A
month into boot camp, I was woken up in the middle of the night by a
commander, the lieutenant and two of my RDC's. They told me not to
bother putting a uniform on and to follow them to the commander's
office. A fax had come in the night from Red Cross. Gabriel was in the
hospital. There was something wrong with his blood. They couldn't be
certain yet, but it looked like cancer. He was a year old.
I
was allowed to call several days later and the doctors confirmed it was
cancer. Acute Lymphomic Leukemia. Fortunately, because I had joined
the Navy before the diagnosis, Gabriel's treatment would be completely
covered by the military health insurance, Tricare. For those who know
anything about cancer treatment, each procedure costs between $2,000 and $8,000 and Gabriel
would be having them at least once a month, sometimes two or three times.
I
was thanking God for the dreams about joining the military then, let me
tell you. It didn't change my ex's perspective, though. She
continually complained that I had abandoned her. Even when we moved to
sunny South Carolina for Nuclear A-school, Power school and Prototype,
living about 30 mins from the beach, she never stopped complaining.
For
almost two years we lived there, in a nice little military house. We
found a church, met the helpful staff of the Medical University of South
Carolina, and explored the surrounding beaches and water parks. We had
our daughter Addy there. For a short time, I actually thought our life
would be a success story. For a short time...
When I
graduated from NPTU (prototype) in Goose Creek, SC, I was given the
CO's professionalism award. They select one student from each group for
the award, so it's not that big of a deal. But I think in my case, it
was given mainly for juggling a brutal 12 hour rotating shift schedule
in an extremely demanding and stressful environment with my son dying of cancer in the background.
The hours spent in the hospital included spinal
injections, red blood cell, white blood cell and platelet transfusions,
and a feeding tube through his stomach. They tried to do it through his
nose, first. Their procedure was hold him down and jam it up his
nostril. This resulted in him screaming at the top of his lungs, a
bloody nose, and Gabriel vomiting repeatedly on himself as they pushed
it down his throat. He was red-faced and shrieking the entire time.
Afterward, they did an x-ray and found out that the tube "wasn't in
right" and they'd have to take it out and put it back in again. I said
No. Just do the stomach surgery.
You see, when adults
have cancer and start withering away, they know they still have to eat.
Small children, however, don't. Without food, the body stops
regenerating and even stops growing. Gabriel was paper thin and
deteriorating fast. So they put a tube through his stomach. It hung
out like the headphone connector to an I-pod, dangling there all day and
worrying me that it might snag on something. We had to hook it up at
night and wake up every two hours throughout the night so the pump
could push this milk-like nutrient mix into him - while he slept.
When
the immune system is down, even a slightly high fever can kill. So we
were under doctor's orders to bring him to the hospital every single
time his temperature rose over a certain number. I can't remember, but I
think it was 102. No "quick run" to the hospital lasted less than six
hours. At any rate, the point is, my average day consisted of twelve
plus hours in military school followed, almost every other day by six
plus hours in the hospital. The only days off were between rotated
shifts, (like when your hours changed from a 12 hour day to a 12 hour
night). But I still managed to stay on the fast track and in the
forefront of those who finished early. I guess when they saw some
student parents complaining they had to go home because their kid had
asthma, they appreciated me not making excuses and doing my job. It's
like my RDC, Petty Officer Garcia, once said, "There are enough shitbags
in the navy, that if you just do your job, you'll stand out."
Once
we got to San Diego, we actually got a very nice military home in Serra
Mesa - another 2 story, 4 bedroom that was even bigger than our last.
I was assigned to report to the USS Ronald Reagan, one of the newest
aircraft carriers in the fleet. For the next six or seven months, I
pretty much lived on the ship (duty every 2 or 3 days), studying,
training, and helping prepare for Naval Reactor's friendly visit
(certifying us capable of running the reactor and the ship before we
embarked on deployment).
A lot of my time at sea,
Angela would send emails complaining about things that she knew I could
do nothing about at the time. I was in the middle of the ocean, after
all. If that wasn't enough, she'd go around telling people that I was
off "living my dream" while she slaved away with the kids. I made the
mistake of telling one of my oldest friends, a gal from Salt Lake City
that was a penpal since grade school, a little about my situation. When
she tried to be a friend and tell me I could use her ear whenever I
needed, that was apparently crossing the line. Angela would later hack
into my email, print out the conversation, and read it to the therapist
with her own bitterly jealous inflection, in attempt to prove that my
friend, who was happily married with a kid, was secretly trying to steal
me away from her. Right.
After repeated issues with
Gabriel's health, my division began advising me to seek a humanitarian
reassignment to shore duty while my son finished his chemotherapy. I
will always respect a good amount of the sailors for that. With the
exception of a sadistic and narcissistic masterchief, I had everyone's
cooperation and blessing. Well, there was one commander who had a
daughter that had endured an even worse form of Leukemia - type AML,
that infects the bone marrow. Fortunately, she came through. His
intentions were noble at first - to aid me in pursuing the best course
of action. Soon, however, he started dictating to me every step of what
I was supposed to do for my son and demanding I create a binder of
information and report it to him. When I didn't do that, he told me
that if my son died I would never forgive myself. I couldn't believe he
said that. That's the presumptuousness of officers, though.
Eventually
I transferred to SWRMC and worked in the mail room, lol. That is where
I met the best boss I've ever known, and also experienced that last
glimpse of a stable and secure life.
Arriving at SWRMC -
acronym for Southwest Regional Maintenance Center (the main navy base
in San Diego on 32nd street), I was sent to the mail room. Yes, that's
right. After two and a half years of nuclear physics and electrical
engineering, they sent me to the mailroom, because - well, that's where
they needed a body. Go US government. You are so smart and on top of
everything.
At any rate, I'm not complaining. If they
wanted to pay me the full pay and benefits of a nuke to sort mail, that
was their prerogative. I did it gladly.
My boss, an older black woman, introduced herself as Ms Janice and told me she would be the best boss I would ever work for.
She was right.
For
about a year, I worked in this mailroom. Ms Janice would instruct me
about the different departments of SWRMC - admin, planning, shops (like
guns, machines, engines and paint), finance, environmental, travel, etc.
I would do my best to talk to each individual who was selected or
volunteered by their department to pickup mail. Most of these people
were very cool and extremely interesting and told me some pretty crazy
stories.
Once in awhile, a balding, overweight lt.
commander would try and make me do his bitch-work. The first time I did
it, no questions asked. After all, I was enlisted and that was part of
my job description - serve officers (as long as their orders were
lawful). Ms Janice, however, was not about to play that game. She
wasted no time telling these officers that I worked for her, and that if
they felt they could steal me out of her office without the proper
respect and tact to ask her for permission, she would simply inform the
CEO that they were interfering with the system of mail delivery for the
base. God I loved her as a boss. She really was the best. Ms Janice
had worked government for longer than most people had been in the navy.
Her husband was a retired torpedo-man chief who worked in the security
office for a time before retiring again. He was cool as hell, too.
At
any rate, Ms Janice frequently stopped me on slow days and told me that
I needed to spend more time with my family, especially Gabe, who was
still struggling with cancer at the time, and sent me home to be with
them. When my humanitarian assignment ended, the navy told me they
couldn't give me shore duty and that I would have to either go back to
sea or get out of the navy.
As much as I really
honestly wanted to stay in the navy (I just passed the E5 exam and was
due for promotion), my wife at the time was pregnant and unable to take
Gabriel to his cancer treatment. I was the only one who knew the
situation well enough to take him where he needed to go. I couldn't
leave him at that time, so I opted for the "hardship discharge". I
always hated the name, it sounded like a cop-out for people who couldn't
hack it in the military. But what else could I do?
The
navy responded by telling me that I had 11 days and then I was out.
This was somewhat disturbing, because it meant that I had little more
than a week to find a job, find a new home, and move all our belongings.
I was feeling a little stressed at this point.
Ms
Janice, however, marched straight into the CEO's office and told him my
situation and that I needed a job. So the CEO said, OK, and called the
vice president of Epsilon Systems. He said, we have this guy that needs
a job, can we help him out? They said sure. I started the very next
day I got out of the navy.
I was so excited - it was a
job with no delay. I could barely contain myself until my break when I
could call my wife to tell her the good news. Hey, I got a job that
starts the day after I get out - and it pays $23 an hour to start with
government holidays and similar benefits!
Her response was, quite literally, "That's all?? Don't they know you have children?? What are we supposed to do now?!"
