NAVY #08 Doom Despair, and Agony on me

Originally written in 1997


I've been home for almost three straight weeks. I don't know what to do with myself! It feels almost like I'm on vacation although I do still have to go in to work everyday. But just when me and Mama are gettin' close, POOF!, I'll be gone again. Unless I do something stupid like die.

About a month ago we were uploading our aft (the one in the back) CIWS mount. CIWS stands for Close-In-Weapons-System. Some people say that it also stands for Captain, It Won't Shoot. We keep the rounds, or bullets in a magazine one deck down, Each box of bullets weighs about 100 pounds. And it takes 10 boxes to fill it up. Now, I'm 6'7" and weigh a little better than 250 pounds. Okay, a lot better. I'm also a lazy bastard and didn't feel like making a bunch of trips. so I grab a box in each hand and start up the stairs with them. That way I can make 5 trips up the ladder (stairs) instead of 10. No Problem.

Then comes the problem. While I am is directing the loading of this CIWS mount, I felt a MAJOR chest pain. It was so bad that it doubled me over it did. The guys asked me if I was dead yet. I told them "NO, GET YOUR ASSES BACK TO WORK!!!." "Good" they said, "Can you put off dying until after we have loaded the forward mount?" It is so nice to have the love and respect of the people who work for you.

I figured that since it was a one time pain, I was good to go. We all go up forward and start loading the other mount. While I'm tossing these 100 pound ammo boxes around and playing with bullets, I get another big pain, then a couple of more. "You fellers can finish this up. I'm going to see Doc."

With my family history, I can't afford to ignore chest pains, My grandpa and grandma died of throat cancer. My uncle Slick died of a brain tumor. Aunt Della Mae died of Lung Cancer, Aunt Mary Evelyn died of a massive heart attack. My father has already had three heart attacks and a couple of bypasses. One more heart attack and he wins a free vacation and some dinner ware. My Mama's Daddy, had him a stroke as well. Sixty is ancient in my family. Folks usually start kicking off around 50 or 55. Those of us that don't get shot all die of cancer or heart attacks.

So I go and see the Doc. "Whatcha want?" he asks. "Ready for that Lobotomy?"

" Nope Doc, I got some chest pains."

You'd have thought I said they were giving away free beer the way people started moving. Next thing I knew they had my shirt off, I was lying down, and had a machine hooked up to my chest . They were also making me suck down pure oxygen. The first thing that happens was Doc come in with a glass of water and an aspirin. Damn sure glad I didn't get myself cut in half. I might of gotten 2 aspirins and a band-aid for that! Doc told me to shut up and eat the damn aspirin. He said that Aspirin is a miracle drug for Heart Problems.

So they laid me out and poked and prodded and thumped and listened for most of three hours. They tried to give me an IV but after sticking me twice with the biggest damn needle I have ever seen in my life, I told em "If I wasn't dying when I came in here, I will be if you try to stick me with that fucking needle again" they decided that maybe I didn't need an IV.

Doc told me, "Your heart ain't blowed up on you yet. But you are going to bed, and as soon as we pull in tomorrow your ass is going to see the heart doctor." (And I thought that your ass went to the proctologist or the lawyer if you wanted to lose it!) and he also told me to quit carrying ammo boxes one handed, and two definately not be carrying them two at a time. They are marked two-man carry for a reason

The next day I went over to Portsmouth Naval Hospital (the oldest Naval Hospital in the World) and saw the Heart Doctor. He thumped and poked and listened and told me that Yes, I did have a heart. (Now if he could just write me a note for my wife testifying that I had a brain!) He had me wear a heart monitor for twenty four hours and he wanted me to come back and take a Stress Test.

If you've never had a Stress tests, you're missing out. I was led to this room full of equipment left over from the Spanish Inquisition. The Doctor takes me to this treadmill and hooks me up to another heart machine. He starts off the treadmill and I'm walking real slow. While I am walking, I am looking out the 3rd story window into the parking lot down below. Hell, the only stress here is if this treadmill stops and I walk out the window. Then he decides to put the thing into road gear. The damn treadmill starts moving at 70 miles an hour and I've got to keep up or I'm going to look like George Jetson in the Saturday Morning Cartoons. I'm running my ass off and then this sadistic bastard decides to elevate one end to about 60 degrees. And NOOOOO he didn't elevate it so I was running downhill. I've now got to climb a fucking mountain at 70 miles an hour. I started praying for a heart attack just so I could get some damn relief.

Finally, I beg him to turn the sumbitch off. He stops it and tells me I got the heart of a Moose. (yep, and the brain of a pissant) He tells me that I also have High Blood Pressure. And tells me to keep taking my medicine. When I get home, I find out that that my father has had him another heart attack.

The doctor calls me back later and tells me that they detected several events on the monitor. I ask him what an event is and he tells me that I have been having PVCs. Premature Ventricle Contractions. Just to be safe, he schedules me for a Cardiac Catheter. He explains that a Cardiac Cath is where a probe is inserted into my femoral artery and run all the way up into my heart. Then dye is injected and they can look at the inside of my heard on an x-ray machine.

I come in for the cardiac cath and am told to get naked and lie on the table. I am then wheeled into a freezer. An incision is made into my leg, uncomfortably close to my "bidness," and the Doc starts feeding the catheter in. Once he gets up to my heart, he starts wiggling the damned thing around like it's a coat hanger and he's trying to break into a car with the keys locked inside. Once he injects the dye into my heart, my heart stops beating. I, of course, am awake for all of this. "Uh, doc, isn't having a heartbeat considered kind of necessary?"

"Just Cough" he says.

I do, and my heart starts back up. This goes on for about an hour. I'm frozen to the table and he keeps fishing around inside my chest. Finally he quits and tells me that although I don't have any major rust clogging my veins, I am still a prime candidate for a heart attack. No shit. Especially if I keep hanging out anywhere near doctors.

Back to the Navy. It was now time to run our semi-annual Physical Readiness Test. An old fart like me has to be 22% or less body fat, do 23 pushups in two minutes, 32 sit-ups, sit down and touch my toes, and then run 1.5 miles in 15 minutes and 30 seconds. If you fail to do any of this, you fail the PRT. If you fail it 3 times in 4 years they kick your butt out of the Navy.

I have been in the Navy for 17 years now. I've only passed 3 PRT's in that time. My motto always was, If you ain't cheating, you ain't really trying". I got a kid that works for me who always scores outstanding on the PRT. He can run like a deer, but if you ask him to lift anything heavier than a Coke can, he can't do it. If I lay my hands on it, I can pick up or move it, I just can't run. Never have been able to run. That's why I joined the Navy. Why would I ever need to run for a mile and a half? The side of the ship is never more than a 100 feet or so away.

Well I passed the Body Fat portion. 22% right on the money. Same as it has been for the last ten years. Thankfully they didn't measure around my head. Then came the hard part. Touching my toes. Hell, I haven't even seen my toes in over four years! I'm not really sure they are still down there. Thankfully one of my guys spotted for me. Left......Left.......Right......down.......just another eight inches........ And I touched them!! Next then it was time for sit-ups. 32 is the minimum for my age group. 75 was the max. I did 32. I was saving myself for the run. They did get a little angry that I did them with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.. Next was the push-ups. 265 pounds is a lot of weight to lift off the ground. I did 23 of these so as not to embarrass the kiddies with my manliness. Once again, I had a lit cigarette in my mouth. The observer wanted me to do more. I asked him why? It didn't matter if I did 500 situps and 500 pushups, If I didn't pass the run, then I failed.

Next came the part I had been dreading. The run.

We had to run around a 3/4 mile track twice. Now that's not so bad. But the wind was blowing at 30 mph. I don't think it's fair that these little skinny, short anorexic people get as much time to run it as I do. I got more weight to carry than them. I also have a lot more sail area. (sail area in all that area that gets hit by the wind) To make it more fair I proposed that the 130 pound Olympic sprinter carry a 130 pound feed sack over his shoulder and THEN we could race!

Fifteen and a half minutes to run a mile and a half. Why in the hell would a person ever need to run a mile and a half anyway? If I have to go that far, I'll call a cab. One with air-conditioning. If I can't get a cab, I will walk. People are always rushing everywhere.

The run starts. I'm doing alright the first quarter mile. I need to go to the bathroom and I want another cigarette. I look up and I am all alone. Damn smartass kids, running off and leaving an old man like me all alone like that. I huff and puff my way around the track and cross at 7 minutes and 15 seconds. Right on my pace. I get halfway around the track the second time and my lungs are trying to reject my body. My legs are also wanting to detach themselves and find a skinnier torso. And I really need to use the bathroom bad. I contemplate stopping for a quick smoke. I come around the corner and I start running into the wind. I swear to God that I saw Dorothy and that little bastard dog ToTo come whizzing past. And some asshole has added another half mile to this track while I wasn't looking.

I cross the finish line at 18 minutes. SHIT. I took so long to run that everyone else had already gone back to the ship. The Chief Petty Officer who was timing it told me he was about ready to send out the Shore Patrol for me because he thought I had gone AWOL. If I hadn't of been dying I would of whipped his ass.

So this means I get to join the Chubb Club. I get to run a mile and a half 3 times a week with the rest of the fat boys. I'll run, but I'll be damned if I'm going to wear the Spandex tights and start eating them damned Granola Bars, at least not until they start making them in bacon flavor.