Becoming Mortal

Johnny served two tours in Vietnam as a helicopter pilot. I was in college and working a part time job as a dispatcher for the hospital’s helicopter service.  Johnny was one of our pilots.  He was very experienced having flown helicopters in lots of different situations. The communication center was a common place and I loved it when Johnny would come in and talk with me. To a 22 year old farm boy his stories were better than any book or television show. 

“Two tours in Vietnam? I thought that everyone just did one and then went home?” I asked him.

“I volunteered,” he replied.

I asked him back, “Why would you do that? Weren’t you scared?”

His reply struck me and has been with me ever since, “I was bullet proof and invincible.” 

He continued, “I had plenty of close calls.  I even got shot down once. I had friends killed and saw them die.  But when you are young you never think it is going to happen to you.  Every time you just shake it off and believe you are going to be fine.  You are bulletproof and invincible.”

I went through flight surgery training in the US Navy several years later.  There we learned a lot about aviation safety and the psychology of naval aviation. We were taught that most naval aviators do fine until about 1000 flight hours.  Early on they are young and filled with optimism and exuberance. Over time the grind of all the safety training and the stress of the mishaps (aviation term for accidents) that do occur has a maturing effect on them. By 1000 hours, most of them will have had at least one colleague die. Something changes. They no longer assume that they are going to be fine every time they fly. 

They are becoming mortal.

I remember doing the preflight on a marine H-46 prior to a fun flight from NAS Norfolk to Camp LeJeune. The senior pilot pointed out a key area that he inspects as he pointed his flashlight way up inside. “This aircraft is about as old as you are. If these break we lose that rotor. That means that we do a flip. That is something that we probably wouldn’t survive. I had a buddy that had that happen to him.”

As we finished the preflight inspection, did the preflight brief, and then climbed into the cockpit I questioned whether I was doing the right thing going on the flight that day. My wife and infant daughter were at home. Should I be risking leaving them alone? I don’t even know for sure if my wife knows I am taking this flight today. But I reassured myself. “Naah.  I am going to be fine. This is going to be a great flight!”  And honestly – it was a great flight.  I had a lot of time at the controls and it was I think one of my favorite days as a flight surgeon.  It was so cool just maneuvering myself at tree level over the countryside. I would do it again in a heartbeat!

But in class they taught us about the 1000-hour naval aviator.  At this point they are forced to make a decision. They are no longer immortal. The question becomes, “Do they love naval aviation so much that they are willing to continue and accept the risks?  Or is it time for a career change.”  About half leave.

Recently I became mortal.

Oddly I wasn’t surprised. I knew when the ED doctor came back into the room and closed the door. It was inevitable that something would happen to one of us. I didn’t know which of us would be first. My clinical life has made me odd I suppose. My wife grew up with loss. We don’t expect things to always go well. It seems like most of the world expects health and prosperity and is shocked when anything goes wrong. We have always been so pleased with good things knowing that the world is a broken place. 

Gut punches. The pager message, or the colleague calling to tell me, or the CT scan result, or when I obsessively check the labs or hemodynamics and they are bombing. The favorite patient is dead. Or had a horrible complication. I know the feeling so well.  Like Harry Houdini (or perhaps like he was supposed to have done) I tense my abdominal muscles to take the hit.  I guess I have gone past my medical “1000 flight hour” equivalent.” Numerous times it has been tempting to call it quits. Who really needs all of this? But in the end, I decide it is who I am and where the Lord has called me.  And so I stay.

Back to the ED: Door open and closed. The look on his face. Tense my abdomen.  “Ok. What is it?” And then it played out like some scene from a medical drama. It seemed so, “cliché”. Would we cut to a break for an ad for laundry detergent?  It was me. It was serious. But there were a lot of unknowns. He showed me the tumor on the screen in the exam room.

The emotions came gradually. For me they hit with force about 36 hours later. I admire my wife so much for this part of the story. She let me be. She sent me off alone to work on my sailboat. The next morning she went to breakfast with a friend as she had planned and so that I could go to one of my favorite coffee and breakfast spots and just be. I am an introvert at heart and she knows that I need time to process. I needed time to become mortal. 

Subconscious assumptions about the present and the future crashing down all around me. Frustration at a world that tempts us to go through life but never really feel the life that we are living. The people – the friends. They are SO wonderful and precious. Do we let them touch us? Or do we keep up a shield because if we let them they might slow us down? Do we gobble down the delicious meal so quickly that we don’t taste it? Music. Nature. People. Emotions. Do we appreciate it all?

A few days later my wife asked me to help clean some gutters. I was surprised at myself as I was being so cautious. I joked and explained that I was suddenly feeling, “mortal.”  She understood. I am not bulletproof. I am not invincible. I am as a good friend and gifted speaker taught us, “fragile, fractured, and flawed.”  All of us are.  Some of us just haven’t learned that yet.

So what does it mean to be a mortal? 

• It means that I no longer feel bulletproof, nor invincible. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel like I need to either. I can admit that I am fragile. 
• I don’t have to be everything to everyone. I can ask for help and enjoy receiving it.
• I can no longer live for tomorrow. I have to experience today for all of what it has – or at least try to do so.
• I want to love people and be loved by them. I now see how wonderful they all are.  They truly are. They are beautiful. How dare I not let myself feel it before! What a fool to not drink it all in. I have started telling people how much they mean to me and really believing it. 

I know that the time that I have to live is not a promise. It is limited. None of us know how much time we have. Are we brave enough to live today? Will we insist on slowing down enough to taste our food? Will we insist on slowing down enough to see the faces and read the emotions of our family and friends. Will we enjoy them in the moment? Will we reread the page because it is so good instead of rushing to the end of the story? Will we look up and see the leaves, the sunrise, the grass? Will we taste each bite?

And Johnny? The last I saw him he accepted a high risk – high reward assignment flying helicopters for the Columbian government in the war against drugs. He was still bulletproof and invincible.

For me? 

• I am “fragile, fractured and flawed.” But that is really not a surprise to me or anyone. And I am ok with that.
• I don’t know the future. Who really does? “I know whom I have believed and am assured that He is able.” It is going to be ok. I don’t know what is next. But I am ok with that too (mostly).
• My emotions have come back. I can feel again. I am not just living life. I am tasting and enjoying life. I like it. I am not going to easily give that up again. Slow down. 
• No more superman for me. I never really fit in the suit anyhow.

“Fragile, fractured and flawed” is an amazing phrase that I was taught by Christian Thomas Lee.  Here is his webpage if you would like more information about him: http://www.christianthomaslee.com/contents.html