U. S. S. Alabama

In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, news from Mobile, AL is especially important to my family, as we resided there from 1990-1996. One snippet of information from Mobile indicates the stately grey lady, the battleship U. S. S. Alabama (BB-60), is damaged and listing.

Anyone who has driven the Bayway, as the causeway over Mobile Bay is called, probably will recall seeing the Alabama moored on the south side of the highway. She was brought to Mobile back in the 1960s as a floating museum and memorial to veterans of her many battles. More recently, she was a huge prop and set for one of those Stephen Segal action movies.

My acquaintance with her started about 1994 or 1995, when my son Ben became a Cub Scout. One of the activities planned by his pack leaders was an overnight "camp-in" on the ship.

Parents and boys assembled in the gift shop about 7 p. m. on a Friday night, toting sleeping bags, overnight bags with necessary items, such as sleeping attire, a change of clothes, toiletries and the inevitable snacks. Cubmaster Wallace Quinn instructed everyone on what we were and were not permitted to do aboard the ship, then we were ushered outside and walked up the steep gangway to the main deck.

Once the ship was closed to visitors for the day, the Cub Scouts and their parents were given the run of the ship. We were assigned bunk space in a large, dormitory-style cabin holding perhaps 80-100 persons. The "racks" were World War II-vintage and stacked three or four high. The old springs were very loose, creating a cocoon-like effect and minimizing the chance of an eight-year-old crashing to the hard steel deck during the night.

After stowing our gear, boys and dads alike toured the ship, the boys more interested in the big 14-inch guns and the engine room than anything else. They got to climb into gun turrets, poke their heads into nearly every cabin and compartment and, naturally, touch every knob, switch and dial they encountered.

The dads were a bit slower, mainly because we took the time to read the signs and placards, look at the worn and faded photos, and wonder what it was like to be a member of the crew of such a mammoth warship.

Once everyone tired of traipsing around the ship, climbing ladders and avoiding hitting one's shins on the thresholds of the various hatches, all settled into the officers' wardroom for an evening of John Wayne war movies, popcorn and good fellowship. Dads and boys who hadn't known each other well got acquainted well that evening.

When it was time to retire for the night, it took a long, long time to get the boys to settle down. Sleeping on an old Navy ship was a unique experience for most of us, but the boys seemed to have so much energy that it took ages for them to tire out. Once they did, the adults could sleep too.

Early the next morning, the volunteers who staffed the ship brought out hot coffee, cold orange juice and boxes of donuts for a quick breakfast, then everyone walked back down the gangway to our dew-covered cars and home.

The stay on the U. S. S. Alabama was an annual ritual for the Cub Scout pack, so Ben and I went back a couple of times. Later, when we visited the ship with family and friends, we always had our favorite spots and favorite stories that came from our overnighters with the Cub Scouts.

Surgery day

It's early in the morning Wednesday, February 23, 2005. Kathie and I have risen early, showered and dressed, and gotten ready to leave for the hospital. Today is the day I am having gastric bypass surgery and I'm scared.

The journey to this point reminds me of driving across Colorado. At the age of 17, following graduation from high school, I drove from Cleveland to Denver to visit a former teacher and his wife--my breaking-the-bonds-of-home, summer-before-college road trip.

Never having been to Colorado before, I drove across the states in succession, arriving at the Kansas/Colorado state line expecting to see mountains ahead of me. Crossing into Colorado, the plains continued and there was no sign of mountains in the distance. It was only after more driving that, in the distance, I finally saw the Rockies. Upon arrival in Denver, I was greatly surprised to learn the city was in the "flatlands" just east of the foothills. In my mind, I had always pictured Denver being nestled between mountains.

Denver--the mile-high city--was a lot higher in elevation than my home near Cleveland, which is roughly 600 feet above sea level. Traveling across the country, nothing indicated I had climbed nearly 5,000 feet. Sure, there had been ups and downs as I drove through Indiana, Illinois, Missouri and Kansas, but they were gentle hills.

My weight gain was very similar. A pound or two here or there, belt-loosening at Thanksgiving and Christmas, new pants one size bigger than the last ones--but nothing to indicate I would double in size and become more than 200 pounds overweight. More than 30 years after that trip to Colorado, here I was, preparing for the first open surgery of my life.

Arriving at St. Vincent Charity Hospital in the cold darkness of a February morning, Kathie and I walked briskly to the hospital entrance, a biting Lake Erie wind coaxing us to hurry along. After joining other surgical patients in the admitting center, we were taken to the third floor. I changed into a hospital gown while Kathie waited. Next I was told to lie down on a gurney and a disposable surgical cap was placed on my head. It looked hilarious and made both Kathie and me laugh. The laughter helped the tears, as I was having dreadful thoughts about not surviving the surgery. From my mother, I guess I inherited a sense of the morose, always thinking the worst would happen to me. That way, if it didn't happen, things came out better than I expected.

Kathie and I had a long, tender goodbye before they wheeled me into the surgery anteroom. I no longer had my eyeglasses, so the room and all the faces were literally a blur. The anesthesiologist came over to introduce himself, someone started an IV in my right hand and other surgical assistants all busied themselves with preparatory work. All the while, I prayed the "Hail Mary" repetitively.

My surgeon, Dr. Indukumar Sonpal, arrived shortly thereafter. Impeccably dressed in a stylish suit as always, Dr. Sonpal greeted me and explained what would be happening. He then found out that the patient beyond the curtain to my right was a friend of a friend, admitted for some type of intestinal blockage. Dr. Sonpal, ever the comedian, poked his head around the curtain and announced he had arrived for the patient's vasectomy. That helped break the tension for me.

An anesthesiologist named Rocky came over to me and told me I would be intubated for surgery. Once the surgery was over, he would need me to acknowledge him by squeezing his finger. We talked about it for a minute until he was certain I understood I'd have a tube stuck in my throat until I squeezed. I promised to squeeze.

Next, Rocky explained that he was going to give me a drug that would relax me. He said it was quite potent, so I quipped "It's really good shit, huh?" Rocky laughed and confirmed it would be good shit. He injected it into the IV tube and went about his business while I continued saying my "Hail Marys."

"Joe! Joe! Squeeze my finger."

Groggy from the anesthetics, fading in and out of alertness, I must have squeezed Rocky's finger, as I have no recollection of being intubated. After Rocky had injected the powerful drug into my IV, I had drifted off quickly. The next memory is after surgery was done, with Rocky instructing me to squeeze his finger. From there, I drifted in and out again.

Kathie told me I was out of it while in the recovery room and I must have been. I remember people coming and going, hovering over me, instructing me to do this or that, such as click the trigger for more morphine if I felt pain. I didn't feel any significant pain just laying there, just a heaviness on my abdomen, which I later learned was an elastic binder pulled tight around me to assist in closing the incision site. On top of my belly, the nurses had also placed a heavy pillow for me to squeeze whenever I coughed.

Once I was assigned a regular patient room in the bariatric wing, the anesthetics faded, I became alert and learned the surgery had been very successful. My gastric bypass was done and I could start the long drive back down from Denver to Cleveland.

Six-month surgi-versary

Six months ago today I had a Roux-en-Y gastric bypass procedure. The surgeon severed a section of my stomach to create a small food pouch, big enough to hold only 1-2 ounces of food. The bottom of the pouch was then connected to the intestine, bypassing the stomach and a portion of the intestine.

Although I had sworn for years that surgical weight loss was too drastic, I had bottomed out last fall and faced the reality that I needed drastic changes. At my first consultation with the surgeon, I was appalled to learn I weighed 428 pounds. The last time I had gotten an accurate weight had been many years earlier, when I stepped onto a freight scale and weighed 386 lbs.

By the time I underwent preadmission testing on Feb. 17, 2005, I had lost a few pounds and weighed 412. By the day of surgery I had dropped another six pounds.

At my daily weigh-in this morning, I weighed 292 lbs., a decrease of 120 lbs. from the "official" starting weight. I have gone from being morbidly obese to severely obese to obese. My body mass index (BMI) has dropped from 49 to 34.

My personal goal is to lose another 78 lbs. to reach a weight of 214. That would be exactly half of what I weighed when I started my journey. My primary care physician wants me to reach 209-210, the top end of the normal range for someone my height, and the Cleveland Center for Bariatric Surgery has set a goal of 183 lbs., the middle of the normal range.

Whatever additional weight I lose is all a plus, as I already feel significantly better. I have more energy, I feel better about myself, I can wear much smaller clothing and, possibly best of all, I can still eat most of the foods I like. Smaller quantities of food, but still a great variety. Six months after the fact, I am thrilled I had the surgery.

Regaled with Tales of Philmont

Ben returned from Philmont last week and regaled his mother and me with tales from the trail. He said it had been the best thing he had ever done, which is saying a lot considering all he's accomplished in his 18 years.

There's something about Scouting trips and rain that has a tendency to create memorable impressions. From what Ben said, it sounds like the highlight of his trek was hiking up to a saddle near the top of Mt. Phillips in the rain. The trail turned to mud as rivulets of rainwater washed down, making it tough slogging for the Scouts.

Once they reached their campsite, the crew quickly set up tents and flies, then crawled into their sleeping bags to warm up and dry out. The Scoutmaster, who's always looking out for the boys, may have been on the verge of becoming hypothermic himself, complaining how cold he was. The Scouts had him get into his sleeping bag and dry clothes too, which improved his lot.

Late in the afternoon, the weather broke and the crew members decided to go the short distance to the summit of Mt. Phillips, where they enjoyed their dinner--with a spectacular view of the surrounding countryside.

Being in the high country gave the Scouts a new perspective on clouds. At one point on the trek, they were coming off a peak and looked down on soft white clouds as far as the eye could see. For most of them, it was the only time in their lives they had looked down on clouds other than from the window seat of a jetliner.

The Power of the Program

Since coming back from Boy Scout summer camp last weekend, I have had the opportunity to reflect on the success of our troop's week at camp. Although there were many great things that happened (and a few less-than-stellar moments), the biggest success is what my buddy Mark calls "The Power of the Program."

Our troop had something like 18 first-time summer campers. With the graduation of a whole slew of seniors last spring, plus a successful spring recruiting season, the average age of the troop dropped a couple of years almost overnight.

Taking first-time summer campers is always something done with fear and trepidation. One never knows how they'll react to being away from home for a week. Once, years ago, a boy came up to me several times over the course of the week, fretting that his mother might have been in an accident, that she might have died without him ever knowing it, that it was urgent he call home. Difficult at best is a good way to describe those situations.

This year was different, too, in that the Scoutmaster had taken a crew of older boys on a 70-mile backpacking trek at Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico. That meant the responsibility for taking the rest of the troop to summer camp stood heavily on my shoulders. Although I've been with the troop for eight years now, I'd never been "in loco parentis" to the Scouts.

Our crop of first-timers included a pair of finicky eaters, one of whom swore he subsisted on a steady diet of PB&J sandwiches and the other claiming to be a picky vegetarian. The first guy, whom I'll call Paul, reminded me of a diminutive Harry Potter, complete with a mop of dark hair and roundish glasses. He's the boy who most reminds me of the Power of the Program.

Prior to camp, Paul's dad considered coming to camp to help out and to provide a lifeline for his son. He eventually thought the better of it, though, and let Paul come on his own. After the bus had delivered the troop safely to camp, it didn't take long for tears to well up in Paul's eyes as he told me he wanted to go home. Since home was four hours away, the bus had departed and we didn't have a vehicle to return him, that was an unlikely proposition.

The solution was to involve Paul in so many activities that he didn't have time to be homesick. Early Monday morning, he and the other first-timers went off to Mammal Study merit badge, followed by Swimming merit badge, advancement time, patrol activities and more. Mealtimes were still a challenge, but thankfully the camp provided us with extra loaves of bread and those kid staples, peanut butter and jelly.

We learned Paul was a swimmer and decided to capitalize on that fact. Tuesday Paul and a dozen or so other troop members swam a quarter-mile, the prerequisite prelude to eventually swimming a full mile in the middle of the lake. On Wednesday, he swam the half-mile and, at 6 a.m. on Friday morning, Paul jumped off the dock into the early morning mist to swim a full mile, earning himself bragging rights as one of three Boy Scout mile swimmers in the whole camp (all three from our troop, I might add).

Paul grew in other ways that week, too. For the first time, he went to the rifle range and learned how to safely and enjoyably shoot a .22 caliber rifle. He was quite a marksman for a first timer. He also experimented with foods, tucking into some cinnamon pancakes with great vigor. He even took some "no thank you" bites of food he wasn't too sure he would like.

That's the Power of the Program. In the span of six short days, Paul went from being a hesitant, fragile little boy into a confident Boy Scout summer camper. Seeing changes like this is what inspires me as a leader of this merry little band. Instead of hiding in the security of their parents' homes and protection, they venture forth, try new things, learn more about themselves and grow as people. Every boy I can help grow like this means so much to me, since there were other leaders who helped my own son along the way.

Little Karl is another example of the Power of the Program. Never in his life had anyone taken the time to teach him how to swim--until Mark did. A wonderful leader and father of four, Mark is an ex-Army Ranger who has expunged the word "can't" from his vocabulary. (I guess after you've rappelled headfirst out of a helicopter, there isn't much in this world that scares you.)

Anyway, Mark took Karl under his wing and spent more than an hour every day down at the waterfront, teaching Karl the fundamentals of swimming. Karl never did pass his beginner's swim test, but he never gave up either. And Mark was with him every step of the way, cheering him on and telling him he could do it.

These youngsters will be the leaders of our troop some day and, beyond that, leaders in their workplaces and communities. Helping them gain self-confidence and self-esteem makes all the time dedicated to the Scouting program worthwhile.

Sunday Morning Weigh-In

For the first time since high school, I weighed in at less than 300 pounds this morning. For me, that's a milestone achievement and reason to celebrate, especially since I graduated from high school more than 30 years ago.

You see, I've been "the fat kid" or "the fat guy" for as long as I can remember. From the husky boys' department at Sears to big and tall shops, all of my clothing has been oversized for as long as I can remember.

Diets came and went, but I remained big. It was the chronic story of the overweight: Lose 20, regain 30. I genuinely don't think thin people understand what goes on with heavy people, as it's not just a matter of deciding to eat less, then doing it. I equate it to a drug addict or alcoholic, where there's a chemical dependency or craving that just can't be satisfied with other things.

Fortunately, it all changed for me almost six months ago. On Feb. 23, 2005 I had Roux-en-Y gastric bypass surgery. Since that time, I've lost more than 100 pounds. I can wear pants 14" smaller than before and my shirts have dropped three sizes. The way I've got it figured, I can stand to lose another 90 pounds before going into maintenance mode.

Before surgery, I was scared like never before. I had always thought it was too draconian a measure. After all, the surgery alters one's internal plumbing permanently, not to mention the changes in eating habits and other forced lifestyle changes.

Now that I'm almost six months out, I can laugh in the face of my fears. The changes have been fabulous. Food no longer rules my days like it once did. I can eat nearly anything I choose--but that's the operative word...choose...choose...choose. Instead of eating lots of junk in copious quantities, I now choose to eat healthier food, hopefully increasing my longevity. My diet is high in proteins and lower in carbs and fats than it used to be. Sweets used to be my downfall, but now they're largely "so what?"

Don't get me wrong. Food still has great cultural and social importance for me. I love an evening out with family or friends at a sushi bar, a great Thai restaurant or some other interesting place. Experimentation with new cuisines is as great as it ever was. The difference is that I no longer pig out. Little tastes here and there are enough to satisfy me.

My hope is that, in the next six months, I will continue to lose weight and get healthier and healthier. My friends tell me I look great, which is a wonderful ego boost. What I'm really doing it for, though, is my family and myself.

More later...