Of Friendships and Falling Down Rabbit Holes
September 1997
After I got home from the war—sorry, the police action—in Korea, I figured that would be the end of the drama in my life. Or at least, the major drama. Everybody has mini-dramas, of course; it goes with the territory. You live, shit happens. But I assumed that the end of the war meant the end of the truly life-changing, soul-shaking, mind-blowing experiences that had been commonplace over there. Everything from that point on was bound to be small potatoes, when you compared it to snipers, land mines, unexploded bombs two feet away, life-or-death decisions on a daily basis in surgery, and Frank Burns.
On the first morning of my post-Korea life, I stood on the front porch of my dad's house in Crabapple Cove, Maine, inhaling the sweet summer smell of my beloved hometown and looking across the street at old Mrs. Zukowski weeding her garden. I smiled, realizing that crabgrass and dandelions would be the only enemies I'd have to worry about now.
I was looking forward to the transition from calamity to calm. I felt like I'd been running on a hamster wheel for three years and suddenly somebody had stuck a large index finger into my cage, bringing my wheel to a halt. I was dizzy and stunned by the abrupt change, but ready to just plop down into my wood chips for a good rest.
Gone were the Swamp, bad coffee, ice-cold showers, mess-tent inedibles, and living with rats—actual rats, that is, not Charles Winchester or Frank Burns. The next chapter of my life beckoned. I was going to join my dad in his small-town practice, getting the hometown folks to say "ah," having the mundane give-and-take with patients that I'd missed so much in the hustle, bustle, and horror of treating wounded and dying soldiers. At least at first, I would live with Dad too, until I had time to do some house-hunting and planning.
I also knew I had some mending to do. A lot had been taken out of me, taken away from me, and my mental state was still on the tenuous side. I had Sidney Freedman's phone number in my wallet at all times; I would continue to call him for many years after Korea, and it wasn't until decades later that I made those calls as a friend only, and not partly as a recovering patient.
Anyway, I think you've got the picture. I was a little worse for wear but somehow still standing, and ready to put the past three years behind me. Goodbye, Army surgeon. Bring on "Hawkeye Pierce: The Halcyon Years." I was certain my life would forever after be humdrum, refreshingly devoid of tumult and adventure.
How wrong I was.