"Did you see the monthly tonnage report?" "Yeh" "I've got a theory that they don't teach in War College". "There are over a thousand tons of bombs dropped over the North not including the part of the Ho Chi Minh trail in Laos. Those B-52s can carry a large load. "Do you think the Air Force is trying to look stupid?" Every flight all I see are the same trees knocked down and the holes we made in the dirt roads filled with rain water. "Here's the theory". If we had dropped the same tonnage of bowling balls with no finger holes into the rice paddies of North Vietnam from the beginning of this damn war the Viet Cong would have surrendered years ago and still be trucking those balls to the coast."
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Maybe it was the slamming sound of the hydraulic pumps catapulting the second wave of aircraft. Being a junior Lieutenant I didn't rate the best room on the aircraft carrier but a room next to hydraulics was gritting on my nerves. Every 42 seconds there was a gnashing, screeching sound of the catapult cylinder hitting the end of its stroke. We would stop talking just before the stroke knowing what's coming. There was nothing cheery about my temporary home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on my desk rattling around.
"You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not the surface to air missiles they fired at us every night. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned the Viet Cong move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The Landing Signals Officer had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save at the ramp, grabbed a wire with my hook and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the LSO rant about your landing every night.
"You want another?" Valdez was rattling his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have more than that to say about the stupid Air Force tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine was kicking in so I unzipped my flight suit a little bit and took a deep breath. We had been out at sea so long I couldn't remember the good times I'd just had in Hong Kong. Get up, do paperwork, eat, bomb, sleep again, wake up to the screams of the hydraulic pumps. Was this ever going to end?
"The skipper said not to hang around the target." "Go in get the job done and come out." "Don't get complacent about planning, missions and carrier landings." He's got 5,000 hours flying and 300 carrier landings so I think he knows what we're thinking. "Or not thinking, gimme a light." I'm thinking of my wife waiting in the Philippines not knowing when and if we're coming home. I want to quit. My wife doesn't say it but she never thought much of President Nixon. There are a lot of pilots frustrated that we're wasting our time and energy and putting our lives at risk. They won't say anything now. There's no way out at sea in Nineteen Seventy Two. “Hey do you want to listen to Cat Stevens "Peace Train" or Simon and Garfunkel's "Sounds of Silence?"
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
I need help revision to somewhere
Did you see the monthly tonnage report?" "Yeh" "I've got a theory that they don't teach in War College". "There's over a thousand tons of bombs dropped over the North not including the part of the Ho Chi Minh trail in Laos. Those B-52s can carry a large load. Is the Air Force trying to look stupid? Every flight all I see are the same trees knocked down and the holes we made in the dirt roads filled with rain water. Here's the theory. If we had dropped the same tonnage of bowling balls with no finger holes into the rice paddies of North Vietnam from the beginning of this damn war the VC would have surrendered years ago and still be trucking those balls to the coast."
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Maybe it was the slamming sound of the hydraulic pumps catapulting the second wave of aircraft. Being a junior Lieutenant I didn't rate the best room on the aircraft carrier but a room next to hydraulics was gritting on my nerves. Nothing cheery about my temporary home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on my desk.
"You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not the surface to air missiles they fired at us every night. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned the VC move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The Landing Signals Officer had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save at the ramp, grabbed a wire with my hook and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the LSO rant about your landing every night.
"You want another?" Valdez was clinking his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have more than to say than that stupid Air Force tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine was kicking in so I unzipped my flight suit a little bit and took a deep breath. We had been out at sea so long I couldn't remember the good times I'd just had in Hong Kong. Get up, do paperwork, eat, bomb, sleep again, wake up to the screams of the hydraulic pumps. Was this ever going to end? "The skipper said not to hang around the target." "Go in get the job done and come out." Don't get complacent about planning, missions and carrier landings." The war will be over soon, they agreed on the shape of the peace table in Paris.
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Maybe it was the slamming sound of the hydraulic pumps catapulting the second wave of aircraft. Being a junior Lieutenant I didn't rate the best room on the aircraft carrier but a room next to hydraulics was gritting on my nerves. Nothing cheery about my temporary home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on my desk.
"You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not the surface to air missiles they fired at us every night. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned the VC move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The Landing Signals Officer had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save at the ramp, grabbed a wire with my hook and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the LSO rant about your landing every night.
"You want another?" Valdez was clinking his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have more than to say than that stupid Air Force tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine was kicking in so I unzipped my flight suit a little bit and took a deep breath. We had been out at sea so long I couldn't remember the good times I'd just had in Hong Kong. Get up, do paperwork, eat, bomb, sleep again, wake up to the screams of the hydraulic pumps. Was this ever going to end? "The skipper said not to hang around the target." "Go in get the job done and come out." Don't get complacent about planning, missions and carrier landings." The war will be over soon, they agreed on the shape of the peace table in Paris.
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Second Draft Somewhere at Sea...
"Did you see the monthly tonnage report?" "Yeh" "I've got a theory that they don't teach in War College". "There's over a thousand tons of bombs dropped over the North not including the part of the Ho Chi Minh trail in Laos. Those B-52s can carry a large load. Is the Air Force trying to look stupid? Every flight all I see are the same trees knocked down and the holes we made in the dirt roads filled with rain water. "Here's the theory." If we had dropped the same tonnage of bowling balls with no finger holes into the rice paddies of North Vietnam from the beginning of this damn war the VC would have surrendered years ago and would still be trucking those balls to the coast."
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Maybe it was the slamming sound of the hydraulic pumps catapulting the second wave of aircraft. Being a junior Lieutenant I didn't rate the best room on the aircraft carrier but a room next to hydraulics was gritting on my nerves. Nothing cheery about my temporary home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on my desk.
"You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not the surface to air missiles they fired at us every night. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned the VC move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The Landing Signals Officer had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save at the ramp, grabbed a wire with my hook and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the LSO rant about your landing every night.
"You want another?" Valdez was clinking his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have more to say than that stupid Air Force tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine was kicking in so I unzipped my flight suit a little bit and took a deep breath. We had been out at sea so long I couldn't remember the good times I'd just had in Hong Kong with my wife, she's still in the Philipines and mother Navy won't let her stay on base. She has to move into town with the locals in Olongapo and wait. Meanwhile everyday I get up, do paperwork, eat, bomb, sleep again, wake up to the screams of the hydraulic pumps. Is this ever going to end? "The skipper said not to hang around the target." "Go in, get the job done and come out." Don't get complacent about planning, missions and carrier landings."
"I've got a good one." "What?" The war will be over soon. "Oh yea."
Kissinger and the VC agreed on the shape of the peace table in Paris.
"Pass the Chevas."
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Maybe it was the slamming sound of the hydraulic pumps catapulting the second wave of aircraft. Being a junior Lieutenant I didn't rate the best room on the aircraft carrier but a room next to hydraulics was gritting on my nerves. Nothing cheery about my temporary home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on my desk.
"You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not the surface to air missiles they fired at us every night. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned the VC move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The Landing Signals Officer had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save at the ramp, grabbed a wire with my hook and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the LSO rant about your landing every night.
"You want another?" Valdez was clinking his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have more to say than that stupid Air Force tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine was kicking in so I unzipped my flight suit a little bit and took a deep breath. We had been out at sea so long I couldn't remember the good times I'd just had in Hong Kong with my wife, she's still in the Philipines and mother Navy won't let her stay on base. She has to move into town with the locals in Olongapo and wait. Meanwhile everyday I get up, do paperwork, eat, bomb, sleep again, wake up to the screams of the hydraulic pumps. Is this ever going to end? "The skipper said not to hang around the target." "Go in, get the job done and come out." Don't get complacent about planning, missions and carrier landings."
"I've got a good one." "What?" The war will be over soon. "Oh yea."
Kissinger and the VC agreed on the shape of the peace table in Paris.
"Pass the Chevas."
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Somewhere at Sea in Seventy Two
"Did you see the monthly tonnage report?" "Yea" Over a thousand tons of bombs dropped over the North not including the part of the Ho Chi Minh trail in Laos. Those B-52s can carry a load. Why is the Air Force telling us this? Are they trying to look stupid? Every flight all I see are the same trees knocked down and the holes we made in the dirt roads filled with rain water.
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Nothing cheery about home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on the desk. "You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not a missile. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned they move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The LSO had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save, grabbed a wire and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the Landing Signals Officer rant about your landing.
"You want another?" Valdez was clinking his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have an answer to that stupid tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine kicking in so I egged Valdez on. "What's you're answer?"
"Oh yeh, if we had dropped the same tonnage of bowling balls with no finger holes into the rice paddies of North Vietnam from the beginning of this damn war they'd have surrendered years ago and still be trucking those balls to the coast."
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Nothing cheery about home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on the desk. "You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not a missile. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned they move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The LSO had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save, grabbed a wire and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the Landing Signals Officer rant about your landing.
"You want another?" Valdez was clinking his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have an answer to that stupid tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine kicking in so I egged Valdez on. "What's you're answer?"
"Oh yeh, if we had dropped the same tonnage of bowling balls with no finger holes into the rice paddies of North Vietnam from the beginning of this damn war they'd have surrendered years ago and still be trucking those balls to the coast."
Friday, April 25, 2008
Notes on why I went to war, voted for Nixon and lost my religion
Did it happen quickly or was I thinking about all this all the time?
Family pressure
United States Naval Academy to be a pilot like my Father
Peace is at hand 1968 Henry Kissenger
Military family, growing up on Base, nice people
Catholic alter boy finding out about martyrs
OK to die for your faith - straight to Heaven
Help others in need
Catholics should be Democrats
Officers in the Military are upper middle class and Republican
President is Commander in Chief of the Miltary and your Boss
Kent State shootings/National Guard/DNC Chicago eight
Skipper set the tone-no hanging around the target-come home
Drinking in my room after flying and discussing stupidity of war
If we had dropped the same tonnage of bowling balls instead of bombs
Drinking, smoking and SAMS
No way out with honor
Run the flight deck, stop smoking, vote for Humphrey
Think for yourself, lost faith in politics, religion training faded
Get out as soon as you can
Family pressure
United States Naval Academy to be a pilot like my Father
Peace is at hand 1968 Henry Kissenger
Military family, growing up on Base, nice people
Catholic alter boy finding out about martyrs
OK to die for your faith - straight to Heaven
Help others in need
Catholics should be Democrats
Officers in the Military are upper middle class and Republican
President is Commander in Chief of the Miltary and your Boss
Kent State shootings/National Guard/DNC Chicago eight
Skipper set the tone-no hanging around the target-come home
Drinking in my room after flying and discussing stupidity of war
If we had dropped the same tonnage of bowling balls instead of bombs
Drinking, smoking and SAMS
No way out with honor
Run the flight deck, stop smoking, vote for Humphrey
Think for yourself, lost faith in politics, religion training faded
Get out as soon as you can
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Mother and Daughter submitted to My Turn 4/14/08
February 28, 2005 means something very different for me. Not a leap year. Our family was anxiously waiting for the live donor transplant operation to be completed at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. Not one, but two relatives were anesthetized, and undergoing a life saving procedure: one giving and one receiving.
My sister-in-law Blair was being the ultimate mother and donating half of her liver to her daughter Katy this afternoon. A complicated and lengthy set of protocols, tests and biopsies got them this far but reattaching the blood vessels to the new half of a liver ( just extricated from another human being who was healthy) is beyond normal comprehension. Greek myths, one of Dante’s hells and the "X Files" all expound on the regenerative power of the liver cells to reproduce quickly. Both halves will be 95 per cent full size in 3-4 weeks after the surgery.
Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis (PSC) attacks the large bile ducts in your liver. Doctors don’t know for sure, but it is thought to be an autoimmune disease. Immune cells that normally attack viruses and bacteria turn on the liver and slowly thicken the bile and scar the bile ducts. Eventually scarring (Sclerosis) interferes with the health of the liver and it hardens (Cirrhosis) and quits functioning. Bile thinners, opening bile ducts and placing stents in the main ducts can prolong the liver’s operation but a transplant is the only known cure at this time. Viral or bacterial infections are thought to be the triggers of this rare disease.
Blair had moved up to New England with her 2 year old daughter Katy to live with us for awhile. A 5 month temporary stay turned into 16 years as an extended family. Now we were separated - two in the operating room and others in the waiting room and at home. We had all applied to be the donor but Blair was the perfect match. She seemed to know it would be her from the beginning. You could see it in her relaxation now but she had trained hard to be in the perfect shape for this operation.
Katy with curls and a smile had constant adult companionship growing up. Uncle, aunt and mother paid special attention to Katy as she said "Talk to me, play with me, ask me questions." She grew up knowing that she was loved. She played in restaurants, ball parks and the back row of coach traveling the world in a B-747. She read constantly and studied all the way to Wellesley.
My niece Katy had been diagnosed 10 years ago when she was twenty-one and her liver had slowly (over 7 years) progressed to stage four (the start of liver failure). With ten thousand plus patients awaiting a new liver and only two to three thousand liver donations after fatal accidents in the United States, you can see why the average recipient of a cadaver liver is living with a non functioning liver near death just to get to the top of the list. A non functioning liver affects all of your organs and creates its own set of problems before and during surgery. Finding a donor and undergoing this surgery you get part of a liver five to seven years earlier than you might otherwise have to wait.
Walter Payton, the hall of fame NFL running back had PSC but died of liver cancer before he could get a transplant (a fairly common occurrence unfortunately). Another famous athlete Chris Klug who had PSC and underwent a transplant as a young man won a gold medal at the Salt Lake City Olympics in snow boarding with his new liver and life.
Luckily mother and daughter are doing fine with regenerated near normal sized livers. Although there can always be complications in the future and the recipients must be on anti-rejection drugs the rest of their lives, the living donor transplant operation is the only way to relieve the long wait for a new start on life. Nine years went by day by day with Katy’s life slowing down, jaundice setting in and fear of cancer always on her mind.
This disease stole Katy’s twenties and almost took her life but while waiting for her fate to unfold she volunteered and worked for Americorp in Boston managing a program of seniors tutoring elementary age students who needed one on one reading skills improvement. Katy has started a new decade of life with health, energy and a new career. She’s getting her Masters and teaching credentials as a pre-school teacher where the kids ask her to "Talk to me, play with me, ask me questions." And she does.
My sister-in-law Blair was being the ultimate mother and donating half of her liver to her daughter Katy this afternoon. A complicated and lengthy set of protocols, tests and biopsies got them this far but reattaching the blood vessels to the new half of a liver ( just extricated from another human being who was healthy) is beyond normal comprehension. Greek myths, one of Dante’s hells and the "X Files" all expound on the regenerative power of the liver cells to reproduce quickly. Both halves will be 95 per cent full size in 3-4 weeks after the surgery.
Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis (PSC) attacks the large bile ducts in your liver. Doctors don’t know for sure, but it is thought to be an autoimmune disease. Immune cells that normally attack viruses and bacteria turn on the liver and slowly thicken the bile and scar the bile ducts. Eventually scarring (Sclerosis) interferes with the health of the liver and it hardens (Cirrhosis) and quits functioning. Bile thinners, opening bile ducts and placing stents in the main ducts can prolong the liver’s operation but a transplant is the only known cure at this time. Viral or bacterial infections are thought to be the triggers of this rare disease.
Blair had moved up to New England with her 2 year old daughter Katy to live with us for awhile. A 5 month temporary stay turned into 16 years as an extended family. Now we were separated - two in the operating room and others in the waiting room and at home. We had all applied to be the donor but Blair was the perfect match. She seemed to know it would be her from the beginning. You could see it in her relaxation now but she had trained hard to be in the perfect shape for this operation.
Katy with curls and a smile had constant adult companionship growing up. Uncle, aunt and mother paid special attention to Katy as she said "Talk to me, play with me, ask me questions." She grew up knowing that she was loved. She played in restaurants, ball parks and the back row of coach traveling the world in a B-747. She read constantly and studied all the way to Wellesley.
My niece Katy had been diagnosed 10 years ago when she was twenty-one and her liver had slowly (over 7 years) progressed to stage four (the start of liver failure). With ten thousand plus patients awaiting a new liver and only two to three thousand liver donations after fatal accidents in the United States, you can see why the average recipient of a cadaver liver is living with a non functioning liver near death just to get to the top of the list. A non functioning liver affects all of your organs and creates its own set of problems before and during surgery. Finding a donor and undergoing this surgery you get part of a liver five to seven years earlier than you might otherwise have to wait.
Walter Payton, the hall of fame NFL running back had PSC but died of liver cancer before he could get a transplant (a fairly common occurrence unfortunately). Another famous athlete Chris Klug who had PSC and underwent a transplant as a young man won a gold medal at the Salt Lake City Olympics in snow boarding with his new liver and life.
Luckily mother and daughter are doing fine with regenerated near normal sized livers. Although there can always be complications in the future and the recipients must be on anti-rejection drugs the rest of their lives, the living donor transplant operation is the only way to relieve the long wait for a new start on life. Nine years went by day by day with Katy’s life slowing down, jaundice setting in and fear of cancer always on her mind.
This disease stole Katy’s twenties and almost took her life but while waiting for her fate to unfold she volunteered and worked for Americorp in Boston managing a program of seniors tutoring elementary age students who needed one on one reading skills improvement. Katy has started a new decade of life with health, energy and a new career. She’s getting her Masters and teaching credentials as a pre-school teacher where the kids ask her to "Talk to me, play with me, ask me questions." And she does.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Draft lesson four-Feeling of Flight
I've been 61 years on this earth. I wonder if I can subtract the years I've been in the air? What am I doing at a busy airport on Saturday morning in West Houston waiting to go flying? It's a clear day in the 70s but the wind is blowing like Dallas with nothing to stop it. We take the runway for take-off and all I can see from the rear seat of this experimental "tail dragger" is Loren's headset perched on his ball cap with a few instruments to his left and right. I'm not flying today. It's my birthday flight and there's no rhyme or reason as to why I said "Let's go flying." I love the sound of "clear prop!" and the crank and rumble of the engine starting. I can't wait for the acceleration at take-off and the first weightless moment of flight.
The planes on the left are waiting with jealous eyes for this sleek red and white rocket to take off. Hangars to the right with bi-planes, high wing and low wing "birds" being pulled out by their owners fade as we feel the acceleration. Rudder pedals moving left and right, tail wheel up and blue sky above as we're off and the quiet of the headsets quickly puts us into another world.
At three miles per minute we should be in the practice area in five minutes. I watched Loren build this aircraft for five years. He caressed every rivet and loved this plane into existence. "You've got the aircraft!" his hands over his head to show me that I was flying now. "Got it!" I breathed heavily into the microphone. I said "aileron roll to the left" and raised the nose of N614SL above the horizon before I pressed the stick full left and watched the world tumble in front of me. Pleasure and excitement filled my chest as I went upside down and back to level flight. I could do this a hundred times and not get tired. There's nothing to fear but the deceleration of the final landing. I don't want to come down.
The planes on the left are waiting with jealous eyes for this sleek red and white rocket to take off. Hangars to the right with bi-planes, high wing and low wing "birds" being pulled out by their owners fade as we feel the acceleration. Rudder pedals moving left and right, tail wheel up and blue sky above as we're off and the quiet of the headsets quickly puts us into another world.
At three miles per minute we should be in the practice area in five minutes. I watched Loren build this aircraft for five years. He caressed every rivet and loved this plane into existence. "You've got the aircraft!" his hands over his head to show me that I was flying now. "Got it!" I breathed heavily into the microphone. I said "aileron roll to the left" and raised the nose of N614SL above the horizon before I pressed the stick full left and watched the world tumble in front of me. Pleasure and excitement filled my chest as I went upside down and back to level flight. I could do this a hundred times and not get tired. There's nothing to fear but the deceleration of the final landing. I don't want to come down.
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