Jerry A. Miller / Jr. Burden of Being Champ

The Dropout, The Legend, and The Pediatrician
1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-0-9908126-0-9
Verlag: Campeador Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 298 Seiten

A foggy boy called Champ has a disastrous first three years of school. He does not even recognize that he is close to failing; he only senses some near, indefinable danger. A perceptive teacher diagnoses his problem, providing a key that unlocks much of his future. He eventually goes to medical school and ultimately becomes a pediatrician. Along the way, the boy matures and develops a passion for sports; in his grandiose imagination, he becomes a legendary athlete, though very few share that opinion. In this book, the now-seasoned pediatrician reflects on six decades of life in which appearances and reality are often widely divergent. In true, multi-layered stories, he recounts shaping influences, surprising outcomes, and life-altering experiences. With humor and honesty, he shares tales from his boyhood and young adulthood, and he discusses the rigors of medical school, residency, and a busy pediatric practice. He openly describes what it feels like to care for children who are dying or near death, allowing the reader to experience the pediatrician's joyful triumphs, his deep sorrows, his disappointing failures, and his terrifying fears. Within these pages, the boy called Champ sheds his nickname and grows to realize that a true Champion has been with him all his life.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Jerry A. Miller, Jr.

Jr.,

Leseproben

  2 _____________ I Was a Kindergarten Dropout The Red Chair. Just the memory of The Red Chair still renders me pale, cold, and sweaty. I don’t remember much about kindergarten, but I do remember the Red Chair. It was kind of a cross between today’s “time out” and yesterday’s stocks on the village green. The Red Chair was for kids in our class who misbehaved—and who were inartful enough to get caught. These miscreants were sent to the Red Chair for a set period of time. It was big chair on a stage at the front of the room, and here, scofflaws were seen by all to be the criminals that they were. Just seeing The Red Chair was enough of a deterrent to keep me out of it. My young and far-from-rich parents had sacrificed to send me to a nice, private kindergarten in Norfolk, Virginia. There were no public kindergartens in Norfolk then. My father, a World War II veteran, was just beginning his business career with Texaco, and despite the fact that he and my mother could not afford to buy a house, they had committed to sending their five-year-old son to a good kindergarten. The teacher was a nice enough lady with white hair. I went only until noon each day, and I guess it was fun. But, one day, I came home with a big revelation and a big announcement: I wanted to drop out. And I had a very good reason. I did not have enough time to play. Now, to many helicopter parents of the 21st century, this request would seem like heresy of the highest degree. But my parents weren’t too concerned about my résumé. I was not active in community service, I did not play for a traveling cricket team, and I was not in the Norfolk Youth Orchestra. Heck, I didn’t even take karate lessons. So, they let me drop out—to do important things little five-year-old boys need to do—things like playing with their trucks in the dirt, lying outside on the top of the picnic table watching the clouds, worrying about how to prevent hurricanes from blowing the house down, and just being a foggy little boy. I wish I could say that first grade was an unmitigated success. My teacher, Mrs. Black, was a tall, skinny lady who seemed emotionally distant from her charges. She always wore a skirt and blouse, along with high heels. She had horn-rimmed glasses, and parted her graying black hair in the middle. I don’t recall her ever smiling; maybe somewhere deep in her soul, she harbored some hidden sadness. She did not seem happy. Mrs. Black had a few disturbing ideas. One of them was this: at break time, all of the children in our class were allowed to use the bathroom in the back corner of the classroom, but, and this was a big BUT, no one was allowed to flush the toilet until every child had used it. I think Mrs. Black was ahead of her time, the first environmentalist, the initial conservationist, a truly “green” person. We never really learned from her stellar environmentalist example, but we did learn a very important life lesson: the preferred place to be is always at the head of the line. I’ve never forgotten it. I really frustrated Mrs. Black, though unintentionally. We were on a split schedule because of overcrowding, and thus we were at school each day for only about five hours. We were supposed to bring a snack from home. But I had this great lunchbox—on the side was a painting of a mounted Indian warrior. I loved that lunchbox. Was I going to disrespect my lunchbox by bringing only a few crackers or an apple? Of course not. I brought a four course lunch. It was great. It also took a long time to eat. I was always the last person to finish, and Mrs. Black was always telling me to hurry up and eat. At least someone had their priorities straight. I’m not sure what else I did in first grade. I do remember that my best friend, Stevie, my neighbor and partner in crime, somehow ran afoul of Mrs. Black. (Maybe he had committed the cardinal sin and had prematurely flushed the toilet?) Stevie’s punishment was that he was not to come back to his reading group that day. Of course, Stevie misunderstood and didn’t show up for reading the rest of the year. Our leader, Mrs. Black, somehow didn’t notice. I assume Stevie is still illiterate. The only other thing I remember about first grade was that a little girl in our class had a huge crush on me, and every time I bent over to drink at the water fountain she would rush up to kiss me on the arm. I learned very quickly to manage to exist in a state of chronic, mild dehydration. Second grade was even better. Mrs. Lee was a younger teacher who had no weird habits, but I don’t think she was a very good educator. The highlight films record two great events during the first half of second grade. The first was that all of the boys at my table decided it would be a good idea if we brought our toy guns to school. Boys are like that: someone comes up with a goofy plan, and then everyone agrees, “Yes! that is a great idea!” And someone usually winds up getting hurt or in trouble. So, of course, the next day we executed our plan. My comrades-in-arms brought their firearms, and I brought my derringer and a miniature sawed-off shotgun (we were real warriors, n’est-ce pas?). Such an act now would find all of us expelled from school and in the youth detention center, needing counseling for the next year for our violent tendencies. But most people back in the 1950s realized what boys are like, and we had no problems until one of our gang refused to put his pistol away to do some real work, thus forfeiting his sidearm. The other sentinel event was the Weekly Reader reading test. Weekly Reader was a weekly (surprise) newspaper for little kids. I liked the pictures. The test occurred a few months into the school year. I remember very well taking the test. I also remember my strategy. The setup was for us to read a few short paragraphs and then answer some multiple-choice questions. “Well,” I thought after a few scenarios, “this test is too easy.” After all, the questions were easy, they were all common sense answers, and I had great common sense. So, why not save some time and just skip the scenarios and go straight to the questions? You know, go straight for the throat. I’ve always liked a direct approach. It made sense to me. It would save time, it would be efficient, and would leave me more time to play or daydream. So, I took the short-cut. I was the first person to finish, and I proudly put down my pencil and pushed the test to the center of the table to do important stuff while the other dummies played by the rules. The next month was open house, when all the parents proudly go to the school one evening to meet the teachers and find out how their little darlings are doing in school. The Weekly Reader tests were at each student’s place at his table. I am sure my parents were stunned to find that little Jerry had distinguished himself by having the lowest grade in the class, coming in with only about twenty percent correct on the test. Strange to me now, my mother and father did not come home and rant and rave. I don’t think they even discussed it much except to ask me what had happened. I explained my strategy, they told me that was likely not a winning path forward, and we went on. They were not worried; they had faith in God, and they had confidence in me, that some day I would come in out of the fog. (Many children, boys especially, take awhile to figure out what is really going on in school. I was a fairly typical little boy, a little foggy, kind of dopey, happy to play, not sure why I was in school.) My father was transferred to Baltimore, and we moved over Christmas break in the middle of second grade. My parents, my little sister, Becky, and I all had a stomach virus (viral gastroenteritis as we say in the profession) just before Christmas. School started in January, and I happily went to Rodgers Forge Elementary School. There I had my first taste of being the new kid and my first taste of doing “the new kid routine.” The principal, Mr. Hamilton, took me up to my classroom on the second floor to meet my new teacher, Mrs. Lucretian, and my fellow students. Mrs. Lucretian was a pert little lady with jet-black hair, and she was feisty. She met with us in the hall while her little second graders, told at risk of torture to keep quiet, were excitedly whispering about the new boy. Mrs. Lucretian brought me in with the de rigueur, “Class, this is Jerry, our new student from Virginia. Please say good morning to Jerry.” “Good morning, Jerry.” “Now, Jerry, here is your seat. Today, you can look at books and color,” she said as she thought to herself, “while I figure out what to do with you.” “Wow,” I thought, “this is great.” I spent the first two or three days coloring while the rest of the class worked. I’m not sure exactly what they did, but I had fun. I guessed that my privileged position was because I was so far ahead of them academically. That had to be the reason. It would take them at least a few months to catch the Virginia genius. A few days later, my mother received a phone call from Mrs. Lucretian. “Mrs. Miller, I’ve spent the last few days looking at Jerry’s records and trying to see what he can do. I think we have a problem.” There was a prolonged pause as she attempted to phrase her next words gently and clearly, with just the right tone. “Jerry can’t read,” Mrs. Lucretian said softly. The boy could not read. My parents were shocked and...