Ruff's War

by K. Sue Roper

  That unit’s nursing staff, civilian nurses and the few navy nurses with whom I would have contact while working the three different shifts, was wonderful, and I viewed these folks as my family. I lived in the barracks adjacent to the hospital, and, not owning a car at that time, I had no opportunity to venture to the beach. So, I would often go back to the ward just to see this new family of mine and to visit them even when I was off duty. If they were busy and needed an extra hand, I was always willing to pitch in and do whatever I could to help lessen their workload.

  I worked various eight-hour shifts, frequently alongside a navy nurse because during the night shift the unit was staffed with only one nurse and one corpsman. Some of the navy nurses intimidated me more than others simply because of their rigidly starched, serious, and professional dress and persona. One such nurse was Ens. Brigit Balog.

  Ensign Balog was a no-nonsense, conscientious nurse who took nothing for granted. She expected her staff to be on their toes at all times, efficiently and effectively attending to every detail of patient care. She not only wanted patient-care procedures performed correctly but also insisted that we understand why the procedures were being performed. Because she was serious and demanding, working for Ensign Balog was a challenge, and although I was scared of her, I also greatly admired her proficiency and dedication toward providing exceptional patient care.

  Fascinated and impressed by the nurses’ ability to give the change-of-shift report, I just could not imagine how they were able to remember and report to the oncoming shift all the specific details regarding the medical and nursing care of each patient. We had twenty to thirty patients on the ward at any given time and what seemed like more than a hundred details that needed to be passed along to ensure continuity of care. “Passing report,” which is what the change-of-shift report was known as, was amazing to me, and I also saw it as a challenge that I wanted to take on.

  One night, during the 11 PM to 7 AM shift, I mustered my courage and asked Ensign Balog whether I might have an opportunity to give the passing report. She asked me, “Do you think you could?” I looked at her and replied, “I don’t know, but I’d like to give it a try.” Whether it was the determination she saw in my eyes or my eagerness to grow and move beyond my status as a general-duty corpsman, she took me under her wing, showing me what she did and how she was able to acquire the pertinent and critical information that would ensure a comprehensive and informative patient-care change-of-shift report.

  The morning I was to give the report, I was so nervous I was physically shaking, for I was the first corpsman assigned to this particular nursing unit who would attempt to successfully master what I saw as an awesome feat. I desperately wanted to do it right. Ensign Balog was there in the crowded nurses’ station supporting me and giving me the boost of confidence I needed. She seemed to believe in me and in my abilities more than I did, and her presence, combined with the confidence I saw in her eyes, was just what I needed most. My passing report that day was a huge success. It was a wonderful and heady experience for me, and I thought no position could get any better. It was my day, my brief moment to shine, and I was in my glory. That day the spark of someday becoming a registered nurse was ignited in my mind.

  The intensive care unit (ICU) was just outside the ward on which I was assigned, and every day as I reported for duty, I would pass by it and look through its door. I was intrigued by what I saw. The patients in the ICU were critically ill, and I could see that those who were providing care within the unit were intelligent and highly skilled. They were very impressive to me. The ICU and those who worked within it piqued my interest and helped further fan the flame of my desire for the profession of nursing.

  My experience at Naval Hospital, Long Beach, was very positive even though it was also the place I would witness my first death. The patient was an elderly woman who had a do-not-resuscitate (DNR) order. She was slowly dying and close to death, but never having seen someone die, I did not understand what was truly happening. After observing her slow, labored, and irregular breathing pattern, I quickly found one of the nurses and hysterically asked, “What are we going to do?” The nurse signaled me to be calm, and we went back into the patient’s room, adjusted her sheets and covers to make her as comfortable as possible, and remained with her as she died. It was an eerie experience, but I learned the importance of allowing someone to die calmly, peacefully, as comfortably as possible, and with dignity.

  For several days after this event, the nurses were very attentive to me and to my emotional needs related to witnessing this death. They wanted to be sure I was doing okay, and they supported me as I came to grips with the finality of death within my eighteen-year-old adolescent mind and heart. The care and compassion shown to me by those nurses during the year I spent on the ward at Long Beach would ultimately play a decisive role in my future decision to go into the nursing profession.

  While stationed at Long Beach I had saved my money and eventually was able to purchase my first car. I was also able to purchase a surfboard, and instead of spending all my off-duty time on the ward or in the barracks, I was soon out on the beach learning to surf and having a wonderful time. I worked hard, played hard, and slept little. To this day, I do not really know how I did it all.

  After spending several months serving as a general-duty corpsman on the ward, I was encouraged to apply to an advanced Hospital Corps “C” School program. “C” is the designation the navy medical department gives to specialized advanced training programs that go beyond the basic general nursing care instruction received at Hospital Corps School. Those who graduate from one of these programs receive the title of technician, as compared to the title general-duty corpsman, which is equivalent to being a nursing aide. Working as a technician, I would have more stabilized working hours instead of the constantly rotating shift work inherent in working as a ward corpsman. Regular work hours were especially important because they would give me the opportunity to take college courses on my off-duty time. The nurses had allowed me to administer medications on the ward, but only after I was able to tell them all about the desired effects of the drug, its side effects, and why the patient was receiving the drug. As a result, I became very interested in pharmacodynamics and pharmacokinetics and wanted to learn more.

  I applied and was accepted to the Pharmacy Technician “C” School at the Naval School of Health Sciences in San Diego. My class comprised only sixteen students, and I found the course material difficult and very challenging. I enjoyed the courses, and the more I got into the subject matter, the more I liked it. It was science, general chemistry, and pharmaceutical compounding, and I was fascinated by how the drugs and medications interacted with the body’s system. Despite experiencing a freak racquetball accident that resulted in several days of hospitalization with both of my eyes patched, I was allowed to continue in my class, and kept up by listening to audiotape lectures. After being discharged from the hospital, I returned to school and was able to pass the quizzes and tests successfully, ultimately graduating second in my class.

  Although I really wanted to stay in California, close to the beach where I could continue to surf, my next set of military orders—and the first as a pharmacy technician—were to Naval Hospital, Orlando, Florida. I reported to the hospital’s pharmacy in March 1978, and I would remain there for a little less than a year.

  I enjoyed the central Florida area with its sweet smell of orange blossoms and the slow-moving, swaggering families of peacocks that often blocked our drive to work. I especially loved my job. Responsible for the compounding section of the pharmacy, I made numerous drugs and intricate medicinal compounds for dermatology; ear, nose, and throat; and various other specialized units and areas throughout the hospital. Although I was just a few months beyond my twentieth birthday, my responsibilities included weighing out precise quantities of cocaine and accounting for every milligram of it. I loved making the various emulsions and compounds; it was like being Betty Crocker every day, and it was
great!

  I developed a strong sense of responsibility and continued learning more and more about the various pharmaceutical agents, ingredients, and products. I also became acutely aware of how easy it was for others to abuse these drugs and how they could mess up a person’s mind to the point where some individuals would go to almost any length to acquire controlled substances and get their “fix.” That was an important lesson for me, and to this day the medications and narcotics I use in my anesthesia practice are rigidly controlled and never left lying around in a drawer or even placed on a table outside of my direct eyesight.

  My thirst for knowledge and desire for continuing education led me to enroll in a few general college courses at Valencia Community College in Orlando. I began my pursuit for higher education by enrolling in English and math classes two nights a week. Although these classes were not always exciting or stimulating, I knew they were valuable stepping stones that would provide me an opportunity to grow and move into a professional field of my own choosing. Because the navy was helping to subsidize the tuition for these courses, I had very little to lose and a lot to gain.

  During my first few months in Orlando, I lived in the barracks but soon moved into a small one-bedroom first-floor apartment with another female corpsman who hailed from Fort Lauderdale. That Fourth of July weekend, my roommate had planned to go home but was unable to do so because of a schedule change. She was very disappointed, but to this day I believe God was looking out for us and prevented her from leaving me alone in the apartment that night.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, I heard my roommate get up to go into the bathroom, and when she came back toward the bedroom, I heard her say in a very strained, scared, and shrill voice, “Cheryl!” I immediately began screaming, jumped out of bed, and grabbed a marble knickknack from the table situated between our two beds. I could see the silhouette of a man reflected on the wall as he stood in our apartment’s living room. I then heard the door slam. Because it was so dark, I was not sure whether the man had fled or was still inside our apartment. Shuffling into our small kitchenette, my roommate immediately behind me, I instinctively grabbed a butcher knife, and we began turning on all the lights. Fortunately, the man had fled, and we found that only the two of us remained in the apartment. This experience was so frightening that it did not seem real, but real it was, as the popped-open screen of the low window adjacent to the door would testify.

  That experience was a defining moment for me. I found that although I had always slept soundly throughout the night in total blackness for twenty years, from then on I always needed a light source and some ability to see what was happening around me. If disaster was to strike, and I was put in harm’s way, I wanted to be a witness to it and have a fighting chance and some sense of control, rather than to be nothing more than a simple, passive victim. This innate desire would grow to be instinctual in me.

  In January 1979, I headed back to San Diego. I had agreed to swap positions with one of the other pharmacy technicians, who desperately wanted to return to the East Coast. My dad flew down to Orlando from Pennsylvania, and together we drove cross-country. We had a fantastic time, celebrating my twenty-first birthday together, listening to the play-by-play action of the Super Bowl on the car radio, and just being together riding in the car. It would also be the last time I would have the opportunity to spend any quality time with him.

  My San Diego orders were to the navy’s branch clinic in Coronado, where a total of only four pharmacy technicians were assigned to cover the North Island and the Coronado area. Our beneficiaries were primarily retired senior officers, and we were extremely busy filling multiple prescriptions, providing detailed medication administration instructions, and ensuring the efficacy and proficiency of our pharmaceutical-dispensing practice. In addition to our normal workday schedule, we had additional duty five times a week, during which time our primary role was one of general-duty corpsman. This duty entailed riding in ambulances and responding to emergency calls, performing cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) and basic life support, suturing lacerations, and developing skills as emergency medicine personnel. I loved the excitement and the adrenaline surge that I experienced during these emergency ambulance runs and knew I wanted to grow and develop well beyond my current role as a pharmacy technician.

  When not on duty, I spent my time surfing and running. I was also relentless in my pursuit of a college degree; I enrolled in several night courses at San Diego Community College throughout the remainder of my initial four-year enlistment obligation. I had spent almost five years as an enlisted member in the navy, and I wanted more than anything to become a commissioned officer. As a third-class petty officer and designated pharmacy technician, I greatly enjoyed working in the pharmacy. I knew I wanted to stay in a medical-related field, but I struggled with deciding what my future career choice should be. I saw both becoming a pharmacist and becoming a registered nurse as two very viable and attractive future possibilities.

  I sat down with a good friend, Cdr. Shirley (Richard) Cornell, a nurse with whom I had previously been stationed at Long Beach, and her husband, Capt. Gordon Cornell, U.S. Navy, and we talked about my interests and prospects for the future. Shirley had previously helped me acquire letters of recommendation and complete my application for pharmacy technician school early in my career. Since our days at Long Beach, we had continued to stay in contact through letters, phone calls, and visits, including one that involved attending Shirley’s wedding to Gordon. I especially saw a lot of Shirley after she and Gordon each received orders to San Diego. I had grown to know both of them well. Highly successful individuals, they were my friends, and I trusted their guidance, for I knew they both cared about me very much and wanted to help me make choices that would be the right ones for me.

  Gordon, a navy line officer in charge of the Rework Facility for F-4 Phantoms at North Island, Coronado, California, recommended that I look at the possibility of attending the U.S. Naval Academy. He assured me that if I decided to go to the academy, he would make it a reality for me. Being provided with four years of college plus room and board at no cost to me was a very tempting prospect, but, unfortunately, at that time the U.S. Naval Academy did not offer collegiate degrees in any medical-related field. I did think a lot about it, yet I soon realized a degree in engineering or some other field not even remotely related to medicine was not what I wanted to do.

  Shirley was a tremendous mentor for me, guiding and supporting my decision-making process without overly influencing its outcome. The only thing she was adamant about was that I would not settle for an associate degree no matter what field I chose to enter. She believed in me and in my abilities to obtain a bachelor’s degree and eventually a master’s. I loved pharmacy, but I knew that as a pharmacist my interaction with patients would be limited and that I would miss that very personal aspect of health care. I had loved the days I spent on the ward in Long Beach and the emergency medicine experience I had while in Coronado. Shirley helped me put it all in perspective one day when she said, “You know, Cheryl, you’re going to do pharmacy every day as a nurse, but you’re not going to do nursing as a pharmacist. You’ll have very little interaction with the patients unless you are always right there at the window when the patients come to pick up their prescriptions.”

  Gordon then introduced me to Holly, the daughter of a navy helicopter pilot whom Gordon had known for many years. Holly was enrolled in nursing school at Fort Hays University in western Kansas. We met when she came to visit her family over the Christmas holidays. Although I wanted to stay in California very much, Holly’s description of the nursing program structured in eight-week modules versus semesters greatly appealed to me. I applied to Fort Hays University and was thrilled when I found out they were willing to accept all of my previous course credits, plus enroll me at the sophomore level. My decision was made, and I had no regrets as I packed my old 1976 Mustang with my few personal belongings, attached my surfboard to its roof, and headed east to
western Kansas, a place to which I had never been nor ever dreamed I would be.

  3

  BEING ALL THAT I COULD BE

  Academic courses at Fort Hays University began in September 1980. I was still on active-duty status but had purposefully saved my terminal leave days in order to ensure that I would be free to start classes on schedule. That year, my summer vacation was nothing more than a weekend spent driving from San Diego to Hays, Kansas.

  I had arranged with Holly and her roommate to share their apartment. Holly was a year ahead of me in her nursing courses, and she and her roommate lived on the second story of an old home that had been converted into a small apartment. In addition to having two bedrooms, this apartment had a small kitchen, one bathroom, a living room, and an attic. The tiny attic area would be my own personal space. It would also provide me with my first opportunity to learn how to improvise and develop ways to regulate temperature control because the attic had no heat or air-conditioning.

  The attic was freezing cold in the blustery and snowy Kansas winters, and I could easily scrape frost off the interior walls. I learned to sleep with the clothes I planned to wear the next day tucked under my sheets and blankets at the foot of my bed to keep them warm. In the mornings, I would hurriedly grab these relatively warm clothes, run down the stairs to the bathroom, shut the door, and quickly turn on the hot-water tap of the tub. The steam from the hot water filling the tub would permeate the room, providing me with warmth and maintaining the warmth of the clothes I would put on. Every day I dreaded leaving that warm, tiny bathroom to return to my freezing room in the attic. Still, despite the attic being so cold in the winter and the hottest, most stifling place in the world during the summer months, it was cheap, and I managed to devise ways to keep as comfortable as possible. I had no way of knowing that these lessons learned from living in that attic would serve me well some twenty years later in the sands of Iraq.