SOLDIER CHRISTMAS MEANDERINGS

CHRISTMAS IN KOREA


Alice, recently I was talking with someone and got to talking about various things and I told them about us Christmas caroling at Camp Red Cloud in Korea one Christmas. Funny what we remember but I remember going into the NCO (non commissioned officers) Club. There were about a dozen of us. And, you were the choir leader and amidst the GIs playing the slot machines, we sang Silent Night. It was a poignant moment. We laughed about it later but I remember that guys stopped and for that moment were really reverent. And, it became the seed for many a sermon after then, the idea that amidst the secular of life and the profane in a sense, the Prince of Peace even goes. A good message during the holidays for sure. da


ONE TIRED CHAPLAIN


I remember Christmas Eve, 1969, Ben Hoa: After doing zillions of services, visiting the Perimeter guards, etc, I was washed out by midnight. I fell into my bunk and went into sound sleep. Sometime after someone banged on my door, “Chaplain, there is an 11th Armored Cav. Soldier at the top of the water tower and he is threatening to jump.” I was so “pissed” that the 11 ACR wouldn't put a chaplain back for their approximately 1,000 soldiers, and that they had caused me such grief, fighting, etc, that I had used up all my compassion. I said, “tell him to go ahead and jump” and went back to sleep. Well, I finally did struggle out and talked the drunk GI off the water tower. Thank you Lord and Merry Christmas. LH

**Commentary: Remember the empty chairs at holiday tables

By Joseph L. Galloway
McClatchy Newspapers

Even in hard times, this is the holiday season and a time when thoughts turn to home and family and dinner tables covered with food and gaily wrapped presents and bright lights. Save a moment amid the celebrations to give thought to the hundreds of thousands of men and women in uniform in far-flung parts of this world who won't be sitting down to dinner with their families. More than 170,000 men and women of our military will spend their Christmas and New Year's in Iraq and Afghanistan, where killing and dying never take a day off.

Oh, Uncle Sam will do his best to see that most of them sit down to a special dinner of hot turkey and dressing and all the trimmings, and even in the most remote outpost some soldier or Marine will jury-rig a tree of sorts with decorations of sorts. But it's a hollow celebration for a lonely soldier so far from home and loved ones, and lonely, too, at that dinner table back home where a chair stands empty at the head of the table.

The holidays always bring the troops to mind for me. My earliest memories are of holidays during World War II when rationing of meat and sugar and all manner of things that we take for granted today made the feasting and gift-giving a lot more difficult. My dad and six of his brothers were all gone to war, along with four of my mom's brothers. I grew up in houses full of frightened women who were doing their best to make do on shortened rations and small allotment checks. My mother got $17 a month from dad's $21 a month pay.
Times were hard, but every American, indeed everyone in the world, had a stake in a war that was ravaging much of Europe and Asia and would kill 60 million people before it was over.

I have my own memories of holidays spent with soldiers and Marines in combat zones from Vietnam to the Persian Gulf to Iraq. The first was Christmas in An Khe with the 1st Cavalry Division in 1965. The newly arrived division and my friends in the 7th U.S. Cavalry had been blooded in the previous month's terrible battles in the Ia Drang Valley. The memories of young men wounded and dying all around were fresh in our minds. The gaps in our ranks had been filled with green troops yanked out of replacement depots, and the new arrivals looked at the old, sad eyes of men no older than they were with awe, and we all wondered what fresh Hell we'd found ourselves inhabiting. And along came the Bob Hope traveling troupe to take our minds off the war for a couple of hours. Everyone howled at Bob's corny jokes and Jerry Colona's slapstick antics. Everyone's eyes bulged at the sight of a scantily clad Joey Heatherton dancing wildly around the stage.

When it was over, most of us just sat there on the ground wishing it wasn't; wishing we weren't there; wishing that we were home in a crowded living room smelling the treats soon to emerge from a hot, busy kitchen. Then everyone got up, brushed the red dirt off their jungle fatigues and drifted back to their green Army tents and cots. Back to reality.

Another memory is of Thanksgiving in the Saudi Arabian desert in November of 1990. I'd signed up to go eat turkey and trimmings with some unit, somewhere out among the sand dunes, when I was called to board a bus with two dozen other reporters and photographers. The bus would stop at an empty crossroads, and the guy with the clipboard would call off a name or two and drop them before moving on. My turn came, and I stepped off literally in the middle of nowhere. A tall captain of artillery stepped up and saluted: "Mr. Galloway, we are C Battery, 1st Battalion, 21st Field Artillery. We call ourselves The Falcons and you will understand why far better than anyone. We provided fire support for the 7th Cavalry at Landing Zone X-Ray in the Ia Drang. "I stood there unable to say a word, tears rolling down my cheeks. Then I knew that somewhere in that cold, forbidding institution that is an Army, there was both a memory and a heart, and that heart was as tender as my own. I've never had so fine a Thanksgiving dinner as that one in an Army mess tent in a cold, windswept desert; never enjoyed the company and camaraderie so much as I did then and there. Used without permission but we don't think Joe will mind.

**We think the President elect took a note from Joe and send a great message to the troops."

HEAVEN

Someone recently asked me did I believe in heaven? I do and have thought lots about it and here are my comments.

I definitely believe in heaven. It gives me comfort to think that in the great mystery of life and death, that this time on earth is not the end. My favorite Bible verse reiterates this. If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable.

For me personally, I wonder about how heaven will be. I don't think it will be in what we call a temporal sense, meaning knowing in the way we do now, earthy sort of stuff. I would want my friends to meet up with all the special people that I've known in this life. And, it would have to be in a way where the memory of them is not as we would think. Intimacy issues, etc. Of what they would be, I really don't know. It sounds very complicated but in my own mind, I see that heaven can work it out. OK, my theory which is as good as any.

SUICIDE

This friend of mind recently committed suicide and I am devastated. He had been calling me throughout the week wanting to talk. I just didn't see it coming. It is so tragic. I was on the way to see him when I found out. There's a lot involved. I am totally in shock.

So sorry. My counsel is first of all, not your fault, nothing you can do about it. And, you never, never want to ever think you are responsible for someone else's behavior. Suicide is such a difficult thing mainly as it is so wrapped in the tragic and sad circumstances often of mental illness, mostly bipolar types, which is sad in itself. I subscribe to the Albert Ellis view, (guy who developed theory of RET, Rational Emotive Therapy) that a person's life belongs to them and if they choose to end it, their decision. Sounds really cold and there is only relative truth to it, I believe. Mainly, that every suicide victim has a different story. Most of the time, drugs and almost always mental illness is involved. My experience.

Over the years, I've come to believe that most of the time, a person momentarily goes crazy; unfortunately, if they are successful, there is no changing their minds.

Here in San Francisco, we are constantly debating those who jump off the Golden Gate Bridge and it is indeed a popular spot. When I was a chaplain at Letterman Army Medical Center, when it was a 250 bed teaching hospital, part of our job was to retrieve the jumpers and get them to the hospital's morgue as they almost always died. Rarely, but it did happen, one lived. And, I talked to one who did. He told me that he immediately, after jumping, knew he'd made a mistake and wanted to live and so he got himself in a position to hit the water straight: feet first and together (much like paratroopers are taught to land feet together) as opposed to just randomly flopping. Saved his life. For him, it was a spur of the moment decision. And, he is an example of the thinking now, if we can do something to take away a person's ability to be spontaneous as to taking their lives, i. e., a barrier at the Golden Gate Bridge. And, once they are over the impulse, they are OK, at least for the moment.

I know you feel badly and I would too. If he had talked to you, would it have prevented it, maybe? Hard to know but you are not responsible. I think the key is to recognize mental illness and then to be responsible with what you believe the problem to be. I don't know if you have ever been involved with someone who is crazy (my shrink friend says the best definition of how to know someone is crazy is that you can't understand them--I've always found that is exactly right, just can't understand them or their behavior). I have stories to tell. A couple of them, I do not know how I survived, always grateful. People that you truly care about who simply are on another planet, sometimes a different galaxy.

Sorry about your friend and the difficulty. All life is the laboratory. da

BEING THERE

BEING THERE
One of the absolute maxims of life is that all of us die. Rich, poor, famous, infamous, it is a given reality. We are born, live our lives and then we die. In our American culture, we don't do it so well, however we interpret what "well" means. We fight it and well we should. Without waxing too philosophical and say let us not fear it, maybe to say, "we are not going gently into the night." I've always liked William Cullen Bryant's take on death.

So live that when thy summons comes to join that innumerable caravan which moves to that mysterious realm where each shall take his chamber in the silent halls of death.

Go not like the quarry slave at night, scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams.

My friend Mary (not her real name) has cancer. About ten years ago, the insidious disease struck her with a vengeance and the fight began. At first, I was little involved as many jumped in to help but then as often happens, the good intentions faded away. I don't want to be too hard as people are human and good or bad, us Americans live busy lives and few know how to prioritize for the best. And, let's face it, our attention span is measured in nano seconds. In fact, this was one of those "hard to get use" to scenes when I was a hospital chaplain. Our patients were, as a rule older, retired military. One program I remember all too well illustrates this: we would have a very sick patient, often at death's door, loved ones would be everywhere which was great. We even had a special room set aside for them to gather where we could meet and talk strategy, plans of action and various medical directive sorts of stuff by the docs. As time went on, they would disappear little by little and if the patient stayed with us for awhile and inched closer to death, it was not unusual for us to have to hunt for the family when the time came. This isn't to place blame or say how terrible it is. It just is.

Getting more involved with Mary in her treatment has brought an entirely different attitude about how to help the sick, especially those whose very life is fighting to live life. Mary's job is to stay alive. And, she has done it for ten years under the most trying of circumstances. Against all odds! Here's what has happened to her during that time--at the beginning, she was at stage 4, which is a death sentence in most cases. Her husband, a ne'the well' in my view couldn't step up to the plate. It wasn't that he was a bad person, simply that he couldn't handle it. And, without belaboring the point, Mary had to make a decision whether to fight him or fight for her life. She wisely chose the latter. Mary shouldered on.

How it has affected me is a strong realization that those of us who assume roles of help need to do it very intentional as the care of those like Mary have to be the primary concern. Too often, the helper becomes the attention. Those who witness the fight, are called upon to drive, to look after; fetch food, drinks, reading material, the "beck and call" of the Marys of the world. And, we need to do it with a rationale which gets "us" out of the way. No easy task. It is a philosophy of simply, being there.

Unfortunately, there is a tendency to want to cogitate our navel, to say how hard this is on us, how difficult. My experience with Mary makes me realize that this is not a "rationale" approach. The call is to Mary, not us and if we can't get out of the way, find something else to do.

Recently, I sought advice from someone who has been through the awful pain with a loved one until that moment when they departed this life for the next. Here is pretty much the dialogue. Their advice was simple but profound.

When you were going through the final days with your husband, how did you hold up?

Well, it was not a matter of me holding up. It was a matter of how to make him comfortable.

Did you know it was his last days.

Yes, I did.

How about other members of your family?

Well, we really didn't talk about it but I think they knew. We all felt a tremendous need to be around. My husband never voiced it but from the time he received the "end" diagnosis, he didn't want to be alone. I think that's natural.

What did your children do?

(Laughed) We did the best we could with the idea of making Phillip (not his real name) comfortable.

What about treatment?

We went until it became obvious that there was truly nothing else to do.

How did you determine that?

To be honest, I think that the doctor more or less determined it; most doctors have a plan. It is what they do. While we may be cowering in the corner, they have a plan of treatment. And, this is what my husband responded too. He did what his doctors told him to do.

So you were pretty impressed with your doctors?

Yes, in a sense. Phillip needed assurance that it wasn't just going to be OK. There was a fear of the future. Along with the rest of us, he would not walk alone but with his trusted physician. Not a small thing. I have mixed emotion to be honest.

In what way?

To be honest again, I would rather not share that, just a view that I'm working through. I can tell you this though: I think it was probably the pain more than anything which made Phillip and all of us feel the hopelessness. There's no giving assurance around the pain. Trust me on this. The awful pain.(shakes her head and gives a deep sigh)

I have read somewhere that the worst aspect of the dying is that patients fear the pain.

I don't know about that but sounds right--he was in such pain and it just cut us to the core. (begins to sob)

What were some of the difficult times if you don't mind talking about it?

In addition to the pain, I think it was friends who wanted to help but couldn't.

What do you mean?

People's motives are good, they want to help but often they don't and can't.

How did you deal with it?

At first I didn't but then later on, I became the gate keeper.

What brought you to that point?

To be honest with you, it was a single incident. A neighbor who was also a cousin came over and just stayed and stayed. He wanted to talk about old times and situations and it got unbearable. Finally, I intervened and said, "Phillip needs to lie down and then I'll come back in and talk." I could tell my husband was at the point of exhaustion and exasperation. In fact, I got him to the bed and he just sat on the side of it, could not even lay down. I'm sure that our neighbor thought he was doing the right thing but it was opposite of what we needed.

Any other things that stick out in your mind?


Well, there is one thing and I hesitate to talk about it but it needs to be said. Don't talk about religion. Well, maybe I should qualify that somewhat. If the patient asks about it OK but I think that religious people, especially if they are conservative have this need to talk about it. One incident we had was so bad, made my husband so uncomfortable. I don't think I should talk about it.

It might be helpful to someone.

Well, this person felt the need to really talk about my husband's relationship to God. It was so inappropriate at the time and created such tension. Conservative religious people feel like this is some kind of commandment. I guess they see it as their duty. What they don't seem to understand is that it is an opinion on their part. Think about it? How can God be so arbitrary? He heals one, he doesn't another. To me, it has always taken away some of the power of God to insist that He is so involved with us, so selective in critical situations. I just don't believe it and in a sick room, no patient wants to be forced to deal with such issues. I surely know my husband didn't. This was a good person and I know he felt bad because he had to feel the tension. I felt for him but I felt more for the uncomfortableness of my dying husband.



So, if you could give anyone any advice about what/how to do or be with their loved ones in terms of caring, what would it be?

I think just "being there" with doing what the person wants as best you can determine, whatever that is. If it is even necessary to "be there" needs to be determined. Can you sit and not talk or talk if the person wants too but leave it at that. I'm discovered that most can't . And, a last thing, the sick person definitely does not need to be worried about their responses or lack thereof.

THE COMING HOME PROJECT

The first time I met Joe Bobrow was at an interfaith memorial service where he was the Buddhist representative. At that time, I thought: what a gentle person. It was somewhat of a generalized statement as my experience with the Buddhists in Korea had been quite extensive and always good. The Buddhist are a wonderfully "at peace" group that we would do well to emulate. Anyway, I lost contact with Joe until my wife met him at a gathering for organizations serving Iraqi and Afghanistan vets. Joe's organization, the Coming Home Project was and is doing fabulous and extraordinary work with Iraqi and Afghanistan vets.

The Coming Home Project seems to have zeroed in on how to grapple with the special needs of vets. With all the emphasis now, Joe's organization is already running retreats and providing therapy to hundreds of soldiers and families. I think it is poised to be the premier helping Provider for vets--no small thing. Too many organizations have great programs on paper but in actuality provide very little.

And, as we know, unfortunately, the bureaucratic processes often overshadows the care of the soldier. It always happens. Unless a soldier is unbelievably tenacious, he/she falls through the cracks. The Coming Home Project is a wonderful stopgap and advocate.

The Iraqi war will end at some time and it may simply be that we declare victory and come home. Who knows? Certainly not those in power. But, the war on terror will not end. Issues surrounding the soldier, especially the ones who have served multiple tours in Iraq, will be around for years even as Vietnam is still with us.

The Coming Home Project is absolutely essential to the future of our country and the volunteer soldiers who serve us. And, unfortunately, the VA, is looked too to provide the care for these warriors. Physically/medically they can and will but with the mental health issues, they are simple not equipped to do it. And, we should not expect them too. For now, we all should be thankful for Joe Bobrow and the Coming Home Project to fill the gap and serve the soldier.

WHERE ARE THE CHAPLAINS?

Yesterday on NPR, I listened to this horror story of this Iraqi vet who came back to Fort Carson, literally deteriorated right in front of his wife's eyes, no help: Army in the form of his immediate commander, a Captain, claiming malingering, etc.--in one example, the guy was so sick that he had to be wheeled to daily formation by his wife.

All military types, who mostly have a love and hate relationship with the media know that there is probably more to the story than what some NPR (National Public Radio) reporter used--the news media is looking for a story, not the truth: a story and the hell with the facts; regardless, this was a horror story even if only a miniscule portion were true. My thoughts immediately, as in so many of such things, where was the Chaplain? The Chaplain is the "poor man's psychiatrist". The Chaplain is the first stop for this wife or should be.

The well done SOP, (Standard Operating Procedure) sickening in its content but a super documentary about the Abu Grabib infamous prison debacle. The pictures of humiliation by any standard were scandalous. The scandal, awful, made me ashamed. The immediate question: Where was the chaplain? Is it that Chaplains have such poor PR (public relations) that they are not even mentioned in dealing with problems of soldiers, especially returning Iraqi vets. Occasionally, we get some story of the good that chaplains are doing and it is a lot. I understand but too often in these horror stores, nobody mentions the Chaplain: the wife in this episode went to everybody, getting no help. What if she had said, "well, at least the chaplain encouraged me."

Are Chaplains too tied to the command structure to "kick against the pricks" as the Apostle Paul said and I am fond of saying. We have a Chief of Chaplains. I'm thinking typical politics--his mission: to run the chaplaincy, meaning messing in personnel and trying to keep a low profile. Is the chaplaincy like Ensign Pulver in the movie, Mister Roberts with a mission of staying constantly below the radar. I hope not. Please! The chaplains should be making a difference. This is the best chance Chaplains have had in ages to really shine in terms of what they do best. I'm not hearing it! On this NPR story, the Chief of Chaplain's office ought to be all over it: finding out how to help, what to do--anything but nothing which we are hearing.

We at least ought to have a few chaplains kicking ass and taking names. Amen!

LAUGHTER

We need to laugh more and seek stress reducing humor in our everyday lives. Laughter is the human gift for coping and for survival. Laughter ringing, laughter pealing, laughter roaring, laughter bubbling. Chuckling. Giggling. Snickering. Snorting. These are the sounds of soul saving laughter which springs from our emotional core and helps us feel better, see things more clearly, and creatively weigh and use our options. Laughter helps us roll with the punches that inevitably come our way. The power of laughter is unleashed every time we laugh. In today's stressful world, we need to laugh much more. Laughter Therapist, Enda Junkins

To be honest, I've heard of the benefits of laughter in one's life. I agree, has to be, we would surely be better in life if we laughed more. Who would not believe that!

Recently, I had a laughter experience. It was almost one of those where you had to be there experiences. I was the driver for my good friend who has been battling cancer for ten years. We go into the Cancer Center at the University Hospital. They have these little alcoves where the patient sits in a big chair and the chemo is piped into their bodies. There are acres of folks it seems. All battling for their lives in one way or another. Beside the patient's chair is a small one for those like myself if we choose to hang out. I do. In fact, I've asked myself why? I could easily wait down in the lobby, much more comfortable and some escapism. But, somehow, I always think, "it's the least I can do."

My friend is asleep. I often don't know how to relate to those around me. Surely not be my friendly, gregarious, talkative self. This is not the Pig and Whistle bar. Usually, you glance at those clustered with you in your little alcove. After all, you have a connection. You are a hostage to cancer in a way: hostage in that you are sad, that it causes you to think about your life, you're there. Outside is the sun and the beach is just a figurative stone's throw away.

I am sitting there cogitating my naval, thinking about all of this and across from us is a Latino lady and my counterpart. She looks to be about mid forties, slightly dishelved, not that it is a big deal, we're not there for fashion. She has an angelic face. Sweet. A nurse and one or two others come in and explain in Spanish the details of her chemo treatment. She nods. With the treatment flowing into her veins, she and her friend are talking in Spanish. I'm wondering what they are saying. Suddenly, the one getting the treatment busts out laughing. She glances at me. I start laughing. I don't even know what I'm laughing at: but for thirty minutes at least, we are laughing back and forth: stop, start. Like when you are in church as a kid and get to giggling and can't stop. You're shaking, you're laughing so hard. It was hysterical. My friend in her half sleep, wanted to know why we were laughing. I don't know. I think laugh therapy is "right on."

We need to laugh more and seek stress reducing humor in our everyday lives. Laughter is the human gift for coping and for survival. Laughter ringing, laughter pealing, laughter roaring, laughter bubbling. Chuckling. Giggling. Snickering. Snorting. These are the sounds of soul saving laughter which springs from our emotional core and helps us feel better, see things more clearly, and creatively weigh and use our options. Laughter helps us roll with the punches that inevitably come our way. The power of laughter is unleashed every time we laugh.

MY FELLOW VET

Larry R. Smith

May 4, 1945 – March 19,2008

After a 2 year courageous battle with both Pancreatic and Prostate Cancer, Larry Russell Smith passed peacefully at his home in Edmonds, Washington, surrounded by his wife, friends and family at the age of 62.

Larry was born in Bremerton, Washington, to Doris Dolbec and Russell Allan Smith. He was the youngest of three children of a ship builder and an elementary school teacher and leaves his older brother William Smith of Kenmore, Washington, and an older sister Lois Forbes of Renton, Washington, behind. Larry was mostly raised in San Mateo, California. He was part of the first graduating class of Aragon High School in 1963 lettering in both the football and wrestling programs. He attended both San Francisco State and the College of San Mateo before ultimately finishing at the University of Washington majoring in Mathematics in 1967. He was a lifelong Husky fan attending many of his alma mater’s Rose Bowl games.

Larry was drafted into the Army shortly after college and served courageously in Vietnam earning two Purple Hearts as part of the 199th light infantry brigade known as the ‘Redcatchers’. Larry served out his military career at the Presidio of San Francisco applying his mathematical skills in the payroll department until 1970.

Larry was a loyal and dedicated husband, friend, brother, father, grandfather, employee and mentor to many. He worked for Rael and Letson as a Consulting Actuary for over 30 years rising to the Chief Actuary and Vice Presidency role and serving on its, and many of its clients’, boards during his employment. He obtained his MAAA and EA certificates and distinctions from the Society of Actuaries while working for Rael and Letson.

Larry loved his children and grandchildren dearly and is survived by 3 grown children, Michael Smith of Palo Alto, California, Kathleen Pacheco of Moss Beach, California and Alex Smith currently obtaining his MBA degree at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo along with 2 step children Jason Hoff of Yakima, Washington, and Sharmon Hoff of Bainbridge Island, Washington. His Grandchildren and step-Grandchildren will have many fond memories of their grandfather. Sebastian and Eva Pacheco, Sophia and Trevor Smith and Amanda and Andrew Hoff will miss their grandfather and his loyalty to his family. He is survived by his wife Betti-Jo Picatti Hoff Smith of Edmonds, Washington, and his first wife of 30 years, Kathleen Alderman Smith of Montara, California. Larry is also survived by many nieces, nephews, cousins and friends.

Larry was a point of inspiration to us all with a passion for life and living. He was a world-traveler, an aficionado of fine wine, scotch whiskey, a good cigar and great conversation. Larry was an avid follower and season ticket holder of the 49ers for 35 years and of the Seahawks for the past 4 years. His love for the outdoors fueled his many trip to both Alaska and Lake Tahoe throughout his life. He was also a 25 year resident of Montara, California, along the Pacific coast below San Francisco. He will be deeply missed by those who had met him and all agree that he left us too early in his life.

Friends, family and those who were touched by his life will be meeting to celebrate Larry’s life on April 5th. The family asks that in lieu of flowers, please donate to either the American Cancer Society or The University of Washington’s Tyee program. The family would like to thank the wonderful staff at the Swedish Medical Center in Seattle and the hospice program through the VA and Sisters of Providence.


Mike


REDCATCHER
199TH LIGHT INFANTRY BRIGADE VIETNAM

JUST BEING THERE

One of the absolute maxims of life is that all of us die. Rich, poor, famous, infamous, it is a given reality. We are born, live our lives and then we die. In our American culture, we don't do it so well, however we interpret what "well" means. We fight it and well we should. Without waxing too philosophical and say let us not fear it, maybe to say, "we are not going gently into the night." I've always liked William Cullen Bryant's take on death.

So live that when thy summons comes to join that innumerable caravan which moves to that mysterious realm where each shall take his chamber in the silent halls of death.

Go not like the quarry slave at night, scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams.

My friend Mary (not her real name) has cancer. About ten years ago, the insidious disease struck her with a vengeance and the fight began. At first, I was little involved as many jumped in to help but then as often happens, the good intentions faded away. I don't want to be too hard as people are human and good or bad, us Americans live busy lives and few know how to prioritize for the best. And, let's face it, our attention span is measured in nano seconds. In fact, this was one of those "hard to get use" to scenes when I was a hospital chaplain. Our patients were, as a rule older, retired military. One program I remember all too well illustrates this: we would have a very sick patient, often at death's door, loved ones would be everywhere which was great. We even had a special room set aside for them to gather where we could meet and talk strategy, plans of action and various medical directive sorts of stuff by the docs. As time went on, they would disappear little by little and if the patient stayed with us for awhile and inched closer to death, it was not unusual for us to have to hunt for the family when the time came. This isn't to place blame or say how terrible it is. It just is.

Getting more involved with Mary in her treatment has brought an entirely different attitude about how to help the sick, especially those whose very life is fighting to live life. Mary's job is to stay alive. And, she has done it for ten years under the most trying of circumstances. Against all odds! Here's what has happened to her during that time--at the beginning, she was at stage 4, which is a death sentence in most cases. Her husband, a ne'the well' in my view couldn't step up to the plate. It wasn't that he was a bad person, simply that he couldn't handle it. And, without belaboring the point, Mary had to make a decision whether to fight him or fight for her life. She wisely chose the latter. Mary shouldered on.

How it has affected me is a strong realization that those of us who assume roles of help need to do it very intentional as the care of those like Mary have to be the primary concern. Too often, the helper becomes the attention. Those who witness the fight, are called upon to drive, to look after; fetch food, drinks, reading material, the "beck and call" of the Marys of the world. And, we need to do it with a rationale which gets "us" out of the way. No easy task. It is a philosophy of simply, being there.

Unfortunately, there is a tendency to want to cogitate our navel, to say how hard this is on us, how difficult. My experience with Mary makes me realize that this is not a "rationale" approach. The call is to Mary, not us and if we can't get out of the way, find something else to do.

Recently, I sought advice from someone who has been through the awful pain with a loved one until that moment when they departed this life for the next. Here is pretty much the dialogue. Their advice was simple but profound.

When you were going through the final days with your husband, how did you hold up?

Well, it was not a matter of me holding up. It was a matter of how to make him comfortable.

Did you know it was his last days.

Yes, I did.

How about other members of your family?

Well, we really didn't talk about it but I think they knew. We all felt a tremendous need to be around. My husband never voiced it but from the time he received the "end" diagnosis, he didn't want to be alone. I think that's natural.

What did your children do?

(Laughed) We did the best we could with the idea of making Phillip (not his real name) comfortable.

What about treatment?

We went until it became obvious that there was truly nothing else to do.

How did you determine that?

To be honest, I think that the doctor more or less determined it; most doctors have a plan. It is what they do. While we may be cowering in the corner, they have a plan of treatment. And, this is what my husband responded too. He did what his doctors told him to do.

So you were pretty impressed with your doctors?

Yes, in a sense. Phillip needed assurance that it wasn't just going to be OK. There was a fear of the future. Along with the rest of us, he would not walk alone but with his trusted physician. Not a small thing. I have mixed emotion to be honest.

In what way?

To be honest again, I would rather not share that, just a view that I'm working through. I can tell you this though: I think it was probably the pain more than anything which made Phillip and all of us feel the hopelessness. There's no giving assurance around the pain. Trust me on this. The awful pain.(shakes her head and gives a deep sigh)

I have read somewhere that the worst aspect of the dying is that patients fear the pain.

I don't know about that but sounds right--he was in such pain and it just cut us to the core. (begins to sob)

What were some of the difficult times if you don't mind talking about it?

In addition to the pain, I think it was friends who wanted to help but couldn't.

What do you mean?

People's motives are good, they want to help but often they don't and can't.

How did you deal with it?

At first I didn't but then later on, I became the gate keeper.

What brought you to that point?

To be honest with you, it was a single incident. A neighbor who was also a cousin came over and just stayed and stayed. He wanted to talk about old times and situations and it got unbearable. Finally, I intervened and said, "Phillip needs to lie down and then I'll come back in and talk." I could tell my husband was at the point of exhaustion and exasperation. In fact, I got him to the bed and he just sat on the side of it, could not even lay down. I'm sure that our neighbor thought he was doing the right thing but it was opposite of what we needed.

Any other things that stick out in your mind?


Well, there is one thing and I hesitate to talk about it but it needs to be said. Don't talk about religion. Well, maybe I should qualify that somewhat. If the patient asks about it OK but I think that religious people, especially if they are conservative have this need to talk about it. One incident we had was so bad, made my husband so uncomfortable. I don't think I should talk about it.

It might be helpful to someone.

Well, this person felt the need to really talk about my husband's relationship to God. It was so inappropriate at the time and created such tension. Conservative religious people feel like this is some kind of commandment. I guess they see it as their duty. What they don't seem to understand is that it is an opinion on their part. Think about it? How can God be so arbitrary? He heals one, he doesn't another. To me, it has always taken away some of the power of God to insist that He is so involved with us, so selective in critical situations. I just don't believe it and in a sick room, no patient wants to be forced to deal with such issues. I surely know my husband didn't. This was a good person and I know he felt bad because he had to feel the tension. I felt for him but I felt more for the uncomfortableness of my dying husband.



So, if you could give anyone any advice about what/how to do or be with their loved ones in terms of caring, what would it be?

I think just "being there" with doing what the person wants as best you can determine, whatever that is. If it is even necessary to "be there" needs to be determined. Can you sit and not talk or talk if the person wants too but leave it at that. I'm discovered that most can't . And, a last thing, the sick person definitely does not need to be worried about their responses or lack thereof.

BRING THE GUILTY BASTARD IN

This is an expression that is common in the military. And, in court martials where this statement originated, it is more true than untrue. Some of the reason is that very stringent requirements exist for what is called an Article 32 investigation. Usually this is so through that if it does come to court martial, there is a more than reasonable chance that the evidence is pretty exact. Not always as the trials of the Marines and their views of Rules of Engagement in Iraq surely will attest. But, all that aside, what I am aiming for here is a concept of supporting the son of a friend of mine.

Dear Jason, I'm sure you will not remember me but I met you when I was stationed with your Mom at the Presidio and there is a slight chance that we also might have connected when you were in CA and your Mom lived in Clayton. Regardless, I am a retired Army Chaplain and have been inquiring about your station in life since the onset of this saga.

I can't tell you how sad I am that this has happened to you. It is weird to me beyond belief. Your Mom has explained it to me and to say that I am fluxmoxed is an understatement of many a day. My confusion is that something like this has happened to you in the 21st Century is almost beyond my comprehension. But, that being said, it surely appears there is not much to be done about the basics at this particular point. I guess my reference would be something akin to Iraq. I have thought that move was stupid from the beginning but now that we are there, have to figure it out: not much to do about the mistakes that got us into the quagmire. And, with you, not much to do about the choices that also got you where you are. I do want to be supportive and your Mom tells me that the best way is to write you. I can surely do that.

I am in San Francisco. My wife and I live on Anza Street which is right at the foot of USF (University of San Francisco) housing. We really didn't know what we were getting into when we moved here but it has worked out fine. Living around a group of college kids will keep you young but more importantly, keep you awake. They never sleep. USF is a good Jesuit school and by the looks of the students, they have a number of foreign students. We live in a bottom flat, above us are a group about your age who play video games all day. They actually work for a gaming magazine and are testing these games. What a profession! It is hard to know how many of them live in the apartment, they come and go: nice kids. And, then above them are two 7 foot basketball players and their manager. I guess the school wants to protect their investment and so they keep someone with these guys.

Jason, God bless you. I wish I could send you some books, etc.; I think that if I were to give you some suggestions, it might be to figure out how to make use of this time you're a guest of the State. I actually have had some experience in this area as a chaplain. My first duty assignment was as the Stockade Chaplain at Fort Bragg, NC. Of course, most of the population there were guilty of violating military rules, like AWOL, etc.; as civilians, they would not have to deal with such. And, one of my favorite programs on TV, hardcore to the max and may be unrealistic, OZ, on HBO. All that to say that I do think about it. What about education? Learning how to make movies, etc. etc.; of course, I don't have a clue as to your choices. I'll be checking in with your Mom to get some idea. However, will not be sharing with her our conversations or correspondence if we have any. God bless.

THE COLONEL

Word came a few nights ago that my buddy, Bill O'Donovan had departed this life. I am sad. Bill was one of those guys that you sort of figured would live forever. I first got to know him when I was at the Presidio as the pastor for two congregations. He was retired, a Colonel lawyer type who had started out as an infantryman in the Big War. In fact, It was not hard to imagine Bill right out of central casting ahead of John Wayne. Bill was an infantry company commander and in many fierce battle in the South Paific, proved the meddle like so many of the greatest generation. Bill had stories to tell, like jumping in a foxhole full of snakes--he loved to tell it.

But, the one I remember mostly is one of great coincidence where he wrote a very poignant letter to the family of one of his enlisted guys, attempting to comfort them in their loss. Forty years or even longer, he was at some function in San Francisco, having become a successful Army and civilian attorney, when the featured speaker referenced an O'Donovan that had written this wonderful letter to his grandmother--A letter that had gone a long way in sustaining her throughout the war. The grandson had saved it as a cherished possession. Imagine his surprise when he discovered Bill. To the Colonel, such coincidences were really not chance at all but moments to savor.

Bill had thousands of stories. I loved to listen. He was a stalward at the 1100 hours service, along with his wife, Jane. He loved to be around the military--to smell them he would say.

What an inspiration! When I was in Korea and felt that I wanted to begin an organization for Vietnam vets to help Amerasian (American fathers/Asian mothers, often ostracized in their native country) and Vietnamese kids who had come to America, Bill encouraged me, He felt we all had some collective guilt in running out and leaving the Vietnamese with empty promises. Although he would never own up to it, Bill was one of the shakers and movers in developing the policy of allowing the Vietnamese who had helped us come to America. During that time, I remember the news accounts which were highly critical of the policy. Bill and I were watching as the planes landed from Vietnam and those women and children got on and off buses. I will never forget what the Colonel said: "if that (meaning the Vietnamese) doesn't melt hearts, then nothing will. It did and any opposition to the policy faded away. Bill was not in the least surprised. He was a great American patriot and had faith in the spirit of America he would say.

The Colonel contributed. It was who Bill was. He touched life. Bill became the treasurer for our fledgling non profit, Vietnam Vets Southeast Asian Children's Project. And, it was also Bill who jokingly said, "I don't think our organization is needed." What he meant was that we discovered quickly that of all the emigrant groups, the Vietnamese needed the least help. In San Francisco, at least, every kid had three paper routes and after six months, was speaking better English than most of us.

Bill and I would hang out at Liverpool Lil's, a place just off the Presidio. We met there almost every week. And, when I went to Arizona for an assignment, I bought a print of Liverpool LIl's and gave it to him. Bill and Jane lived on Divisadero Street in a great sectiion of San Francisco called Cow Hollow, They were the epitome of good hosts--old Army. It was all silverware and elegance. What always fascinated me about Bill, among so many things, was the fact that he absolutely broached constantly the perceived age barriers. Forever young, he loved chaplains and was as comfortable with the young guys as the old ones. To say that Bill was a renaissnce man is somewhat of an understatement. For those who have seen my favorite TV minseries or read the book, Lonesome Dove, Bill is without a doubt, Gus, the perpetual and ubiquitous renaissance man.

My world is not the same without Bill. But, I will have to say that I have comfort in something Bill said over and over: every day has been a gift. The Colonel was a gift.