My Favorite Teacher Was an Ironworker

By Rick Taylor

Dr. Rick Taylor had delivered many babies as a doctor but he learned that being a parent was much more important and special than being a doctor when he watched the birth of his son. This very ordinary experience began an extraordinary journey shared by father and son. "Lessons of Life" meanders through the lives of Dr. Taylor and his son while exposing the unlikely situations where surprising lessons are learned. The value of the lessons is not in their uniqueness as much as in the pedestrian nature of their occurrence. Father and son each survive first loves, near death experiences and personal quests to find a place in life. The comparison of these experiences and the lessons learned provide readers with moments of joy as well as sadness. It is the familiarity of these events that remind readers to recognize their own lessons and appreciate their teachers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463409388

Rick Taylor

Author Rick Taylor grew up in the East End of Pittsburgh and graduated from Denison University, where he majored in English with an emphasis on writing. He authored several short stories before and after transitioning to writing legal briefs following his graduation from Pitt Law School. But the writing bug never left him. He has published several collections of poetry and a novel, Curse of the Klondike. Ida Mae and Her Passage to Chautauqua is his second novel. For more information, please visit: www.readricktaylor.com

Book preview

My Favorite Teacher was an Ironworker

RICK TAYLOR

missing image file

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2011 by RICK TAYLOR. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 08/11/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0548-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0549-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0938-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011907532

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introduction

Learning

All Learning Has a Beginning

Scared

Everyone is Scared of Something

Dogs

Perhaps Dogs can Live Forever

Sports

Competition

Fishing

Sometimes You Catch More Than Fish

Girlfriends

Girl Friends

Poor

Was I Poor?

Reputations

Who am I? A Rumor or A Reputation

Life

Living isn’t Forever

Truth

What’s The Truth

Holidays

Some Holidays are Special

Graduation

Graduating is fun. Right?

Post Graduate Work

What Happens after Graduation

Don’t Quit

Introduction

Learning should be a never-ending process. There is always the possibility that our greatest learning experience may be when the door closes on this earthly existence. Perhaps another door will just open for us right then.

I expected to teach my sons about life. That is one of the responsibilities I accepted gladly when I chose to be a parent. I never expected that my son with his oversized hands and feet destined to become an ironworker would teach me lessons of life.

Our journey began unimpressively in an ordinary labor and delivery room at a military hospital. That journey has taught me more about life than I imagined possible.

The stories recorded on the pages of this book are a combination of fiction and reality. There is no intention on my part to teach or preach. I hope anyone who takes time to read these stories may recall stories of their own and be reminded to take time to enjoy the company of those who are teaching them day to day.

There are many ordinary persons who pass through our lives with much to teach. I was surprised to discover how much an ironworker was able to teach this doctor.

Learning

Cat Stevens sang Morning has broken, like the first morning which reminded me that each day is a new start. Cat sang those words before he was declared a terrorist and banned from visiting our country. The words of that old hymn remind me that each day, every moment, can be the start of a new adventure. Every moment may offer something new to learn. Many situations are clearly identified as learning opportunities others occur unexpectedly.

I started my formal education at a small country school in rural Maine. On the morning of my first day at kindergarten my mother woke me so I could get ready to go to school and learn things that would make my life better. I didn’t realize I would spend more than twenty-five years accumulating my formal education.

On another day many years later I woke myself and went to the hospital where I was an intern. I was learning to be a doctor. I didn’t expect the birth of my son on that same day to begin an entirely different learning journey. For the preceding twenty years I knew I was learning important information and I knew who my teachers were. I never expected I would learn so many amazing things about life from my son while I thought I was the teacher.

All Learning Has a Beginning

By the early 1950’s a large segment of the American population, including my parents, accepted education as the answer to all significant problems. In the fall of 1951 I was approaching my fifth birthday which signaled the beginning of my journey to the college education intended to provide a better life. No one seemed to be concerned by my inability to stay within the lines of a coloring book so college was the planned destination that morning I left home for kindergarten. There would be many morning classes and nights of studying facts and theories ahead. No one cared that those teachers would never provide the important lessons of life. Education can provide the answer to most questions; however, I was destined to learn my most significant lessons of life from an ironworker with no lesson plans. Of course none of that was known when I awakened on the morning of my first day of school.

Ricky, you better get your ass out of bed if you want breakfast before you go to school! Mom yelled this urgently up the stairs toward the bedroom I shared with my younger brother, Dick.

September sunshine was already pouring through the partially opened window in my bedroom when I woke on my first day of school. I’d anticipated the first day of school for several weeks. When that day marking the beginning of my education arrived I wasn’t sure I wanted to become a student.

Mom had experienced first days of school before and she knew I’d need help getting ready on time just like her other kids. I was a couple months short of my fifth birthday but my parents thought I was ready for school. I wasn’t so certain. Maybe I should stay home for another year and see how I felt about leaving home then. Mom knew I was ready. Mom knew she was ready to have one less kid at home all day.

I washed my face and hands and Mom combed my hair. I went downstairs and ate a bowl of Cheerios then went back upstairs to dress in one of the new mail ordered shirts from the Sears-Roebuck catalog. My dungarees were outgrown hand-me-downs from my older brother, Skip. My pair of lace-up brown shoes was a gift from my aunt whose son could no longer wear them.

Mom wrapped a bologna and mustard white bread sandwich in waxed paper and placed it in my new Lone Ranger lunchbox along with a couple of molasses cookies. She poured some milk into the small Thermos with the picture of Silver, the Lone Ranger’s horse, rearing up on his hind legs. By the time the station-wagon school bus stopped in our dooryard, I was ready. I climbed into the station-wagon along with Skip and headed off for my first day at Surry Grammar School. The path my education would take was beginning. It was the first step on that path destined to cover many miles and many years. I had no idea what adventure learning would become. However, on the morning of my first day at school, I was aware I was going to school because I had a lot to learn.

Years later, on the morning of the birth of my second son no one awakened me. No one told me to get ready to learn. No one made me get up to embark on a new learning experience. On that morning, I got myself out of bed and headed off for what I expected to be another ordinary day as a medical intern. I had no idea the birth of my son was to be the start of a great new learning experience. I didn’t anticipate how much I would learn from him while I believed I was the teacher. Scott, my second son, used teaching techniques so subtle sometimes I didn’t realize I was learning. On the morning of Scott’s birth no one informed me I should get ready to embark on a new learning experience. Instead, I got myself up and headed off for another ordinary day as a medical intern.

Scott’s birth took place at the military hospital where I was learning to be a doctor. The delivery room at the Naval Regional Medical Center in San Diego was the same as delivery rooms everywhere in the nineteen seventies. Blue squares of tile lined the floor and continued about four feet up the walls. Tile made for easy cleansing once the delivery was done. Function was of great importance in the nineteen seventies. Rapid change over and cleansing was especially important at San Diego Naval Hospital since many deliveries took place there each day. There was a distinctive smell of sterility in the delivery rooms at the Navy hospital. It was the same sterile smell of every delivery room I was ever in. The odor was a mixture of detergent and isopropyl alcohol. Every doctor’s office and dental office of that time held that same acrid aroma.

All the delivery rooms at the Naval Hospital not only had the same foul fragrance but they were identical in every way. Someone designed one delivery room then cloned it. The responsible person decided a tiled delivery room was the best that could be designed and made every other room just like it. The tiled floor was blue with white grouting. Standing coldly on the tile floor were the steel legs of a delivery table with its chilly metal stirrups at the ready in case someone had to be delivered in a hurry. Those stirrups stood ready to provide support when the next laboring female arrived in a hurry to enter motherhood. The customary dark blue-grey paper drapes were lying on the table encased within their plastic wrapping. These plastic covers would be torn asunder when the nurses brought the next screaming woman in and pushed her onto the delivery table. Her legs were jammed into the stirrups as the soon to be mother reclined onto her back with her butt at the end of the table. The dark blue-grey drapes were to be placed over the patient’s legs and abdomen. A small open space was left where the baby could be pushed out. The drapes lent the appearance of cleanliness, of sterility, commensurate with the smell of the entire room. At the business end of the table a large metal bucket was positioned to collect blood, amniotic fluid, the placenta and any other birthing leftovers. I was comfortable standing in rooms like this. I was the DOCTOR. Actually, I was the intern.

However, I was going to stand in that cold blue-tiled sterile-smelling room for a different reason on the sixth of April in nineteen seventy-seven. I would stand there because the next laboring female to be wheeled in was my wife, Lynne. Lynne was about to deliver our second child. My status in that room would be much greater than DOCTOR. I would be there because on that sunny afternoon in southern California I was going to be a father. I was going to be Dad.

Our family was in San Diego because the Air Force said that was where I would go to become a doctor. San Diego was just what Lynne and Chad, our first son, needed after three years in Des Moines, Iowa. Three years in Iowa included three winters in Iowa. Those years included days, weeks and during one of the winters, it involved months without the temperature outside climbing above zero. Three years in Iowa also meant days, weeks and sometimes months of summer when the temperature outdoors exceeded ninety degrees and the humidity exceeded ninety percent. In San Diego, people went to athletic clubs to make themselves sweat. During the Des Moines’ summers, Lynne and I sat in front of our box fan wishing we could stop sweating. San Diego was just what Lynne and Chad needed. The Air Force didn’t consider whether I needed San Diego or not when it sent me there to do my internship. What I needed didn’t matter. None of us were sorry when our days in Iowa were over with.

Des Moines had never been a dream destination of mine. It was just a required stop on the educational path I chose. I didn’t have any great expectations when I arrived there but I knew I wasn’t in Maine anymore. I don’t think Lynne or I wondered out loud if we would survive our time in Iowa, but there were times when I had my doubts. We left Maine in late June 1973 and drove our Chevy Nova out west to Iowa. My years at the University of Maine were finished. I never planned to be a doctor during those years at the U of M. I majored in zoology without any thought of what a degree in zoology would be useful for. My education pathway was not carefully considered in the way many other students weigh their choices for the future. I chose zoology as a major at the university because I enjoyed taking care of animals. The animals I treated included birds with broken wings and sick creatures that needed food to survive for a few days. My least successful doctoring of other creatures involved turtles with fractured shells.

Every spring the turtles from the beaver pond that filled the low area between our house and my grandmother’s home migrated to the lake we called Toddy Pond. At the lake the turtles buried their eggs in the sand along the shore where the sun would warm the eggs until they hatched. Eventually, the turtles would migrate back to the beaver pond. This ritual required the turtles to cross the road that ran between the beaver pond and the lake. No matter how carefully a turtle looked both ways for traffic before racing across the road, some would be hit by a car and suffer a fractured shell. Many of the turtles blamed this on bad luck since only eight to ten cars traveled our road on a busy day.

When I found a turtle with a broken shell I would wrap the shell together with adhesive tape or tie it with string and hope the turtle survived until its shell healed. I don’t recall a single turtle surviving this ordeal but I always hoped I could become a turtle doctor. For as long as I could remember, I enjoyed taking care of injured animals. I still hoped for that when I approached the end of my time at the University of Maine. What options do you have when you major in zoology because you enjoyed taking care of injured animals your whole life?

I started the application process for veterinarian school but found out early in the process I didn’t have a snowball’s chance of getting in. I didn’t have any tag along experience with a veterinarian nor had I grown up on a real farm. Our farm was just a dilapidated farmhouse with no farm animals except some roosters who got mad when a kid went into their henhouse to collect eggs. I didn’t have a chance of being a veterinarian so I chose the next best option and went to medical school. I was excited when my letter of acceptance came from the medical school. Still I always wanted to be an animal doctor not a people doctor.

When my acceptance arrived I knew it meant leaving Maine behind and being broke for another three years. Lynne and I had an advantage many young couples don’t have because we had nothing when we got married. The knowledge that we faced three more years of having nothing didn’t seem all that much of a problem. Medical school seemed like a good place to start life. Once I received my acceptance to medical school, Lynne and I started working on another project we had put off for a while. We had been a couple for four years and now we wanted to be a family. By the time Lynne and I left Orono, left the University of Maine in the rear view mirror of our Nova, Lynne was nearly six months pregnant.

The thrill of a new adventure makes ignoring reality possible. Lynne and I avoided reality until we arrived in Des Moines, Iowa. While I was a student at the University of Maine, I worked nights as a janitor and part time as a stock boy and parking lot attendant at the J.C. Penney store in Bangor. Lynne worked full time as a secretary for a local insurance agency. We arrived at Des Moines with no means of income. Medical school required a lot more time than college had. There was just no way I could work and be a medical student. Lynne was not only six months pregnant; she showed that she was six months pregnant. There were no jobs for a woman who was six months pregnant and intended to be a stay at home mom.

We decided I should sign up with the military medical school scholarship program. Along with all the other things, the scholarship provided us with a stipend of four hundred dollars per month. That stipend provided us with enough income to afford a subterranean apartment in an ancient building. The building rules didn’t allow tenants to have children. We pointed out that we didn’t have any children and they let us have the basement apartment. By the time Chad, our first son, was born Lynne had eight older women in that building who thought of themselves as our son’s grandmother. Those eight grandmothers wouldn’t let the landlord evict us. There was no way they would let anyone make their new grandson move.

My first memories of that building are not good. However, there were very few apartments available in our price range. We were relieved to get a place to move our belongings into and feel like we had a home. Everything we owned fit very easily into the small-model U-Haul trailer we towed behind our Nova. We furnished that apartment the best we could with the furniture relatives gave to us. We had a small table, a couple of chairs, a worn couch, a mattress and most importantly, we had a crib.

Once everything was situated, I sat on our couch and looked around. The floor in the kitchen area was old, dirty and worn. The stove and refrigerator were ancient. There were all types of pipes running around the kitchen and bedroom areas. Most of the pipes hung about a foot below the dirty ceiling. The hard baked mud and burnt brown grass yard outside was even with the lower sill of our windows. Most of the windows were cracked. Cracked and dirty.

The bathroom had a curtain that could be pulled across the throne area for privacy. The bathtub was chipped and stained and it stood on legs. There was no shower. I sat on our worn out couch some relative had given us instead of throwing it away and thought about crying. What had I got us into? How could I have dragged Lynne half way across the country for this? How could I have dragged the Murphy’s only daughter way out west for this? How could I let my first son be born into this mess?

One strength Lynne and I shared was our somewhat similar backgrounds. Her family was of higher income than mine but whose wasn’t. Her dad, Ken, was a machinist. Ken worked steadily for one employer after he left the Navy at the end of World War II. The work was hard but that was how Ken provided for his family. His hard work supplied the necessities and comforts his family wanted. Because of that hard work, Lynne grew up in a nice home with her mom, dad and two brothers. She may have not known luxury but she knew security.

My father, Rollie Taylor, was much like Ken Murphy. Dad served in the Navy during World War II just as Lynne’s dad had. He left the military service and its regimentation behind as soon as the war was won. He knew his hands were meant for other work. Dad worked wherever there was a building to be built. He took his construction skills, which were damn good and went to work wherever there was something to be built. Sometimes that meant going from Bangor, Maine down to Portland. Sometimes it meant going all the way to Boston or even as far south as Pennsylvania or as far north as Presque Isle. Sometimes it meant there were no buildings to be built. When that was the case, Dad did whatever work was available. Dad did whatever work there was so he could take care of his family. The Taylors always had the necessities. We didn’t always have comforts. We didn’t get a television just because they became popular.

Years later when I took my family to Iowa I remembered how hard I had seen my Dad work. In Des Moines, all we could afford was a dumpy little apartment in a strange place. Lynne and I were scared. We had packed up all or our worldly belongings including some things people had given us. Then we moved away from everyone we knew. Yeah, Lynne and I were scared. We were scared, we were tired and we were hot and sweaty in our subterranean apartment in the basement of a building that probably should have been condemned.

Then a funny thing happened. Slowly over those early days in Iowa, Lynne and I forgot about the things we didn’t have. We worked together cleaning our apartment. We got a box spring to go with our mattress. We put up some pictures. Those old pipes that ran throughout our apartment became a place to hang clothes while they dried. New friends appeared in our life. Some were older people in our building and some were students at school in the same situation we shared. We began to forget what we didn’t have and started to see all that we had.

We were going to medical school. Before long we would have all we could want. Just another seven or eight years and I would be making a decent living. We were about to have our first child. Most importantly, we had each other. We both came from families where it was assumed you would take care of those you cared about. You’d do whatever was required to care for those you loved, take care of those who relied on you. Lynne and I knew we could rely on each other. We meant those vows we said when we were married. It was important we said those words in front of friends and relatives who came to see us get married. However, Lynne and I would have felt the same even if no one heard those words except us.

We intended to help each other, to share dreams and to love each other. We never expected life to be easy. What fun would an easy life be? The memory of our early days in Iowa is one of my favorite memories. Those days convinced me I’d met the person I was supposed to share this life with. Those days tested Lynne and me. Those days would have tested anyone. Lynne and I passed that test. Life had many other tests in store for us in the future. It didn’t matter; we were going to be all right. I knew we were like the geese I read about. Geese mate for life. It doesn’t matter if a better looking goose, a richer goose or a younger goose comes along; geese choose a mate and stay together for life. We were like geese. I’ve always said there’s nothing better than a good goose!

While I awaited the birth of my second son in 1977, my thoughts traced back to the birth of our first son. Chad was born more than three years earlier. His birth took place in September of 1973 after we arrived in Des Moines to begin medical school. On that September day, Lynne shook me awake at three in the morning.

I think I’m starting to have contractions, she said.

How far apart are they? I asked.

I don’t know. About twenty minutes I guess. Why?

I don’t really know. I heard one of the nurses ask a patient that question over the phone while I was waiting for you after your last OB appointment, I explained.

Well, I had some fluid and blood stuff come out when I went to the bathroom about midnight. I think we should go to the hospital and see what’s going on, Lynne suggested.

Okay, we can go get checked but I want to eat my Rice Krispies first. If I don’t eat now who knows when I’ll get to eat, I insisted.

Okay but hurry up. I don’t want to have my baby in a car, Lynne ordered.

Turned out I could have driven around for sixteen hours before Lynne would have had our son in our car. Instead, I waited at the OB ward for four hours. Then I asked the nurse if she thought I had time to go to a couple of classes before Lynne was going to deliver. The nurse who was doing the vaginal exams on Lynne thought that would be okay. I thought I saw her roll her eyes a little but I wasn’t certain. I went to my classes, went home and bathed, ate another bowl of Rice Krispies and I still arrived back at the hospital seven hours before Chad was born.

With the addition of Chad we became a real family. Those times weren’t really all that hard. Later as I looked back to those times, I thought they were fun. They were some of the best times we ever had. They were good times because Lynne and I had everything we needed. We had a place to life. We never went hungry, probably ate more than we should have. We needed each other and we had someone else who needed us. We had dreams. Lynne had her dreams and I had mine. Enough of our individual dreams overlapped so they were our dreams and our dreams made us strong.

Those days went by quickly. Over that three-year period, I went from being a classroom medical student to being almost a doctor in the hospital. I went from wearing blue jeans to wearing a white coat. I went from being nobody to being someone who had almost equal status with the nursing students. Lynne went from being pregnant to being the mother of a toddler. Chad went from being a newborn that needed constant attention to being a toddler who acted like a newborn and needed constant attention. Our three years in Iowa turned out to be fun for all of us. Those years made us a family. Certainly we enjoyed those years but when graduation came each of us was ready to go even further west. That was when we headed off to San Diego to start my internship.

Before we left Iowa, Lynne and I began the job of creating a second child. Making a baby is a tough job but I knew someone had to do it. Then, it was time to go to San Diego, the Air Force told me to. Lynne and Chad said they were willing to go along with me. They had enough of Iowa winters and summers. They were willing to go see what the Pacific Ocean looked like. They would do that for me.

Our arrival in California was much less traumatic than our homesteading in Iowa had been. The Taylor family had very little trouble settling in once we arrived in San Diego. Lynne and I found a nice apartment we agreed on. Our new home was located a few miles out the Mission Valley Highway, about eight miles beyond the Chargers’ stadium. Our apartment was on the second floor of a two-story building. There were two bedrooms, a modern kitchen along with one and a half bathrooms including a shower. We even had a new color television. A gigantic swimming pool took up the central area between the buildings in the complex. Our San Diego apartment was truly upscale from the living conditions we shared in Iowa.

The weather in San Diego was seventy degrees and sunny every day. There were beautiful sandy beaches just a few miles down the highway at the ocean. We liked going to Coronado the best but spent a lot of time at Mission Beach as well. Orange trees with plenty of fruit grew right in the yards of the homes with red tile roofs that lined all the streets.

The only problem San Diego presented was the time it required to be an intern. Every third night I stayed at the hospital overnight. Every third night I didn’t come home at all. Most other nights I got home at seven or eight in the evening and returned to the hospital around five in the morning.

I had an advantage most of the other interns at the Naval Regional Medical Center didn’t have. I was a member of the Air Force and my rank was a captain. The Medical Center was part of the Navy. Most of the other interns were lieutenants. All of us were the same rank or grade; the different services just had different names for the same rank. Most of the patients I saw were accustomed to the Navy designations for rank and they knew a captain was a very senior rank in the Navy. Time after time, I was told how surprised one of my patients was that I was a captain. They were especially impressed that the young doctor who saw them had been promoted to captain at such a young age.

Of course there is always someone who screws up a good day. I recall one particular woman who was not impressed by me even if I was a captain. She came to the Acute Illness Clinic in July of my intern year. The AIC was my first rotation. It was part of the Internal Medicine service. Four interns were assigned to cover the clinic from eight in the morning until seven every evening.

It was a walk in clinic for anyone who thought they needed to see a doctor. If a patient showed up at the emergency room and wasn’t sick enough to be called an emergency, they were sent to the AIC. The best part about being in the AIC was it didn’t have any overnight coverage. It also wasn’t staffed on the weekend. The worst part of being in the AIC was the workload when you were there. The workload was especially difficult when you were an intern and this was your first real experience with patients. Each intern had three cubicles to see patients in. The interns were expected to see a patient in each cubicle every half hour. That meant you were supposed to see a patient, do all the paperwork and get the patient out the door in ten minutes. The nickname for the clinic was the malpractice clinic.

Mrs. Johnson was one of those patients assigned to my cubicles at the AIC. Mrs. Johnson had been there before. She knew the routine. Mrs. Johnson was a large woman, a large opinionated woman.

I listened to Mrs. Johnson’s story and examined her. I think you have a cold, I declared.

I don’t have no cold. I have an upper respiratory infection. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Look in my damn chart, I went and got it for you myself. Why don’t you at least look at it? I have a respiratory infection about every two months. Look it up for yourself

Okay, we can call it an upper respiratory infection. Viruses cause most of these infections. I think… . Mrs. Johnson cut me off. She cut off my usual brilliant explanation about colds and viruses. She cut off my explanation of why she wouldn’t need an antibiotic.

Just look at my chart. I need antibiotics every damn time I get an upper respiratory infection. The doctor gives me an antibiotic and I get better in a week or two. Damn! Didn’t you even look at my chart? How’d you get to be a captain? Your daddy must be some type of big shot. I don’t see how you would be a captain otherwise. I want to see a real doctor. You hear me. I don’t care if your daddy is a big shot I want to see a real doctor. Get yourself out of here and get me a real doctor. Mrs. Johnson was almost yelling by now.

I started to explain that I was a real doctor but the look Mrs. Johnson gave me convinced me not to bother. Convinced me not to argue that an intern was a real doctor. Mrs. Johnson’s look convinced me she could probably drop me like a sack of potatoes if she decided to. I didn’t want to risk it. I exited the cubicle and convinced Dr. Sprake to swap his next patient for Mrs. Johnson. Hell he could have made me take his next three patients. A little later I noticed Mrs. Johnson leave. She was smiling. She had a prescription and she was happy. I asked Dr. Sprake how things went.

No problem. I just told her she had a cold. She should feel better in a week or two, Dr. Sprake answered.

Did you tell her about antibiotic abuse? Did you tell her it was just a virus and not to worry? I asked. I knew my medicine. I knew I was right. I wanted Dr. Sprake to admit he just gave her a prescription to make her happy. He just gave her a prescription to get her out of here.

Nope. I didn’t explain any of that. I looked at a couple of her previous chart entries. Mrs. Johnson has already heard all that crap. I gave her the same antibiotic the last two docs she saw gave her. I gave her Drixoral. That was the antibiotic Mrs. Johnson wanted, he said.

Drixoral isn’t an antibiotic, it’s a combination drug for the symptoms of a cold, I countered.

Right. She doesn’t have any problems when she takes it. She’s had it several times. She told me it always makes her feel better. She expects to get better and she will in a week or two.

That’s all it took to please her. I’ll have to remember that, I said. Thanks.

Don’t mention it. That’s why you’re an intern and I’m a resident. Keep working at it and you’ll become a doctor also. Amazing bullshit isn’t it, Dr. Sprake shot back. Then he went back to his own cubicles. I liked working with Dr. Sprake. After that experience I didn’t have that many difficult patients.

By the time Scott was ready to be born it was April and I was on my Dermatology rotation. I had already been through Internal Medicine, Surgery and OB-GYN. I was lucky to be on Dermatology because it was the easiest rotation I had as an intern. I was home every night and I had the weekends off. Lynne and I had a life again. We had time for more than slam-bam thank you ma’am. Lynne and I could take walks together. San Diego was great for taking walks. Trees shelter every yard and most of the sidewalks. All year round flowers explode into blossoms of red, yellow, pink and every color a flower can be. Wherever grass can grow it is watered by automatic sprinklers and stays green year round. Everyday is filled with sunshine and the temperature is a constant seventy degrees inside or outside. Everyone knows It Never Rains in Southern California.

Those April days while I was on Dermatology would have been great even if all I was able to do was walk with Lynne. Those days would have been perfect even if all I could do was walk with Lynne and play with Chad. Chad was more than three years old. When I got home early, Chad and I usually went down to Mission Bay. At the beach, Chad could ride his Big Wheel along the sidewalk. Sometimes Lynne would go, other times she would stay home. Lynne was ready to deliver any day now. When Lynne stayed home I walked along the beach with Chad and made castles in the sand. I could stare at the bikini-clad females soaking up sun on their beach blankets. I could stare but of course I didn’t. If Lynne knew I was staring at young bikini-clad females she would have felt self-conscious. Lynne had a body that was nine months pregnant. I didn’t want to make Lynne more concerned about the shape of her body. I just glanced at the bikinis. I only stared when Lynne stayed home. I was trying to be sensitive.

Yeah, those days on Dermatology would have been close to perfect even if all I was able to do was walk with Lynne and play with Chad. However, there was something else I had to do that April that made everything else a little more perfect. I had to welcome my second son on this journey Lynne, Chad and I were already embarked on. That was the reason I was standing in a sterile smelling, blue tiled room in the OB ward of Balboa Hospital. On that sunny April afternoon in southern California I was going to become a dad for the second time.

On that April day Lynne called the Dermatology Clinic to tell me she was on her way to the hospital. I asked how far apart her contractions were. About every four minutes was her answer. I advised her to hurry. Lynne reminded me that her first labor lasted about seventeen hours. I reminded Lynne this was her second baby and this labor could go a lot faster. When we were through reminding each other how the first delivery went, Lynne said she would be at the hospital in about twenty minutes and hung up.

I finished the chart entries covering my last walk-in patient. The patient had a chronic rash no one had successfully treated during the six months he had been a patient at the Dermatology clinic. I knew all I needed to know about skin conditions. If it was wet you made it dry and if it was dry you made it moist. That dogma and a little knowledge about acne and fungal infections was all I needed to know about dermatology. I put the chart away and walked over to the parking lot reserved for OB patients.

Dr. Walters was Lynne’s OB doctor. Ben Walters was a fourth year resident and perhaps the best OB doctor I’d ever seen. He taught me a lot of OB while I was an intern. He taught me without making me feel like the idiot I was. Dr. Walters let me do C-sections with him as my assistant. Dr. Walters made every intern on his watch feel good about being on OB. That wasn’t always easy. OB was a tough rotation. OB meant three months of long hours with overnight stays in hospital every two days. That schedule could wear an intern down but I enjoyed all my time there. I enjoyed being the star player in the delivery room. I enjoyed doing all the star roles like catching babies and congratulating the moms and dads. It was great being a doctor on OB as long as everything went well. When things didn’t go well, Dr. Walters had always been there to help me. He was there to teach. Some of the other residents had to blame someone else when things didn’t go well. In a teaching hospital, the easiest someone to blame is nearly always a damn intern. Dr. Walters didn’t have to blame anyone; he made the best of the situation and taught. Dr. Walters would calmly take over the problem and solve it. There would