1954 Surgery at Age Five

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 when I was five years old. 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 winched. 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 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 wake up from a nightmare? My head felt heavy. A nurse walked up to my bedside, holding a metal tray that had a bicycle tube with a big needle sticking out of it. She was going to stick the needle into my penis. My eyes grew as big as my baseballs. I stopped breathing.

"Are you, Peterson?” she asked. “Chuck Peterson?"

"No, No. I'm Montoya, not Peterson."

She looked at my chart at the end of my bed. "Oh, I'm sorry I scared you. Peterson must be the boy at the other end of the ward."

She walked away and I started breathing normally again.

I’m glad I’m not getting that shot, I thought. But where is Dr. Delomb?

Desert Pyramid

I remember watching my then 7 year old son, Jeremy, coloring a picture. He started to color the sky, blue.
"Is the sky always blue?" I asked.
"Yes!" he said.
"Go outside and tell me what color the sky is."
He came back giggling, "It's orange," he said.
When he started to color the clouds gray, I asked, "Are the clouds always gray?"
He started to say, "Yes." but he stopped himself.
While continuing to apply gray Crayola to his clouds in the picture and without looking up at me, he said, "I am not going outside again. I know that clouds can be yellow and orange too."
When he finished, I put his drawing up on the wall next to mine.

Looking for La Luna on a Cloudy Night

Last night, I stepped out onto the balcony, 
looking for La Luna.

I yearned for her caress and a goodnight kiss.

The cloud people gathered together, 
keeping her to themselves.

I craned my neck searching 
for a glimpse, a glimmer, a small glow.

The billowing pillows sprinkled me, 
shooing me back inside.

"Tonight, she is ours," they said.

"Look for her in your dreams."

Angel shape shifts into a boxer

The Boxer

My younger, fourteen year old, brother had been itching for a fight, wanting to prove that since he had grown as tall as me, he could out box me, his 17 year old brother. Late one evening, he came into the bedroom and bated me into argument, over nothing really. The argument morphed into a full blown fight. I had my brother pinned against the wall, my forearm pressing against his neck as his arms flailed trying to throw a punch. Hearing the commotion, my father rushed into the bedroom. He grabbed my arms and pulled me off, giving by brother a clear shot. With a boxer's right hook, he smashed my left eye.

My father, yelled at my brother, “That's not why I pulled him off. What's the matter with you?”

I felt boxed in, the three of us heaving big gulps of air in that tiny bedroom. I needed to get out, to get some fresh air. I left the house and walked a mile to the beach. I needed to be cautious, the racial tension in 1966 had escalated to dangerous levels, with White boys marauding Black and Hispanic boys who might be by themselves in predominately White neighborhoods.

Strolling along the water's edge on the Long Beach shoreline cooled me off. Returning home I took a detour through Carol Park. As I walked across the small grass field, I heard barking, getting louder, approaching me. My stomach tightened. I stood, motionless, holding my ground. The boxer raced up to me, barking, and baring his teeth. The hair on his back stood straight up. He ran around sniffing my legs and feet. Looking up at me when he came around to the my front, I noticed his stubby tail wagging. I extended my hand, with a slow a steady movement and rubbed his neck.

I resumed my walk, the dog didn't leave my side. I tried to shoo him away, but he just wagged his tail and continued walking beside me. As we rounded the corner onto Junipero Avenue, the lights of an upholstery shop illuminated our presence. We hadn't walked ten feet before a car filled with “White” teenage boys pulled up along the curb. With the windows rolled down they began yelling obscenities, “Fucking Mexican! God damn wetback! Go back to Mexico where you belong. We're going teach you a lesson so that you never come back!”

Standing in the middle of the block, I felt boxed in, with nowhere to run. My palms began to sweat. My arm muscles tightened as I clenched my fists. To my surprise, I heard them begin to argue among themselves. “I'm not going out there, not with that dog! You go!”

Turning their attention back to me, they screamed more obscenities and screeched their tires, as they sped away.

Bending down to the boxer, I said, “Thank you. What a marvelous guardian angel you are. But you really should go home. Go on.”

He didn't leave. Instead he walked the three quarters of a mile back home with me. When I got up the next morning, he was gone, back to heaven, not doubt, from where he came.

White Rose

Sunny mornings are rare in October, in the Great Northwest. Thirty miles southeast of Seattle, clouds drizzle millions of water droplets on a normal autumn day. The seventeenth of October, 1992 turned out to be an abnormally warm and sunny day. The brown and yellow leaves of the alder trees littered our backyard lawn. The lingering water droplets from the previous night's rain glittered on the leaves, reflecting the unusual October sunshine. A flock of geese flew overhead, reminding me of the autumn migration of cranes in New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment.

After my morning run, my neighbor came over to chat about the roses that were still blooming. When she told me that her white rose bush was in full bloom, I told her that white roses symbolize death. They represent our own mortality with their lack of pigment without which they can't color our world.

On that unusually sunny seventeenth of October, 1992, we received a phone call that all parents dread when their children are away. Our son, Jeremy, was a University of New Mexico student, living fourteen hundred miles from home. A nurse from the University of New Mexico Hospital trauma unit was on the other end of the phone asking for permission to provide medical care for our son. He had sustained a severe head injury from a motorcycle accident.

We granted permission and immediately made arrangements to fly to Albuquerque. Our plane landed in the early morning hours. Having spent the day at the hospital, we made our way to a friend's house that evening. She told us that we could stay with her as long as we needed.

Leaving for the hospital, the following morning, I walked out of her front door and noticed a beautiful white rose bush in full bloom, growing in front of friend's home. The pit of my stomach dropped when I saw a few petals at the base of the rose bush. I stopped and stared at the rose and its petals, as much for its beauty, as for its message. The rose was telling me that our first born child would die from his injuries. I walked to the car, not wanting to see or think about the white rose bush anymore.

I drove to the hospital, a little too fast, trying to erase the image of the white rose bush from my mind. I wished it had not been growing at the entrance of our friend's home. But every morning, on our way out the door, on our way to the hospital, I would see the white rose bush. Each morning more white petals collected at its base. Their whiteness blemished brown and yellow as their vibrancy bled out into the dry New Mexico air. I stopped each day, acknowledging the rose and silently pleading with it to stop dropping its petals. I didn't want to see its warning signs that were telling me that our son was dying. Every morning fewer petals lived in the bloom and more lay dead and dying on the ground.

On the seventh day, as I walked out of the front door, I tried not to look. But I couldn't stop myself. My shoulder slumped as tears began to flow over my cheeks. All of the white petals had fallen on the ground and the flowers were no more.

My feet felt heavy as I walked to the car. My mind's eye could only see the white rose petals decaying on the ground. We drove in silence to the hospital. A little before midnight, Jeremy, our first born son, died. The white rose petals gave their life, showing me what my ears were too terrified to hear.

Like the handsome white rose blossom, our handsome grown son spent his last days giving us a last chance to admire him and say good-bye. Jeremy died, leaving behind his body, that was still beautiful and still vital. And like the white rose bush, Jeremy had other branches, his organs. We honored Jeremy's wish to donate his organs thereby giving a new lease on life to many people.

The white rose no longer serves as a warning, telling me of impending doom. Rather it reminds me of the gift of life that our son gave to so many. And yet, when I see a white rose, I cry a few tears for Jeremy.

Musical Gift in the Trama Center

La Noche, the night, had cast her dark blue blanket across the sky leaving only the moon to quiet the University of New Mexico Trauma center's hustle and bustle. I waited until everyone had disappeared from my son's private intensive care room before I entered. I walked in slowly not wanting to draw attention to myself. I wanted to be alone with my 22 year old son. I needed to be alone to give my dying son one last gift. 

I unzipped my backpack and withdrew the sheet
music of “Memories”, from the musical play, “Cats.” The cat's yellow eyes on the black cover of the sheet music foretold dark moments ahead. The song's words, “Memory, all alone in the moonlight”, took a bite out of my heart as I turned the page. 

“Jeremy,” I called to him, from the side of his bed. “I'm going to sing a song for you that I've been working on in my voice class.” 

Being in a coma, unable to make a response, my first born son could not refuse the gift of my voice. I began my song, soft and low, almost a whisper; “Midnight, not a sound from the pavement.”

The instruments in his room were quiet. 

"Has the moon lost her memory, She is smiling
alone, in the lamplight, the withered leaves collect at my feet and the wind begins to moan.” 

A moonbeam shined on Jeremy's face as he lay motionless in his bed. My heart moaned as I
continued to sing. Increasing my volume, the song took on a life of its own.

"Memory all alone in the moonlight, I can smile at the old days. It was beautiful then. I remember the time I knew what happiness was. Let the memory live again.”

Jeremy did not respond as he lay in his coma. It's as if he had descended into Hades. I was no Orpheus and had no instrument other than my voice to persuade the God of the Underworld to release my son. 

I made a slight modification as I sang to him.

"Touch me. It’s so easy to leave me all alone with the memory of my days with my son. If you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is. Look, a new day has begun.”

Tears flowed down my cheeks as Denise wrapped her arms around me from behind making me
aware that the room had filled with family and hospital staff. My gift had been shared with all those who heard my melodic gift.

Roses for Denise

Soon after Denise and I met on June 2^nd, 1973, she invited me over to dinner. She had driven to her mother's house, in Long Beach, to pick up her mail when she saw me, Getting into her light blue car, she asked me to follow her to her apartment in Seal Beach. I hopped onto my motorcycle and followed her. While waiting for the traffic light at the intersection of 2^nd Street and Pacific Coast Highway, I noticed a young man selling roses on the left turn median. I tried to get his attention. Since I was on a motorcycle, he appeared to be ignoring me. When I finally succeeded in getting him to talk to me, I told him that I wanted to buy some roses for my girlfriend.

He asked, “How are you going to carry the roses on our motorcycle?”

“I’m not.” I replied with a smile.

“I want you to give the roses to that woman in the car in front of me.”

There was a minivan, in the lane next to me, that was full of young girls who squealed with excitement as they watched the encounter.

We got married 14 months later.