RRY II - AKA DAD

"Rudy, they're working on your father!" came the terrified, panic stricken voice of my mother, through my Bluetooth earpiece.  I answered the call on my mobile phone on the morning of November 4, 2010. "Who? What?" I replied in confusion over what I had just heard. "Paramedics are here working on your father.”  "He's dead Rudy.  He's dead.  Oh my God he's dead OH MY GOD HE’S DEAD!!!" She wailed.

"Hi mom. I'm on my way driving CB to school right now.I'll call you back in about 4 minutes once I drop her off," I cheerfully responded with my 15-year-old daughter in the passenger seat. I didn't want CB to have to start her day overhearing this kind of conversation. No one should have to start their day like this.

I dropped her off at school and called mom back as soon as the car door shut.

I finally got a hold of mom on her mobile phone after trying her home phone. The ambulance had left, and she was en route to the hospital.   “Are they taking him to Holy Spirit Hospital?” I inquired.  “No,” she replied.   “People go there to die. I told them to take him to Harrisburg hospital” she explained. "I don't think it will make a difference," I thought to myself.

"What happened?" I asked. Amidst sobs and sighs, she proceeded to describe to me the events of the previous 12 hours. She explained how just before bed, dad felt very uncomfortable with indigestion. I immediately thought to myself, "heart attack.”  But that did not make sense as dad was "healthy as a horse"  outside of his multiple sclerosis. She told me how he was unable to get comfortable and was tossing and turning all night, not being able to sleep with the discomfort. Subsequently, she wasn't able to sleep either, up with him trying to relieve his pain.

A little after four in the morning, she finally fell asleep from exhaustion. When she awoke approximately one hour later, he was lying there beside her, motionless, unresponsive, not breathing, froth covering his lips, with an occasional bubble forming, then popping. Paramedics came and began attempting to resuscitate him, removing approximately 2 L of blood from his stomach.

By the time she had finished recounting the previous night’s events, she had reached the hospital and had parked the car.  She just sat, paralyzed, afraid of what she would find when she went in to the emergency room.

As mom walked into the emergency room, I walked into my office. I closed my door and sat. I sat with my memories of dad. Even though I had not yet been told he was dead, I knew.

I thought about the time when, as a child, maybe five or six, he would be lying on the bed in his darkened bedroom, unable to lift his head off the pillow without being overcome with severe vertigo and violent retching. Mom would quickly rush me past his room, attempting to protect me from the sight. Those were my first experiences with multiple sclerosis, a disease that dad had lived with, at that time unbeknownst to me, until his death.

I thought about the time he and his dad, my grandfather, Rudolph Raymond Yanuck Senior, 40 years ago, were in the attic rafters of the new construction at 901 Charles St, the house my dad designed and mostly built himself.  Both men wearing t-shirts, covered in pink flakes of fiberglass from the insulation they were installing.  My grandfather holding the stump of a lit stogie tightly between his cheek and teeth.  Dad laughingly saying, “Pap, you’re gonna set us all on fire and burn the house down with that thing.”

I thought about the time when, as a teenager, we were playing baseball. I was pitching, he was catching. He got hit in the head by the baseball he couldn't see coming. This was the first time that I found out he had multiple sclerosis. It was the last time we threw baseball together.

I thought about the time he walked with a cane, across the college campus, to my induction ceremony  into Phi Beta Kappa, senior year.  I thought about the time that he attended my med school graduation in a motorized scooter. I also thought about the time he attended my wedding in the same scooter the following week.  I thought about how, after my wedding, the visits with my father became fewer and fewer, and further and further apart.

I thought about 2 L of blood in his stomach. Wondering what could have caused it. The only plausible explanation, I thought, was an undiscovered peptic ulcer eroding through the posterior wall of his stomach into the splenic artery, a major arterial branch. My suspicions were correct and corroborated by the death certificate, which read, "cardiac arrest secondary to ischemia due to severe anemia caused by peptic ulcer disease. "  An autopsy was never performed for confirmation.

Days after my dad’s funeral, I began wondering, now that my grandfather, Rudolph Raymond Yanuck, Senior, and my father Rudolph Raymond Yanuck, Junior were dead, was I still the third?

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Crash

‘The AFIP wants me to observe an autopsy up in Riverside tomorrow.” said the San Diego Naval Medical Center’s forensic pathologist.  “An Air Force jet crashed on a training mission near a populated area and the pilot did not have a chance to eject. They found his body amidst the wreckage. I’m leaving at 6:30.  Wanna ride shotgun?” he asked.  Instantaneously a “HELL NO!” response formulated at the top of my skull, working its way down my brain, through my throat and mouth, and by the time it exited across my lips, sounded something like, “Sounds great, I’d love to.”

What was then known as the Armed Forces Institute of pathology, or AFIP, Now known as the joint pathology center, or JPC, is the premier pathology reference center for the federal government,  Some have called it the “Mayo Clinic of military pathology.” It is also where the department of forensic pathology for the military is located.  The Naval Hospital had the closest military forensic pathologist to the crash site on staff, hence, the reason for the assignment.

Early the next day on that late summer 1994 at 6:30, we left with me in the passenger seat of the forensic pathologist’s pick up truck for the two-hour drive from the San Diego Naval Medical Center to Riverside, California. Upon our arrival at the coroner’s office, after brief introductions, the autopsy began. As the charred remains of the pilot were burnt beyond visual recognition, dental record comparison was required to identify the body.  The records supplied by the Air Force matched, fortunately for us, unfortunately for the pilot.

Next, we looked through the pilot's personal effects that were found on and near the body at the crash site. Small fragments of fire resistant flight suit material, a portion of a metal belt, a cracked helmet visor, the sole of a boot were all articles that survived the inferno partially intact. Of special interest to me, a wallet, which contained partially melted credit cards, a driver’s license, and a picture with charred edges.

Of this whole autopsy experience, seeing that picture is what moved me the most.  The picture  showed a young, happy, loving family.  The pilot, about my age, with a blond, military haircut and a twinkle in his steel blue eyes that seemed to say, “Life doesn’t get any better than this.”  His young, attractive, brown haired wife, with her big beautiful, infectious smile seeming to say “I love my life.” Their son, a blond towheaded boy of maybe five or six with a big tooth missing grin, seemed so happy to be nestled in between his mom and dad.

As I looked at the picture, I imagined this likely being their most recent family photo, one they never expected to be their last.  I imagined the wife, answering the knock on the door to find two Air Force Officers present to inform her there had been a plane crash and she was now a widow. I imagined I heard her scream "NOOOO!", and saw her collapse in their arms.  

I imagined the look on the little boy’s face when told dad was not coming home...ever. Not even hearing his death was heroic, by not ejecting himself to safety, rather, steering the doomed plane away from populated areas, saving countless civilian lives, sacrificing his own, could soften the blow of the knowledge “Daddy” was never coming home.

As I recount this episode in my life, the significance of this moment became evident. In the picture I saw myself, my family, at the beginning of our journey, ready to start our adventure, not sure what was to come, but hopeful. In the pilot I saw myself in command of my vehicle, his, the plane, mine, the body.  For some reason, no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to steer the plane to safety.  Now, thanks to Multiple Sclerosis, like him, no matter how hard I try, the best I can hope for is a heroic effort.