Page 2/The Battaliqn/Wednesday* August 26, 1987
Opinion
Life is never the same after the death of a loved onlfc
We pushed open
the glass doors and
stepped into the
geriatric wing qf the
hospital. An
overpowering
medicinal smell
combined with the
stench of urine and
baby powder swept up and hit me in the
face.
I turned my head slowly to catch the gaze
of my younger brother. He was grinning
sheepishly, fighting back tears forming in his
eyes. (It was the kind of half-grin that almost
always surfaces in tight situations saying:
“THIS IS BAD AND I DON'T KNOW
WHAT TO DO AND I‘M EMBARRASSED
THAT I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO/’)
Looking into his eyes, a blurred reflection
of my own fear jumped out at me.
My parents were walking quickly, but my
brother and I were more hesitant. I vaguely
remember how appropriately the stark white
hospital walls matched my frozen feeling.
I walked through the corridors as if I had
been encased in an ice shell. I was
hypnotized — noticing nothing, but
absorbing everything.
Most of the doors we passed were open
wide enough to catch a glimpse of many sick,
moaning people. A sick emptiness grew
deeper inside of me with each passing door
and with the thought that my grandfather
may also look like this — or worse.
Memories of holidays past started filling
my mind.
Our family always went to Dallas on each
Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving to visit
my dad’s parents. My grandfather singled
me out as special because I was the only girl
in the family.
During Thanksgiving it was customary for
my grandfather to pull out the old riding
lawn mower and give us rides up and down
the curvy (then mountainous) hills of the
backyard. I was always given the privilege of
riding first and longest.
At our family’s Easter egg hunts, he would
“accidentally” kick the prize egg in my
direction despite rants and raves from my
older brother.
My favorite part of any visit was at night.
While all the older relatives would drink
coffee, talk or play bridge, my grandfather
would continue to spoil me by telling me
wonderful, magical stories. He built a dream
world that I hung on to for a long time.
I felt a tug on my mind as my little brother
grabbed my hand. I snapped back and
I lived for sandwiches
of ham and cheese
Und between
dives, ve vill have
sandviches of ham
und chees, said the
guide at the bow of
the boat.
These would
probably be the best
“sandwiches of ham
and cheese” I would ever put in my mouth.
As my two girlfriends and I cruised down
the coast of Mexico just south of Puerto
Vallarta, the little motorboat carrying us,
three other passengers and our German-
born guide wove in and out among the rocks
and coral reefs. On the rocky shoreline, the
iguanas basked in the sunshine observing us,
a not-too-familiar sight in this deserted part
of Mexico.
When we looked deep into the water, we
could see the fish and plants featured in the
brochure we had picked up in the hotel.
Once again the guide, Hertmus, repeated
the bit about sandwiches of ham and cheese
as if they were the highlight of the trip.
I had never been snorkeling before that
day, and after diving, found it terrifying and
exhilerating at the same time. Our first dive
had been at the bases of Los Arcos (the
arches) just off the coast of Puerto Vallarta.
Hertmus had said the rocks would be
teeming with colorful fish and crustaceans,
but to stay close to the boat. Of course I had
visions of huge Mexican squid inking me to
death and then suckering all my skin off, but
I was brave and soon discovered the beauty
and vastness of the life in just that small
portion of the deep.
I put on the rented fins, mask and snorkel
and wangled myself over the side of the
boat. The apparatus attached to my face
initially made me feel claustrophobic, but I
got over it.
The water was clear and the fish swam up
to me so close I could touch them. Down
below I could see what appeared to be long
thin tubular fish. Baracudas, I thought.
Thank goodness I was only six inches below
the water, because if I had been lower I
would have sucked up that much more water
through my snorkel while I tried desperately
to jettison myself back onto the boat.
I was relieved and embarrassed to learn
they were only harmless needle fish.
We moved on to other diving delights,
and I collected coral, shells and remnants of
what I was sure were ancient shipwrecks.
It had been a long time since breakfast
and my diving partners and I agreed it was
time for the sandwiches of ham and cheese.
Luckily, Hertmus announced that we would
take one more dive in a little cove and then
pull around to the beach about 500 yards up
the shoreline.
What I didn’t understand was that this
was an optional dive, and the people who
chose to snorkel would be swimming the 500
yards to the beach.
Well, I flapped around and spied an eel in
the rocks below and because I considered
myself an expert at this point, I hollered at
some guy with whom I had shared all my
interesting sights during the day.
I looked around under the water and
didn’t see him coming. That was strange
because previously he had been everywhere
at once, eager to see everyone’s find. I poked
my head out of the water and he was
nowhere to be found. Not only that, I had
drifted away from the boat, I thought.
“Bag the eel,” I thought, “I need to find
the boat.”
I swam a little way out of the cove and
neither the boat nor any of the other
snorkelers were anywhere in sight.
Panic set in.
My first thought was that the guide had
assumed I was aboard and took off for the
beach. I still couldn’t see the beach but I
knew in which general direction it was. I
knew also that I didn’t want to swim all that
way. I wasn’t sure if I could; the margaritas
we had consumed the previous three nights
in a row had greatly decreased my athletic
abilities.
As I searched desperately for a break in
the jagged terrain of the shore so I could
walk, terror struck me as I realized I was
alone in the ocean and would have to swim
the distance to the beach.
I started to paddle up the rocky shore,
and one by one my fears multiplied.
The rocky bottom where I had seen the
eel suddenly sloped off into blackness. I
decided to hold my head out of the water so
that if something were to try to eat me, I
wouldn’t be able to see it coming. Instead, I
was greeted by smiling iguanas that were
suddenly closer than I had remembered as I
was about to be dashed onto the rocks. I had
let myself come too dangerously close to the
shore in that turbulent water. I began
sucking up water because of the angle I had
my snorkel; I should have been using it only
when my head was submerged in the water.
I pulled the snorkel out of my mouth and
choked for air. The mdre I coughed, the
more the ocean sloshed into my mouth.
I flailed helplessly and knew I should calm
myself but I couldn’t. The current was
already dragging me under.
I was scared.
I could feel myself rapidly losing energy
and I hadn’t had a full breath in several
minutes.
A feeling of sorrow replaced the panic, a
feeling like I had never felt before.
I knew there was nothing I could do.
Somewhere in my confusion, something
grabbed me by the neck and pulled me out
of the water. This seemed only a
continuation of my nightmare.
Minutes later I opened my eyes to see
Hertmus kneeling over me, his face and
blond curls shading the sun from my face as
I lay on the bottom of the boat.
I choked but I could breath. My voice was
hoarse as I spoke and relief flooded my
body, but ironically only one thing came to
mind.
“Can I have my sandwich of ham and
cheese now?”
Shannon Boysen is a senior journalism
major and a guest columnist for The
Battalion.
The Battalion
(USPS 045 360)
Member of
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Southwest Journalism Conference
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Sondra Pickard, Editor
Sue Krenek, Opinion Page Editor
Rodney Rather, City Editor
Robbyn Lister, News Editor
Loyd Brumfield, Sports Editor
Tracy Staton, Photo Editor
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found myself facing room 712. It was time to
go in.
I slithered through the crack in the door
behind my parents. Out of the corner of my
eye, I could see the machines keeping my
grandfather alive and the tubes and needles
holding him together.
My eyes drifted past him for an instant. I
was not ready to look. Instead, I looked to
my father for support.
But I found more pain.
I saw the pain in my father’s eyes as he
laid them on his dad. I was in awe. The
impact of it made my heart pound dizzily in
my ears. I had never before pictured my
father as being weak, and now, all color
drained from his face, I was seeing him
stripped of every last strand of musterable
strength.
I felt very old and suddenly pressured to
be the one to produce a magical story with a
happy ending.
Thoughts from a couple of days before
pushed into my mind to remind me why I
was here. My grandparents had made a
special trip to come to my high school
graduation.
When they arrived, an aroma of
Christmas spice and Easter candy filled the
air. Hugs and sloppy kisses (the kind only
grandparents know how to give) were
exchanged. At my graduation, we all acted
embarassed when my grandfather placed a
hankerchief on his bald spot to “keep the
draft off.”
The next morning of their visit, my
grandfather got up at his usual 6 a.m. and
proceeded to sing quite loudly. Next, he
jogged through the house pulling on our
toes and throwing wet washclothes in our
faces to wake us up. At the time, I was
seething and wishing him dead.
He left for his morning walk, and soon
after, we received the phone call. My
grandfather had been found lying in the
street with a pool of blood forming around
his head.
After hours of sugery, doctors revealed
that 95 percent of his arteries were blocked,
and he had possibly had a stroke. The
pressure of the blood trying to get through
to his brain could’ve caused him to fall. The
doctors quickly added that they had no way
of knowing for sure what had happened to
cause the fall.
The holiday smell faded and the stench of
hospital medicene returned. The
seriousness of the injury didn’t hit me until 1
turned from my father and focused on my
grandfather.
I was not at all prepared forwhatli;
His head was shaved and two thick,*
crusted scars covered each side. His
complexion was a sickly green,andtijj
through every part of his anatomy
imaginable. So close to death, his bod,*!
nothing more than a minitureshelU; s ^
some sagging skin stretched around f sa e
My image of him shattered instadTi *'
was no longer an all-wise, all-powerfalm,^ S S() S j
wizard who could make my dreamst(;i as j 1 .q ow p ]
,Iut ‘ ‘[State cl
He started to make sounds, but no.jloyees will
I wanted to move closer, but my feet dll open ai
sunk into the ground, renderingmeapilh servic
helpless as the skeleton before me. fids said. “
I would have spoken, but my tong,:? rov '^ e un
swollen up to fill my mouth, making]! j^J ax P a y er
impossible even to swallow. Someontj j| ie ()IU .
punched through my chest, stolenmijjJjL s vv
and bruised my soul. 1726 pen
I knew that when I left that roora^Soney imm
would never be the same. I could no; cal year beg
live in a pure fantasy world madeupo:| Thev wil
rainbows, butterflies and happyendi.ibout $60 n
Life had peeled off its mask andsf ^ iai sa '
me bare cruelty. / H* 16
I turned abruptly and left the root
inte
Janet Goode is a senior journalism
and a guest columnist for The Bai
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The shape of things to come: male pregnancl
I was wandering .- H • At the end of the gestation period, the breakthrough for gay couples and
I was wandering
aimlessly through
the cable recently
and came upon a
program where a
female doctor was
talking about
something quite
extraordinary.
Male pregnancy.
You read it
correctly. The
doctor said that
Lewis
Grizzard
medical science is close to reaching the point
to make it possible for a male to have a baby.
The doctor also explained how that could
be done.
She was technical, but if I understood her
correctly, the following is what male
pregnancy would involve:
• Patient would have to be sliced open,
beginning somewhere near his bellybutton.
• A fertilized egg would then be
implanted somewhere in his abdomen where
there is a good supply of blood. I think the
doctor mentioned the intestines.
• For several months, the patient would
have to take female hormones.
• At the end of the gestation period, the
mother (take that anyway you want to)
would have to have his belly opened again
and out would come baby.
Naturally, I have some qualms about all
this. First of all, a male having a baby
wouldn’t simply fool Mother Nature, it
would be a direct slap in the face. Something
like that might cause catastrophic changes in
the weather.
Further, there are considerations such as
what the baby would call the individual who
bore it. Mommy or Daddy, or perhaps a
combination of the two, Maddy.
Then there is the part, which the doctor
explained, about how uncomfortable
pregnancy would be to a male.
1. You have to have your belly sliced open
twice.
2. Taking female hormones would cause
enlargement of the male breasts.
3. There are no such things as maternity
dresses for men.
So what male in his right mind would
agree to go through with such a thing?
The doctor answered that, too:
“I would think this would be a major
breakthrough for gay couples and
transvestites who would like to haveadtj
is what she said, and I am thankfulnt)
grandparents and John Wayne didnil'i
long enough to hear her say such a thiffii
I took a poll, asking other men whar:!
thought of all this:
Said Bruno D. of Newark: “Guyshai'J
kids? Get outta here or I’ll breakyourlil
prevert!’
Said Arnold S. of Cedar Rapids: “(xj
imagine having morning sicknessonit
hangover?”
Commented Michael (Billy) R.c
Francisco: “I can’t wait to tell myboyfik
about this.”
Said Ronald R. of Washington D.C '|
just as soon leave all that businesswitliiti
stork.’
After watching the report on male
pregnancy, I became quite ill anddevf ’j
a splitting headache.
I called my doctor.
“Take two Midol,” he advised, “ands;I
me in the morning.” 11
Copyright 1987, Cowles Syndicate
CHARLES
WHITMAN
AUGUST 1, 1966
AUSTIN, TEXAS
JAMES HUBERTY
JULY 18, 1984
SAN YSIDRO, CALIFORNIA
MICHAEL RYAN
AUGUST 19, 1987
HUNGERFORD, ENGLAND
PATRICK
HENRY SHERRILL
AUGUST 20, 1986
EDMOND, OKLAHOMA
"FIRST BLOOD"
“RAMBO”
HOLLYWOOD, U.S.A.
THE AMERICAN DISEASE SPREADS TO MOTHER ENGLAND
i