My Random Life | Elbrecht's Corpuscle

Back to the Future… The Summer of 1999

Posted on February 10, 2014 by Elbrecht

In the summer of 1999, I was a fresh-faced kid who had just returned to Lexington, KY from a wild adventure I will call “Freshman Year of College.”

In the course of those nine months, I had collected a lifetime worth of memories, learned a few things about sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll, as well as making a cadre of life-long friends.

Nothing like Will Smith’s “Summertime” would be happening.

The prospect of returning to Lexington for the summer was an enormous let down.

When I packed up my 1983 Mercedes-Benz station wagon and headed back to Lexington, I knew I would have to adjust to a whole new life from the one I’d left less than a year earlier.

I returned to a new, smaller house on a different side of town; most of the few friends I’d made in my 2.5 years of high school in Lexington were gone; none of the friends I’d made in college were nearby; and no cool job was waiting for me.

By the end of the first week of summer, I was vowing to never return.

And yet, here I find myself.

It’s as if I’m Marty McFly and I’ve gone Back to the Future.

Now I’m adjusting to an even smaller “house” on a different side of town; nearly all of my friends are either gone or living as fully functional adults; none of my college, grad school, or medical school friends live nearby; and I had no cool job to bide my time until I start Residency.

Marty McFly would be devastated if he’d traveled backwards, or forwards, in time and landed in this mess.

In 1999, I decided to make the most what I had learned during freshman year and dedicated myself to building on this “new me”.

To keep my mind fresh, I read books like “The Autobiography of Malcolm X” and “The Catcher Was a Spy.”

To build on my fitness kick, I dedicated myself in the gym by spending 2 hours a day at the local YMCA, and playing basketball outdoors under the intense summer sun.

To put some money in my pocket, I grabbed a part-time job stocking shelves at a Kroger grocery store… overnight.

To most everyone, I became a ghost. But not this cool of a ghost…

In the fall of 2013, with medical school almost finished, and a potential move to San Fran, Houston, Boston, or DC as real possibilities with the promise of free room and board and cool job opportunities before starting Residency, I made a fateful call to my mother in Lexington.

Within a few minutes, I realized that none of those opportunities would come to fruition and I would need to use my free time before Residency to return to Lexington.

Instead of Marty’s Delorean, my “new” old Mercedes-Benz sedan would have to take me back in time.

With the aid of modern vehicular technology, I’ve been transported back to that Summer of 1999, only to endure the bitter winter of 2013/2014. But despite the unlikely return, I’ve decided to continue building on the “new me” that has emerged from medical school.

To keep my mind fresh, I’ve read books like “My Own Country” by Abraham Verghese and “How Doctors Think” by Jerome Groopman.

To re-start my fitness kick, I’ve returned to that same YMCA… though the days of intense 2-hour workouts are far behind me.

To put some money in my pocket, I grabbed a temporary job at Amazon processing return orders… overnight.

To most everyone, I’ve become a ghost.

The summer of 1999 did provide me with a few memorable experiences though:

I took a trip to Windsor, Ontario, and gambled, drank, and partied like it was 1999 with Wes and Rustang… and then drove back into Lexington after that two-day bender just in time to be 20 minutes late to work.
I was caught with a porno mag underneath my mattress by my mom. I subsequently received a bone-numbing letter and lecture on how I could talk to her about any of my sexual curiosities.
I was chased out of a kegger 20 minutes after arriving by the hostess’s drunken step-father for only bringing a six-pack.
I recklessly drove a friends’ fathers’ Jaguar down the backroads of Ohio during a 4th of July celebration.

And so far, despite the numbing winter of 2013/14, I’ve managed a few memorable experiences:

I took a trip to Hoboken, NJ, stayed with friends, and interviewed for Residency. I flew back into Lexington after two days of vertigo caused by staying up for 36 hours straight to be awake for my interview, just in time to be on-time for my overnight job.
Thankfully, I have not been caught by my mom doing anything. And she hasn’t asked me anything about my sex life.
My alcohol consumption has been limited to a couple of bars and friends’ homes. No keggers.
Nor have I driven anyone’s sports car I wasn’t supposed to.

In other words, while my return to Lexington was unexpected and without a plan, just like in The Summer of 1999 I’ve tried to make the most of it. And as there was that summer, an end is in sight: I will soon find out where I’ll be heading for Residency and begin another exciting chapter in my life.

For the record, if that chapter is anything like “Sophomore Year of College”, it’s going to be one hell of a sequel.

A Bear in the Ocean

Posted on January 27, 2014 by Elbrecht

—–

One morning while waiting for rounds to begin, a psychiatrist asked me to share with him and the convening physicians, nurses, and social workers, a story from my time in Dominica. A thousand images flashed through the Rolodex of my memories from that lush isle:

a cow bursting through the bush right in front of me at 5:30AM while I made my daily walk to the gym … followed by a man wielding a machete who chased it down the unlit gravel path
coming out of class one afternoon to see a fine layer of molten ash resting atop everything in sight; the residual effect of being on an island directly downwind of a recently erupted volcano
watching a not-so-bright medical student dip his leg in “Boiling Lake”, which was literally boiling… and then watch him try to make the 3-hour hike back to our caravan

—–

https://youtube.com/watch?v=mEAyvWphhaA

—–

But my mind stopped swirling when I reached one that made me feel as uncomfortable as I’ve ever been in my entire life. The time I felt like a bear in the ocean.

Not like a polar bear in the Arctic Ocean. Like a Kodiak in the Sargasso Sea. Completely out-of-place. No natural surroundings. Only an impending sense of doom.

I found few things more relaxing in medical school than snorkeling in the Caribbean Sea. Part of that had to do with the realization that I was, in fact, in the Caribbean Sea, which is relaxing to just think about.

—–

But the other part was the incredible wildlife that was likely to be seen on any given trip into the clear waters. With my yellow bag that carried my fins, mask, and snorkel, as well as a water proof bag for my inhaler and phone, I strolled out of my apartment early one Sunday morning, planning to join my friend Tara on an adventure full of sea creature wildlife watching.

I hadn’t bothered to call Tara as I was leaving or while on the mile walk to the beach. We had agreed on 8AM and she was usually true to her word. And if she didn’t show up or was late, we were good enough friends that it wasn’t going to bother me. Being a medical student, even in the Caribbean, required me to shed many of previous foibles about people being on time, or even present.

When I arrived at the beach, Tara was nowhere to be seen. Actually, no one was anywhere to be seen. Despite the bright sun, lack of rain, and calm waters [the Triple Crown of Dominica weather], no one else was visible on the beach as far as my eyes could see.

—–

Everyone else was either nestled in bed, already pouring over copious amounts of material to study, or suffering from mid-semester beach fatigue.

Despite knowing how unsafe it is to venture out into open water alone, I decided the elements were too pristine not to wade into the welcoming waters without Tara. On a handful of occasions, I had ventured out to the beach with friends only to find that despite the clear skies, the ocean was churning and making visibility next to nil. We would turn right back around and begin a day filled with studying pathology and microbiology.

This day was perfect.

The water was calm and provided terrific visibility to the ocean floor. I waded out into the ocean, slipped on my fins, and surveyed the beach as far as the eye could see in either direction. Still no Tara.

I decided she must have been up late memorizing some inane biochem pathway or force-feeding her brain histiological slides. She would have to hear all about this day from me later, rather than witness its grandeur in person.

—–

The dock at PBH was a reliable marker for the distance traveled away from the beach. It was about 50 yards long and, when fully intact, would provide an excellent place for sunbathers to stretch out or rambunctious stressed-out daredevils to do back flips into the ocean. But depending on whether or not a storm had come ashore recently, some of the dock would have been violently ripped away, only leaving the concrete stanchions as a marker.

—–

On this day, the entire furthest half was missing. From the safety of the dock, you could also peer down into the ocean, where it was not uncommon to see sting rays with a 10 foot wingspan floating beneath you. Or bizarre looking eels wriggling along the ocean floor.

Being in the ocean, feeling the water against your skin, the mask pressed against your face, and gliding through the water with the aid of fins, provided a completely different perspective than the one provided by peering into the depths from the safety of the dock. I compare it to standing outside a gigantic aquarium and observing the marvel of the world behind the glass… and actually being inside it.

—–

Feeling everything that those outside can only see.

I had been snorkeling along the coast of Dominica enough times at this point that I wasn’t seeing anything new on this morning. And with calm waters tempting me, I decided to move even further away from land. The closest concrete stanchion was at least 10 yards away by the time I stopped kicking my fins and decided to float and observe my surroundings.

After only a few moments of deliberately surveying the scene beneath the water’s surface, a fish zoomed right by me. I immediately recognized it as a tuna, which can easily be the size of a full-grown man. This one was definitely as big as me.

—–

I had never seen one in the ocean, only on the chopping blocks of the fish market in Portsmouth. But it’s identity was unmistakable. It had come close enough that if I had outstretched my hand, I certainly would have touched it. Yet, it all happened so fast that I was pleased enough to have simply seen one up close and in person.

As I rotated my head from right to left and watched it rush off into the distance, I thought to myself, “Wow! Tara is going to be so jealous!” I smiled to myself.

Then, in algorithmic fashion, the likelihood of me seeing a lone tuna this “close” to the beach began flooding my mind.

Tuna swim in schools.

That tuna was by itself.

Either it got incredibly lost.

Or it was being chased.

By something bigger than it.

Something bigger than me.

Dear god.

—–

Time to get the *$%^& outta here.

I felt like a Kodiak bear that had been captured, tranquilized, and awoken while being dropped from a helicopter just in time to splash into the Atlantic Ocean and fight for its life against a blood-thirsty Great White Shark.

Or two.

Or three.

Or… oh shit.

The Kodiak would summon all of its might and then quickly recognize that the advantages it had in its natural habitat of size, razor-sharp claws, and blood curdling roar would be trumped in this new environment by its predator’s agility, even larger size, rows of teeth and inability to care about a muffled roar.

—–

A wave of fear rushed over me.

I was not meant to be here. In this place. Where I was exposed at all angles. Where my fists could perhaps land a blow before they were gruesomely chomped off into sprouting fountains. And then I was eviscerated by teeth resembling the ones I had bought from a gift shop I visited in San Diego as a kid.

I guess that would be one hell of a way to go. Except no one would ever know because the shark would just keeping chomping away at my crackling bones as it continued its pursuit of that marvelous tuna.

—–

I spun 180 degrees, located the nearest portion of beach and rhythmically kicked my fins as I kept my eyes directly on that spot. I swam like I’ve never swum before. I channeled my inner tuna and hoped to mimic its survival instincts by out-racing whatever it was running from.

As my fins gyrated in the water, I repeated in my head, “I Need A Hero”, the theme from Short Circuit 2. In the back of my mind, the same fear I had experienced as a young boy during early morning swim lessons was percolating.

The darkness of the early morning made the deep end of the pool seem black and endless. My cinematic experience of watching Jaws at 3AM on cable television made the black and endless deep end of the pool seem to be a likely place for my life to end to occur.

—–

—-

So on those mornings, I didn’t dare look down. Only stared at the ceramic tile along the opposite wall that I had decided would be my safety point.

I would have rather not seen those heartless eyes before I was torn to shreds. Hopefully it would be quick.

Maybe it would chomp my head off so I wouldn’t even know the pain of being bitten in half.

On this morning, I promised to never return to this god-forsaken beach ever again. I swam until I literally couldn’t swim anymore, my chest colliding with the brown sand on the beach, my legs beating against the ocean floor, and my head fully above water.

—–

With fins still attached to my feet, I sprung from the ocean. Only then did I turn around, half-expecting to see Jaws himself come flying out of the ocean at me, just as he had flung himself onto the boat in the film.

I ran to where my belongings were hanging from a white post of the fence separating the beach from the small beach houses of PBH. I tore the fins from my feet and stuffed them into my bag while simultaneously pulling the water-proof bag from therein.

—–

I took a couple of quick puffs from my inhaler, for no necessary reason, and powered “on” my cheap phone.

My heart was still beating a mile a minute as I walked from the beach out onto Ross Blvd. I dialed Tara’s number. She answered, apologizing for not being there. “What did I miss today?” I replied, “You won’t believe the Tuna I saw!”

—–

Two and a Half Men

Posted on January 20, 2014 by Elbrecht

In a drug-induced state of psychosis, Charlie Sheen once famously said, “WINNING!” in reference to how his life was turning out post “Two and a Half Men.”

Having starred as the playboy uncle to the father-son duo who shared billing with him, Charlie was now an outcast from his on-screen role. So an urge to assume the real life playboy role of his younger years seemed to envelop him, resulting in the now-famous quote.

—–

I found myself in a similar role during the three months I lived with my friends, The Mastersons, during the summer/fall of 2013. And by similar role, I mean, broke pseudo-uncle who needs a place to live and decides not to leave.

#WINNING, indeed.

While my initial reasons for accepting The Masterson’s offer for a place to stay revolved around me being a broke medical student, my reasons for staying quickly evolved around the relationship between two members of the family, Matt and his son, Nathaniel. [Props to Jo and Lyla for putting up with me too.]

—–

I’ve written before about my experiences with playing “dad” in When I had a Son, but in the midst of The Masterson home, I found myself settling in to a hybrid role of uncle-playmate-curious observer.

In the case of the father and son in Two and Half Men, they constantly find themselves in the midst of Charlie’s high-jinks, womanizing, and tom-foolery. I’m guessing Matt and Jo were thankful my character, Me, brought none of those into their home. Especially since my bedroom doubled as Jo’s office during the day.

“Eaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnn!!!”

As long as he was still awake when I returned home, Nathaniel would screech my name when I strolled through the garage door and into the kitchen. In his three-year-old mind, I must have seemed a like a walking, talking, ball-tossing, live-in playmate. Not that I minded his interpretation of my place in the Masterson home. I reveled in the role of “Uncle Charlie.”

—–

While I thoroughly enjoyed chasing Nathaniel around the house, playing with fighter jets in the living room, or eating dinner with him at the dining room table, it was fascinating to see his personality change, his capabilities increase, and his interests broaden from one day to another. Every day he was growing in mind, body, and spirit.

I have several other close friends with young children, but I may go several months between seeing them, making the changes in their behavior and capabilities more pronounced. In the case of Nathaniel, it was rare that I would go a day without seeing him, even if only for a few minutes. From this new perspective, I could observe his advancing development as subtle, but apparent, on close reflection.

—–

The opportunity of being “Uncle Charlie” with Nathaniel was enriching, but I was also carefully observing how Matt and Nathaniel’s relationship was developing. My observations with other friends and their sons are short-lived, never on such a daily basis, and typically revolve around celebrations of some sort.

But we all know that things could be different behind the closed doors of one’s own home.

In my opinion, the responsibility of a parent is to be an role model, while also being someone who’s willing to address incorrect behavior when necessary.

When one day Nathaniel went from playfully crawling on the floor with Lyla (who wasn’t yet crawling) to playfully sticking her fingers in his mouth and chomping down, Matt sprung from doting father into “Jesus Christ my son just bit my daughter’s fingers” mode.

—–

Nathaniel’s intent wasn’t to cause pain or disfigurement, but Matt had to make sure Nathaniel’s three-year-old brain would remember this was a bad thing the next time a finger came close to his mouth. So Matt raised his voice, alerting Nathaniel to his father’s watchful eye, and then removed Lyla from close proximity. He completed the parenting “Triple Crown” by explaining to Nathaniel how and why he had done wrong.

Charlie’s “Triple Crown” likely would have been to make a Triple Crown and Coke afterwards, but Matt resisted the urge to make a drink and instead continued playing with his son.

—–

Over the course of 3 months, there were many opportunities to witness the father-son bond growing between Matt and Nathaniel, from the aforementioned act of parenting, their Saturday morning Starbucks journeys, Matt reading and re-reading Nathaniel’s favorite books, and the two of them making dinner together.

Matt was the loving, doting father and Nathaniel, the lovable, huggable, curious son. Few things are more marvelous to observe.

But all good things do come to an end, as did even Charlie’s run on Two and a Half Men.

—–

When I only had a few days left in Columbus, Nathaniel and I were playing on the couch and I hadn’t yet told him I would be leaving soon.

I wasn’t quite sure how to tell him I wouldn’t be around every day anymore, so I simply said, “Buddy, in a couple of days I’m gonna go live with my mom just like you live with your mommy and daddy.”

Nathaniel tilted his head slightly, crumpled his nose, and replied, “Why do you want to go live with your mom?”

The real answer was a convoluted mess, so I answered, “that’s what people do sometimes.” Never deterred from playing, he went back to wrestling on the couch.

—–

I’m pretty sure in Two and a Half Men Charlie’s character was killed off, so I’m grateful that fate didn’t become Me when it came time to leave The Mastersons.

Instead, I was able to drive off into the sunset and on to another adventure.

WINNING, indeed.

The Accidental Patient

Posted on January 14, 2014 by Elbrecht

I caressed her hair as she held me tightly.

Her call had come a half hour earlier.

“Ean, please come over. I have cancer.”

I quickly closed my Chemistry book and bolted downstairs and out the front door. There was a torrential rain, but I didn’t bother grabbing my umbrella.

The contents of her message and its tone were so dense that I felt numb. The umbrella would do nothing other than to weigh down my strides.

By the time I had bridged the two miles separating us, not a single thought had crossed my mind.

I rang her buzzer and she emerged moments later; a blank look scrawled across her face. She trudged up a flight of stairs and I quickly followed, only stopping to peel off my clothing and drop them in the stairway outside her apartment.

I followed her into the bedroom, where she sat on the bed, emotionless. I sat down beside her. She buried her face in my chest and began to cry.

I caressed her hair as she held me tightly.

—–

On the previous Sunday evening, while laying in bed, I had run my hands through her hair and down her neck. My hand encountered something new and I paused as I felt it beneath my fingers again: a hard marble-sized ball resting at the base of the left side of her neck.

She teasingly slapped my hand away. I didn’t dare feel it again. Terrible thoughts began racing through my head.

But I gave her a sly grin to distract her from my concern. We turned off the lights and readied for bed.

I caressed her hair as she held me tightly.

—–

When we awoke the next morning, I cautiously suggested she should go see her doctor first thing. A light-hearted soul who always smiled, she flashed her own sly grin at me.

I followed her smile with a look which revealed my overwhelming concern. “Please. For me.”

An uncommonly serious look came across her face and she promised to go immediately.

The doctor performed a biopsy of the lymph node and summoned her for the results three days later. She had Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, the same diagnosis her mother had received five years earlier.

—–

At the time, our relationship was still in its hot and fast stage, having been together for less than a year. On one fateful day, I had summoned the courage to give her my number. We had been nearly inseparable since.

We were scheduled to leave for Prague in only a few weeks. But on that night, as the rain streamed down her windows and her tears streamed down my chest, time seemed to stand still; the uncertainty of life reverberating through every one of her cries.

A few days before our trip, she dropped me off at home and as I paused to kiss her good-bye, she took a deep breath. It was as if she was sneaking some of the life out of me, knowing what lay in store for her.

Then she whispered words I could not believe. She said she was willing to undergo this battle on her own. If I wanted to end our relationship after our trip, she would understand.

I froze in shock and climbed back into the car.

I caressed her hair as she held me tightly.

—–

The next six months were a cauldron of emotion, marked by fear, anxiety, and sadness… for both her and I. Feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of the situation, I did my best to be strong and caring for her.

I often failed.

Though universally beloved, she was an intensely private woman. She was able to tell only a select few co-workers and friends about the diagnosis because her treatment would “only” be every-other-Friday. And she told them only in case something turned for the worse.

Outside of work, she was active in coaching, a natural gift that made her a pied piper to the college kids. Her treatment would likely leave her ill and weak on the weekends, so she took a semester hiatus. Being away from the game and people she loved was agonizing for her.

In preparation for what was deemed inevitable, she used my hair trimmers and cut her locks short. For Christmas I bought her two trendy hats I thought would make her feel cute. But she never got around to wearing them; perhaps because she received so many compliments about her new look.

—–

Unlike her, I told everyone.

I had to. I was overwhelmed with uncertainty. I could feel the stress percolating in my body. I wanted to be Superman for her.

Her privacy kept her from allowing anyone else who loved her from coming and sitting with her at chemotherapy. Only I was allowed to see her in such a vulnerable state.

On those Fridays, as the clock neared 10AM, I would catch a cab from across town, and arrive as the infusion was beginning.

We would play cards and talk about what we would do over the weekend. She would declare with pride to the nurses that I was studying to be a doctor. And that she was my patient.

When the session was over, we would drive back to her apartment, sit down in front of the TV, and wait for the nausea to come.

She would run to the bathroom, return a few minutes later, give me a sly grin, and start chewing some gum.

Then she would lay down across the couch and rest her head in my lap.

I caressed her hair as she held me tightly.

—–

Her athletic frame and wide smile prevented most people from noticing the side effects of chemotherapy, even those whom she had been comfortable telling about her illness.

But they were awful. At night, she would vacillate between hot flashes and cold night sweats, often tearing clothes from her body only to hurriedly put them back on a few moments later.

In the middle of the night, her dry mouth left her gasping for water.

She craved physical intimacy, but the pain was unbearable.

I would awake to her crying and could not console her.

I caressed her hair as she held me tightly.

—-

After six months of treatment, she was free of cancer, with many people in her life none-the-wiser to everything she endured.

When nearly two years later I asked her to attend a cancer survivors event put on by the hospital where I was working, she shook her head no.

I don’t think she wanted to be reminded of those days.

—–

The end of her treatment and my birthday occurred within a week of each other in the summer of 2006. She reluctantly agreed to have a birthday/post-chemo celebration at her apartment. Friends from all of our walks of life stopped in, shared a drink, and made her feel special.

At the end of night she and I shared one last private drink and crawled into her bed, happy to have it all behind us. She looked relieved and smiled at me.

I caressed her hair as she held me tightly.