58,000.

That’s the population of the cities like Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Bozeman, Montana. Sanford, Florida.

It’s also the number of names carved into the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C.

58,000 Americans who didn’t come home.

This is Memorial Day. Time to honor those fallen service members and all who have fallen while serving to protect and defend the freedom of those of us lucky enough to call ourselves citizens of the greatest nation on earth.

Nha Trang, Circa 1966

Vietnam was a primary focus of about 10 of my 30 years in the Air Force. 1963 to 1973.

In 1966 I witnessed something that made me fervently wish that conflict would end. Quickly.

I was the navigator on a C-130 aircrew, grounded in Nha Trang, waiting on some maintenance. I walked out to the flight line.

Another C-130 was loading body bags for transport home.

The stench was terrible.

As I approached, I saw the tags. These are not the real names but names like these:

Sgt. Charles Smith, 23, St. Louis, MO

Pvt. Joey Jones, 18, Charlotte, NC

Cpl. Sammy Cohen, 22, Newark, NJ

The ages.

The ages struck me to the core.

What the hell were we doing?

When will this war end?

It Did Not End There

Not for me.

I flew several more airlift missions. Then I served a full year in-country, summer 1969 to summer 1970. Over 100 recon missions as navigator on the venerable C-47 “Gooney Bird.” The oldest aircraft in the USAF inventory.

I followed that with four years at the Air Force Accounting and Finance Center in Denver, administering pay accounts and helping the families of our POWs and MIAs.

The most rewarding and entangling assignment of my 30-year career.

The Price

58,000 lives was only part of the story.

Over 300,000 service members were wounded. More than 150,000 needed hospitalization. About 75,000 were permanently disabled. And Lord only knows how many of us came home carrying some form of PTSD.

We also burned billions of our national wealth on a lost cause.

Then came 1973. The end of hostilities. The return of our POWs.

A highlight of my career.

The war itself didn’t end until 1975. Hardly any of our MIAs have ever been found.

Korea

As brutal and tragic as Vietnam was, there is another war, nearly forgotten now, that was even more deadly.

Korea. About three years. Over 36,000 American lives lost.

The 58,000 we lost in Vietnam came over fifteen years.

Korea took 36,000 in three.

Let that sink in.

May God bless and protect all of our fallen military brothers and sisters, our first responders, and their loved ones and families on this Memorial Day.

In our great nation.

Amen.

OK. Here I am, a gawky, skinny 15-year-old walking into where he was talking, not nicely, to my mom.

There he is, way bigger than me. He coulda easily killed me.

I said in my high squeaky voice, “Frank, you’ve had too much to drink. I think you’d better leave.”

He looked at my mom and asked, “Do you want me to go?”

She answered, “You heard him, didn’t you.”

I was so proud of her. He left without further incident.

Let me back up.

My mom was an attractive “widder lady,” as they would say in some small towns. But we lived in the biggest “small” town anywhere, New York City. Ergo she had lotsa suitors, and I had lotsa uncles that weren’t really my uncles.

One such “uncle” who I liked a lot was Uncle Frank.

When I first met Uncle Frank, he was part of a pair. Uncle Frank and Aunt Emma. Yes, he was married. Aunt Emma wasn’t with him when he visited frequently, apparently on his way home from work. He and my mom would usually sit on the sofa and talk. He would send me out a lot to bring home ice cream. I was never gone more than 30 minutes, and they would still be on the sofa talking when I got back. He was always kind and generous to my mom and me.

Uncle Frank was a big man. An electrician, plumber and general handyman, who worked at several big factories in the NY area. One he mentioned a lot was the Breyer’s Ice Cream factory in Long Island City. The iconic, gigantic Breyer’s Ice Cream sign was a fixture on my many subway rides from my hometown, Flushing, to Times Square in the heart of Manhattan.

Uncle Frank enjoyed a drink now and then.

One evening near Christmas, he arrived after having several drinks somewhere. After a short conversation with my mom on the sofa, he became verbally abusive. Since they weren’t whispering and our apartment was small, I could hear every word from the kitchen. I heard her ask him to leave. He didn’t start to leave right away.

So, I walked in.

As scared as I was, I still think I kinda became a man that Christmas, at that moment.

But that wasn’t the only moment.

I’ve been thinking about when a boy becomes a man. Not the legal stuff — the voting age, the draft age. I mean when does he start behaving like one. When does he accept responsibility. When does he understand the impact of his behavior on the people around him.

For me, that incident with Frank was the first.  Here are the other two.

The Draft Card

At age 18 in New York in 1957, I received my Draft Card, formal documentation of manhood. With a Draft Card at that time, I could buy booze.

The day I received it, I entered a local liquor store and bought my mom a pint of Imperial, an inexpensive blended whiskey. I knew she enjoyed a very occasional highball. That’s a shot of whiskey in some Club Soda and ice. She couldn’t afford it normally, so this would be a well-deserved treat for her.

First legal booze purchase… went straight to my mom.  Yes, we had a unique mother/son relationship.

The Dentures

From about age 12 to 18, we were dirt poor. We were squeezing the nickel so hard, the Indian was ridin’ the buffalo. (Google that one, young folks.)

My mom needed a set of dentures bad. Her front teeth were terrible and she was embarrassed.  She often covered her mouth with her hand while talking. But the $$ were not available for the dentist.

Then things started to get a little better. I was working part time with the Post Office. My pay went from $1 an hour, as a porter/dishwasher, to $2 to sort mail. For you math majors, that’s double. My mom had a decent paying job at Family Circle Magazine. We were paying our rent on time.

So I saved enough to help her get a set of dentures.

How often does a young man buy a set of false teeth for his mom?

Enuf.

I was four years old.

My dad was on a gurney, on his way out the door to the hospital after a heart attack. He looked up at me and said, “Take care of your mom.”

That was the first quote that never left me.

These are the words that hit me to my core. The ones that made me who I am.

I did the best I could.

In Second Grade: Welcome to Wurtsboro

I was seven years old, starting second grade in Wurtsboro, NY. A little hick town 75 miles north of “The City,” where my Aunt May and Uncle Ted had a tiny chicken farm.

We were there because a housing shortage in NYC had basically made us homeless. My mom, my sociopathic older brother, and me were there long enough that I had to go to school somewhere.

One of my “homey” classmates greeted me on the first day, welcoming me to the “Waltonesque” town of Wurtsboro.

“We don’t like city slickers around here.”

So much for the stereotype of friendly people in a friendly small town.

What I took from it: the world doesn’t roll out a welcome mat. You find your own way in.

And I did. Those same summers, age 12 to 16, I couldn’t wait to get back up there to spend time with Aunt May and Uncle Ted, my cousins Richard, Marjorie and Nancy, and the freakin’ chickens. Thank heaven for my good pal named Peter, who lived across the street and whose folks had a nice cabin in the woods near Yankee Lake. Lotsa swimming and canoeing.

I found my way in just fine.

In High School: Mr. Vessa Speaks

“Mr. Scooler, you’re too damned sensitive.”

That was my high school Latin teacher, Mr. Vessa. He was soooo old. Probably about 60. (Ooh! Sorry, kids.)

I had just given him “what for” because of something he said that I felt mocked my intelligence. Instead of sending me to the dean, he just laid that one on me.

He was right on.

I was too sensitive. Thin-skinned. Ready to fight over a slight, real or imagined.

What I took from it: I hadn’t yet met my wonderful wife Marjorie, who later showed me the art of ignoring an idiot (me) who says something mean in a bad-temper moment. You don’t need to engage in a stupid, unnecessary argument. Mr. Vessa planted that seed. Marjorie harvested it on the regular.

In College: The English 101 Gut-Punch

“Mr. Scooler, your essay is perfect. Correct spelling, punctuation, and grammar. It’s clear and concise. But it’s the most boring piece of crap I ever read. Put some life in it, man!!”

And he didn’t say “crap.”

That was my English 101 professor at Queens College. I was a college freshman who had gotten a lot of A’s in high school compositions and thought he could write pretty good.

It stung.

What I took from it: put some life in it. Humor. Color. Something that makes a person want to keep reading. I’ve really tried to do that ever since. (You be the judge.)

The other lesson: I listened. I didn’t argue. I didn’t sulk off and decide he was wrong. Maybe Mr. Vessa had gotten through to me after all. Somebody told me a hard thing, and I believed them. That doesn’t come naturally to this prideful kid from Flushing, Queens.

But it’s a helluva gift when you finally figure it out.

In the Air Force: Rebel

“Get the hell off that GD bus, you freakin’ idiots, and get down on your haunches and walk like a duck.”

He didn’t say “GD” or “freakin“ either.

That was “Rebel.” A 6’7”, 250-pound survival school sergeant with tattoos and a big snake wrapped around his arm (not a tattoo, a real freakin’ snake!). He succeeded in scaring the hell out of us 20-year-old AFROTC cadets attending a Survival School in Nelsonville, Ohio.

But then there’s me and my big mouth.

As we got off the bus, he yelled: “I said, walk like a duck. Now say, ‘Quack quack.’“ I was doing the duck walk but not quacking. He yelled at me. “Say quack quack, you idiot!”

I retorted stupidly, “Quack quack, you idiot.”

I can’t remember how many push-ups I had to do. But it was a bunch.

Of course, if it had been a real POW camp, I would have gotten a rifle butt in the mouth. Or been shot. Luckily, I was not in Korea or Vietnam at the time.

What I took from it: know when to keep your mouth shut. It took a snake-armed giant and a few hundred push-ups to drive that one home. But I got the point. Thirty years in the Air Force, and I never forgot it.

Training succeeded.

And so here I am.

A seven-year-old city slicker who didn’t belong. A high school kid who was too sensitive for his own good. A college freshman who could spell but couldn’t write. A young airman who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Every one of those people had something to say to me.

Every one of them was right.

And underneath all of it was a four-year-old boy standing in a doorway, watching his father leave on a gurney.

Take care of your mom.

Did I do ok, Dad?

Enuf.

My freakin internet connection doesn’t work.

To fix that problem my gigantic corporate internet provider sent me a new cellular modem. I had to ask what the hell that was. A cellular modem is air internet. Wireless. I’m a computer dinosaur, so that’s a redundant sentence.

Anyway. Guess what? It doesn’t work.

For three days, Jim (my son, a computer savvy engineer), Jerry (my local IT professional), and I tried numerous methods following the provider’s directions (and good ol’ Google) to connect. To no avail. A red light continued to mock us.  I think something is amiss. We weren’t sure if it was the modem or something not operating correctly in our neck of the woods, like a tower. The evidence pointed to the new modem being defective.

Sooooo. The ignorant dinosaur had to make the dreaded phone call to the giant corporate provider’s “Customer Service.”

Why “dreaded”? Primarily because it usually kills the better part of a day trying to get a human who speaks good English to help you. AND when you get one, he/she will ask you questions you can’t answer.

So here’s how the “dreaded” call went.

At about 1:30 pm I nervously dialed the 800 number. The friendly robot said all service reps were busy helping other “nervous” customers and I had a choice. I could wait on hold for God knows how long, or ask for a call back. I opted for the call back, expecting maybe an hour or so. The robot said 10 minutes.

Sure ‘nuff, my iPhone sang nine minutes later. I answered and identified myself to another robot. It/he/she said all reps were busy and someone would be with me shortly. “Ain’t this where I came in?” After a short wait, Leo answered. Leo was a human and he spoke good English. I was pleased.

“What can I help you with today?”

Oh Lord. How do I recap three days of frustration succinctly and tactfully for Leo? I did my best. He started remotely troubleshooting their local equipment, towers, signal, the works. Finding no significant problems on their end, he moved to my modem.

But first, he had to make sure I was me.

He emailed me a security code and asked me to read it back. I’m on my iPhone with him. How the hell do I check my email without losing him? Well, I tried. I swiped him away, went to email, found the 6-digit code, and trusted my memory to carry it back.

Bad idea.

I told him what I thought the 6 digits were. Uh uh. “’Rong.”

Sheeeeit. Swipe, hunt, write it down this time, swipe back, talk. Worked the second time. He now knew I was me. Good Lord!

Now that we’ve established that I y’am who I y’am, Leo gave me my first physical challenge. “Can you unplug the modem and move it to a completely different room near a window on the opposite side of the house? I can wait.”

I thought: that’s what I’ve been doing for three days. But ok.

At my age, I don’t run anywhere, so I walked briskly into the bedroom. No socket near the window. There must be one behind the big-ass bureau (high boy) because there’s a lamp on top. I succeeded in moving it a bit.

Murphy lives. The socket was on the opposite side.

I couldn’t reach it without risking a hernia and causing the stuff on top to fall and break. I opted for a socket in the bath and sink area near a bright window and replugged the freakin modem. Believe it or not, Leo patiently waited through the whole scramble. He was still there.

This was the fourth location we’d tried. We’d done all this before I made the dreaded call.

We waited about 5 minutes. The red light came on again.

After running me all over the house and overworking my pacemaker a bunch, Leo confirmed what I told him up front. The modem’s defective. They’ll send me another one.

I have my orders. Wait for the new modem, hand it to my IT guy Jerry, and ship the inop one back UPS with my account number. Leo gave me that over the phone too, because I forgot it.

Will the new one work? Hope so. But I ain’t bettin on it.

I was exhausted after the dreaded phone call. They did a good job. Of course, I still have no wifi. My iPhone on cellular is my workaround for now.

The “dreaded call” gave me a decent sitcom story. I hope y’all can visualize “the Old Man in the Attic” hunting for a socket to confirm for the bureaucracy what he already knew. That’s also my wifi network name, as it happens. Which I currently cannot access.

As my buddy Macbeth would say, it was another example of “Life’s but a walking shadow. The poor player struts and frets his last hour upon the stage, then is heard no more. ‘Tis a tale told by an idiot; full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Enuf.

“Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all.”

That’s Hamlet. And I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.

I am lazy. Ergo, I don’t read Shakespeare very thoroughly. But I love several of his lines. I recently wrote about his Macbeth characterization of life as a “tale told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Especially important when I foolishly thought I was indispensable.

But “Nothing?” I don’t buy that.

So here’s a question that comes to mind from Hamlet’s line:

Was I a good kid, or was I just scared of getting caught?

From the ripe old age of 10, I was a latch-key kid. Very little supervision. Mom worked. Dad passed away when I was 4. I “coulda got away wit moida,” as a New Yawka would say.

And yet…

I stayed outta trouble. Mostly. When one of my “buddies” tried to talk or shame me into doing something “naughty” (Halloween tricks, for example) something stopped me. Never even thought about mooning the PTA. Lol.

Was that conscience? Or was it Mom?

Mom had a line she repeated so often it got wired into my brain:

“Whatever you do, don’t bring disgrace to the family.”

Now. Was that good upbringing? Or was it the very specific guilt that Moms are so expert at aiming at you?

Part of me thinks it was the “Scooler luck” theory. If I misbehaved, I’d surely get caught. No doubt that thought occurred to me more than once. But I think Mom’s warning had already done its work before the temptation even showed up.

She planted something. I’m just not sure what to call it.

The question followed me into adulthood.

Why did I choose a life of government service? Thirty years in the U.S. Air Force. Ten years as a teacher and program director at Trident Technical College.

Was it a drive to serve my country, my state, my fellow man?

Or was it my need for a secure, monthly paycheck, the kind I needed to adequately support my family?

Why not aim higher in terms of economic achievement? Make a lotta money?

Desire to serve, or fear of failure?

A little bit of both, I surmise.

Mom’s voice in my head. Hamlet’s line on the page. Eighty-seven years of evidence.

I stayed outta trouble. I served. I supported my family.

Maybe it doesn’t matter why you take the right road.

You just do.

Enuf.

An F-15E Strike Eagle, shot down over Iran. Both crew members ejected. The pilot rescued within hours. The second airman, a Colonel, spent more than a day evading capture in the treacherous mountains of southwestern Iran, Iranian forces closing in, a bounty on his head. The CIA ran a deception campaign to throw the enemy off. U.S. special forces went in with heavy air cover and pulled him out of a mountain crevice.

“God is good,” he’d transmitted from his hiding spot.

He followed the principles of the Survival Course to a “T” even while seriously wounded from the ejection. And he survived.

This news of the daring, successful rescue struck eerily close to home for me. Not because I was downed and rescued, but rather because that never happened to me. Thank Heaven.

HOWEVER; As a C-130 airlift navigator, I flew 2,500 hours all over the globe, including in and out of that jungle paradise called Vietnam. But not before taking a short, but extremely rigorous Air Force Survival Course. Actually I completed two Survival Courses; the big one at Stead AFB, Nevada and a shorter, targeted course in Jungle Survival at Clark AB in the Philippines. The latter one was just before reporting to Vietnam for one year as an EC-47 Navigator. (And 1,000 hours at 1,500–2,000 ft over the Vietnam jungle in the oldest aircraft in the Air Force inventory; the venerable “Gooney Bird”, the C-47.)

Although it was over 50 years ago (yes, I’m old) the experience is indelibly etched in my feeble brain.

Both courses included a bunch about evading the enemy if you are forced to leave your aircraft. Getting hit by gunfire and being forced to violently eject from an F-15 fighter jet at high airspeed and altitude is a helluva way to leave it.

Our downed airman’s ordeal will be engraved in all future Air Force Survival School agendas.

Get away from your parachute landing place ASAP. Hide, but get to a high elevation to be seen and caught by friendly forces, not the enemy. Avoid people. Did I mention, “Hide”? Try to communicate so you can be identified. (In 1969 there were no iPhones or any pocket-sized phones one could carry into combat. How about a small glass mirror one could turn toward the sun and aim at an aircraft to get a pilot’s attention.) Stay calm and alert. Easy to say. Hard as hell to do. Hide and wait. Rescue will come.

It did.

Amen.

Here are some of my forever learnings from the “School” experience.

First. Don’t get captured.

The mock POW training taught me one major thing. They have total control over you. Food, drink, sleep, mobility, etc. Forget the John Wayne movie stuff. Try “name, rank and serial number” after no sleep, food or water for two days. And a few gun butts across your jaw. (They didn’t do that but they coulda.)

What else did I learn? Forget fairness.

After evading successfully, I was rewarded by 3 days in a mock POW camp. It was very real, but what made it “mock” was that it was for three days. You can stand on your head for three days. LOL.

Seriously, knowing it’ll end in three days or even three months means you can put up with a lot of punishment if you know it’s gonna end. If you’re a real POW, you don’t know if or when it’s gonna end. Big difference.

So do your damndest to evade capture. I demonstrated that in the Philippines, when during an evasion exercise, I hid in a clump of jungle and watched quietly as searchers almost stepped on me. I did not get caught, but was almost eaten alive by skeeters.

Lastly.

Make sure you have a good grip on the rope ladder when being pulled onto your rescue helicopter. I know of one MIA who was rescued and then lost his grip on the rope ladder about 10 ft from the helicopter entry, but 1,000 ft from the ground.

He wasn’t found.

Definitely enuf.

“Sir, it is with great humility that an insignificant example of the species homo sapien, a fluke of nature, such as I doth approach an omnipotent majesty, an exalted guardian of democracy, a sagacious seer such as thou, with this matter of minor magnitude. I am but flotsam on the seedy sea of disrepute, but I must speak ere courage desert me, for I must fill my miserly quota for one week and seven days make one week, sire.”

That was my required approach to get weekly signatures from 5 cadet officers and 10 cadets of enlisted rank who were members of Arnold Air Society (an Air Force ROTC military honor fraternity that I wished to join). That meant I memorized and recited, on one breath, that stupid approach speech about 75 times in a 5-day school week.

For 58 years now, it has made a home in my memory. I think I did forget a few words.

Yay.

Question: How’s the cow?

Answer: “Sir, she walks. She talks. She’s full of chalk. The lacteal fluid extracted from the female of the bovine species is highly prolific to the nth degree, sir.”

Question: What’s leather?

Answer: “Sir, if the fresh skin of an animal is cleaned and divested of all hair, fat and other extraneous matter and then immersed in a dilute solution of tannic acid, a chemical combination ensues. The gelatinous tissue of the skin forms a non putrescible substance, impervious to and insoluble in water. That, sir, is leather.”

Again, I may have missed a few words, but those responses (required whenever I was asked by a cadet member) have stayed in my head for 58 years.

How’d I do, Adolf?

My dear friend, who rattled off those stupid responses with me when we pledged for Arnold Air Society together in 1958. Our lasting friendship epitomizes the “cliche” that going through stressful processes together creates strong bonds. Like all cliches, it ain’t always true. I had many close colleagues in Air Force Survival Training and in my Tan Son Nhut year, with whom I withstood lotsa stress. But somehow, I didn’t stay in a close friendship with many of them.

Life is full of contradictions. Generalities usually don’t stand up to challenges.

Enuf

It started with a French class.

Brooklyn College, 1959. A discussion of the philosophical writings of Blaise Pascal — 17th century philosopher and then some. I had truly enjoyed the writing, though I can’t recall which writing it was.

Our prof surprised us a bit, while bemoaning the fact that we, in the US, used the word “genius” way too often. He stated that Blaise Pascal was, in fact, a true genius — mathematician and physicist, in addition to being a great philosopher. My scant research of 17th century geniuses listed Pascal right along with Isaac Newton, Galileo and Descartes. Quite great company.

Our prof left us with the thought that the overwhelming majority of us, including himself, were just “ordinary” people. Maybe exceptional, but certainly not geniuses.

That word has stuck with me for sixty-some years.

Ok, enough about Pascal. How does yours truly fit in?

ORDINARY, it is.

Maybe not too bad. But certainly no big deal.

In my High School senior class, I ranked number 19 of about 500. Not number 1, but not bad.

At Brooklyn College AFROTC I ranked in the upper third of my Academic Class, my AFROTC class, and my AFROTC Summer Training Class. That was enough to earn the designation of Distinguished Military Graduate and a regular officer commission, rather than a Reserve Commission. (Better job security.)

I graduated Cum Laude. Not Summa Cum or Magna Cum.

Just Cum.

Again, just an ordinary man.

As for my professional life, I gratefully was able to serve for 30 years as an Air Force officer. An exciting, rewarding, challenging career.

After the Air Force, I gratefully served for ten years as an instructor/program director at Trident Technical College in Charleston. I was pleased to be able to help students and companies improve productivity and quality through continuing education at Trident.

Charleston was my wife’s “Happy Place.”

Ergo, it was my “Happy Place.”

Marjorie and I had an “Extraordinary” marriage for 61 years. We raised three “extraordinary” children and love 5 wonderful grandchildren — all grown up now.

And miracles do happen.

We now have 2 great-grands.

Who’d a thunk?

Ordinary. And grateful for every bit of it.

Enuf.

A message to you young folks. (Anyone under 70.)

If you are as lucky and blessed as I am, and you become an octogenarian, this is for you.

Getting old is not for sissies.

If you now have some modesty and enjoy the privacy of your body, get over it. The medical community is gonna have at you in short order.

Biology 101. As you age, organs become tired. Sometimes they give up.

Here’s me as an example.

I’ll turn 87 this month, Lord willin’. I’ve had a pacemaker/defibrillator for over 10 years. It is now totally controlling my heart rate. I am living better electrically.

In a couple years, again, Lord willin’, I will need a new battery. That’s a routine (if there is such a thing) surgical procedure. Small incision in left chest. Remove device, the size of a pack o’ Luckies. Remove and replace battery. Reinsert. Close. That’s every five years or so.

As a colon cancer survivor (key word: Survivor) who had a potload of radiation and chemo to earn that word, I’m a frequent flyer with my GI doc. I’ll leave that organ failure there. More detail is TMI.

I will thrill, however, amuse, and perhaps disgust or scare you a little, with some info about what happens when your bladder goes on strike.

Yes, I’m also a frequent flyer with my urologist.

That’s the issue that requires a totally humiliating, though quick and simple, monthly urology pit stop.

In addition to my pacemaker, I have a suprapubic catheter installed. Do not confuse supra with super. There ain’t nothin’ super about my device. Supra means “above.” The catheter is installed just above the pubic area, near your belly button.

I do not plan to say any more about how it works. Except to say it is a miraculous device, far better than a common alternative. It’ll be a good Google exercise for some of you.

The humiliation is the monthly catheter change, to prevent infection and ensure everything is working.

Here’s how that goes.

The good news is that it is quick.

2 PM appointment. Got there at 1:45. Called in at 1:50. Done by 2:10.

Ninety percent of the work is done by the urology tech. They are great and very professional.

The tech calls you from the busy waiting area. You walk back to the inner sanctum. Step on the scale. (I’ve lost some unneeded weight, so that’s good news.) Then you go to the “procedure” room.

Sit down, but not for long.

“Has anything changed since last procedure? Any problems?”

No.

My favorite tech, an Army vet, then says: “OK, you know the drill. Drop your drawers and get on the gurney. I’ll be right back.”

At least she gave me direction. Some just assume I know what to do and walk out.

For some reason, I’m reluctant to “drop my drawers” without direction.

On the gurney there’s a paper cover you can use for some temporary modesty. The tech reviews my file and goes to get my new catheter.

So there you sit.

Breeches, including Depends, down at your ankles. I told you it was humiliating.

Then all of a sudden: she’s baaack.

You lay back on the gurney, at least somewhat exposed. She prepares to remove the old catheter.

“OK, hold your breath.”

“Ooh.”

It doesn’t hurt. But it’s no fun either.

And the final step. Insert the new one.

Hold your breath again.

Second slight punch in the stomach.

It’s in. Balloon inflated. Good for another month.

“You’re done. I’ll get your next appointment. Nurse Wanda will come in and do her song and dance. Then you can go.”

She’s right. Nurse Wanda comes in. Asks how I’m doing. Everything working OK. Yes. See you in four weeks. Tech hands me the appointment card.

This will probably be my routine for a lifetime.

Small price to pay to stick around.

Enuf.