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Surgery at Age Five

I lay on an exam table in Dr. Delomb’s office with my pants and underwear at my ankles. I wasn’t embarrassed. I was only five years old. The doctor had a warm and friendly face. I liked him. He told me that he would be waiting for me at the hospital in a week to fix that little bump in my groin.

“If you have any problems, just call me,” he said. “Do you remember my name?”

“Yes! Doctor Delomb!” I said and gave him a big proud smile.

My parents took me to Presbyterian Hospital in Albuquerque the night before my hernia repair surgery. They let me lie in the car’s back window and look at the stars as we drove away from our house. “You’ll sleep at the hospital tonight with some other boys,” my mother said as my father drove into the parking lot. I clenched my teeth. My legs wanted to run home.

I held my mother’s hand tightly as we walked into the children’s ward. The smell of alcohol assaulted my nose. A nurse escorted us to a bed at one end of the ward. She made me take all of my clothes off. She gave them to my mom. Then the nurse wrapped me in a white sheet that had a string at the top to tie around my neck. My back and butt were exposed. I didn’t like that.

My mother smiled that impish smile of hers. “I think they took away your clothes so that you won’t run away,” she said. “You can’t run naked down the streets of Albuquerque.”

My parents kissed me goodbye and left. My heart sunk. I looked around. There were four other beds with a boy in each one. Our beds were along the window wall. All of the other boys wore sheets too. Each of the boys had at least one tube sticking in his arm. The boy at the end of the ward cried, while the boy next to him kept saying, “You’ll be all right. Your momma’ll come back tomorrow. You’ll be all right.”   

I wanted to cry too. But I wasn’t going to in front of other boys. It didn’t take long for a nurse to show up with a metal tray of syringes and tubes. My lips began to tremble. I didn’t want to get a shot.

“I didn’t cry when they gave me a shot and stuck that tube in my arm,” the boy next to me said.

I turned away from looking at the syringes and gazed at him. He waved his free hand and pointed to the tube in his other arm. “It doesn’t hurt. See?” he said with a smile.

I forced a smile back and held my breath as I watched the nurse give me a shot and then insert the needle into my arm. I winced. A tear drop slid down my cheek.

“You’re a brave boy,” the nurse said as she taped the tube to my arm.

“Let me see!” yelled the boy who had shown me his arm. “It didn’t hurt that bad, did it!”

Time passed quickly with the nurses coming in and out of the ward. A nurse stood by the door. “It’s time to go to sleep, boys,” she said. “I’m going to turn out the lights. I will be right around the corner, if you need me. Just call and don’t get out of bed.”

The overhead white ball lights went out, but the room did not go dark. I could make out the shadows of the boy next to me. I could hear him whimpering. I wanted to cry too.

*******

“Are you awake?” asked a nurse. I opened my eyes. The morning sun shone through the window at the east end of the ward. The nurse pulled away my gown and gave me a funny looking metal pitcher. “Go ahead and pee into it.”

I blinked and covered my penis with my free hand. The nurse smiled. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. I’ve seen lots of boys. I’ll turn the other way, if you want.”

I nodded. She turned around. I put the urinal between my legs, aimed and peed. This is fun, I thought. She must have heard when I finished because she turned around, took the pitcher from my hand and covered me back up again. She took the pitcher into the hallway and came back into the ward. She picked me up and placed me on a gurney. “They’re ready for you. I’m going to give you a ride down to the surgery suite.” She smiled. I wanted to smile back, but the nervous vibration in my stomach distracted me.

“You just lie there and enjoy the ride,” the nurse said as she wheeled me out of the children’s ward, down the white walled hallway and into the elevator. My legs started to twitch. The elevator doors closed with a bang.  I jumped and picked my head up. “It’s just that old elevator door,” she said. I wanted my mother. The nurse stroked my head. “We’re almost there,” she said when the elevator stopped. The doors opened and she pushed the gurney out.

“Where is Doctor Delomb?” I asked. During our last visit to the doctor’s office he had told me that we would be waiting for me at the hospital. My stomach muscles tightened. I strained to look behind me, at the elevator door. We went around a corner. I took a deep breath. Looking toward my feet, I saw the surgery room doors open. The smell of alcohol and medicine grew stronger. I turned back to look back down the hallway. We passed into the surgery room and its doors closed. “Where is Doctor DeLomb?” I asked again. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I screamed, “Doctor DeLomb!!!” I begged for a familiar face, as they wheeled me into the operating room. I wanted to jump from my gurney and get out of there. The big lights, the smell of alcohol and medicines, the tubes and trays, the tile floors and the nurses were all too much. The nurses in white uniforms and white hats were all strangers and scary.

I kept screaming, "Doctor DeLomb!!!! Doctor DeLomb!!!!  Doctor DeLomb!!!!" over and over again. Where is he?

Two nurses picked me up and put me on the operating table. I struggled to break loose.

I screamed louder. "Doctor DeLomb!!!!” Why isn’t he here? “Doctor DeLomb!!!! Doctor DeLomb!!!!"

One of the nurses got up on the operating table, straddled me and held my arms down.
"Doctor DeLomb!!!! Doctor DeLomb!!!! Doctor DeLomb!!!!" I continued screaming.

The nurse at my head tried to suffocate me by putting a rubbery thing over my nose and mouth. I couldn't breathe. The rubbery thing smelled horrible. I tried to fight my way off the gurney. Dr. DeLomb told me he would make sure everything would be OK. But he’s not here. My throat felt dry and raw. I screamed, “Doctor DeLomb!!!!”

The nurse that was on top of me took hold of my wrists and climbed off of the operating table at my feet. She stretched my arms all the way down to my ankles. I desperately needed air. One last time I yelled, but it came out of my mouth in slow motion "Daaactor Deeee Laaaaahmmmmmmm"

I found myself back in the children’s ward. Did I just have a nightmare? It seemed as if loose rubber bands were holding my head on the pillow. My eyes didn’t want to stay open.

A nurse walked up to my bedside, “You’re waking up,” she said. “Good. Would you like a drink of water?”

I tried to answer her but my words ran into each other. “Yeah..irsty..elomb ” came out of my mouth. I tried again. “Yeah. I’m thirsty. Where’s Doctor Delomb?”

“Here he comes, now,” she said and as she handed me a small plastic cup of water.

I frowned at him. “You weren’t there,” I said. “I called you like you told me to.”

“Oh, I was there alright. You have powerful lungs. I was washing my hands and putting on my mask when you came into surgery. You fought hard with the nurses.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You said you would help me. Why didn’t you. The nurses were being mean.”

Dr. Delomb smiled and patted my head. “You were scared. They weren’t being mean, not really.”

“Yes, they were! They jumped on top of me and pulled my hands all the way to my feet.”

He started to laugh. “Is that what you thought?” He turned to the nurse who brought me the water. His shoulders were shaking. When he stopped shaking, he turned back to me. “I’ll have a talk with that nurse and tell her to apologize. OK?”

I nodded.

I am grateful for sunsets and sunrises.
El señor sol wakes up early every morning and he sips his coffee or tea. He flies to Mother Earth carrying a special bag that contains los colores. Dipping his brushes into his color filled bags, he jumps into action and dazzles us with his art. He admires his temporary opus and then he erases it. Throughout the day he caresses Mother Earth, kissing her mountains and valleys. "I will reflect your beauty back to you," he says "before my little sister, La Luna arrives with her black star sparkled blanket." Again, el señor sol brings out his color filled bags and dresses the clouds and sky as a gift not only to Mother Earth, but to his little sister as well. La Luna collects the colors in her blanket and re-fills señor sol's special bag for tomorrow morning's artwork.

Admiral's Starched Underwear

The Admiral’s Starched Underwear

I served aboard the USS Truxtun DLGN 35 during the Viet Nam war. The N following DLG stood for nuclear. The Truxtun was a nuclear powered guided missile frigate. She was the fleet’s flag ship. We carried the fleet’s admiral. And because we carried the admiral, the ship was so clean that one could eat off of the deck without worry.

Chief Stanford, my immediate supervisor, and I had not been getting along. He had no problem with my work. I did my job well. He did not like my non-military attitude. In his effort to “correct” my attitude he gave me the honor of being assigned as a Side Boy. “It is an honor to be selected,” he told me. “The effort to polish your chrome helmet, your rifle, your belt buckle and your shoes is a small price to pay for the honor and benefits.”

Being a Side Boy was an enviable assignment on some other ships. Some admirals took their Side Boys with them to special events. But not our admiral. He only used us for decoration whenever he came on board or whenever he was expecting guests. He didn’t take us anywhere.

Each time the admiral left the ship or returned, his Side Boys would stop whatever they were doing. They would rush to their berthing compartments, don their dress blues or dress whites, depending on weather and location, put on their chrome helmets, grab their rifles and assemble themselves, in formation, on the main deck on both sides of the gang plank. As the admiral approached his Side Boys they would stand at attention, salute and wait for the admiral to walk past them and return their salute before dropping their hands. After the admiral boarded the ship and walked through his Side Boys, the Side Boys would return to their berthing compartments, put away their dress uniforms, rifles and chrome helmets, change back into their working uniforms and return to work. During our free time in the evenings, when we were not at battle station or on our underway watch, we polished our shoes, chrome helmets and rifles while our shipmates watched movies, listened to music, played cards, basketball, or chatted. I was grateful that the admiral spent most of his time at the Subic Bay Naval Base in the Philippines.

One hot and muggy Viet Nam afternoon, as we sailed the Tonkin Gulf between the shoreline and the aircraft carriers, Chief Stanford told me to report to the laundry for a temporary transfer.

“Does this mean that I am no longer a Side Boy?” I asked.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t deprive you of that honor,” he said with a sneer. “They will assign you a rack in their berthing compartment. Make sure that you take all of your stuff.”

This came as a surprise to me. Chief Stanford was a stickler for the rules. Naval regulations required that all non-rated enlisted personnel, those who had not graduated from a technical school, would be temporarily transferred to either the kitchen or the laundry before any rated personnel.  I had graduated from Hull Maintenance Technician school and was therefore rated. There were always a few of my fellow shipmates in our unit that had recently arrived from boot camp and were not technical school graduates.

I did not complain. I chose, instead, to wait and see. If I did not like working in the laundry, I would put my complaint in writing and Chief Stanford would have to send someone else from the repair gang to work in the laundry. I considered the possibility that working in the laundry might be better than working for Chief Stanford.

As it turned out, working in the laundry took a lot more physical effort than I had imagined. Heavy laundry bags, weighing fifty to seventy five pounds had to be emptied and their contents put into the washing machines. Pulling wet laundry out of the machines and putting them into the dryers was harder. Sweat poured out of every pore in my body while I washed the clothes and ironed the officers’ uniforms. I shrank down from 150 to 125 pounds.

Each day that we finished with all of the laundry we were allowed to enjoy the rest of the time as we wished. When I worked in the repair gang, I had to look busy when there was no work to be done. Chief Stanford told us to carry a wrench and a rag and to walk from one repair locker to the next. He did not allow us to relax if we finished our work before 16:00.

We sailed away from Viet Nam and returned to Subic Bay to pick up the admiral. We were going to do battle and fire our rockets. The admiral wanted to be on board during that exercise.

While everyone else disembarked to enjoy some beer and the ladies of the evening in Alongapo City, the other Side Boys and I readied ourselves for the arrival of the admiral. He boarded the ship. We were told to wait, he wouldn’t be long. An hour passed before he disembarked. We were told, that if we did not have duty that we could go into town, if we wished.

The following morning, we sailed back to Viet Nam. The admiral’s steward came down to the laundry and asked us to wash the admiral’s clothes separately from everyone else’s. He told us that the admiral’s uniforms needed to be pressed perfectly, with no extraneous wrinkles. He handed us a laundry bag and told us to make sure that we starched and pressed the admiral’s skivvies.

“You can’t be serious?” I asked. “Who in their right mind would want starched and pressed underwear in this hot and humid weather?”

“It has to be done,” he said and walked away.

Lieutenant Jasper, the head of Supply and Laundry Division told him that it would get done. He turned in my direction.

I shook my head. “Don’t expect me to starch and press the admiral’s skivvies. You know how I feel about folding another grown man’s underwear. My mother stopped folding mine when I was a little kid. The admiral is old enough to fold his own.”

Lieutenant Jasper rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t going to ask you.”

“I think that his steward is trying to impress him,” I said. “And take the credit for the work that we do.”

“That is certainly possible.”

“And doesn’t it strike you as odd that the admiral would want his underpants starched and pressed?”

“I don’t know what his reasons are. But if his steward tells us to press his skivvies, who are we to argue.”

“It’s so hot and muggy here; I wish I could wear shorts. I certainly wouldn’t want to wear starched skivvies. What if his steward is being passive aggressive?”

“Drop it, Mushroom. I’m not making you press his skivvies. It’s not for us to ask admirals why they want starched underwear.”

A week passed in which the rockets had been launched and the admiral was satisfied. I saw him talking to the executive officer in an exterior passageway. They blocked my access to the bow. I waited. The admiral saw me first and moved to the side. I took one step forward.

“Good evening, sir. May I ask you a personal question?”

The admiral looked at me. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

The executive officer answered for me. “He’s one of your Side Boys, Sir.”

“Oh, of course,” the admiral said and cleared his throat. “What is your question?”

“Do you really want your skivvies starched and pressed? Sir.”

The admiral blinked a couple of times. “What?”

“Your steward came down to the laundry, where I am working temporarily, and he told us that you wanted your skivvies starched and pressed. I think that he is trying to impress you. But with it being so hot and humid, I wouldn’t want my underwear to be starched.”

The executive officer backed around behind the admiral. He put his hands up to get my attention and he silently mouthed, “What the hell are you doing?”

The admiral looked out at the ocean and then turned back to me. “You’re right. The starched underwear is uncomfortable. I thought that you guys starched all of the officers’ underwear out of routine.”

I shook my head. “No, sir. That would be cruel to do in this climate. You might want to talk to your steward about what he requests for you.”

The admiral smiled and said, “I will. Good night.”

The executive officer standing behind the admiral motioned forcibly with his hand for me to leave.

“Good night, sirs,” I said and continued my walk to the bow.

I bet the admiral never had anyone ask him a question like that, I thought.

The following morning, Lieutenant Jasper told me that the executive officer wanted to see me in his office.

I knocked on the executive officer’s door. He opened it and invited me in.

“Take a seat,” he said, pointing to the gray padded chair next to his desk.

I sat down.

“What possessed you to ask the admiral about his underwear?”

I looked down at the deck and pondered what I could say without getting myself further in trouble. I picked my head back up and looked at him. “You can’t ask him that question. You’re an officer.”

“Yes, and I know well enough not to ask an admiral a question that is that personal.”

The executive officer looked like he was biting his lip. I couldn’t tell if he was upset or if he was suppressing a laugh.

“As for me, I’m a low ranking enlisted man. I was just trying to be kind. I think that his steward is using us to be mean to the admiral. I wanted to know if it was the admiral who wanted his underwear starched and pressed or his steward.”

The executive officer smiled. “You’ve got some big balls. Turn in the chrome helmet to the head of the Side Boys. The admiral asked me to relieve you of that duty.”

Even though the admiral might have been grateful, he wouldn’t have a Side Boy who knew something so personal.