Called Out

“What the fuck’s wrong with you? “He barked, grabbing me by my shirt collar, pinning me against the wall as I exited the conference room.  Dr. Roman Sky had just given us pathology residents a lecture on some aspect of pediatric pathology, in the spring of 1996.  Stunned, shocked, and terrified, I stood there against the wall, frozen, wide-eyed, and speechless.  “You’re stumbling around, bumping into things, dropping stuff, and making a mess. Are you in drugs!?” he continued.  I just stood there, motionless, internally acknowledging the reality that I could no longer keep my secret, which I had been fighting desperately to keep, hidden.

I had been rotating in surgical pathology, my first rotation of my first year of residency, at a private hospital in Long Beach, California, since January 1 of that year.   As a resident on this rotation, I examined and processed surgical specimens ranging from skin biopsies, to colons, to breasts. Additionally, every four weeks I performed all of the autopsies requested. One reason I chose to go into the medical field of pathology is because it is mentally challenging, yet not physically taxing in nature.  Surgical pathology is the most physically demanding aspect of pathology.

What Dr. Sky had brought to light, showing me the reflection in my mirror, was true. I was stumbling around, bumping into things, dropping stuff, and making a mess. The nickname I had acquired during this rotation, ”Bloody mess”, was appropriate.  Though not for the reasons Dr. Sky thought.

A self-proclaimed  “big dumb Pollock,” Dr. Sky was by no means dumb. Polish, yes, big, yes, looking more like an NFL middle linebacker than a physician. Having successfully completed a pediatrics residency, a pathology residency, and a pediatric pathology fellowship, holding board certifications in pediatrics, anatomic and clinical pathology, and pediatric pathology, one could hardly question his intellect.

This encounter marked the beginning of an extremely meaningful and influential relationship during my residency. Dr. Sky, throughout my residency years, afforded me opportunities that had not been presented me by anyone else, such as presenting cases to the multidisciplinary tumor board on several occasions. These conferences, attended by the clinicians treating the patients being presented, were where decisions about treatment were made.  Over the four years of residency, he became like a father figure to me. One of the few things I miss about my residency years

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The more I got to know Dr. Sky, the more I understood from where his words and actions during our first encounter came. They were not words of anger, contempt, or disgust. They were words of caring, kindness, and compassion. That encounter was his attempt, although clumsy and likely illegal, at a possible intervention rather than an act of accusation.

Accosting me like he did after that conference shook me and caught me off guard, as I think was his intention. I saw the reaction on his face and change in body language when I finally responded.  I could hear the ”thunk” of his dropped jaw hitting the floor as I finally answered his question, disclosing, ”I have multiple sclerosis.”

"Angels Ready"

"Angels ready?" I called over my shoulder to the trio of young women, a blond and two brunettes, on the jet ski, in reference to the recent movie, Charlie’s Angels, starring Cameron Diaz, Drew Barrymore, and Lucy Liu.  My “Angels” were the jumpers and deep water starters tasked with riding the wave runner jet ski as a “chase boat” to follow me as I skied at the wheelchair water ski clinic on a Saturday in July, 2009. The three ladies responded with a chorus of, "Ready, "  

After confirming that my  beach water starter was ready, I yelled, "Hit it."  The boat engine revved, yanking me and my partially submerged water ski from its resting position, tip of the ski extending from the water towards the sky, to an upright, horizontal position.  I began gliding and cutting back and forth atop the wake of water created by the speeding boat.

I’ve been attending the annual disabled water ski event at Creve Coeur Lake for well over a decade. I look forward to these outings all year. It is a rare chance for me to feel ”normal”, or at least as close to normal as I remember normal feeling,  if at least only for a few hours. The endorphin rush I get as I glide, balance, steer, and even sometimes jump across the water, wind in my face, water spraying over me, is much like the feelings I used to get while playing competitive sports, snow skiing, or performing music.  Even the “wipeouts”, though sometimes mildly uncomfortable, can be exhilarating.

The second most important person on the boat, most important being the boat driver, is the person working the pin.  Pulling the pin releases the ski rope from the boat.  The pin is pulled when the skier wipes out to prevent injury.  If the pin is pulled too late, the skier gets dragged behind the boat, flailing in the water.  If the pin is pulled too soon, or unnecessarily, the ski coasts to a stop, and sinks, with the skier still atop the ski.  Personally, I prefer the former.

Volunteers far outnumber athletes at this event. In addition to in-boat volunteers, boat drivers, pin pullers, and whomever else wants to ride along, there are countless volunteers on the beach preparing and carrying skis to and from the water, all to ensure we disabled skiers have a safe and fun time.  Lunch features a barbecue of hamburgers and hotdogs, cooked on-site by volunteers with the ever delicious, Mr. Lucido’s barbecued chicken the highlight of the meal. (Mr. Lucido is Vito, the organizer of the event’s father) Last but not least are the ladies who organize boats and skiers to ensure everybody has the opportunity to ski.

As soon as the words, “Angels ready?” left my mouth, a dread came over me.  “Was I inappropriate?”  “Did I offend or disrespect them?”  “Am I a dirty old man?” were some of my concerns.  After all, at the time, I was married.  These concerns continued to plague me while I skied, until my wipeout.  After getting me back on my ski, and themselves back onto their chase boat, I heard them quibbling amongst themselves, “I’m Lucy Liu.” “No, I’m Lucy Liu.”