An Extraordinary Father.

I was three years old when we moved from the Big Island to O’ahu. My Dad owned a small garage door company, and made it a point to bring one of his kids to work with him whenever he could. Growing up with five siblings and a busy father, I loved any occasion where I had all of Dad’s attention. A day of work with him was just that sort of occasion.

I was four years old. My parents’ shower was still under construction, so Dad used the guest bathroom. The sound of the shower water woke me at 6:30 in the morning. I wrapped my green and pink knit blanket around my shoulders, and stumbled off the top bunk trying not to wake my sister, Grace, sleeping in the bottom bunk. I stepped over the piles of toys and clothes covering our messy floor. I hurried down the hall, past my brothers’ room, my sister’s room, and past the guest bathroom where I could hear Daddy singing. My feet welcomed the scratchy, tan carpet barely covering the living room floor. The ceiling was so low that my six-foot tall Dad sometimes bumped his head on the two oriental fans hanging at each end of the room. I hopped on to the overstuffed purple couch under the fish tank. Though the temperature could not have been lower than 65 degrees outside, I shivered under my little pink and green blanket.

I smiled to myself in anticipation of a day filled with ‘helping’ Dad. Going to work with Dad meant I could push the buttons on the radio in the car, watch Dad magically transform mad customers, and hand Dad tools as he installed a door. Plus, he always gave me a gumball from his stash in the glove box of his white Raynor truck.

It took Dad about fifteen minutes to finish his shower. My excitement wasn’t enough to keep me awake for that long. I fell asleep. When he came out of the bathroom, I woke up with a thrill of excitement. The sight of me waiting on the couch was common enough, but this morning he looked surprised. Hopeful, I asked him if I could go to work with him all day.

My Dad is and was not usually an apologetic person. He apologized when needed, but as far as his children were concerned, he usually just said it like it was. Life was not fair, and he made sure we understood that, in a loving way, of course. Though, this morning when he saw me on the couch, he seemed to melt a little. His shoulders sagged. He compassionately told me he was so sorry, but he had a bunch of confidential meetings and boring paperwork scheduled. I could see he felt badly, so I smiled and said it was ok even though I felt deeply let down. He promised to take me to work with him a different day. Then he put on his watch and grabbed his big, leather day-planner and said goodbye.

I did not cry. I probably would have if my baby brother, Mike, had not started crying just then. The disappointment made a lump in my throat as I dropped my blanket and went to wake up Mom...

This was the first assignment for my psych class (reformatted for bloggage).

You must understand this was one instance out of gazillions that I sat on the couch waiting for my Daddy. And it was very, very rare for him to refuse me. Maybe that's why I remember it so vividly.

I grew up observing and learning from my dear salesman Dad.

He brought me in to formal meetings and out to the warehouse, and I feel absolutely blessed that he let me tag along. Love you, Dad!

The Formation of a Passion

  “Dear Sister,

  So you’ve decided to pursue a career in the medical field. I chose the word ‘career’ for several reasons. First of all, the word ‘job’ implies that you simply do that position to earn an income… The word ‘career’ suggests much more commitment… A ‘job’ tends to have a set definition, whereas a ‘career’ means more of a field of experience and  expertise you will work in…”

   There's a resident who cannot talk cognitively and rarely opens his eyes.

   I have to be extra careful to make him comfy because I never know if he is or not.

   Often he spits his dinner out and is completely limp when I transfer him. 

   The gynecologist reached his hand and forearm into her womb. With a flick of his wrist, he popped the baby out. He immediately tossed her to a blanket draped between Lupita’s arms. The babe gasped and wailed at the shock. Lupita promptly carried her to the next room. While Dr.Wong and the gynecologist removed the placenta and began sewing up her mother, she was cleaned and weighed under a heat light. Behind the glass, Megan and I watched in awe. The baby let out a wail. We smiled, enchanted. Megan peered around Lupita’s back, “Welcome to our world little girlie.”

  “… It is not a safe or secure job… There is no preparation, whether in a clinic or a hospital. There is preparation for  procedures, education preparation for your patients and what they can possibly expect, but not preparation for  your day…”

   At 4 o'clock this morning, I was turning him over and tucking the sheets around him.

   Imagine my surprise when suddenly he mumbled, "Good Morning."

   I jumped, "Good Morning to you!

   In 6 months of routinely caring for him, this was a first.

   Second-guessing my ears, I stared and said, "How are you feeling?"

   He opened his eyes, looked at me then turned to the football game on the tv, "Mgoodm."

    It was amazing to hear his voice.

   I wanted him to keep talking. 

The gynecologist hurried into the operating room’s ‘mudroom’. After he had scrubbed up, he asked us all to bow our heads. He prayed over the surgery first in Spanish then in English. Then we all held our breath and kept praying as he made the incision in her belly. For a while, the only sound was Dr.Wong muttering instrument names to a nurse, Louis. I moved from the foot of the table to the side for a better view. Dr.Wong and the gynecologist deftly cut and cauterized through the layers. The epidermis. Cauterize. Sweat beaded on their foreheads. The fat. Cauterize. Dr.Wong glanced at the clock. The muscles. Cauterize. The stench of burnt blood vessels saturated the air. Maria sat on a doctor chair to the side. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she quietly prayed in Spanish. I sat with her for a few minutes until Mr.Kuhl said quietly, "There's the head." I walked to the foot of the table again, careful not to turn my back to it in the process. I had to stretch my neck to see over the nurses. Sure enough, they had cut down to the water bag. A slimy head was visible. Then, ever so gently, the gynecologist snipped the water bag to reveal a wet, curly head.

  “…Often time is inconsequential as a PA [Physician’s Assistant], Dianne. It’s inconsequential because you simply  don’t HAVE it. Time is working against you, you’ve got none left, or it is worsening your choices as the seconds  pass…”

   For once I knew that he was ok.

   He was not "out of it".

   He was not in a void, mindless coma.

   He could hear me.

   And he could reply.

   "Do you like watching football?”

   "Yup."

   I really grinned now, but I had to finish my rounds.

   "Ok, well, have a good morning!" 

   He closed his eyes, "You too." 

Hands raised to protect them from germs, we backed through the door as the anesthesiologist numbed the woman from her chest down. Aids helped us don our gowns and gloves. Lupita and the nurses prepared the sterile field and set out the instruments using deft, precise movements. Dr. Wong stood by the woman on the table. Maria, Mr.Kuhl, and Megan joined me beyond the sterile field at the foot of the table. The hospital’s gynecologist was late. This was the woman’s first child and we could see the fear in her eyes, the fear of death in a white-tiled room. I tried to smile comfortingly though I was nervous too, “Esta bien.” I wished my Spanish vocabulary was broader than that.

  “…Your choices, wrong or right, will eventually one way or another disappear. If your patient lives they will always  remember and wear your decisions, so doing what is best for them is what is most important…”

   Dancing down the hall, I tried to make sense of his shocking change in consciousness.

   Was it a miracle?

   An incorrect dosage?

   A weird before-death experience? 

Looking in the OR, the sights, smells, and sounds were so foreign to me that I almost retrieved my passport from the break room. White tiles ran up the four, windowless walls. The only thing breaking their flow to the ceiling was a solitary clock silently reminding us of the world outside. I smelled iodine. The smell shrank away from being noticed, and a relentless sound nudged my awareness. At first, I mistook it to be loud. The obstinate consistency with which it sounded made my ears ring. Yet when the Spanish jabber of the frightened woman dissipated the ringing in my ears, I recognized the unblemished sound of nothing. Even with nurses and aids slipping in and out, the heavy silence prevailed. Dr.Wong broke my reverie as he instructed me to scrub up; even though I was not ‘scrubbing in’, he wanted me to practice ‘scrubbing up’ so I could assist in our next hernia surgery. We vigorously scrubbed our arms, palms, between our fingers, and under our nails with iodine until they felt raw. Dr.Wong told me to watch the anesthesiologist during this surgery; he was the best Dr.Wong had worked with.

   “…To figure out what it takes to invest your life into what you’re passionate about while still keeping it your passion  each morning will never be easy…What really is a passion? I could look it up, but instead how about you figure out  what your passion means…”

   When I got to the nurse's station, I pulled his chart and read, "..."

   Well, I can't really say what I read.

   You know.

   HIPAA and all that. 

Slipping into my sterile booties and mask, I hopped over to the germ-free side of the bench. Three nurses wheeled a pregnant woman toward the operating room. I followed.

   Let's just say, my curiosity was satisfied. 

   My dear resident was ok.

   He told me himself.

For my Valentine (a little early)...Love you!

Ricky, here's the same letter again, but know I still mean every word and miss you lots!

February 14, 2011

Dear Ricky,

            You have been my Valentine ever since I could reach the Valentine’s Day mailbox on the dining room table. The thrill of finding my own name scrawled on a bag of skittles or gluey construction paper card in the mailbox is still unmatched. The little boxes of chalky hearts from Mom never lost their charm. The package containing lollipops and letters from Grandma Eldridge arriving, without fail, the day before is just as special today as it was in 1999. As special as all those traditions are, my favorite thing about Valentine’s Day is you.

            Looking back over the 17¼ years, plus 9 months, I have known you, I realize how blessed we are. You and I have the best kind of relationship ever. Brother and sister. Yup, that is fully awesome. We’ve got the love without the romance. Even the Bible acknowledges that a brother is about as close as you can get, except to God (“…there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother…” –Proverbs 18:24). Many times a brother can feel a little too close. You have to fight out who gets the front seat or whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher. You have to put up with morning breath and boogers on arm chairs. Then again, with brothers and sisters, you don’t have to pretend you’ve got your act together. You don’t have to guard your words and use your ‘inside voice’… at least, I never have… maybe I should! You don’t have to endure awkward conversations. You don’t have to freak out about what the other is thinking. Why? It doesn’t matter to siblings. We will love each other with a brotherly love come hell and high water, 1000 mile distances and arguments, or girlfriends and marriage. God let our brains develop to maturity in the same home for 15 years; what better bonding experience than that? And what adventures we had!

            I remember climbing up to your ship bunk to ask you to play with me because the day before you promised me you would play with me “tomorrow”. You sleepily told me that it wasn’t tomorrow anymore, it was today. I asked you if it was tomorrow every morning until mom found out. You made a grumpy Mawy when I, Dofus, made you push Jesus in the baby carriage!

            Do you remember looking for treasure in the field behind our house on the Big Island? We’d come home with broken bits of glass, bottle caps, interesting rocks, and anything that caught our fancy. Showing mom our treasures was next best to playing ‘house’ with Grandma E’s little dinosaurs.

            The three kitchen stools in our house were never just seats in the kitchen. They were spaceships and props for tents. Sometimes all of us stood on them wearing sunglasses and cool outfits. Mom gave us hairbrushes for microphones, cranked Michael W. Smith, and, poof! We were super stars.

            When we moved to Oahu there were even more good times. Neighborhood basketball games, football wars, hide-and-seek, lemonade stands, scooter races, bike crashes, army guy forts, rollerblade street-hockey, paper airplanes, and explorations down the creek (with practice flood drills from Bethany). While the neighbor kids were at public school *gasp*, we were doing more important things. From popsicle stick forts to life size boats in the yard, you and I built things together. It was a rough ordeal to scour the garage for every piece of cardboard, but it was worth the trouble when we sailed to the Americas in our ship.

            Rainy days didn’t curb our fun. We’d float Lego guys on bottle caps in the big puddle. When we got uncomfortably wet and cold, mom dried us on the porch and sent us to the showers. Clean and dry, I would sit in the sunroom and watch the rain drizzle down while I listened to you read Redwall. Sometimes we just talked about “Wouldn’t it be cool if…” or about girls and boys or about random stuff. Other times I’d watch you draw scenes with dolphins, helicopters, tanks, and pirates. Once you invented a game where we each drew six tanks on opposite sides of a paper. I can’t really remember, but I think we took turns folding the paper and coloring a small circle. We had to push really hard to make an indentation. Somehow the indentations were bullets from your tanks to mine and if an indentation covered a tank, that tank got erased.

            You have invented games all your life, and I have been your guinea pig all my life. (Lately, I have had to step back to a part-time position due to the hundreds of miles between us. Though, Robert Burleson is an awesome person to fill the other part-time position for you.) The game we played with those toy cars (half the size of a matchbox car), a ruler, and the blocks dad made, was my favorite. When we weren't making games up, we played Chess, Stratego, and random card games. “ZNZSWN” was fun to play with you and Jon. We spent hours playing that video game with continents and armies. I liked to watch you play Age of Empires or Wesnoth. It was even more fun to play the board game, Age of Mythology, in the guest house with Jon and sometimes Ariel. I felt so grown-up when you let me hang out and listen to music with you guys (which was pretty often).

            I could go on and on about all the adventures you and I have had, but that would make a super looong letter! You and I have changed in many ways since the morning you told me it wasn’t tomorrow anymore. But we still like teasing each other, exploring, wearing cool sunglasses and standing on stools, building things, talking, rainy days, music, Redwall, drawing, inventing games, playing games, and each other! I’m glad you’re my brother, Ricky.

            Happy Valentine’s Day!

                      Love,

                            Didi

  

Us Two

By A.A. Milne

Wherever I am, there’s always Pooh,

There’s always Pooh and Me.

Whatever I do, he wants to do,

“Where are you going today?” says Pooh:

“Well, that’s very odd ‘cos I was too.

Let’s go together,” says Pooh, says he.

“Let’s go together.” says Pooh

“What’s twice eleven?” I said to Pooh.

(“Twice what?” said Pooh to Me.)

“I think it ought to be twenty-two.”

“Just what I think myself,” said Pooh.

“It wasn’t an easy sum to do,

But that’s what it is,” said Pooh, said he.

“That’s what it is,” said Pooh.

“Let’s look for dragons,” I said to Pooh.

“Yes, let’s,” said Pooh to Me.

We crossed the river and found a few–

“Yes, those are dragons all right,” said Pooh.

“As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.

That’s what they are,” said Pooh, said he.

“That’s what they are,” said Pooh.

“Let’s frighten the dragons,” I said to Pooh.

“That’s right,” said Pooh to Me.

“I’m not afraid,” I said to Pooh,

And I held his paw and I shouted “Shoo!

Silly old dragons!” –and off they flew.

“I wasn’t afraid,” said Pooh, said he.

“I’m never afraid with you.”

So wherever I am, there’s always Pooh,

There’s always Pooh and Me.

“What would I do?” I said to Pooh,

“If it wasn’t for you,” and Pooh said: “True,

It isn’t much fun for One, but Two

Can stick together,” says Pooh, says he.

“That’s how it is,” says Pooh.