; justifiably so and continued to stare intensely into my eyes. I tried to look busy and break eye contact but my gaze returned repeatedly to lock onto her staring eyes.

We continued investigating the cause of the arrest. The professor used every means available and every drug known that might help get her heart started again. Nothing worked. We shocked and re-shocked the unresponsive heart. We repeated the cardiac stimulants both intravenously and directly into the cardiac chambers. Nearly two hours had gone by. I continued cardiac massage, switching from right hand to left hand periodically as impending cramps and muscle weaknesses dictated. Offers to spell me at my task were refused. I couldn’t break eye contact and I just couldn’t quit massaging her heart.

She continued to watch, staring intently at me as we desperately tried to restart her heart.

We called the medical cardiologist into the operating room for his consultation, suggestions and opinions. He could offer nothing. Another cardiothoracic surgeon was queried. He too, was of no help and offered only his commiseration. She continued to stare into my eyes as I continued to pump her inert, motionless heart, maintaining the circulation to her brain and heart. She could hear us talking and discussing the situation. She sensed our frustration and inability to rectify her cardiac arrest. She began to realize how hopeless the crisis had become. I’m sure she was completely aware of everything that was occurring.

We’d been at the operating table for more than three hours. My right hand and forearm had begun to cramp badly and I’d switched to the left hand and then again back to the right to maintain the rhythmic pumping action. Several others at the table insisted they spell me at the task but I still couldn’t break the eye contact with her. I wouldn’t quit. I couldn’t quit.

She too, was getting tired. She couldn’t speak and she was now less attentive to our frustration and the mounting futility of our efforts. Her eyes began to wander and her eyelids began to droop. I continued the cardiac massage. Leaning closer, I said,

“We’re doing everything we can. We’ve tried everything. Your heart refuses to start. We’re not giving up, though, but things do not look good.”

I sounded ineffectual. And I was. And we both knew it.

Still, I felt she should be aware of the desperate nature of her condition and be appraised of our efforts and our refusal to give up. But she could sense our anguish and the now pervasive hopelessness at the table.

The senior surgeon, who is the final arbiter, said, “It’s time to quit. We’ve done everything. We can do no more. Stop the massage.”

The anesthesiologist nodded in affirmation.

She understood. She looked deeply into my eyes, blinked once for yes, and then wearily closed her eyes. Peacefully. She gave me permission. Permission to quit as she closed her eyes for the last time.

“No. No. We can’t quit. We can’t. I won’t. No. NO!”

They had to forcefully pull me away from the operating table. Tears were streaming down my face. I turned and left the operating room, still in my bloody gown and gloves.

I remember little of the next hour or so. They found me in the chapel an hour later, still in my soiled gown and gloves. I could barely speak and was numb with grief. The tears had ceased.

Surgeons can’t let themselves get too close to their patients, emotionally. Good judgment calls for objective assessments of the patient’s problems and impartial decisions. Personal attachments only confuse and obscure what’s best for the individual patient. Emotions can only deleteriously influence surgical decisions and appropriate treatment. But sometimes….. Sometimes, emotional involvement is unavoidable.

She gave me permission. I’m think she did.

I‘m sure she did.

I must know she did. For me.

God help me, I hope she truly did.

God help me, she truly did.