Jr. / M.D. Never Give Up

My Struggle to Become a Doctor
1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-0-9896892-4-3
Verlag: Tilghman Street Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 155 Seiten

This is gripping story of never giving up, never accepting that you can't, and never believing that you won't fulfill your destiny.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Jr.,

M.D.,

Leseproben

1 SUMMONED TO WATCH MY FATHER DIE THE SHRILL CLAMOR of the telephone fractured the serenity of my morning shower. The ringing went on and on. After the third set of unanswered rings, despite the soothing warmth of cascading water, my churning gut whispered to my still half-asleep brain, “Something’s wrong!” Thirty-two years of practicing medicine had taught that persistent callers rarely bring good news. Towel trailing, I rushed to answer. Surprised that it was my brother on the line, I asked, “Charles, you don’t usually call so early on a Sunday morning. What’s up?” When he hesitated, I sensed that he was about to tell me something he knew I did not want to hear. After a few seconds of silence, he blurted, “It’s dad. He’s on life support in the ICU at Crozer-Chester. He’s dying.” “Why are you calling me? You know how I feel about him.” Fumbling, Charles continued, “The family has accepted that it‘s time to disconnect his breathing machine. In a couple of hours, they’re planning to gather at the bedside for one last visit. I really would like to have you there.” Still dripping from the shower, I stood silently clenching my jaw. With good reason, I despised my father and, over the years, had avoided him as much as possible. Why would I want to be with him as he lay dying? As I stood gripping the wet telephone, emotions I thought I had buried surged. I could still feel the sting of my father’s open hand against my young cheek and the glob of his spit dripping down my face. It hadn’t always been that way. As a young child, like most boys, I idolized my dad and imitated everything he did. I wanted to be just like him. My father could fix anything. He could spin a yarn, too. One day when Dad, several mechanic friends, and I were in the family’s garage on Second Street in Chester, my father told about the time in 1942 when he was in his Navy uniform on a bus in San Francisco. “Three redneck dudes jumped in my face, and one of them called me a nigger. Then, another said, ‘Coon, we respect your uniform but not the piece of shit in it. I’m going to put my foot on your throat and kick your black ass.’” With the pitch in his voice rising, my five-foot-seven-inch dad continued, “I leaped to my feet. Just as quickly, five other colored G.I.s sitting several rows behind me jumped up, too. With clenched fists, they rushed to my side. “The terrified driver nearly crashed the bus. Bug-eyed and drop-jawed, he slammed on the brakes. Almost before the bus had come to a complete stop, he threw open the door and flew down the steps. “With eyes blazing, I jammed my right hand deep into my pocket. Those skinny-assed white bastards must have thought I had a gun or something because they ran like hell. One of them was so scared that, as he took off down the street, he left a trail of pee. The other passengers on the bus whooped and applauded.” When Dad finished his story, the garage workers had tears in their eyes as they slapped their thighs and gave high-fives. One exclaimed, “Noble, you sure showed them dudes. I bet they didn’t mess with nobody else.” I loved that tale. I wanted to grow up and be just like my dad. Corralling anybody I could find, I practiced telling his stories. With my chest puffed out, I bragged to my friends, “My father was in the Navy on the Mona Loa ammunition ship in the Pacific. The Japs tried to blow him to bits, but he was too smart. They didn’t even get close. He never got a scratch.” As I talked, my friends’ eyes widened. They couldn’t get enough of the yarns about Dad. I loved those tales too, but my father never seemed to care about either my stories or me. Everything and everybody else always seemed to come first with him. It was almost as though he was ashamed of me. Why? What was wrong with me? What had I done? I loved my brother but told him, “I want no part of being in that ICU. I’m surprised that you would even ask.” Although Charles and I grew up together, he is five years younger. As a child, he couldn’t understand Father’s alcohol-driven abuse of our reed-thin little slip of a mother. As Charles grew older, he began to realize but never seemed to share my bitterness. He couldn’t see how vulnerable our young mother was. She was only seventeen when I was born and twenty-two when Charles came along. As the older son, I did my best to save her from those beatings. My brother never had to step in between my parents when Dad, reeking of alcohol, used Mom as a punching bag. Since Dad was rarely emotionally there for either of us, I tried to fill the role as father for my little brother. Even now, Charles readily admits I was more of a parent to him than our dad ever was. When my brother married, I instructed him, “Be good to your kids. Spend time with them. Let them know that you love them. Never abandon them. Don’t be like our father.” So, I asked Charles that morning on the telephone, “You know everything that went on between Father and me. Why are you asking me to be at his deathbed?” “Because you were always there for me. I need you at that bedside with me.” As I heard those words, I need you, my mind raced back to the beach at the Jersey shore, the scene of one of the few positive memories I have of my dad. He had driven Mother, Charles, and me to Wildwood-by-the-Sea for the day. I was nine and Charles was four. We were splashing about in the surf. Charles was young and couldn’t swim so Father kept him close. Suddenly, my little brother squealed. Almost knocking Dad over, he leapt on his chest. At first, we were puzzled. Then we saw it. A big ol’ yucky green crab clinging ferociously to Charles’ big toe. Charles screamed, “Daddy, save me!” With that, the mean ol’ crab let go and fell back into the sea. Father tried to reassure Charles. “The crab’s gone now. You’re safe.” It didn’t work. Charles refused to leave Dad’s arms, so he and I carried my brother back to the beach. I wanted to go back and splash in the ocean, but Charles would hear none of it. “Please, June.” My family always called me ‘June,’ short for Junior. “Don’t go back in the water. The crab might get you. Stay here with me!” With a scowl, I sat on the beach to protect him from that mean ol’ crab. Mother dried her little boy’s eyes, and Father promised to buy ice cream if he would stop crying. With that, my brother flashed a smile. Dad flagged down the white-clad Good Humor man and bought each of us a treat, chocolate ice cream in crunchy sugar cones. In the August heat, the yummy confections dripped sticky goo on our fingers. We didn’t care. Charles and I licked the cones and our hands as fast as we could, racing to see who could finish first. That day, I loved my father. On the phone, Charles persisted, “Dad’s dying. This will be our last chance to say goodbye.” With each word, the muscles in my body tightened. I knew I couldn’t continue this conversation. “Charles, I’ll call you back.” As I considered my brother’s request, my breathing deepened as I tried to imagine who might be at our father’s bedside. There were the four of us from the first marriage, seven children from his current marriage, and at least two others from extra-marital affairs. Probably, there were more. I knew that my third brother, Reginald, whom we call Ray, would be there. Of the four of us, he was closest to our father. He also was quiet about everything. Whenever my family talked about how he always hid his feelings, we usually went back to the electric blanket story. When Ray was in college, he asked Mother for an electric blanket. She said, “No!” Years later, she discovered that Ray was still miffed because he didn’t get his electric blanket. He had always believed that Mom didn’t care that his toes were frozen blue in his frigid dormitory room. When he finally told Mom how he felt, she was shocked. “Boy, I didn’t buy you that blanket because I was terrified of those things. I was afraid you might get electrocuted!” Recently, I asked Ray how he had become so close to our father. He told me that he had forged a relationship with him by spending as much time as he could at the garage. Our father was always tearing down engines from old jalopies or rebuilding second-hand transmissions. Ray hung out with him and soaked up that auto mechanic stuff like a sponge. Perhaps I should have spent more time in the grease pit with Dad and less time on the piano bench. Once when I was seven, I actually did try to help Dad fix a car. He was lying on his back beneath the chassis, and I was sitting on a box beside him. He asked me to get a wrench from the workbench. I found the tool, but it was greasy. With my nose turned up and my pinkie extended, I held the wrench between my thumb and forefinger as though I were carrying a dead rat by the tip of its tail. Then, as fast as I could, I dropped it at my father’s feet. When Dad finished his repairs, he looked me squarely in the eyes, “Son, I want you to get as much education as you can because you’re not going to make a living getting your hands dirty.” I took him at his word and studied hard. There was...