I Am On The Case

I Am On The Case

The other day I blogged about my first cooperative experience.  Seeing recent college graduates on the train, excited for their own first work assignments, brought it about.  While these youngsters carried computer and book bags, I viewed across the aisles to see the elder statesmen toting briefcases.  It brought to mind my experiences with my first college roommate.

I was barely 17…but fully clothed.  I was excited about entering dorm life and the college experience.  My girlfriend terminated my employment, so I was available for a fresh start.  I thumbed through Drexel’s brochure and decided my dorm choice would be Calhoun Hall.  A semicircled building, it was eight stories high.  At the time, it was the standard of residential living at Drexel.  With my selection made, the paperwork was sent out.  In mid September, prepared and packed, my Mom drove me down to Philadelphia.  As we arrived at Calhoun Hall, Arch Street was filled with double-parked cars.  We found a spot among them and headed into the dorm.  We waited in line at the front desk.  When it was our turn a burly woman blurted out, “Name please”.  I gave her my name and she scoured the list.  She responded, “No Michael Walsh on the list.”  I said there must be some mistake.  I was then told that you must be assigned to another dorm.  Not thrilled that her well-orchestrated morning was going awry, she picked up the phone and called the Dean of Housing.  After a moment or two, she came back with some delightful news.  I wasn’t on ANY dorm list.  If I wanted, I could go to the Dean of Housing’s office and be put on a waiting list.  Great, was I supposed to commute from New York in the meantime?

We headed over to the Dean’s office on the other side of campus.  As other students met and prepped their rooms, my future residency was in doubt.  As we arrived, the secretary recognized my name from the phone call.  She asked us if I wanted to be placed on a waiting list.  It was then my Mom informed her, in a not so polite way, that we were down here from New York.  We had sent in the paperwork AND the check several weeks ago.  Apparently somewhere along the line it got lost.  They had no record of me at all.  I did however have one thing going for me.  I had arrived at Drexel a week early.  I was taking an elective that could be banged out in 5 days…3 easy credits.  The secretary, understanding our plight, came up with an idea.  The Dean of Housing was not there until classes officially started the following week.  There was a pile of letters to go out to students on the waiting list that had obtained rooms…and was awaiting his signature.  She pulled one out of the Calhoun Hall pile.  I would get that student’s room, and he would be placed back on the waiting list.  That student would still have a week until he started so something else might open up…and I was already there.  Plus, the Dean would be back next week…any problems with that student and he could handle it.  The secretary cleared the paperwork and we were on our way.

It was a Sunday, so as soon as the car was unpacked and I kissed my Mom goodbye…I put the Steelers game on.  The start of the second quarter saw the Steelers take the lead over the Oilers 9-7 on a Gary Anderson field goal.  It was the last thing I would see.  With a loud “POP” the television drew its last breath.  Mom was already long gone, but what could she have done at this point.  Not like she was carrying an extra TV in the car.  No matter.  The dorm had common rooms on each floor containing TV's.  I could just go there to watch the rest of the game.  Just one thing…the Eagles were playing at the same time!  Every TV in the dorm was tuned to that game.  It was the beginning of my dislike for that team.  From a 9-7 score to a final of 48-20, I missed a great game from a Steeler fan’s prospective.  My favorite player even picked off a pass and returned it for a touchdown.  The QB playing against the Steelers that day?  Archie Manning.  It would be the last game he would ever start.  Of course that would not be the last we would hear of the Manning name.  The following week I had an easy time passing my 5-day course.  It was made even easier since I did not have a TV or a roommate to distract me.  That Saturday Mom drove down to drop off an old TV we had used in the den…Mom’s are good like that.  She asked if I had met my roommate yet and I told her I hadn’t.  The rest of the students were scheduled to arrive on Sunday, that was when I would probably meet him.  Mom was off again, this time the TV stayed.  Sunday evening came, but my roommate never did.  No big deal, I got to know my other floor mates.

Two weeks would pass and still no roommate.  My newfound friends on the floor kidded me about it, "No one must want to room with you!"  On Tuesday of the third week, a few classmates and I arrived back on our floor.  My door was wide open.  At first look in I thought it was someone’s parent.  But no, it was he.  My roommate finally arrived.  What the secretary at the Dean of Housing failed to tell me was, since this was a waiting list fill, I would probably be residing with an upperclassmen.  And he was not just an upperclassmen, he was a 5th year senior.  Here we were, me 17…looking 14, and my roommate, 23…looking 30.  What an odd couple.  He was a nice enough guy though.  He informed me he was on co-op assignment, so he was in no rush to move into the dorm since his job was closer to home.  However, he wanted to be on campus…and now he finally was.  He was taking classes at night, so this would make things a lot easier for him.  He moved in with very few items, mostly just the necessities.  He had several suits and ties, and a briefcase.  The next morning when he left for work, he looked like he fell out of the Wall Street Journal.  Pressed and proper with briefcase in hand…like he could have been somebody's Dad.  Between work and class he was hardly ever in the room.  Whenever I would see him on campus…he had that briefcase in hand…whether it was off to work or off to class.  I am surprised it wasn’t tied to him with handcuffs.  I figured it must contain everything he needed for both.  The freshman even joked around I lived with  “The Briefcase Guy”.

About a month or so into my college career I began to settle in nicely.  I started to get familiar with the routine…the partying routine that is.  Did you think I meant something else?  The Greeks were rushing freshman…and I was among them.  I didn’t plan on joining but they didn’t need to know that.  It however allowed me access to closed parties where the female ratio was much higher.  And God knows I need all the help I can get!  At one of the parties, my buddy and I latched on to two nursing students from Harcum College.  We had heard something about Harcum, Park’em and “something’em” in the Dark’em (You figure it out).  And apparently so did they.  We let them know we had beer back at the dorm and with little effort they were more than happy to join us.  We chose my room since we knew my roommate was never around.  We arrived and as expected he was not there.  After a few beers the girls got even tipsier.  That was when one of them spotted it.  The briefcase!  I pleaded with them not to touch it.  It was my roommates and it must contain important documents…he takes it with him wherever he goes.  I was actually shocked he had left it behind.  The girl I had my eye on implored. “Let’s open it!”  I begged her not to.  But a quick smile from her and she knew I would let her have her way.  She pulled the briefcase from under the bed.  It was locked!  Whew!  Good thing.  But that wasn’t going to stop her.  She took off one of her high heel shoes and whacked the locked latch until it gave way.  Subtle.  She slowly opened the briefcase.

Now, what she found was not so much a shock to her and her friend.  They had not followed the trials and tribulations of the totted briefcase.  What had been so important?  What was it that my roommate could not part with…whether it was work or school?  Porn!  About fifteen magazines of all types…and nothing else!  And these weren’t Playboy.  These offerings would have made Larry Flynt blush.  As my friend and I were stunned, the girls believed this was just an elaborate set up.  They thought it was cute…and we would be rewarded for our efforts.  The next day the guys on the floor wanted to hear all the details.  However, it was the details of the briefcase they could not believe.

A few weeks later it would be the end of the semester and my roommate would move out.  I never did confront him about the contents of the briefcase.  We would, however, still see him frequently on campus…briefcase in hand.  I guess he couldn’t leave home without his stash.

I still chuckle when I see someone carrying a briefcase.

The Breakfast Schlub

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The Breakfast Schlub

This morning on the train, five “kids” who recently started jobs in the city found their way to my car.  I give them credit.  They were all able to find jobs not too long after earning their degrees…especially in this economy.  I give them even more credit since they already showed some train etiquette.  Before “quiet time” on the train, I got to hear their excitement, their energy, their optimism.  It made me realize I have lost all of mine.  It did make me recall, of course, a time when I shared the same feelings these five had.  It was my first real cooperative job at Drexel.

Drexel University is broken down to four quarters that coincide with the seasons.  Starting in year two, classes and cooperative work are separated into two quarters each – either Winter/Spring or Summer/Fall.  Most students preferred to work during the Summer/Fall period.  Who wouldn’t?  Did anyone really want to go to class and study in the summer?  For me it was that, PLUS who wanted to go to class and study during football season!  College had already put a crimp in my gridiron gazing my freshman year (see blog).  I did not want history to repeat itself.  It was now my sophomore year at Drexel and the springtime semester was screaming to a close.  I needed to get a co-op job soon so I could fall into the Summer/Fall work schedule.  Today, Drexel’s co-op program works very similar to real life.  Jobs are posted in the classified section of Drexel’s newspaper or they are posted online on Drexel's website.  They list the student’s requirements and you then send them a resume and cover letter.  If you are accepted, you are called for an interview.  In my day the reality was a bit different.  We had a Cooperative Counselor.  He was much like a guidance counselor…but even worse (once again, see previous blog).  Unless you were an A+ student, a legacy or your parents donated to the University…he had no time for you.  Not falling into any of those categories, I knew I had a challenge ahead of me.

I tried for a few weeks to get an appointment.  I either dropped by his office or called by phone…but I was thwarted with his busy schedule.  I kept leaving messages, “Tell him Michael Walsh needs to speak with him.”  He would never get back to me.  Finally, on one office visit attempt, fate intervened.  I entered to find a different secretary manning the gate.  She asked if she could help me.  I just told her I was his next appointment.  After a few minutes a student exited and I was told I could go in.  I entered to find Dean Wormer's twin behind the desk.  This co-op commander stood up and firmly shook my hand and said, “Hello, Mr. Lowenstein”.  I informed him I was “Mr. Walsh”.  Too late for him, I was in the inner sanctum.  He poked his head out his door to see no other student in the waiting room, so he had no choice but to deal with me.  He begrudgingly gave in and called up my transcript.  This did not help his demeanor.  “Mr. Walsh, we can only place top students, maybe you want to wait until the Winter/Spring cycle.”  I knew this was B.S.  But one does not get this far without a plan…and I had an ace in the hole.  All along I knew if I were ever able to meet with him, he would never help.  As stated before, that was reserved for the special few.  Luckily, I had learned from the upperclassman that the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard took several Drexel co-ops each year.  I also learned that no student wanted to take those positions. Who wanted to work there!  Aspiring college students wanted to be in office buildings and Fortune 500 companies.  They want to wear suites and have martini lunches.  They want secretaries and water cooler gossip.  I wanted airplanes and ships.  Working at the navy yard among our countries war machines would be a dream come true.

Mr. Co-op finished his dismissiveness with a “There is nothing I can do for you.”  I got up to leave and I could see the relief on his face.  I headed towards his door, hesitated, turned around and did my best Columbo….”Oh, just one more thing…”.  It was time to turn my hole card over.  I told him I had heard there are co-op openings at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard.  His eyes lit up.  “You WANT to work at the shipyard?”  I nodded yes.  He immediately picked up his phone and told me to hold on.  He called his contact at the navy yard.  He asked if they had filled all the openings, knowing full well they hadn’t.  He informed them he had someone here who was interested.  After a few back and forth’s he placed his hand over the receiver.  “Can you be there tomorrow at 8am?”  I nodded yes once again.

I left satisfied I had outdueled the master.  But I left with little information.  I did however have an address and a time, which is more than he ever thought he would have given me.  He never mentioned if this was an interview, or if he had already placed me at the job.  I was hesitant to ask since I did not want him to retract his offer.  To be on the safe side, I borrowed a suit from a friend who was currently on co-op.  It was a size or two too large.  I looked like, Honey, Who Shrunk the College Student.  A severely tightened belt and an extra t-shirt underneath would have to do.  Now I started to look more like the Michelin Man.  That following morning I arrived on time and checked in with the guard at the door.  I was led to a room to find four others already waiting.  Under the assumption that this was an interview, I thought this was my competition.  I would soon find out we were all in the same boat.  No one had any idea.  Finally, someone official looking entered the room.  He welcomed us to the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard and gave us a packet of information.  It was at this point we all came to realize we already had the job.  We had a stack of forms to fill out and we were led to a small buffet.  As we bantered among the bagels, we seemed to be in our own version of the Breakfast Club.

The movie had only recently been released and it quickly became a cult classic.  I couldn’t help but notice the immediate similarities in my present situation.  Especially when the navy yard cooperative coordinator resembled Paul Gleason…right down to the Barry Manilow wardrobe.  While he fit the classroom commandant perfectly, we however were a much different cast of characters.  Two other guys were also from Drexel, but they couldn’t have been any more mismatched.  One was a Guido from South Jersey, the original incarnation of “The Situation”.  As my clothes were too loose, his were too tight.  But my guess is he liked it that way.  The other guy, a Born Again Christian.  He was a buttoned up Bible bearing neophyte.  A third guy was from Penn State (see yet another blog).  He was the athlete, being a celebrated High School QB only a few years earlier.  Boisterous and bold, his confidence was not lacking.  Then, there she was.  A stunning buxom blond beauty from Widener University.  She stuck out even further in the drabness of the battleship grey background.  If you had added this character to the script, no one would buy it.  Yet there she was.  She was 21, a woman, a full two years older than me.  It certainly showed.  And then there I was…Anthony Michael Hall.  Right down to the red hair.  The five of us would spend the next six months together.

The rest of that day we went through our orientation.  We all looked forward to the opportunities that lie ahead.

When there was the excitement, the energy, the optimism.

A Tale Of Two Prints

A Tale Of Two Prints

Recently I finished a book by John Kinney.  He was a Marine pilot on Wake Island in World War II…you may have read my previous blog containing this subject.  I recalled I had a print depicting the action at Wake…and John Kinney himself signed it.  As I delved deeper into the book, my interest garnered.  The aviation art piece was lost among the many displayed in our workout room (yes, it is used for more than just hanging laundry).  It was the latest print I had framed, and also one of the largest.  I decided that it should be awarded a more prominent place.  After I finished John Kinney’s autobiography, I hung the picture above our fireplace.

With this premiere spot now taken, I was left with little wall space.  It prompted we to go through my vast collection of World War II memorabilia.  As I emptied out my closet I looked like Mike or Frank from American Pickers going on a pick.  I went through each item to see what had value and what I could resell.  Many items I had were what they would call “smalls”.  They were worth money, just not a lot of it.  I did come across two aviation art prints that I felt I might be able to part with.  They could bring in several hundred dollars, but it would not be easy on me.  I never sold anything before and was not sure I could bring myself to do so.  I thought if I could sell one of them, others would be much easier.  I now fully understood the term the pickers used “Breaking the Ice”.  I would list both of them on eBay and it would take a few months before they would sell.

The first print I posted the artwork itself was good, but it did not fit with what I had.  Even though it was from the Pacific theatre, the scene was bland and boring.  What the print did have was signatures of passed on pilots, the likes of which we may never see again.  That was the reason I held on to it for so many years.  The print had not been framed since it was not something I thought I would ever display.  It made sense to sell it.   I placed the print on eBay with a high opening bid.  I could understand the trepidation of such a purchase since our economy is not exactly soaring.  However, I did not want to drop the price, since it was not an easy print to part with.  I eventually got a bid on the item in such an appropriate way.  Christina and I were saying goodbye to the 56^th Fighter Group restaurant.  As she was taking my picture with my iPhone the eBay app went off.   Startled she did something wrong, she clicked on the notification.  Seems the artwork was finally bid on.  I would be saying farewell to my WWII print while I was saying farewell to a WWII landmark.

I recognized the bidder.  He was a dealer and I had purchased prints from him in the past.  At this point I felt I must have put the opening bid too low.  Much like the guys in American Pickers, he must have seen an opportunity for “meat on the bone”.  I now know how it must feel for some of these pickers once they see their items sell for much more than they received themselves.  I understand that I may not have the connections or the available buyers that this dealer may have.  It didn’t make it any less painful.

The second print I placed on eBay I am not sure why I ever purchased in the first place.  It didn’t fit with anything else I had.  It was of the European theatre and I was not familiar with the pilots who had adorned their signatures upon it.  This would be an easier one to part with.  This print also sat for a few months on eBay.  A day or two after the bid on the first print, coinciding with our visit to the 56^th Fighter Squadron restaurant, I received an inquiry on the item.  He gave me a low-ball offer.  I figured this would just be a starting point.  However he wouldn’t budge. I was a little miffed there was no leeway in his haggling and he expected me to come down to his price.  Well, he must have known something…because I did.

After shipping out the print and its arrival at its destination, I received an e-mail.  I never like getting e-mails back from buyers.  It is never anything good.  Most times the e-mail contains complaints, even though I know they got the better of the deal.  This time it would be different.  The buyer of the print said the item arrived safe and sound.  He appreciated the discounted price I had given him.  He already had a copy, but he has two young boys, ages 5 and 7, that seem to be taking up his interest in aircraft and aviation art.  He needed one for each.  Also, he is a 1/2-hour from Robert Shoens, who was the pilot of Our Gal Sal, which is also depicted in the print.  He is going with his boys to have the pilot sign it.

This curmudgeon was touched.  The buyer obviously knew his budget having two boys with similar interests.  He was not trying to low-ball me.  Furthermore, he was fueling his sons’ interest.  I was born only 20 years after the end of World War II.  It was still fresh in the minds of family and friends.  Now, with these boys being born some 40 years after me and 60 years after the war, it is good to see there might still be a passion.  I was glad that my print went to one of these children.  Maybe one day, they will pass this print on to one of their boys.  The deeds of these pilots in this print, and others that fought in WWII, will live on.

Much better than sitting in my closet.

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

As you have probably read in previous blogs, Max has some pretty bad nightmares.  I wonder what is disturbing him so as he sleeps.  Could it be his past unforgiving owner who dumped him with such little regard?  Could it be the many homes that turned him down before he found one with us?  Could it be the sight of me in a bathing suit?  I have no idea of knowing.

I do know my own dreams have always been very vivid.  Some of them have better storylines and plots than most major movies.  I have always planned to write them down after I woke up, but never did.  Maybe I should start doing that now.  I seem to have a newfound affinity for writing.  So realistic are these dreams, I sometimes find myself later in the day, or even months later, thinking it was a past experience.  While most of these unique dreams can be entertaining, it is with Max’s recurring nightmares that I think back on my own rerun REM sleep.

Teeth.  I have many recurring dreams with this subject, and none of them good.  I would find my teeth crumbling with ease.  In some cases falling out altogether.  It is not a painful dream, but there seems to be no way to stop it in my slumber.  While several dream whisperers have determined that this indicates stress, I have a simpler conclusion.  I have had a lot of work done on my teeth.

When I was 11 life was simpler.  My friends and I were able to walk to Green Acres shopping mall at a young age without concern of abduction.  Our parents trusted us enough to navigate the busy roads.  And I was able to always do so…except for one time.  And one time is all it takes.  As I crossed Central Avenue, parallel to the train tracks, a car made a left off of Sunrise Highway and onto Central itself.  He never saw me.  I was almost quick enough to get out of his way…almost.  I was hit in the butt, which was probably the best place to take the brunt of the auto.  Unfortunately, when I landed, it would be the worst.  I went face first into the curb (yes, I know it explains a lot) and my front teeth hit the concrete.  The teeth were chipped and root canal was on the horizon.

My dentist was of German decent.  My Grandparents came from the old country so they felt at home with his background.  Of course the Marathon Man had just come out in theatres.  My dentist’s heavy accent rivaled that of Laurence Olivier.  Every time he would say “Open Wide Please” I thought it would be followed with “Is It Safe?”  Luckily my dentist was just as skilled as his big screen counterpart.  The root canal went well and when I got older I would have the front teeth capped.  If you are not familiar with the procedure, what they do is file the existing teeth down to posts and the crowns are placed upon them.  I was not informed of this.  I suppose they did not want me to know the extent.  I was told after the filing to go rinse out my mouth in the bathroom since a simple Dixie cup would not do.  I was instructed not to look into the mirror.  Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s got no teeth left at all.  Yeah, he should have just said nothing…so of course I looked.  I was mortified.  My chipped teeth were gone all right but what was left was much worse to see.  Two tiny horrible remnants.  And that was when the teeth dreams started.

I have other recurring dreams too.  How they started I will leave to your own speculation.

Bridges.  I also have many recurring dreams with this subject, and none of them good either.  Some are simple, I am crossing a bridge on foot. The bridge seems to get longer and more complicated.  I never seem to get across.  In other dreams I am in a car and the bridge is not so stable.  The bridge will begin to collapse around me as I feverishly try not to fall to the water below.  When the bridge is sound, it is the wind that is my foe.  Recently I had a dream where I was crossing a long bridge.  I had a wind gauge in the dashboard of the car.  As I crossed, the wind was only slight…registering in the 20’s.  As I got toward the middle, it hit 57mph…but I had crossed this bridge before with these winds.  I felt a gust and suddenly the gauge read 85mph.  The car was blown off the bridge.  I could feel myself airborne.  I could see the bridge fading in the distance.  I soon found myself awake, sweating in my own bed.  No wonder I am always tired.

Airplanes. I also have many recurring dreams with this subject, and it only gets worse.  I am not afraid to fly even after my European Vacation (see blog).  I have even been behind the controls of a few craft.  However, my dreams have other plans for me.  I will find myself in a low flying plane.  It is shortly after takeoff and it is struggling to gain altitude.  The aircraft is in trouble and a siren is going off.  I had heard a myth that if you die in your dream, that you die in real life.  Well, eventually in one of my dreams the plane nosed in.  I felt it hit the ground and all went black.  Nothing.  And more nothing.  My mind said, well, I guess the dream is over…and I woke up.  So much for that theory.

High School Girlfriend.  I hope my wife doesn’t read this.  I am not sure when these started exactly, but it is safe to say it was after the last time I saw her.  The dreams were emotional, not sexual.  We were together, but not for long.  It would be a trip, a gathering or something of that nature.  The dream would never be the same, but it seemed to be in sequence until our next REM rendezvous.  We would always depart as each dream ended.  When I was awake in my regular daily life, if she were to come up in thought or conversation, I would think I had seen her recently.  But that was not the case.  In 2009, after 25 years and classmates.com, I reconnected with her.  We had caught up in real life.  The dreams would finally stop.

I wonder what it will take to stop Max’s recurring dreams.  It is tough, because he obviously can’t communicate what they are about.  I feel helpless when he is asleep.  All I can do is stand by him when he is awake.

Maybe one day that will be his only dream.

Gout Outta Here

Gout Outta Here

The other day I had to refill my prescription for my high blood pressure.  The medication had no refills left so it required a call to my physician.  He refused the refill saying he needed to see me first.  I had just been there last month so I did not see the need.  Anyway, I had to make an appointment before he would offer his assistance.  It made me think back to a time when he fought me on a daily medication that might have made my life a bit easier.

It was late spring of 1990.  A new tradition was in its infancy.  We already had a house down the Jersey Shore for the 4^th of July holiday.  Now, I would be a part of another friend’s Garden State offering.  His parents had a house at Barnegate Light on Long Beach Island.  I had spent many a summer during college on that island, but usually the south end…the partying end.  This area was more residential, and the beautiful two-story house sat right on the bay.  We were given the week right after Drexel’s classes ended to invade…usually the 3^rd week in June.  I had been working my new job for about 6 months and was looking forward to a couple of days off.  A few days before I was to leave, I woke with a shooting pain in the middle of my foot.  I had played hockey the night before, so I just assumed it was something I had done in the game.  The pain did not subside, nor did a bruise form in the area.  I had never experienced anything like this before.  I went to the doctor to get it x-rayed to make sure there was no break.  After a few snapshots and a few tests the doctor returned.  “Mr. Walsh, you have Gout.”  Huh?

Gout was something I had heard of, but I thought that ailment went by the way of the dinosaur.  People got Gout in the olden days, along with Scurvy, Beriberi and Rickets.  I was given medication and told not to drink alcohol for the next two weeks.  Excuse me?  I am heading down the shore…not drinking alcohol would be akin to not breathing.  Not yet being familiar with my new foe, I obeyed the doctor’s orders.  What a boring week that was.  For three years the monster would not return.  During that time I chalked it up to a quack of a Doc who obtained his degree from the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.  I may have mocked him too soon.  In the summer of 1993 the Gout would return with a vengeance.

Gout 

Definition

Gout is a form of acute arthritis that causes severe pain and swelling in the joints. It most commonly affects the big toe, but may also affect the heel, ankle, hand, wrist, or elbow. Gout usually comes on suddenly, goes away after 5-10 days, and can keep recurring. It is different from other forms of arthritis because it occurs when there are high levels of uric acid circulating in the blood, which can cause urate crystals to settle in the tissues of the joints.

Urate crystals to settle in the tissues of the joint…hmmm…let me put that in layman’s terms.  It is like shards of glass imbedded in the joint.  You can’t rub it, you can’t touch it…it constantly throbs like a cartoon character who stubbed his big toe.  While sleeping, even the slightest movement of a blanket can awaken you in excruciating pain.  My demon would settle in the knuckle of the big toe.  It would be the most intense pain I would ever have in my life.  As stated, it does come on suddenly…so once you feel it, preventive medication is already too late.  I was recommended to a podiatrist, whom I must say was very sympathetic to my plight.  I would get to know him very well.  The treatment would be a whirlpool for the foot.  Warm water would get the blood circulating to the area and the flow would help to clear the crystallization.  After this was done, an ultrasound machine was used to try and break down the remaining crystals in the joint.  I was given anti-inflammatory pills too.  While this sped up the recovery process, time seemed to be the only real remedy.   I went to my primary physician and asked for a long term solution.  He mentioned there was preventive medication, but felt I was too young to start a daily med.  He suggested diet and exercise, and drink plenty of fluids…and not the alcoholic type.  Believe it or not I took his advice.  I was helped along with a perk at my job of having a gym and personal trainer.  I avoided the foods on the “Gout List” and cut back on the beer intake.  I was now 28 and in the best shape of my life.  However, the almost monthly visits from the Gout remained.  My own personal period.

Over the years I would do my best to manager the monster.  I would even play hockey while in the midst of an attack.  You think putting the skate on was an adventure in pain…imagine taking it off after the game.  The next day I would be back at the podiatrist…and the whole process would begin again.  I tried not to miss out on things, but inevitably there were times I would have to give in to the pain.  I would offer other excuses why I would be missing out.  I never shared my ailment with anyone.   The name in itself is enough to have people turn away.  Not since the days of Kings has the word Gout been commonly used.  I would suffer in silence.

In late 2000 the monster must have has his fill with my big toe.  He branched out to my ankle.  While attacking my big toe, I was always able to walk…albeit painful.  But when the Gout expanded its route, the ankle would be my Achilles’ heel.  The ankle joint is larger than the toe so more crystallization can form…hence harder to remove.  The big guns would have to come out.  My podiatrist would have to clear the joint by inserting a needle in it and flushing out the joint.  How delightful.  I struggled through these procedures for the next few months.  My doctor still did not relent on the daily drugs, feeling my youthfulness should be able to fight off this Old Man ailment.  I did understand where he was coming from.  Certain medications can have long-term side effects.  He felt it was not worth the risk.  However with the attack on the ankle, he now was starting to soften his stance…especially when I barely had one.

It finally culminated in October of 2001.  The Yankees were in the World Series and they were going for four in a row.  I went to Game 3 at the Stadium and what a grand spectacle it was.  The world would see that even though New York City had be brought to her knees on 9/11…she would not break.  The President would throw out the first pitch.  After a night of partying the payment ensued.  Mr. Gout came a knockin’.  It was worse than ever.  That night after I watched an amazing Game 4 on the television, I received a call from my friend.  “You want to go to Game 5 tomorrow?”.  Yes, I most certainly did.  But there was no way I could go, the pain was too great.  I made up an excuse for my absence.  Alone in my apartment I would watch Scott Brosius, with two outs in the 9th, hit a 1–0 pitch over the left field wall to tie the game. Yankee Stadium erupted after the home run.  For the second straight night, the game went into extra innings following a ninth inning home run.  The Yankees would win it in the 12th when Alfonso Soriano knocked in Chuck Knoblauch.  To top it off, in the ninth inning, with the Yankees down 2–0, Paul O'Neill, retiring after the series, was serenaded by Yankees fans chanting his name in unison.  My favorite player since Lou Piniella.  This was the last straw.  The following day I went to the doctor and demanded the daily medication.  He thought my youth could defeat the monster, yet it was taking too much of it away.

One of the early side effects of the preventive medication was inducing an immediate acute flare up of the Gout itself.  Great.  But I figured I could muddle through it one last time.  Of course, nothing is ever that simple for me.  You may recall from the definition above it may also affect the heel, ankle, hand, wrist, or elbow.  This time it chose the hand.  Well, it would go away in 5-10 days…however I had a wedding to attend, and I was in the wedding party.  It was filled with friends I had not seen in several months.  Each greeted me with a hearty handshake.  Each time I smiled as I almost crumbled in pain.  One last parting shot by the monster.

For over 10 years I have been on the medication.  Gout is now just a painful memory.  As my friends and I have gotten older, we discuss the certain ailments and medication we now take.  They are surprised when I say I am on Gout medication.  “We didn’t know you had Gout?”

Not anymore.

If You Leave Me Now

If You Leave Me Now

It was 70 years ago yesterday that the United States took the offensive in the Pacific in World War II.  It began the long road back to pushing the Japanese from their expansion.  The beginning of this battle would have an eerie similarity to the first time the American Marines faced the Japanese in battle.  Luckily, this one would have a much different outcome.

Before the war even began, the Americans had underestimated the Japanese.  A few days after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Japanese would do the same to the Americans.  An invasion fleet was sent to take the tiny atoll called Wake Island.  It would be the first time the Japanese would face American Marines.  An air attack caught the men on the island by surprise.  The damage was significant.  Their own air defense was reduced to a mere four planes as most were destroyed on the ground.  Three days later the Japanese invasion fleet was sighted.  The American Marines lay in wait, in a maneuver borrowed from Bunker Hill itself.  The shore defenses did not have the same range as the Japanese ships.  Furthermore, their range finders were damaged in the earlier air raid.  I am sure the whites of the Japanese eyes were filled with shock as the Marines opened fire.  The gunners’ mark was excellent, sinking a Japanese destroyer and badly damaging a light cruiser.  The Japanese fleet retreated.  But the defenders of Wake were not done yet.  They sent out their remaining four planes, strapped with make shift bomb racks, to attack the fleet.  They sunk a second destroyer and damaged one of the transports carrying the Japanese invasion force.  Only four days after Pearl Harbor the Americans had their first victory…and most people do not know about it.

Realizing this small garrison of Marines was able to hold out, the Americans sent a relief force of ships, planes, supplies and men.  They would sail from Pearl Harbor to reinforce Wake Island.  The Japanese would get there first, returning two weeks after their first attack.  They would not underestimate the Americans again.  They dispatched two of the fleet aircraft carriers that had been a part of the Pearl Harbor devastation.  The four Marine planes that had wreaked havoc on the enemy fleet would now be up against over 150 Japanese aircraft.  The Japanese were able to land on the island this time, as much of the marines’ defense had been decimated by air attacks.  The four planes put up a valiant fight, but they were simply outnumbered.  One of the fighter pilots was able to extract a measure of revenge.  The Japanese bomber pilot credited with sinking the Arizona during the Pearl Harbor attack was shot down and killed by one of the Marine pilots.

The Marines fought the Japanese invaders to a stand still on the island.  Winning in some places, having to fall back in others.  The American relief fleet was only a day away.  Hearing the news that the Japanese had landed on the island, Admiral Pye, commander of the relief fleet, did the unthinkable.  He turned his ships around and headed back home.  Once the commanding officer on Wake Island heard this devastating news, he realized any more resistance would be futile.  Even though the Japanese had gained no advantage, the Marines surrendered the island.  For turning tail and running, Admiral Pye would never command another fleet.

It would be 8 months before the tide of the Pacific war would change.  The American Marines could now go on the attack.  The Japanese had occupied an island in the South Pacific.  They were building an airstrip from which they could bomb the supply ships that helped keep Australia in the war.  The American’s caught wind of this and decided to invade the island and take over the airfield.  Guadalcanal Island would be the target.  On August 7^th, 1942 the American Marines landed on the island.  It was not the landings you have seen in the movies or in historical D-Day newsreels.  The Japanese did not know we were coming.  They had no defenders on the beach and we simply walked ashore.  The Americans found only a light garrison of men at the airfield and they were quickly defeated.  That was the last thing that would ever be easy on this island.

That night, as the transports began to unload, two groups of screening Allied ships were surprised and defeated by a Japanese force that had sailed to thwart the invasion.  Three American cruisers and one Australian were sunk and one American cruiser and two destroyers were damaged in what was one of the worst defeats ever for the US Navy.  Later that night, fearing further loss, Admiral Fletcher and Admiral Ghomerly retreated their ships away from the island even though less than half of the supplies and heavy equipment needed by the troops ashore had been unloaded.  The Marines woke the next day to the sight of an empty sea.  They were now forced to persevere without air cover or full provisions for a period of time that they could not know.  A Marine later wrote in his memoirs “The feeling of expendability is difficult to define. It is loneliness, it is a feeling of being abandoned, and it is something more, too: it is as if events over which you have no control have put a ridiculously low price tag on your life.  When word got around Guadalcanal in the second week of August that the Navy had taken off and left the Marines, the feeling of expendability became a factor in the battle.”  I can only imagine their thoughts turned to their fellow Marines who were also abandoned by the Navy several months earlier at Wake.

This time would be different.  In less than two weeks the airstrip was operational and the Marines were reinforced with planes...and they would have more than four this time.  The escort carrier Long Island delivered two squadrons of Marine aircraft, one a squadron of 19 fighters and the other a squadron of 12 bombers.  The Marine fighters went into action the next day, on the first of the almost-daily Japanese bomber air raids.  The planes and the men that flew them kept the Japanese at bay.  The enemy, in spite of all their efforts, could not eliminate this band of scrappy pilots.  It would make all the difference.  Also, the Navy Admirals who pulled the fleet from the island, were removed from their commands.  They were replaced with Admiral William Halsey…nicknamed “Bull”.  The Marines on the island had heard of his reputation, and moral soared.  With their fighting spirit renewed, the battle for Guadalcanal began to go in the American’s favor.  It would be a long tough road ahead of them.

But they knew the “Bull” would never abandon them.