"Aye, There's the rub!"

I just got back from a 3 1/2 day weekend  http://www.50states.com/flag/coflag.htm visiting my mom in Montrose, Colorado. It's a beautiful area in Southwestern Colorado by the San Juan Mountains and the Black Canyon.

http://www.visitmontrose.net/

There are a couple of things that you need to know about my mom. She loves leopard print clothes and bright sequins. She loves to gamble. She has supported herself in Colorado the past 15-16 years by running a poker game out of her spare room in her house. She has played cards for as long as I can remember. Unfortunately, the card-playing and gambling can take a major toll on relationships-she's been married and divorced 3 times. You cannot blame it ALL on the gambling-but it clearly played a roll in deep-sixing 3 marriages. She also smokes. But to  say my mom smokes would be like saying Madonna or Paris Hilton enjoy the company of men. My mom RELISHES her smokes. She smokes 3 packs  a day. I have not even seen French guys who can out-smoke my mom.  There are absolutely two ways that you can send my mom into a frothing-at-the-mouth apolectic fit: ask her not to smoke around you, and bring up Mexican Illegal immigrants.

Now lest you think this is some sort of "I'm going to blame all my problems on my parents" posting, forget it. My mom is a lot of fun, she is very social, loves conversation, loves going out(well, used to now that Colorado became a smoke free state in it's restaurants) and does not forget a birthday for me, my brother and sisters AND the grandkids. I can honestly say that when I was a young child, she had a profound impact on my life by reading to me and being there for me when I took my tentative first steps reading Dr Seus books. At Christmas time, I not only got the presents that I asked Santa for, but I got gifts that I never would have dared asked of Santa because they were too expensive, like hockey equipment and such. Even when she was a single mom, Christmas was always a blast.

Living by herself the last several years has meant that my mom is very independent and wants things done her way. Compromise is not a word in her vocabulary.

I had wanted to go to the Four Corners area-it's  the only location in the United States where 4 states(New Mexico, Utah, Arizona and Colorado) border on a point where you can stand on that point and be in all 4 states. http://www.mesaverde.com/fcmonument.htm Part of the reason I wanted to go was that by going to the 4 Corners, I would add Utah to my list of States-and would make it that I had set foot in every continental state west of the Mississippi River. (The only states I have yet to set foot in are South Carolina, Alabama, Alaska and Hawaii)

My mom was up for a road trip. The catch was that her car was not in good condition for a tough 3 hour drive through mountains and into the desert. We rented a car, a Toyota Corolla. The one problem: My mom could not smoke in the car under the renters agreement. What should have been a 3 hour trip ended up taking about 5- we would stop roughly every 20 minutes at my mother's strident behest so that she could either A-have a smoke-usually a couple of cigarettes would get power-inhaled, B-get an Iced Tea and C-get something to eat.(Diabetic...low blood sugar) At no point on the way to  the 4 Corners area-or back- was I able to  drive for more than 25 minutes at one shot. Oh yeah, Mom wanted to make sure that we got LOTS of pictures of the scenary. Good thing I just had disposable camera with 27 shots or we would still be on the road by Telluride or Rico.

We stayed at the Ute Mountain Casino and Hotel in Towaoc, Colorado. http://www.utemountaincasino.com/  It was a nice place and Mom was in her element. She played Poker untill about 4 in the morning. It was tough sledding getting her up in time for the 11 AM Check-out, but we made it-barely.

I admit it: I'm a wuss when it comes to gambling. I think I spent about 15 bucks playing the nickle slot machines. I spent most of Saturday night watching my Mom and marvelling at how much fun she had playing cards. I was on a tight budget for this trip, but mostly I am just not into throwing my money away. I think Mom lost 40 bucks that night, but she was down more than $150 earlier in the night, so she rebounded well after I left at 1am to try to sleep.

I really did have a good weekend with my mom. It was fun talking and reminiscing, but I think 3-4 days was all my lungs could take. I am sure I have the beginnings of black lung disease. In all seriousness, there are a lot of people my age who do not have living parents. I'm glad I took the time to do this trip, because with my Mom's health, there is no guarantee that in the future that she would be up for such a road trip. When you spend time with an aging parent, it makes you realize just how time really is a fleeting thing. I thought about my mom as a young divorcee` in her 20's bringing me and my siblings to a drive in, because that was cheap entertainment for a single mom with limited funds. She would pop up a bag of popcorn and we would be dressed in our pyjammas, because we usually nodded off during the second feature.

I thought about that same period in our lives in the late 60's when she would say that we were going to have breakfast for dinner. We thought  our Mom was being cool. As kids, we did not realize that it was cheaper to buy eggs and pancake mix than meat and fresh vegetables. It did not seem that long ago when I was giving my mom and dad a hard time about turning 40. Now here I am in my MID forties.

It is a complex relationship we have with our parents. But we have to make good use of this time that we have them around, because life is short and regrets are forever.

A couple of days ago, I came accross an interesting article in the Star Tribune that brought up a long-forgotten issue. The Cliff notes version is that there a lot of women who are now in their 50's and 60's who were compelled to give up their babies when they(as unwed women) got pregnant. Much of this happened in the 50's to the early 60's-during the time in the U.S that the previous President Bush would have called a "Kinder and Gentler Time." The upshot of the article is that many of these women who were forced to give up their babies by parents and society still suffer a great deal of mental anguish after all of these years. They wonder what ever happened to the babies they gave up. They still suffer a great deal of shame, because some of them had parents and family that never really forgave them for being single and getting pregnant. For readers who are too young to remember, there really was a time in America where having a baby out of wedlock was a major taboo. In many cases, these were not exactly women who were sleeping around-many got pregnant during their first time and with their boyfriend-many times in college.  The article really hit close to home.

My dad's sister, my Aunt Kay(more about her in future postings-she merits more than passing mention) told me about her cousin who was a young woman in her early 20's when she had a baby out of wedlock. Her father was a senior grade officer in the Minnnesota National Guard. It would have been scandelous at that time if word got out that his daughter had a child out of wedlock. The cousin was compelled to give the baby up. The cousin ended up never marrying and did not have any more children. She died of a pulmonary embolism when she was only in her late 40's. Her parents literally gave away their only grandchild. I remember her parents in their later years as being very sad and downcast...you have to wonder how much they obsessed about the loss of their daughter and giving away their grandchild-on how much hurt they must have caused their daughter, but did not realize it because of concerns about 'what will will they say at the Officer's Club?".

Now I will admit that today, maybe the pendulum has swung too much the other way- There is NO SHAME anymore in having a child out of wedlock.It has gotten to where you have high school kids trying to get pregnant either to have somebody to love, or to get on the fast track to the welfare lifestyle-in many cases the father is not involved at all with the child they sired.

All of that said, your heart has to go out to these women who suffered alone so many years-because like most of these things, the actual sperm-donor got off with few, if any, ramifications to their life. In a so-called more moral time, I would have to ask "What about the idea of condeming the sin, but not the sinner?" The guilt, shame and longing for their babies these women carried and forced to give up had to be formidable.

At least in this day and age, Birth Control methods are beter-still not a 100%, but a whole lot better than the days before  advent of "The Pill". There is such a thing as an open adoption, where a woman can give up a child for adoption,but can still be a part of the child's life.  In the final analysis, things today may be far from perfect-but in that 1950's, Beaver Cleaver, white-bread America, the good ol' days really were not so good.  Women at that time really had no say in what happened to them, or their bodies. Women really had very few places to turn for realistic and honest sex education, contraception, counseling-and of course at that time, abortion was verboten-unless you were from a wealthy family where they could send you to Sweden or Great Britain for your abortion. I am not pro-abortion, by the way-but in the final analysis, I don't know if we can afford to go back to how life was before Roe Vs. Wade.

As a family, we decided last night to be a welcome family for a young AFS student named Rodrigo from Portugal. On his biography sheet, it mentioned that he plays rugby in his native Portugal, and that he enjoys sports. At first blush , he would seem to be a good match with our home.  After last year's debacle being a welcome family for a young woman from Switzerland, I think we were all a little hesitant-that's why we agreed at this point to be a welcome family. If Rodgrigo gets along well with everybody, that might change things which would make him AFS student #12 to have spent a school year with us.

One question that will be asked of Rodrigo, is would he prefer to try a fall sport at Cooper, Like American Football, or Soccer-or would he rather play fall club rugby with my club, Metropolis. If he decides to do a fall sport, he may have to get out of his comfort level and try something new. It would also have the advantage of having him hang out with kids in his own age range, wheras with Metropolis, it wouldbe with college age and mostly older players. It will be interesting to see how he decides. In a worst case scenario, he can play rugby at the high school level in the spring with the Plymouth Rugby Club.

I am pretty optimisic that he will end up spending the year with us...hope he likes dogs and cats.

When you go through your mail, you may find a lot of bills, advertising, sweepstakes, coupons and the odd post card... the one thing that you almost never see anymore is an honest-to-goodness-handwritten/typed/word-processed letter.

When I was studying in France, I wrote to Becky at least every day-sometimes two letters a day. She did the same back in Iowa. I also got periodic letters from other friends and family. When you live away from home, I cannot tell how much getting a letter meant for my morale. Getting one from Becky REALLY helped the morale. It sure helped me to keep my focus from straying while I was in Montpellier. My dear friend May, who came to Montpellier via her native Cape Town in South Africa, did her best to introduce me to a wide array of very sweet, charming and good-looking young women. By the time she met Becky later that summer, she had told her that after awhile she began to wonder if I was "a little swish...now that I have met you, I can see know why he was so faithful to you."

If there is one regret I have is that I did not keep all of the letters that Becky had sent me. I guess I was being a typical guy, because when I told Becky a few years ago that I had thrown out the letters, she was more than a little bit put-out: "Steve, I kept ALL of your letters that you sent me."

I do think about asking Becky for the letters so that I can transcribe them into a format for Ian and Rachel...then again, they may not want a written history of when their parents were courting...that might be Too Much Information.

In keeping with this weeks theme about Argentina, I had to write about my memories of the "Falklands War/Guerra de las Malvinas"-this year marks the 25th anniversary of a conflict that took place while I was studying in France. It was a different experience to watch a major event without Walter Cronkite, Peter Jennings, or any American radio or TV spin.

For those who need a quick refresher, the Falklands are group of islands under British control that are in the far South Atlantic. They are about 300 miles east of Argentina, a mere 600 miles north of Antarctica(or Elephant Island). Argentina has claimed the right to this wind-swept, God-forsaken pile of rocks since Britain invaded and took the Falklands from them in 1833.(The Argentines still refer to them as "Las Malvinas"). There are more sheep in the Falklands than people. Any question of how important sheep are to local industry need only look at the Falklands Flag: and Coat of Arms:

Really-those are the real flag and coat of arms-You cannot make this kind of stuff up.

In 1982, Argentina was under the control of a particularly nasty military junta led by a guy named General Galtieri. The Junta had been busy making leftest students disappear by the hundreds and driving the Argentine economy into the toilet, with triple digit inflation. Crowds in Buenos Aires overcame their fear of the Junta and the military and were gathering by the thousands asking for General Galteiri's head on a platter. The General was desperate. What to do? He knew that there was one other things besides soccer that united all Argentians, and that was getting the Malvinas back from the British. He and the other members of the junta came up with a plan to try to either get the islands from the British Diplomatically, or by force. The residents of the Falklands, affectionatly referred to as "Kelpers", considered themselves British. There was even a small garrison with a token British military presence.

When General Galtieri realized that he did not have much time left before an Argentine mob would force him out, he rolled the dice: an Argentine force invaded the Falklands and took control of Port Stanley, the capital. When word of the succeful invasion hit the newswires in Buenos Aires and the rest of Argentina, people poured back out into the streets-this time to celebrate the return of their beloved Malvinas. The Junta felt that the British would not fight to get the islands back and that the United Nations would support the Argentine cause. There was one person that General Galtieri had not counted on, and her name was Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister of Great Britain.

When the same news broadcast by the BBC hit the UK, Britons were stunned and angry. Thatcher, to borrow a phrase from the late Peter Finch, was "Mad as hell and was not going to take it anymore". The British had been having a hard time themselves economically-maybe not to level of triple digit inflation, but traditional jobs in shipping, boatmaking, coal mining and steel making were all being lost to overseas competition. Britain had been losing colonies for years, but for the Falklands to have been invaded by a South American junta was really the last straw. Thatcher sent a veritable flotilla towards the South Atlantic, the likes of which had not been seen in Southern English ports, like Southampton, Portsmouth and Plymouth since the end of the Second World War.

While all of this is going on in France, my roomate Frank and my British Friend Jonathan were watching all of this in rapt attention. The French media was all over this story, as the French had sold the Argentine military Super Entendard jets and Excocet missles-which could be fired from jets and could take out a large ship.  The French media crowed about how the Super Entendard was superior to the British Harriers and that the Exocets would blow the British Armada out of the water. The feeling was that the Argentines would have time to dig in and would repel the British onslaught.

Because of the tremendous distance that the British fleet had to traverse to get to the South Atlantic, there was something very old-fashioned about this war. It was almost like two kids in school who were going to fight after school: everybody KNEW it was going to go down, and the anticipation was palpable. Such is what the world did that spring in 1982-wait for the rumble to go down.

It was a very hard-fought conflict disputed in cold, wet, miserable conditions. The British sunk the Argentine ship "General Belgrano", with several hundred lives lost. The British found out the Excocet missle was a very real threat-one of the most notable exhibitions of it's prowess was when an Excocet missle sunk the HMS Sheffield. Other British water craft would also find their way to Davey Jone's locker care of them as well. The thing that I will never forget was when word came out about the sinking of the Sheffield, a French Newscaster stated "Today in La Guerre de Malouines,  the Sheffield was sunk-with a French Exocet Missile." I could not believe my ears.

The Falklands war was to prove one military truism to be a cold hard fact: What's important is not the equipment, but the professionalism of the soldier/sailor/airman using the equipment. The soldiers on the ground in the Falklands were Argentine conscripts-no more than kids. When it came time for Royal Marines and the Gurkhas to become involved in the conflict, those Argentine conscripts were no match-it was like sending a kid with one Kung Fu lesson to go out against Bruce Lee. The Harrier jets that the British used were IDEAL for island hopping and the type of fighting that had to be done in this setting. Royal Air Force pilots showed themsleves to be sharper and more lethal against their very game-but outmatched Argentine Adversairies.

While all of this was going on, the Argentine press was writing and saying that the British were getting manhandled by their boys in Goose Green and Port Stanley. They kept this up-untill the British retook Port Stanley. This lead to a crescendo of shame and anger. "How can we be kicking the hell out the British and then you tell us we LOST Las Malvinas?"

At our University in Montpellier, our Civilisation professeur, a man named Jean-Pierre Donnadieu, told Frank, Jonathan and me that as much as he would normally root against the British, he hoped that the British would win this conflict:"If the British win, this will sway public opinion forever against the generals...this just might bring democracy back to Argentina". The postcript to the war was just that-General Galtieri and his cronies were forced out of office and Democracy eventually came to Argentina. Margaret Thatcher parlayed her steely-eyed nerve and would forever be dubbed "The Iron Lady", cementing her role as the strongest British leader of the XXth century, along with Churchill.

For an American in France, it was very interesting getting news via the French Media and faint radio broadcasts of the BBC-whom it should be noted got in trouble with the Thatcher government because it's coverage of the war was not always complimentary of the military or the government. Quite a contrast, a country with a free press like Britain, and one where the press was shackled by a Junta, like in Argentina that spring of 1982.

Today we'll go with a strong Argentine theme-and no, I did not just get done watching "Evita".

I talked on the phone today with my friend Sharon, who lives in Fargo.(one place in the U.S where you say the name of the city and there is no need to ask which state) She is really psyched about hosting an AFS exchange student from Argentina.  It's winter in Argentina now, but he is going to learn about a whole different level of winter on the Northern Plains.

I watched the Copa America final yesterday. Argentina, who went through the rest of the opposition like Sherman through Georgia in it's prelminary, quarterfinal and semifinal wins playing utterly sublime soccer(Only giving up one goal in 5 games), got taken to the woodshed by Brazil 3-0. Dunga's player's,  who may not have played the "Jogo Bonito" associated with the Brazilian Game (for many soccer fans, Brazil's 1970 World Cup winning squad lead by Pele is the exhibit A for Jogo Bonito, that is, free-flowing, entertaining soccer. For the fans of Futebol, Brazil's 1970 team is held in the same regard that Baseball fans hold for the1927 Yankees)-All credit to Brazil, who gave a masterful display of how to do a counter attack-particularly the third goal. Robinho and Wagner Love ripped holes in the Argentine defense, and they were off to the races like Greyhounds racing for kibble.  Depending on how you look at it, Brazil's win over it's auld enemy illustrated that A: life and sport are NOT fair and B: It shows why in sport, no matter how favored a team is and how good the favored team looks in it's previous games, you still have to play the game.

In spite of yesterday's disappointing result for the Argentine Soccer afficianado, it has not been a totally negative time for Argentian sports: In the U-20 World Cup, Argentina dumped Mexico 1-0, it's national rugby team has made HUGE strides. Many of it's best players are playing in Britain, Ireland and France-more than a few people, myself included, think that this is a team that is capable of making it to the Semi's at the Rugby
World Cup in France this September and October. (I have tickets for me and Ian to see a preliminary game in Marseille when they play Namibia at Le Stade Velodrome-I also have tickets to see USA-Tonga and Tonga -Samoa in Montpellier) Two Argentine Basketball players played with the NBA champion San Antonio Spurs this year, and an Argentian Golfer won the recent US Open. Oh yeah, Argentina is the defending Olympic champs in Soccer and Basketball(where they schooled a US team that had LeBron James, Allen Iverson and Tim Duncan, among others) Heady times for athletes from the land of the Tango, Gauchos, Diego Maradonna and the Perons.

In spite of yesterday's loss to Brazil, I don't think there is any need to cry for Argentine sport. It seems to be doing just fine.

     Four years ago, I was at work doing my phone triage job, when I became aware that my heart seemed to be racing, then slowing down.  I tried not to be alarmed. I was not having any chest pain, I did not have the sweats nor radiating pain...Yet when I continued to re-check my pulse, it was going from a rate of the 70's to in the low 100's. I drove myself to an urgent care, where I was diagnosed with Atrial Fibrillation. I found out that during atrial fibrillation, the heart's two small upper chambers (the atria) quiver instead of beating effectively. Blood isn't pumped completely out of them, so it may pool and clot. If a piece of a blood clot in the atria leaves the heart and becomes lodged in an artery in the brain, a stroke results. About 15 percent of strokes occur in people with atrial fibrillation.

   I was put on beta-blockers initially to try to treat it,and also was put on a blood thinner called Coumadin.  The Beta-blockers totally sapped my energy. My weight ballooned into the 240+ range. The medical regimine just was not working. My cardiologist introduced me to another cardiologist who told me about a procedure called an ablation. It was similar to an angiogram, except instead of using a balloon to widen a clogged vein or artery, an electrode at the end of the catheter would cauterize some nerve endings by my Coronary Vein. Well, after the procedure, it got rid of my Atrial Fibrillation....but I developed a complication called Atrial Flutter-Atrial flutter commonly occurs in the setting of acute myocardial infarction, after pneumonectomy and after cardiac surgery in adults. I cannot tell you how odd it was to be lying in bed, yet having my heart rate in the high 180's. They ended up bringing me back downstairs to cardiovert me-that is, to attempt to shock my heart back into a normal rythym. They gave me some really good drugs, because I remember asking my wife and the cardiac tech when we were going to get started, and they told me that It was already done. My heart was back to beating regularly with a normal sinus rythym.

     When I was discharged from the hospital the next day, my chest still felt like it had been worked over by a baseball bat. My son Ian asked me if I wanted to go with him while he walked our Golden Retriever. I made it about a half a block, before I told him that I was too beat to continue. In just the previous month, I had done my Army Physical Fitness test with the Army Reserves, and had scored a 280 out of 300-I even had done my best time in the 2-mile run since I went back into the Reserves after 9/11. Now I could not even make it a half block walking. I thought that was lowest that I could have felt. Little did  I realize that things were going to take an unexpected turn.

    I also found out that I had sleep apnea. People who are overweight or have big necks tend to be at risk for sleep apnea-also people who snore. I was 3 for 3. My 17 1/2" neck was the main culprit. When the Army Reserves found out I had sleep apnea, I was medically boarded out, because I was "not deployable to ALL theaters"-meaning Iraq or Afgahnistan. It did not matter that I had been scoring well on my fitness tests, it did not matter that as a Registered Nurse, I had a job that was very much needed. I was offically discharged from the Army Reserves in June of 2005-after scoring a 285 on my fitness test and scoring as a sharp-shooter on the 9mm pistol the previous month at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin. At the age of 44, I felt like I could understand what it was like for a pro athlete to be dumped by their team and put on waivers.

   After getting boarded out of the Army Reserves, I really went into a funk. I started to put weight back on and I just really felt like I did not belong anywhere. My wife had her Science ficition clubs, my daughter had her horse and her horse-related activities, my son was off in college at Rutgers University in New Jersey, where he played with the rugby club there and was meeting people and having a good time.(And still managed to get good grades).

    I am ashamed to admit to you that instead of being happy for my son, I was very envious. I was the one who was the rugby fan. I had fallen in love with the sports when I was a college student in Montpellier, in Southern France. Languedoc, the region I was in, was the epicenter of French Rugby. After watching Wales-France on TV, and seeing the passion of 50,000 singing Welshman and a game that had more action than American Football, I was taken by the sport, hook, line and sinker.

   I had never played because I had gotten married, we had kids, and I had become involved with their activities as a soccer coach and parent. We also became involved hosting foriegn exchange students(11 over the years). As the birthdays passed and my hair took on more flecks of gray, I thought that I never would be able to play-particularly after my Atrial Fibrillation and ablation.

   One night in February of 2006, I came accross the Metropolis Rugby Football Club web site. It said that they had a group called "The Old Boys" and that players of all skill levels-even new people-were welcome.  When I talked with my son Ian about this, he said "Dad, why don't you try it? You still work out and you have ALWAYS wanted to play. You really should try it. John(His rugby playing roomate)also said you should try it". My Doctor, told me that from a cardiac standpoint, my A-fib was cured, and that there was no reason why I could not play."Just be careful-it's a really tough, physical game". My wife told me "If you don't stop whining and just go and try playing, I'll beat you up myself!"

   I went to a practice that was held at an indoor facility(Still cold and snow on the ground in Minnesota in February and March).  I was amazed at how welcoming the players were. They thought that it was cool that somebody my age wanted to learn to play. They thought that it was even more amazing that I had such unconditional support from my wife and kids. As I made it to more practices, it made me aware that there was a difference between being a chubby 44 year old in reasonable shape and being in PLAYING shape. I had to re-think my workouts. I was amazed at how many B-squad games I was able to get into. I had visions of just being thrown in for the last 5 minutes, or garbage time in games. I was getting real playing time. As the spring progressed, my pants were fitting looser. Things were going great untill I had a partial tear in my knee from stepping into a hole while running during a practice in early May.

  The fun I had and the friends I was making with the team gave me resolve in doing my rehab on my knee to play in the fall. I also had another motivator: My son was not going back to Rutgers and wanted to play with Metropolis. In the fall season, I ended up being able to play in games with my son. In this past spring season , we played in quite a few b-squad games,and we had a great road trip down to Saint Louis, Missourri.

  I am done with regular rugby after this spring season . The Calendar does not lie, and at 46, it was taking me more to recover after games and practices. I will stay involved with Metropolis as an Old Boy-maybe play in the occasional Old Boys game. But playing rugby helped me improve my fitness, and more importantly, rugby took a middle aged guy who was on the fast track to depression, and it gave me my smile back. I will always be grateful to both Dr. Shultz, who did my ablation, and to my teamates with the Metropolis Rugby Football Club. They both really did save my life and my sanity.

I get asked quite a bit if I always wanted to be a nurse. Well, not in the womb, but RIGHT AFTER, I did!

As a kid I spent more than a few stints in the hospital: Pneumonia, dehydration, getting a curtain rod snared in my mouth(I still have the scars on my palate) and getting hit by a car(All my right side ribs busted, a punctured lung and a bald spot on my head for years from sliding on the top of my head over the asphalt after I got hit by a guy going 50 in a 35 zone). Growing up, I really wanted to become a doctor or a nurse. A funny thing happend along the way. I found out I was good-very good-at French.

When I went to Wartburg College in Waverly, Iowa, I had a master plan of getting a double major in French and Business. Seemed like a good idea at the time except for two things: I hated my business classes, and I found out I LOVED The partying lifestyle. My French grades were the only thing that kept me from getting tossed on my butt. I walked out of Wartburg College in the spring of 1983 with my wonderful B.A in French. It looked great on my wall. It helped me meet and court my lovely wife, Rebekah; I met some great people thanks to my studies in France. In 1983, a B.A in French did NOT make me very employable. Remember, during this time, you were thankful to have ANY job in the U.S-even a lousy one. I ended up enlisting in the United States Air Force. (Rebekah did, as well)

The USAF, in their infinite wisdom, took somebody with a foriegn language background, and made a Medic out of me. I worked in a primary care clinic and a pediatric clinic, as well as making 911 runs on base in the ambulance. When I left active duty in the spring of 1988, I had the option of either going back to school for a teaching and coaching certificate, or going to nursing school, because I found I really did enjoy the healthcare field. In 1988, there were NO teaching jobs available in the upper midwest. I was married, we had an almost year-old infant-I did not have time to wait for the teaching market to open up. I went to nursing school.

I owe two people a huge debt of thanks for those two years of nursing school: My dad and my friend Bob Greenberg. My dad essentially told me that he would help me out financially if I got out of the Air Force and come back home. He made the house payments on hour little home  in Brooklyn Center, Minnesota during those two years. Bob Greenberg was a nurse who put up with more than a little flack from nursing instructors who did not like a man going into nursing. He had a great deal of helpful advice in just getting through the mind games and stress involved in nursing school. I was lucky in that I did not have to deal with the level of male-bashing that he put up with in the early 80's, but his advice and encouragement were a tremendous help to me.

I am glad that I went into nursing-particularly when I see the garbage that teachers have to put up with  in this day and age. It's not perfect, but there is plenty of demand for my profession that will not go away any time soon. There are a ton of sub-specialties that you can get into. I won't get filthy rich-but I will always be able to put bread on the table. I also have to say that in working in healthcare, it has given me such an appreciation for life, and how precious and fragile it is. I have learned that we are not guaranteed tomorrow, and we have to be thankful for each day that we have our health and our loved ones.