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  Winters in Fleetwood were bitterly cold. Outdoor play or almost any other outside activity was highly undesirable, unless one wanted to freeze or be subject to frostbite. As Jeryl continued with her shorthand practice, I would often be in the basement trying to figure out how to get my Bunsen burner to work or dissecting the goldfish I would get out of my mother’s pond. Mom did not know I was the one responsible for the disappearing goldfish; she believed the cat next door was eating them.

  In ninth grade I signed up for a class in taxidermy. My mother once discovered me in the basement gutting and skinning a squirrel that had been given to me by a hunter. She was so angry, her jugular veins protruded on the sides of her neck, her eyes bulged from their sockets, and she screamed, “Get that damn thing out of this house right now!” I was shocked by her reaction because I saw very little wrong with what I was doing and had planned to clean up the bloody mess I was making. I thought I was doing the smart thing by pursuing this activity indoors, especially because it was wintertime and so cold outside. Still, I learned a valuable lesson that day. I needed to be much more discreet and well away from my mother as I continued to practice my dissection technique in my exploration of the internal anatomy and physiology of fish and small mammals.

  Mom was not an openly demonstrative woman, and at times it was difficult to know what she was thinking except when she was angry. Still, she was an eternal optimist, constantly reassuring us and telling us that whatever we were facing would be okay and that everything would work out. She was also determined that her two daughters would grow up learning to be independent and self-supporting.

  Despite Mom’s divorce from my father when I was a toddler, she continued to maintain a close, friendly relationship with my fraternal grandparents. They were very much a mainstay during my childhood and would continue sharing their sage advice, their love, and their support of me as I grew up and set my sail toward a career in the navy.

  Many times Jeryl would accompany me as we trekked off to my father’s parents’ home. It was not easy prying her away from her “girlie” preoccupation with her hair, nails, and clothing, but when we did play together, we always had great fun and continued to recognize and appreciate one another for the individuals that we were.

  When Jeryl was not around or was too preoccupied with her shorthand or self-beautification pursuits, I was fortunate enough to be able to play instead with the several cousins who resided in the neighborhood. We were all close to the same age, and I spent numerous hours with them, playing, attending school together, and having sleepovers at each other’s homes. We developed such a close bond that we became more like brothers and sisters instead of simply cousins. Competitive in some activities, we also learned to share, cooperate, work together on common projects, and respect our individual differences. These lessons learned would be very valued and important to me as I got older and would serve me well as I found myself sharing a variety of play, work, and even living situations with various colleagues throughout my navy career.

  Among all my cousins, Kathy was closest to me, and we shared many of the same interests. Being “best friends,” we were inseparable, always sitting next to each other and steadfastly insisting that we were always put on the same team at family gatherings. We were very much the two tomboys of our group, active in numerous sports, and we simply relished all that made up our small world in Fleetwood. Despite the many years that would pass and the different roads we would choose to travel, Kathy and I would remain close and spiritually bonded to the bitter end.

  As a family we took occasional vacations, and when we did they were usually educational in nature. We would venture to somewhere in western Pennsylvania to visit a museum or historical landmark. Wanting to be more physically active and to ski, ride surfboards, paddle a kayak, or canoe down the Colorado River and move well beyond the confines of my home state, I would often find myself bored and dreaming of what lay beyond. My sense of wonder and my lust to travel were quickly developing; I fervently wanted to get out of Pennsylvania, to see what the other side of the world was like.

  My interest in anatomy, physiology, and the other sciences had continued all through high school. By the time I reached my senior year, I had become fascinated with the merging of science and technology evident in the country’s evolving space program and closely followed all the space flights of the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo programs. I was well versed in the specific scientific data and conditions of every mission, and in my heart I wanted more than anything to be an astronaut. I knew that in order to qualify for and or have any chance of becoming an astronaut, I would need college, instruction as a pilot, and even military training because all of the astronauts of that era were military pilots.

  Both of my parents were very supportive of my dreams, but they were also staunch believers in the concept that if you really wanted something, you needed to get out, work for it, and pay your own way. I soon learned that my poor eyesight, which had plagued me since I was two years old, would disqualify me from becoming a pilot. Without pilot training—a requirement for all astronauts in those early days—I would have no chance of realizing my dream of becoming an astronaut, Somewhat disheartened, I still knew that I wanted to work in a science-related field, whatever that field might be. The thought of becoming a nurse never entered my mind, not even in my wildest dreams.

  I visited Bryn Mawr University, located nine miles west of Philadelphia, to research their veterinarian assistant program. I applied and was thrilled when I received my notification of acceptance. Unfortunately, the numerous applications I sent out for scholarships, loans, and grants were denied. Not knowing of the navy’s Reserve Officers’ Training Corps program, I believed that my only option was to go to work, labor long and hard, and eventually earn the money to pay the tuition for higher education.

  A few months shy of high school graduation, and after receiving my mother’s permission and support, I decided to make a visit to the local navy recruiter. Why the navy? It was not about the uniforms, and it was not that the navy would provide me with anything different or special from what was being offered by the other military service branches. It was simply because my dad had been in the navy, and I remembered how highly he had regarded it.

  Pre-enlistment testing revealed I was qualified academically for navy enlistment because I scored high in areas of mechanical engineering and all of the other science-related fields. My physical examination was unremarkable with the exception of my eyesight. The medical examiners reconfirmed my worst fear; my eyesight was too poor for me to ever qualify as a pilot. I would never forget them saying, “You can take off; you just can’t land.” Because there was no such thing as laser eye surgery in the early seventies, I had no choice but to resign myself completely to the realization that I would never be a military pilot, let alone an astronaut. Instead, I knew I needed to find a new field of interest and could only hope the navy had something to offer me that would develop into a personal passion.

  The navy recruiter called to give me the good news of my military enlistment qualifications. I was “in,” and he proceeded to provide me with a long list of job openings that were related to both mechanical engineering and science. The only opening that sounded even close to my second career choice was “medical.”

  As he explained the role of the navy hospital corpsman, I grew very excited not only with the concept of performing general medical and nursing duties but also at the prospect that I might be able to see surgical procedures being performed and even someday be able to assist with those procedures. I really had no idea what I was signing up for, but I did want to learn and work in an area that explored how things worked, what held them together, and how they were put back together again.

  I also hoped that the navy would provide me with experiences, opportunities, and training that would serve as stepping-stones for a more specific and higher-level health-related technical profession. In addition, the navy offered the thrilling prospect of worldwide travel and the
ability to move well beyond the small boundaries of Pennsylvania. I would be able to see firsthand what was out there on the other side of the world. I was easily sold on enlisting in the navy and signed on immediately.

  Still having a few months of high school remaining before graduation, I continued working part-time at McDonald’s and dreaming of the adventure that lay ahead. For an additional eight months following graduation, I remained in Fleetwood working full-time, watching my high school friends leave for colleges and universities, and eagerly awaiting the time when I would be able to start my new career. The wait seemed interminable, but in order to be assured that I could attend Hospital Corps School immediately following nine weeks of basic training, I would not be able to leave for boot camp until 14 February 1976, not even a month after turning eighteen years of age.

  2

  IT’S NOT JUST A JOB, IT’S AN ADVENTURE

  Shortly after my eighteenth birthday, I was sworn in as a seaman recruit (E-1) in the U.S. Navy. My mother and Bud were there to bid me farewell as I boarded the train in Mechanicsville, Pennsylvania, and headed to Orlando, Florida. I had no idea what to expect or what my future would hold other than nine weeks of boot camp followed by Hospital Corps School in Great Lakes, Illinois. I was scared, but I was also very excited to explore the unknown world I was entering. This was a new adventure, and I could only hope and pray it would prove to be an adventure of a lifetime, filled with fun, excitement, and memorable moments. It would prove to be all of those and then some.

  The train ride to Orlando was fifteen hours long. Much of that time I spent studying the twelve critical points of standing a military guard post. We would be required to memorize these points and be ready to recite them on request throughout boot camp.

  Exhausted from the train ride, excited, and still a little scared because I had never before ventured so far from home alone, I met up upon arriving at the Orlando train depot with several others who were also headed to the navy’s East Coast U.S. Naval Recruit Training Command. We gathered together and used the train station’s direct phone line to call for transportation that would take us to boot camp.

  An old gray government bus rumbled to a stop at the curbside where we had all gathered. As the bus doors opened, our first glimpse of the fierce and aloof driver increased my anxiety. She barely looked at us before harshly barking, “Get on the bus and keep your mouths shuts!” We all scrambled to get on the bus and sat quietly on the ratty, uncomfortable seats. I did not realize at the time that the train depot and what little I could see from the bus window as we traveled to the command would be the last glimpse of the world outside the confines of a wired fence for nine long, grueling, yet also very enlightening weeks.

  Besides being constantly screamed and barked at while at boot camp, we were taught about integrity, honesty, taking care of one another, and always looking out for our shipmates because each person’s life was just as important as our own. Because my mom and my dad had provided me with a firm foundation and strong moral code specific to honesty, integrity, and respect for others, I found these lessons easy. I respected authority, did what I was told, and willingly worked as a team member. We spent numerous hours and days marching on the grinder (a large outdoor concrete slab); carefully folding and storing our clothes; and starching, pressing, and scrupulously adorning our uniforms so that we were meticulously groomed in accordance with the very rigid and strict regulations of the U.S. Navy.

  A total of seventy-five women made up our company, and our berthing barracks featured little more than bunk-bed racks and lockers. We would join other recruit companies, many of them consisting of our male counterparts, in the chow hall, where everyone was ordered to keep both hands and forearms on top of the table at all times to prevent any under-the-table clandestine physical contact with one another. Given fifteen minutes to eat, we totally discarded our table manners as we reached over each other, grabbing for whatever table condiments were available and quickly shoveling food into our mouths. Our barbaric table manners and customs were not the most positive of lessons learned, and it would take me weeks following my boot camp experience to break these primitive, unrefined, and highly unattractive habits.

  One of the most valuable lessons I learned during recruit training, and one that I carried with me throughout my career, was the importance of attention to detail. This lesson was drilled into us constantly, reinforced over and over during numerous personnel, barracks, and locker inspections. If our underwear was found to be one-sixth of an inch off from being folded in accordance with strict and detailed directives, the entire contents of our locker would be thrown out, requiring hours to meticulously refold, align, and put back each item in accordance with the locker storage directives. If the mattress was found to be out of exact alignment with the frame of your rack during a barracks inspection or if the bed was improperly made, the inspectors would tear sheets and mattresses off the bed frames, and you would return to a barracks that was in shambles, a chaotic mess with mattresses, sheets, and pillows strewn everywhere.

  Although I would not realize it at the time, these lessons in detail and the importance of attending to every one of them would serve me well. Having fully incorporated this attentiveness skill and trait into my personality, I would ultimately spread my keen sense and responsibility to attend to various details to all aspects of my personal and professional life. That which I had learned at the beginning of my career would be applied throughout my career and would save me at its end.

  During our weeks at the U.S. Naval Recruit Training Command, Orlando, we had no access to radios, television, newspapers, or anything else that would provide us with news of the outside world. We were totally isolated in our own little world; I would not even learn the full extent of the kidnapping of Patty Hearst until after boot camp graduation.

  When I reported to boot camp, the kidnapping of Patty Hearst was national news and was being followed by most American households and many others throughout the world. The last report I had heard prior to starting boot camp was that Patty Hearst had been kidnapped. After graduating, and while driving back with my mother to Pennsylvania, I asked, “What happened to Patty Hearst?” She looked at me with an incredulous expression and said, “You don’t know?” I very much disliked being out of touch with what was happening in the world, yet I would later learn that the restrictive nature of boot camp would be tame in comparison to that which I would encounter in my future.

  The fourth week of boot camp was known as “hell week,” where each of us was assigned to work in various areas and operational positions throughout the base that supported the care and feeding of all recruits stationed there. My week was spent steaming and cleaning dishes in the scullery twelve to fourteen hours each day. It was physically brutal, hot, and exhausting work, and the harsh conditions in which we worked would even contribute to one of my shipmate’s experiencing a seizure. Still, I was fortunate, and after working hard during hell week and throughout the nine weeks I was stationed at the U.S. Navy Recruit Training Command, I graduated from boot camp unscathed. I had survived the first hurdle of my navy career feeling physically stronger, more confident, and proud. With this new sense of pride in being a U.S. Navy sailor, I traveled on to Hospital Corps School at Great Lakes, Illinois.

  I liked Hospital Corps School even though it was bloody cold in Illinois. It was only May, and I could not imagine what the weather must have been like during the winter months. Still, I enjoyed the classes, and during the fourteen weeks of training I learned a great deal about human anatomy and physiology and how to provide patient care. I believed I had made a good decision by going into a medical-related field, but I also had some reservations.

  The science and nursing courses were interesting and challenging, and practicing lab skills as a group was fun. Still, my first experience with providing patient care was awkward, messy, and unimpressive. I had tried to do all I could for this patient, a severely debilitated elderly woman who, having been incontinent during
the night, had dried feces caked on her entire backside. Handling this situation would be my first real patient bed-bath opportunity, and I was at a loss. Being out of my element, I remember thinking, “What have I gotten myself into, and how do I get myself out of this?” I was not sure I had selected the right profession for myself, and I knew I would need much more guidance and assistance from individuals other than those who had thus far served as my mentors.

  Throughout boot camp and Hospital Corps School, most of my authority figures were senior enlisted personnel, and I looked on them as if they were gods. The contact I had with commissioned officers, including those in the Navy Nurse Corps, was minimal. It would not be until I arrived at the Naval Hospital, Long Beach, California, that I would find myself being significantly influenced by navy nurses.

  Upon graduating from Hospital Corps School, I was thrilled to have received orders to California. In my mind, California represented beaches, and I wanted the opportunity to spend time on those beaches swimming and learning how to surf. A world filled with sand, sun, warm temperatures, and fun was waiting for me, and I could not wait to go.

  In August 1976 I arrived at the Naval Hospital in Long Beach and was assigned to an all-female surgical ward. Many of the staff on the ward consisted of civilian care providers; I was one of only two active-duty corpsmen assigned there. My charge nurse—the overall manager of this ward—was a male navy nurse who was a lieutenant at the time, but, as was the custom in the navy in the seventies, we called him “mister” instead of using his rank. Lt. Irv Ames used to tease me and challenge me to become more proficient in my nursing skills. When another enlisted female corpsman reported to the ward, “Mr. Ames” turned to me and jokingly said, “Teach her everything you know. That should take about two minutes.” He was a good guy and fun to work with, and he provided me with many valuable experiences and opportunities.